FullReads

“What did the cash box look like?” he asked.

Bending held out his hands to measure off a distance. “About so long–ten inches, I guess; maybe six inches wide and four deep. Thin sheet steel, with a gray crackle finish. There was a lock on it, but it wasn’t much of one; since it was kept in the safe, there was no need for a strong lock.”

Sergeant Ketzel nodded. “In other words, an ordinary office cash box. No distinguishing marks at all?”

“It had ‘Bending Consultants’ on the top. And underneath that, the word ‘Lab’. In black paint. That ‘Lab’ was to distinguish it from the petty cash box in the main office.”

“I see. Do you know anything about the denominations of the bills? Were they marked in any way?”

Bending frowned. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask Luckman about that, too.”

“Where is he now?”

“Home, I imagine. He isn’t due to report for work until ten.”

“O.K. Will you leave word that we want to talk to him when he comes in? It’ll take us a while to get all the information we can from the lab, here.” He looked back at the hole in the wall. “It still doesn’t make sense. Why should they go to all that trouble just to shut off a burglar alarm?” He shook his head and went over to where the others were working.

It was hours before the police left, and long before they were gone Sam Bending had begun to wish fervently that he had never called them. He felt that he should have kept his mouth shut and fought Power Utilities on the ground they had chosen. They had known about the Converter only two weeks, and they had already struck. He tried to remember exactly how the Utilities representative had worded what he’d said, and couldn’t.

Well, there was an easy way to find out. He went over to his files and took out the recording for Friday, 30 January 1981. He threaded it through the sound player–he had no particular desire to look at the man’s face again–and turned on the machine. The first sentence brought the whole scene back to mind.

* * * * *

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Bending,” the man whose card had announced him as Richard Olcott. He was a rather average-sized man, with a fiftyish face, graying hair that was beginning to thin, and an expression like that of a friendly poker player–pleasant, but inscrutable.

“I always have time to see a representative of Power Utilities, Mr. Olcott,” Bending said. “Though I must admit that I’m more used to dealing with various engineers who work for your subsidiaries.”

“Not subsidiaries, please,” Olcott admonished in a friendly tone. “Like the Bell Telephone Company, Power Utilities is actually a group of independent but mutually co-operative companies organized under a parent company.”

Bending grinned. “I stand corrected. What did you have on your mind, Mr. Olcott?”

Olcott’s hesitation was of half-second duration, but it was perceptible.

“Mr. Bending,” he began, “I understand that you have been … ah … working on a new and … ah … radically different method of power generation. Er … is that substantially correct?”

Bending looked at the man, his blocky, big-jawed face expressionless. “I’ve been doing experimenting with power generators, yes,” he said after a moment. “That’s my business.”

“Oh, quite, quite. I understand that,” Olcott said hurriedly. “I … ah … took the trouble to look up your record before I came. I’m well aware of the invaluable work you’ve done in the power field.”

“Thank you,” Bending said agreeably. He waited to see what the other would say next. It was his move.

“However,” Olcott said, “that’s not the sort of thing I was referring to.” He leaned forward in his chair, and his bright gray eyes seemed to take on a new life; his manner seemed to alter subtly.