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must transmitnear to the wavelength, not on it."
"Near to it; not on it," said Mann. He nodded.
"It would cost very little," said Bekuv. "And I could have it working inside
six months."
"That's well before the flying-saucer men go to summer camp," said Mann.
Bekuv looked up at Mann. His voice was harsh, and it was as if he were
answering a long list of unspoken questions when he shouted, "Twice I have
attended meetings of the 1924 Society. Only twice! The last time was nearly
five years ago. Science is not the cozy little club you believe it is. Don't
keep pressurizing me. I recognized no one, and we did not exchange names and
addresses for obvious reasons."
"For obvious reasons," said Mann. "And because those sons of bitches were
betraying the whole of America's military electronics program."
"And will it get your secrets back if you keep me a prisoner here?" yelled
Bekuv. "Not allowed to go out. Not allowed to make phone calls."
Mann walked quickly to the door, as if frightened he would lose his temper.
He turned. "You'll stay here as long as I think fit," he said. "Behave
yourself, and I'll send you a packet of phonograph needles and a subscription
toLittle Green Men Monthly ."
Bekuv spoke quietly. "You don't like cosmology, you don't like high fidelity,
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you don't like Shostakovich, you don't likeblinis & " Bekuv smiled. I couldn't
decide whether he was trying to needle Mann or not.
"I don't like Russians," explained Mann. "White Russians, Red Russians,
Ukrainians, Muscovite liberals, ballet dancers, or faggy poets I just don't
like any of them. Get the picture?"
"I get it," said Bekuv sulkily. "Is there anything more?"
"One thing more," said Mann. "I'm not an international expert on the design
of electronic masers. All I know about them is that a maser is some kind of
crystal gimmick that gets pumped up with electronic energy so that it
amplifies the weakest of incoming radio signals. That way you get a big fat
signal compared with the background of electronic static noise and
interference."
"That's right," said Bekuv. It was the first time Bekuv had shown any real
interest.
"I was reading that your liquid helium bath technique, which keeps the maser
at minus two hundred and sixty-eight degrees centigrade, will amplify a signal
nearly two million times."
Bekuv nodded.
"Now I see the day when every little two-bit transistor could be using one of
these gadgets and pulling in radio transmissions from anywhere in the world.
Of course, we know that would just mean hearing a DJ spinning discs in Peking
instead of Pasadena, but a guy collecting a royalty on such a gadget could
make a few million. Right, Professor?"
"I didn't defect for money," said Bekuv.
Major Mann smiled.
"I didn't defect to make money," shouted Bekuv. If Mann had been trying to
make Bekuv very very angry, he'd discovered an effective way to do it.
Mann took my arm and led me from the room, closing the door silently and with
exaggerated care. I didn't speak as we both walked downstairs to my sitting
room. Mann took off his dark raincoat and bundled it up to throw it into a
corner. From upstairs there came the sudden crash of Shostakovich. Mann closed
the door to muffle it.
I walked over to the window and looked down into Washington Square. It was
sunny the soil of New York City winter's day when the sun coaxes you out
without your long underwear so that the cross-town wind can slice you into
freeze-dried salami. Even the quartet, echo-singing under the Washington arch,
had the hoods of their parkas up. But no street sounds came through the
double-glazing; just soft Shostakovich from upstairs. Mann sat in my most
comfortable chair and picked up the carbon of my report. I could tell that
he'd already been to his office and perused the overnights. He gave my report
no more than a moment or two, then he lifted the lid of my pigskin document
case and put a fingertip on the Hart and Greenwood files that had arrived by
special messenger in the early hours. They were very thin files.
"The car had a foreign-consul plate?"
"Yes," I said.
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"And you read that stuff on the Telex?"
"The two Russians are staying in a house leased to the second secretary of
the Soviet trade delegation. Yes, I read it, but that doesn't make them KGB or
even diplomatic. They might just be visiting relatives, or subtenants or
squatters or something."
Mann said, "I'd like to bring in the owners of that car and sweat them."
"And what would you charge them with? Leaving the scene of an accident?"
"Very funny," said Mann. "But the foreign consul plate on that car ties them
to the stickup artists."
"You mean KGB heavies lend their official car to three hoods?"
Mann pouted and shook his head slowly, as if denying a treat to a spoiled
child. "Not the way you'd arrange it, maybe," he said. "But there was no
reason for them to think it would all get fouled up. They figured it would be
a pushover, and the official car would provide them with the kind of getaway
that no cop would dare stop. It was a good idea."
"That went wrong."
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