PAPA DON'T 'LOW

Part 3 of 4

by

Christopher Stasheff

Copyright 1992

 

Guns barked, and the hulking shadow spun away, slamming into the wall.  The man who held Papa's gun fired back, a split second before he whirled and folded.  The third one just gave off a tired sigh as he wilted.

Struggling for breath, Papa looked up at the two Intelligence agents, amazed.  One of them turned away, checking the assassins, but the other was right there by Papa, holding his arm.  "Are you hurt, sir?"

Papa shook his head, trying to wave the man away, trying to unkink his diaphragm long enough to take a breath.

The Intelligence man seemed to understand.  "Try to relax, sir."

Finally, air came in—only a trickle, but enough to start his belly pulling in more.

The taller man came up.  "Two dead, but the last one will live.  Maybe he can tell us something."

Papa caught enough breath to say, "Don't count on it.  He probably only knows an electronic voice and a public phone number."

"Probably," the taller man agreed, with some regret.  "They look to have been professionals."

"Not as much as you two."  Papa finally straightened up and forced out, "Thanks, Lieutenants.  Seems it was something I couldn't handle."

"Glad to help, sir."  The taller one's voice was neutral, but his eyes glowed.

"Just doing our job."  The shorter one actually smiled.

"Glad you were."  But that wasn't enough.  "About my... snarling at you, before.  Sorry."

"Perfectly all right, sir," the shorter one assured him, and the taller one answered, "This is a fine assignment."

 

* * * * *

 

Alice noticed the discrepancy her first day on the job.  The weights on the receipts didn't match the weights ordered.  Not surprising—they were for pig iron.

"If I tell my department head, they'll suspect me," she told Papa.

Papa shook his head.  "Not with your record.  After all, they promoted you because you managed to boost quality control, didn't they?"

She turned away, frowning.  "I've been thinking, Peppy."

"You can get in trouble that way."

"Oh, be quiet!  And listen.  It occurred to me as I was going over those purchase orders and receipts that by promoting me to paper-pusher, they got rid of me in quality control."

Papa nodded.  "We do that in the Marines, too.  It's called 'kicking someone upstairs.' "

"And with me gone, they can start turning out shoddy equipment again."

"Right.  Which means I have to double my scrutiny.  As soon as you told me about the promotion offer, I put in for a dozen new privates and some very elaborate diagnostic machinery."

She looked up at him, astonished.

"Why so surprised?"  He smiled, amused.  "Just because it takes a dozen soldiers to make up for you."

"I—I'm flattered."

"That's right.  Now, about that discrepancy?"

Alice frowned, jolted back to her worry.  "You think they're expecting me to catch it?"

Papa shrugged.  "If it's so obvious that you caught it your first day on the job, and without looking for it, they meant for you to find it."

Alice lifted her head slowly.  "So they'll be suspicious if I don't find it."

"That would be my guess.  And, of course, if you tell them and they fire you, then that gets you out of the whole sticky situation."

"Yes…"  Then she looked up, startled.  "You'd like it that way, wouldn't you?"

"I don't want you to do anything dangerous, Alice," Papa said.  He stopped and turned to her, slowly.  "Not anything dangerous."

Her heart skipped a beat, but she said, "I won't, Peppy.  Not if I can help it."

 

* * * * *

 

The under-manager frowned.  "Let me see."

Alice showed her the hard copies.  "That's just the one, ma'am.  There are three more current.  And I haven't even checked the histories."

The department head shoved back her seat and swung around the desk.  "I want to see this for myself."

Alice led the way, the under marching stiffly after her.  Alice wasn't worried about her immediate superior—the woman had lost both real legs in the first Hothri attack, and was rabid at the thought of defective weapons going out to the soldiers.  It was the big bosses who worried Alice.

They came down to the loading dock, where a dull-eyed super watched the pig iron roar into the hopper.  Alice stepped up, waved to the worker to show it was all right, and punched the button that stopped the dumping.  She disengaged the hopper, reached into the truck, and started pulling out pigs, weighing them in her artificial hand.  On the fourth one, she nodded, set it aside, and engaged the hopper again.  She gave the swab-O sign to the worker, who pressed the green patch, and the roar started up again.

Alice picked up two bars as the under swung up to her.  She held the bars up, then dropped them both.

One of them bounced.  The other broke.

Alice held up the broken halves.  The under took them, staring.  Then, outraged, she turned one broken end for Alice to see, and pointed to the myriad of bubbles in the metal, around a hollow core.

 

* * * * *

 

The three Hothri dreadnoughts floated in the void, each surrounded by its six daughter cruisers and thirty-six destroyers—except that they weren't really floating, but hurtling toward Arista at tremendous velocity.

Well, they had that much advantage, at least.  Human ships came in groups of ten—five fingers on each hand.  But Hothri squadrons came in sixes.  Six fingers total; ships in multiples of six.

Not that Papa could see them, of course.  All his eyes saw were yellow blips on a vast wall-screen marked with concentric circles, at whose center was Arista—but memory and imagination provided what the battle monitor couldn't; in his mind's eye, he could see the Hothri battlewagons, gleaming in the distant light of Arista's sun, as they hurtled toward the double cluster of Aristan ships that drifted, waiting for them, grouped around the moon's two orbital stations.

He sat at the back of the Operations Room, watching over the heads of the dim, low-voiced forms before him.  Pools of yellow light on desk-tops showed hard copies; small data screens glowed amber here and there about the room.  On a raised dais in its center sat the rear admiral, watching the progress of the battle, ready to respond to any calls from the fleet commander at the site.

But the whole room was dominated by the huge situation screen at its far side, flanked by smaller screens that showed the view from each of the battle stations around the moon.  All those showed were the silvery forms of Aristan cruisers and the glints of destroyers; the approaching Hothri fleet wasn't even a glimmer.

On the screen, the triple yellow cluster approached the two smaller, green clusters steadily, remorselessly—but Papa could envision the Hothri dreadnoughts, oblong and many-hatched, like huge mechanical hives, each with its cruisers and destroyers going before it like so many warrior ants.  But those hatches would open to reveal the barrels of cannons, not tunnels.

This was his greatest single privilege of remaining in uniform, his greatest reward for rank—the ability to watch the progress of the battles, to ache with the anxiety of his fellow soldiers, to share the joy of their victory, or the horror of their defeat.  Under it all ran the guilt of being safe here on Arista, while they staked their lives on the strategies of their commanders—and the quality of their weapons.

The weapons Papa had allocated to them.

There!  On the side screen, a circle of points of light became visible, points that swelled to discernible disks.  And on the big screen, the Hothri swarmed down on the battle stations like the pincers of a giant mantis.

Then the screen filled with red streaks as the battle computers strained to track each torpedo, each laser strike.  The side screens showed distant flares of light as Hothri ships blew up.

But there were closer flares that filled the screen, then died with supernatural quickness as the computers subtracted them.

"One hit on the eastern Hothri fleet."  A yeoman called out the information; the computer needed all its capacity to track the battle.

"Jones is hit," a closer yeoman responded.  "Screens down... Jones is dead."  His voice tightened at the end of the sentence, but showed no more emotion than that.

Papa felt all the agony the man had repressed.  Had it been his screen generator that was at fault?  His laser cannon that had failed to bring down the torpedo?

On the big screen, the western battle platform was suddenly denuded as half its destroyers, and two cruisers, shot off toward the Hothri line.  The side screen boosted magnification, showing them as a circle, tightening around the Hothri dreadnought.

Hothri cruisers scurried to intercept them, and the dreadnought hurled its stings.

"Center and eastern Hothri dividing laterally," chanted a distant yeoman.  "Center and eastern accelerating toward eastern platform."

Papa's heart sang—the Hothri had missed a bet!  They should have pounced on the western station!

"Western sally force engaged," the nearby yeoman recited.  "Screens down on Wallace…  Screens down on Boru...  Hothri destroyer exploded...  Second Hothri destroyer exploded...  Hothri destroyer in to Wallace…"  His voice caught.  "Wallace dead…"

"Eastern fleet responding," called the distant yeoman.  "Torpedoes off and away...  Hothri cruisers' screens down...  Nobunaga in toward Hothri cruiser..."

Light flared on the side screen.

"Hothri cruiser dead," the near yeoman said, his voice carefully neutral.  "Nobunaga drifting, screens down, controls dark..."

And Nobunaga was probably dead, too, Papa realized, with a wrench of anguish.  There was little or no chance that some Hothri destroyer would not pick off the wounded ship, almost no chance it would survive the battle.

"Hothri center veering," called a lieutenant, "top and bottom.  Hothri center pinching western fleet..."

And the western fleet was down to half its normal strength!  They had no choice; they fell back on the orbital platform.

In the screens, columns of light jabbed out from the platform, spearing the Hothri cruisers.

"Hothri cruisers dead one... two... three…" the lieutenant sang.  "Hothri dreadnought accelerating...  Potemkin accelerating above its plane..."

A maze of red lines filled the big screen between the orbital platform and the Potemkin on the one side, and the center Hothri dreadnought on the other—but the dreadnought kept coming, kept coming...

"Dreadnought's screens down!" the lieutenant shouted.  "Dreadnought's screens overloaded!  Potemkin accelerating..."

Papa's fists clenched the arms of his chair, sweat broke out on his brow.  Potemkin was going to ram the dreadnought, and die with its enemy.

But there was no alternative.  It was the only way to save the platform and, with it, the moon.

"Eastern Hothri closing moon-side of platform," chanted a yeoman.  "Porlock and Birmingham accelerating toward upper Hothri cruisers...  Adelaide accelerating toward southern Hothri..."

The orbital platform spat ruby streams toward the Hothri.  It was dangerous; if they missed the cricket ships, their beams could scar the moon with new craters—where domes had stood.

"Western Hothri dreadnought dead," the lieutenant called out.  "Hothri dreadnought's a new star—and Potemkin is dead within it."

That lieutenant would get a reaming tomorrow, Papa knew, for losing his composure enough to use such colorful language.  But he couldn't blame the man; he, too, mourned and celebrated Potemkin's glorious death.

"Eastern Hothri cruisers dead from platform beams... one... two..." the yeoman recited.  "Porlock and Birmingham closing on third cruiser...  Porlock sustaining damage from enemy destroyers...  Third cruiser dead...  Enemy destroyers dead..."

"Center Hothri dreadnought withdrawing!" another yeoman cried in triumph. 

And so it was; on the big screen, the center pulled back, sucking its cruiser-dots and destroyer-sparks with it.

"Adelaide engaging Hothri cruiser," another yeoman announced.  "Adelaide sustaining damage...  Hothri sustaining damage...  Hothri's screens down...  Adelaide's screens down...  Hothri cruiser dead...  Route clear to eastern dreadnought..."

The right-hand screen filled with ruby light.  The big screen showed the eastern platform bonded to the dreadnought by a scarlet column.

"Dreadnought's screens loaded full," the yeoman sang.  "Dreadnought withdrawing."

Finally, the rear admiral spoke.  "Recommend do not chase," he said.  "Fleet commanders, base recommends, do not chase."

As they might have, in the flush of victory—and been cut to pieces by the retreating Hothri cruisers.

"Admiral," a commander said, with full formality, "the battle is ours."

And the moon was still theirs, too, Papa knew—but the price had been heavy.  Cruisers dead, one battleship annihilated, and he'd lost count of the destroyers.  Thousands of men and women gone to glory in a moment of light...

How many his fault?  How many of his weapons had failed in battle, how many screens?

He'd know tomorrow.  Maybe some, maybe none.  So he put the thought aside, and let the elation of victory fill him, as he slowly stood, feeling the aches of a body overstressed with tension, and turned to leave the room.

 

* * * * *

 

The weights of iron started almost matching the weights ordered, and Alice relaxed, her faith in Gerta, the Head, validated.

"It'd be asking too much for the weights to match completely, wouldn't it?" she asked Gerta on the way out of work one day.

"Too much," Gerta agreed.  "But keep track of the shortages, okay?  We'll hit them with a bill at the end of the month, and they can make it up."

Alice decided that she liked Gerta very much.  Liked her enough to bring her news of the shortages she spotted in silicon shipments, and ceramic clay, and a dozen other materials.  Then, one lunchtime, Alice overheard some workers talking about a fire in the plastics-casting section, and told Gerta about that, too.  Gerta tested the plastics and found some that burned very quickly and brightly.  And all the shortages eased, and the incoming plastics started being tested.  They developed a great resistance to heat.

So it wasn't really a surprise when Alice stepped into Gerta's office one morning and found her packing her personal items.

"So."  Alice's mouth went dry.  "They finally fired you, huh?"

"You could call it that."  But it was a grin Gerta turned on her.  "They let me go."

" 'Let you go!'  Those sanctimonious, hypocritical..."

"Whoa, whoa!"  Gerta held up a hand.  "Letting me go to Amalgamated Defense!  They heard about me, and asked Industrial Munitions to send me over to clean up their procurement division."

"Oh."  The anger abated, making Alice aware of a hollowness in her stomach.  "I'll miss you, Gerta."

"Oh, we'll still get together now and then."  Gerta grinned.  "Because, you see—they're giving you my job."

Alice could only stare.

"They asked me who I could recommend," Gerta explained.  "I figured it was the least I could do."

 

* * * * *

 

"But I don't want to be a department head!" Alice wailed to Papa.  "I don't like to give orders!"

"You'll get used to it," Papa assured her.

"But I hate administration!"

"What do you think you've been doing these last two months?"

"Well... yes," Alice admitted, "but that's different.  That's a detective game, trying to catch all the shortages and profiteers."

"Then keep playing.  It's your duty to Arista."

Alice tossed her head impatiently.  "Arista's just a giant ball of dirt.  It doesn't care."

"All right—it's your duty to your brothers and sisters on the line."

Alice was quiet.  Papa paced alongside, hearing her footsteps crunch in the snow, waiting.

"You would have to bring that up, wouldn't you?"  She made it an accusation.

Papa nodded, with a cheery grin.

"All right," she grumped.  "I'll keep playing."

"Good woman!"  He squeezed her shoulder.  "Just one thing..."

"What's that?"

He stopped, turning her to face him.  "Don't get caught, huh?"

She let herself drift into his eyes and said, "I'll play by the rules, Peppy."

 

* * * * *

 

"I have to what?"

"Attend a board meeting," her secretary told Alice patiently.  "That's one of the disadvantages of being a department head—if the directors need information for a meeting, you have to be there to give it."

"But they could punch it up on a screen."

"Maybe they figure you'll see some point they've missed."  The secretary shrugged.  "Or maybe they just like to have their juniors waiting on them.  Either way, you've got to go."

Alice went with her heart in her throat, overwhelmed and feeling very much out of place.  What was she, an ordinary line worker, doing in a meeting with the high and mighty?  But she sat down, squared her keypad in front of her, and reminded herself that she was wearing a new suit and new hairdo.

It helped.

Of course, the presidents, the dozen vice presidents, and the chairman all outshone her in their quiet, elegant way—outshone her to the point of making her feel insignificant.  Their suits must have cost six months of her pay, their styli and jewelry were gold and platinum, and their grooming must have been done by a professional just that morning—and every morning.  Nonetheless, she plucked up her courage and waited.

And waited.  And waited.

The meeting droned on and on around her, the chairman asking for information that he could have had on his screen in an instant, but getting it from each of the presidents who in turn demanded it from each of their vice presidents.  Every now and then, the chairman would state an idea and ask the presidents what they thought of it.  As one, they turned to their vice presidents and asked for information, then reported it back to the chairman, who nodded wisely and stated that he was glad to see his opinion supported.

Finally, Alice began to grow impatient.  She realized that the chairman was setting not only the tone of the meeting, but also the opinions that were going to come out of it.  There was no real opportunity to say "no" or to disagree in the slightest way.  She finally began to realize that she was embedded in a ritual, in which the only purpose was to make sure everybody else in the company was doing what the chairman wanted, in the way he wanted it done.  It was disguised as discussion, but it was as much an issuing of decrees as any emperor or dictator had ever exercised.

Then, suddenly, it all became ominous.

It started easily enough, with the chairman, Mr. Lamprey, turning to the president of sales and asking, "How's the competition doing, Mr. Dunbright?"

"Sales down five percent for Amalgamated, sir, and...  Mr. Wron, what was the figure for Interstellar?"

"Four percent, sir."

"Yes, four percent."  Dunbright turned back to the Chairman.  "Down nine percent total, sir.  That boosts our share of the market to just a little over a third."

"Not good, but better than last quarter."  Lamprey frowned.  "How are their prices?"

"That's the good part," Dunbright said, with a gloating smile.  "They've had to boost prices an average of eight percent."

"So."  Lamprey nodded, with the ghost of a smile.  "We can boost ours five, then."  He turned to the president of production.  "You disagree, Mr. Kriegspiel?"

"Oh, not really, sir," Kriegspiel said quickly.  "But wasn't our market gain due to our underselling the competition?"

"Of course—and we'll still undersell them.  While we're on the subject, any idea why they had to boost prices?"

"Yes, sir.  Cost increase, of course."  Kriegspiel turned to his vice president for cost control.  "What did you say was the prime factor in that increase, Immer?"

"Quality control, sir," Immer answered.  "They had to add on personnel, and recycle much more than we did."

Alice stiffened.

"Nice to know we're ahead."  But Lamprey frowned.

"How were we able to spend less on quality?"

"We already had the systems in place, sir," Kriegspiel said proudly, "and at a fraction of the personnel."  He turned to Immer.  "What's our total number in quality control?"

"We don't have a separate department, sir," Immer explained.  "It's part of procurement."

"Procurement?"  The chairman frowned.  "How did that happen?"  He didn't sound happy about it.

Immer turned an expressionless face to Alice.  "Ms. Biedermann, you're the under-manager for that department.  How did quality control come under procurement?"

"Our people caught the discrepancies between weight ordered and weight received, sir," Alice managed.  "We investigated and found that the shortage was due to defects in the materials we were receiving."  She didn't mention that she was the one who had found out.  "And since we were investigating, production routed quality control to us, to do our testing."

"And you hired more people."  Suddenly, she had the chairman's full attention—and felt as though she were a butterfly pinned to a board.  But she spoke up bravely.

"Yes, sir—we added four checkers.  Then, when raw materials improved, we put two of them onto output quality control."

"I should have thought you would have let those two go."  The chairman's gaze was a needle through her.

And, meeting his gaze, she suddenly knew that this man didn't want high quality control, didn't want to produce sound weapons for soldiers, didn't want anything that would reduce his profits or slacken the flow of money into his coffers.

She stammered out a reply as best as she was able, and that awful gaze swung off her and back to Irnmer, who assured President Kriegspiel that they'd rectify the situation, and the president assured the chairman that, really, there was no cause to expend monies needlessly—and, finally, the long meeting dragged to a close.  Alice pushed herself out of her chair and managed to find her way out into the corridor, numb with the certainty that the chairman, and therefore all the presidents, and the vice presidents, and the managers, and the under-managers, and almost all of the workers wanted as many defective weapons as possible going into the hands of Aristan soldiers.

 

* * * * *

 

"I couldn't believe it," she told Papa that night.  "I still can't.  There he was, the chairman of Industrial Munitions, making it very clear to everybody in that room that his company should deliberately produce as many duds as he can get away with!"

Papa scowled.  "That makes a lot of sense, Alice.  Too much sense."

Alice hugged herself and shivered.  "I could stand it when I thought it was just an accident, Pepe—just a side-effect of their wanting to cut costs and not caring about whether or not the weapons were any good.  But to do it deliberately!"

"Of course, he couldn't come right out and say it," Pepe mused.

"Of course not!  But everybody in that room knew it, oh yes!  And knew that their careers depended on doing what he said, too!"

"Sure.  The only real purpose of a meeting like that is to make sure everybody knows what he wants, Alice—to make sure they all think the same way."

"But what about ethics!" she cried.

"Ethics are whatever the chairman says they are."

Something nudged Alice from inside her head.  She looked up, frowning.  "You know, this could all just be the way I saw it.  I couldn't prove a word of it.  It could all be in me—I could be imagining things."

"You could," Pepe said, without emotion.

"I notice you aren't exactly straining to prove I'm wrong."

"Not a bit."  Papa agreed.  "Mostly because I don't doubt you for a second.  It makes an awful lot of sense, Alice.  Too much."

"Too much?"  She peered up at him.  "Why 'too much'?"

"Because Amalgamated and Interstellar are running the same way.  Their track records could be copies of Industrial's.  They even cleaned up their quality control almost as soon as Industrial did—and let it go just as quickly, too.  When you think of it as their producing as many duds as possible, until I made it clear they couldn't get away with it, it makes sense.  I put the heat on them, and they cleaned up—until I quit snarling so much.  Then their dud rate went up again."

But she caught the hint of something else in his tone.  "What else, Peppy?  Tell me what else!"

He sighed.  "No fooling you, is there?"

"Not a bit."  She swung around in front, blocking him.  "What else is there?"

Pepe sighed and said, "There've been a couple of tries..."

"Not at killing you!"

"Only a couple, I said."  He held up a palm.  "I hated to believe that they'd try to assassinate me just to save money on quality control—but if they're really on the Hothri's side, it's easier to believe."

"On the Hothri's side!"

"Why else would they want to produce duds?  Once the system's there, they wouldn't lose money by keeping quality up."

"But... traitors?!"

"Different people believe different things, Alice," he said softly.  "I've heard of people who hate the human race, don't think it should exist."

She stared at him, then shook her head, faster and faster, trying to deny it.

Papa shook his head, too, but sadly.  "They're there, Alice.  Anyway, I've read about 'em."  After all, he couldn't be sure he'd met any.

Alice turned away, walking down the street, numb and silent.

"That's why we have to stick together," Papa said.  "All the rest of us."

Alice nodded.  "Because we're not the only ones who are sticking together."

"Oh?" he asked.  "Who else?"

"Amalgamated and Interstellar—or their chairmen, at least.  How else could they all be turning out duds, and all have the same prices?"

"By watching each other," he answered.  "Believe me, informal price-fixing is nothing new.  They don't have to get together and agree on a price.  They just watch each other and make sure they don't charge too much more than the other guy."

"So."  She frowned.  "And cost-cutting could work the same way?"

"Sure."  Papa shrugged.  " 'If Industrial can get away with twenty percent defectives, why can't we?'  So they set the quality-control monitors lower, and they're all producing the same."

"So."  Alice turned away, walking through the swirling snow again.  "One man is enough.  Just one—if he's chairman of the board of one of the Big Three."

"Yes, one would be enough."  Papa matched her pace.  "And he could just be pushing for maximum profit, and the hell with everybody else."

"Could be," she said, "but he's not."

Papa walked along beside her, matching her pace for a while.

Then he said, "How would you explain it?"

"By somebody telling them to produce as many duds as they can get away with," she answered.

Slowly, Papa nodded.  "That makes sense.  So you think the chairman is taking orders?"

She swallowed heavily and nodded.

"From whom?" he asked.  "One of the admirals?"

"No," she said.  "The Hothri."

Papa stopped, stunned.  Then his mind cleared and he nodded slowly.  He didn't have to ask why.

"There's got to be evidence," she said.  "I'll search the computers and find it."

"Don't you dare do any such thing!  Any file you find would have such a loud alarm on it that you'd be strung up within minutes.  No, you let me take it from here, Alice."

"But I can't just stand by and..."

"Alice."  Papa rounded on her, looking deeply into her eyes, his shoulders hunched, face solemn.  "Since you started getting upset about flawed steel, the dud rate from all of Arista's industries has gone down from twenty percent to about five.  You have probably saved the lives of almost as many young soldiers as the entire Medical Corps.  They haven't just been standing by—and you're too valuable to risk."

She stared up at him.

"Don't worry," he said gently.  "The other companies cleaned up their quality control almost as quickly as Industrial did.  No one suspects you yet."

She paled.  "Yet?"

Pepe nodded, his gaze locked with hers.  "I've been worried about that.  Wouldn't take the risk.  If there was the slightest sign, Alice, I'd ask you to quit."

"But... if they're really suspicious..."  She stared at him.  "Have they been following us?"

Pepe shook his head.  "Believe me—I'd know if they were."

"That's right, you're always so careful.  But...  Pepe!"  Her stare turned to a glare.  "You've been seeing other women, haven't you!"

He nodded, slowly and easily, eyes still on hers.  "Of course, Alice.  Of course.  Wouldn't want them to think I only had one girlfriend—they might start wondering where I get my ideas.  As it is, it's bad enough that I only date the other ones for maybe a month at a time, while I've been seeing you for more than a year now.  Bad enough—but not too bad.  There are always three or four I'm seeing."  He forced a smile.  "Of course, I don't do anything with them, beyond talking—but a shadow wouldn't know that, would he?  He'd never come inside a dorm to a room door."

"And you always see your ladies home," she breathed.  "So that's why you never stay."

"Not even for a drink," he assured her.  "Believe me, Alice, that's the only reason."

"Well, I wondered..."

"Uh, sorry."  Papa actually looked abashed.  "Didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

She decided not to ask him about kisses.  After all, he had to make it look good.

"But it could have turned dangerous for you, see," Papa said, "if anybody got the idea we were more than friends.  As it is, Industrial might have some suspicions about you, but nothing dangerous—and if they do get nasty ideas, we can always pretend to break up."

"You wouldn't!"

"To make you safer?  Of course I would."  He turned to face her, a pleading look, almost lost.  "I know I'd risk losing you—but I'd rather you found another man than an early grave."

She managed to keep looking sharp while she melted inside.  "I won't find either one!  And we won't need to break up."

She turned away and marched down the street to keep her knees solid.  Papa hurried to catch up.

"Besides," she reminded him, "we never said we were going together, or anything.  Nothing formal."

"Can we go together?" he asked, very meekly.

She turned a radiant smile on him.  "I thought you'd never ask!  But we can't be obvious about it."

 "No," he confirmed.  "That would be too dangerous for you.  Nothing formal."

He turned solemnly, and she waited, scared but thrilled, and he said, "That's why I can't propose, either."

 

* * * * *

 

Peppy had told her not to, but the knowledge of his love inspired her.  Besides, Alice was tired of being such a passive link, and perhaps feeling a little guilty, too—she didn't think she'd really been taking any risks.

Of course, she couldn't ask Pepe to help her do what he didn't want her to do—so she went to the technician who serviced her arm.

"You want a what?"  He stared, incredulous.

"A video camera," she repeated, "hooked to a memory chip, inside my arm.  I do a lot of paperwork now, Jules.  It'd make things a lot easier if I could just point my finger and make a copy."

Jules sighed and shook his head in wonder.  "Well, I must admit that's a new one.  Give me a week, Ms. Biedermann, okay?"

A week was time enough to make friends with her president's secretary, who was friends with the chairman's secretary.  Then, over a month of lunches, she managed to work in a few questions about the chairman's business trips.  She relayed the information to Pepe and was very surprised when he became upset with her.

"You're sticking your head into the lion's mouth!" he stormed.  "This isn't the small time, Alice—these boys play dirty!  Please, keep out of it!"

Pepe knew that Alice was hurt.  He apologized for being so nasty, and he made it up to her—but that only strengthened her resolve.  Especially since she was sure he was putting her information to good use.

So she did a little investigating with her data screen—nothing definitely outside her bailiwick, though it was certainly on the border.  Records of expense accounts; records of travel accounts—and she copied down the chairman's expense reports while she was busy being numb at the amount of money any one trip cost the company.  Rank had its privileges—and the private shuttle that was, for all intent, for the chairman's use only, cost an almighty lot for any one trip.

But there were two dates he had traveled that weren't on the accounts—one three years ago, and another only one year ago.

She remembered Pepe's reaction, and didn't tell him this time.  She decided to wait until she had all the information she could get.  That way, Pepe would only get angry with her once.  It was quite reassuring to know how upset he could become at the thought of her being in danger.  But it was also scary while it lasted.

The anger proved that, if nothing else, he loved her.  So she shrugged it off.

Then, one morning, her secretary looked up as she came in, and said, "The chairman wants to see you."

Alice stood stock-still, every nerve stinging at the thought of danger.  "What about?"

The secretary shook her head.  "Didn't say.  Just wants you to get in there as soon as you come in."

It was wrong, Alice knew—he was bypassing channels.

And if it was all that urgent, his secretary should have called her at home.  Prudence dictated that she turn around, go out, and get to Pepe as quickly as possible—but curiosity said she might gain some more information with which to hang the chairman.

She went.

Maude, his secretary, looked up and smiled when Alice came in.

"Good morning, Alice.  What were you up to last night?"  Instantly, Alice relaxed a bit, and smiled back.  "Nothing but a good book."

"Well, you're looking a little pale.  Don't choose such exhausting books, okay, dearie?  You can go right in; His Nibs is waiting."  She leaned forward, lowering her voice.  "What's it about?"

Alice stared.  "I was hoping you could tell me."

"Hm."  Maude frowned.  "Well, I don't know everything that man has on his mind—but it's rare, when it involves the help."  She shrugged.  "Go on in."

Alice flashed her a grateful smile and went into the chairman's office.

The door closed behind her.  The office was empty.

Alice frowned, puzzled, and started to turn...

A huge pain flared in her head, then was gone—and so was everything else.

 

TO BE CONTINUED…