April 17, 1954
Until the moment
she saw the corpse under the streetlight, Gwendolyn Montgomery
had been walking home lost in thought.
Thinking it was
such a shame that the blocks of Greenwich Village apartment
buildings destroyed in the invasion would be replaced with
luxury hotels, but that even so, she preferred New York to
Atlanta.
Thinking it was
ridiculous that her new lover had insisted on her leaving before
dawn so that none of the neighbors would know they'd had sex.
Then she turned
onto her street, saw the body face down in a pool of light
and a puddle of blood, and all other thoughts vanished. Reflex
propelled her into the shadowed doorway of the nearest brownstone,
where she drew her derringer out of her purse and wished she
had her Colt.
Clutching the gun
in her gloved hands, she scanned the street. No sign of anyone
else, no sounds except a milk truck a block away. She glanced
at the body again; the lab coat and trousers suggested a man,
and despite the blood, he might be alive.
Gwen ran as swiftly
as she could in the confining girdle under her dress, saw the
savage wound stabbing through his clothes and his torso, but
knelt in the blood and put her hand to his neck just the same. No
pulse…but what's that I feel? His skin was hard and cold,
almost like armor; puzzled, she rolled him over.
“Dear lord!” She'd
seen corpses before, but not like this.
His face, with its
tidy Van Dyke beard and moustache, might have been dignified
once; with almost half the skin covered with scales, a lidless
eye and a forked tongue half out of the dead mouth, dignity
had fled. The scales ran down the neck and his hand was scaly
too, with tiny claws on his fingertips.
A man from outer
space? A spy for another invasion? Impossible; there
were spacemen who looked human, but surely no planet would
produce something half-man, half-lizard.
Gwen started rifling
through his pockets, then reminded herself World War II and
her OSS service were long over. Grimacing at the feel of blood
soaking through her nylons, she strode to the nearest phone
booth.
When the police
cars screeched to a stop, Gwen stood studying the body through
the smoke of her cigarette. Some early risers stood further
away, soaking up the details that would fuel the day's gossip.
A couple of uniforms
jumped out of the first car, shooing the gawkers back, then
she heard a familiar voice emerging from the second car. “Gwen?
Gwen Montgomery?”
“Nate?” He was balding
now, his burly body flabbier, but it was he. “Nate Strawn as
I live and breathe. What are you doing here?”
“Told you on VE
Day I was gonna follow in Pop's footsteps.” Taking the cigar
from his mouth, he started to kiss her cheek, then he got a
good look at the corpse and stopped cold. “Jesus. I know dispatch
said—but—but—who the hell is this?”
“I've been cudgeling
my brains since I saw him, but I can't imagine his face without—well,
that!”
“A spaceman!” Emerging
from Nate's car, a young detective in a cheap suit and hat,
quivering with excitement, raced around the other cops and
over to the body. An older man smoking a bulldog pipe ambled
after him. “Come on, Nate, he's got to be with a kisser like
that!”
“It's a capital
mistake to theorize in advance of the facts,” Gwen said, earning
a stare from the younger man. “Sherlock Holmes.”
“You know this broa—lady,
Nate?” Gwen could hear the man's tone change as his gaze ran
over her dark curls, her full lips, the pencil dress that showed
off her figure. She raised an eyebrow, but let him look. Smiling,
he adjusted his skinny tie, raised his hat to show crew-cut
red hair and held out his hand. “Detective Louis Steele, ma'am.
Homicide.”
“Gwendolyn Montgomery.” She
shook his hand as Nate uneasily frisked the body, coming up
with a wallet and a small notebook. “Anything?”
“Business card says
Randall Keller, M.D.” Nate grunted. “Lives the next building
over.
“Okay Lou, get statements
from everyone here, anyone who leaves the building, we'll go
in and knock on doors in a few minutes.” Nate turned to the
older man. “Doc, see if you can learn anything—”
“Thank you, detective,
I so appreciate it when people tell me my job.”
“I meant about whether
he's human.” Nate turned and pointed at the four flatfeet. “Spread
out, see if you find a knife or anything else; Cobb, call HQ,
find out if Dr. Keller's name rings any bells.”
“So, Miss Montgomery?” Steele
pulled out his notebook, “Is that a Southern accent I—”
“The others first,
Romeo.” Nate pointed at the gawkers. “Gwen, what's the story?”
She gave him a statement,
crisp and concise. “My apologies for turning over the body,
but when I felt those scales—”
“About that—” Nate
turned back toward the coroner. “Anything?”
“Judging from the
bruises and broken ribs, he had a nasty blow before he bled
out—tentatively, I'd say thrown from a car. Might get more
definite back in the morgue.”
“And his skin?” Gwen
ground the butt of her Lucky Strike underfoot.
“Well, there you
have me. He appears human, but—”
“He reminds me—a
little—of those Life photos of the kaijin after the
war,” Nate said. “You remember them, right?”
“The Hiroshima
survivors?” The doctor rolled his eyes. “Did an a-bomb fall
on Greenwich and nobody told me? AEC testing has proven that's
the only way radiation causes mutation.”
“I've read Jessica
Gannett's reports,” Gwen said, “but what about the New America
project? Stalin thought dumping plutonium in our water—”
“Stalin was hardly
a scientific expert, was he?” The doctor knocked out his pipe
and immediately began refilling it. “It would have taken half
a pound of plutonium per person to cause any mutational effect—and
I doubt Keller was fool enough to eat even an ounce. Detective,
please take your girlfriend off for a cup of coffee and leave
me to my work.”
“She ain't my girl,
and I've got an apartment building full of tenants to grill.” Nate
flung away his cigar and headed over there. “Don't go far,
Gwen, I may have more questions.”
She watched him
head off, vaguely disappointed. She wasn't a cop. It was no
longer her business.
Yet when she stared
down at Keller's corpse, she thought how dreadfully bored she'd
been feeling lately.
Gwen was in the
middle of reading Dos Passos when she heard the knock on her
door. “Miss Montgomery? Are you in?”
“Just a moment.” She
opened the door and found two men in cheap dark suits and fedoras. “Are
you gentlemen—” She couldn’t say why, but something set a warning
bell wringing in her head; she let her Southern accent thicken. “—policemen?
Did Detective Strawn send you?”
“Do we look like
the kind of mugs in that station?” The right-hand guy smiled,
but the words came out with a sneer as he tipped his hat. “Mike
Nelson, Atomic Energy Commission. My partner, Harry Thorn.”
“And what would
the AEC want with little ol' me? Lose a bomb or something?”
“Bombs are military,
ma'am,” Thorn said, without a trace of humor. “The Atomic Energy
Commission researches the safe, peaceful uses of atomic energy
to build a better world.”
Good lord, I
think he's memorized their slogans. “I really don't know
anything about nuclear physics, I'm sorry.”
“We understand
you found the body,” Nelson said. “We'd like to come in and
let you tell us about it.”
“Why, I don't think
my mama would approve of letting you in, but I'd be pleased
to answer your questions. So, was Mr. Strawn right? Dr. Keller
was radioactive?”
“AEC nuclear research
is conducted with complete laboratory security,” Thorn said. “Even
if radiation poses some undiscovered risk, our staff are safe.”
“But a lot of people
don't realize that, honey,” Nelson's tone had turned patronizing,
which meant he'd bought the act. “There are crackpots out there
who think atomic power is going to turn everyone into kaijin;
if you started gossiping at the hair salon about Keller, they'd
try to get people stirred up, and you wouldn't want that, would
you?”
“Why, no, of course
not. But—what did happen to him?”
“Chemical burns,” Thorn
said. “You overreacted and mistakenly blamed his burned skin
on some strange mutation.”
“I suppose that's
possible. It was very dark, and nothing that exciting
has ever happened to me before!
Don't worry,” she
lied, “I won't breathe a word.”
“Modern art, jeez.” Scotch
and soda in hand, Nate stared blankly at the Pollock print
hanging over Gwen's bookshelves. “So, living here…your trust
fund go belly up?”
“I like the Village.” She
placed a glass ashtray on top of the hi-fi before Nate could
forget and drop ash on her carpet. “Back home, my father and
his friends have a hundred reasons why the invasion proved
we need to keep segregation in place; here, I'm surrounded
by artists, intellectuals, writers, burning to find some deeper
meaning in the Martian attack, in the new world we've found
ourselves in.”
“What about that
CIA job?”
“A waste of time.
If you knew how much money and how many lives Dulles has squandered
trying to shatter the Iron Curtain—” Gwen shook her head. “But
I didn't call you up to chat.” She described her meeting with
the two agents.
“Thorn stopped by
the station, too,” Nate said. “Had a long talk with the captain
about how terrible it would be if 'groundless allegations'
about mutation got into the public record.”
“Groundless? Chemical
burns can't give someone a snake's tongue.”
“But all the inquest's
gonna focus on is the stabbing. And Lou and me are to keep
our traps shut about the scales.”
“Has Keller's apartment
been searched?”
“Nelson sealed it
off until someone higher-up can make sure there's no classified
documents lying around. So he says.” Nate shook his head. “Dr.
Keller was a good guy, Gwen. Ran a free clinic in Spanish Harlem.
He shouldn't be—”
“Any guards besides
the two officers at the front door?”
“Two outside Keller's
apartment door.” He smiled. “You still got the equipment to
break in?”
“Mama was right
about one thing, Nate. Never throw away anything you
might possibly need again.”
Entering through
the unlocked window, Gwen drew the curtains behind her and
crossed the room silently, in sneakers, then laid dark velvet
along the base of the door, enough to conceal any light in
the room from the cops she heard outside.
She turned on her
pencil flashlight. Then she almost dropped it.
Half the one-room
apartment had been converted into a laboratory. She saw Bunsen
burners, centrifuges, electronic gadgets she didn't recognize,
three test tubes with a residue of crystals and a cage full
of dead green lizards. The carpet was burned and stained.
Why would he
be experimenting here? AEC facilities are the best in the
country. Then she shook her head. Search now, theorize
later. It's no different from searching Strucker's retreat
or the embassy in Oslo.
A swift, thorough
inspection found no notebooks or journals and the three file
drawers were empty. She moved to the living-room area: 12-inch
television/hi-fi in a walnut console, a couple of TV Guides,
an ashtray filled with matches and pipe dottle, a bookshelf
crammed with chemical and nuclear technical works, plus a dog-eared
copy of The Fellowship of the Ring. Gwen checked behind
the books, found nothing, and moved to the Murphy bed, tucked
up in the wall.
Remembering a certain
night in Gdansk, she pulled the bed down as quietly as possible,
felt around, but found nothing. Then she glanced at the small
letter desk next to it. I couldn't possibly be that lucky.
She opened the desk,
saw blotting paper, an inkbottle, envelopes and stamps—and
buried under them, a journal. She flipped through a couple
of pages and smiled.
Apparently I
could.
She tucked one lizard
into her pocket, took one test tube and turned off the flashlight.
She plucked the black cloth from the door, then groped her
way back to the window.
“Nate said you'd
served with him, but I figured you for an Army secretary,
not a spy.” Drowning his fried eggs in ketchup, Louis reached
across the diner's Formica table, handing Nate the ketchup
and Gwen the journal. “So they cleared out the files but
left a diary?”
“My guess is,
they were told to take his files, so they did.” Gwen spoke
between bites of pancakes. In the background the jukebox
started up with Doris Day singing “Secret Love.” “Nobody
told them to search for anything else, so they didn't.”
“The journal implies
he'd been working there six months. He loved it: No need
to follow ‘niggling technicalities’ and safety procedures
like the AEC labs, and he had a ready supply of guinea pigs
for testing.”
“So, he was what,
building a Frankenstein lizard or something?” Louis asked.
“All I can tell
is that his project was radioactive, risky, and that the
tests were disappointing.” The hand that had held the crystals
kept itching, but Gwen was confident—reasonably—it was her
imagination. “And that some researcher named 'Crick' is completely
wrong about genes and Keller was going to prove it.”
“But why would
the AEC cover his experiments up?” Louis said. “If he was
out on his own, it ain't their fault.”
“Yeah, Lou, I'm
sure he walked out of their lab with all that fancy equipment
tucked under his arm.” Nate turned to Gwen. “We can take
this to the captain. If he sees Thorn was selling him a bill
of goods, he'll change his mind about the investigation.”
“If you wait until
tomorrow, I may have more proof,” Gwen tucked the journal
back in her purse. “I dropped off the crystals and the lizard
with a scientist I know at NYU, and this afternoon, I'm visiting
Keller's clinic.”
“Why?” Louis
said blankly.
“Wise up, kid,” Nate
said. “He opened the clinic the same time he started his
research; where do you think his guinea pigs were coming
from?”
“I'm sorry you
had to wait, Miss Whittaker.” Nurse Smith, bony, brisk and
Bronx accented sat down next to Gwen on the break room's
Naugahyde couch and handing her a paper cup of coffee. “Three
of my nurses signed up with the National Guard MASH units
after the invasion—they got called up this morning.”
“This morning?” Gwen
accepted a cigarette, lifting the veil on her small hat away
from her mouth. “I haven't read the paper yet, did something
happen?”
“Trailer park
was destroyed out in California. The survivors were insane,
screaming about being attacked by 'them!'” Smith exhaled
smoke from the corner of her mouth. “Everyone's looking for
flying saucers over California and getting ready for another
invasion.”
“Damn.” They smoked
in silence for a couple of minutes, then Gwen decided to
forge ahead. “I was a neighbor of Randall—Dr. Keller's. We
chatted now and again, and now the AEC's got his apartment
locked up—I was wondering what all that was about. If anyone
were trying to hide the truth—”
“Nobody would
do that, hon! Dr. Keller was a wonderful humanitarian; the
Martians burned down the nearest hospital. This neighborhood
would never see a doctor regular if not for him.”
“And he was rich
enough to build it himself? Living in our neighborhood, I
thought—”
“Nah, some pals
of his from the AEC helped out, something like that. Wanted
to stay anonymous he said—can't figure out why, though, they're
like saints!”
“What I was wondering—” Gwen
lowered her voice to a suitably confidential level. “Sometimes
he'd hint he had bigger dreams than just the clinic. Did
he ever offer the patients any experimental surgery, anything
like that?”
“Experimental?
No, nothing.” It had been a mistake; Smith had adopted a
poker face, but her body screamed suspicion. “Is someone
spreading rumors about him? How could anyone do that?” Her
voice started to rise, then she forced it down. “The spics
have—the patients have nothing to complain about, nothing.
Look, I really need to get back to work-”
“I'm so sorry
to upset you.” Because if you know enough to call Nelson,
he'll recognize my description—I'm out of practice, why didn't
I adopt a Yankee accent when I spoke to you?
She was still
kicking herself as she unlocked her car door—then heard someone
skulking behind her. Gwen spun, saw a darker-skinned nurse
standing there.
“You want to know
about Keller? You a cop?”
“If he broke any
laws, I know a few.” She saw the woman battle mentally over
the next step. “If he was experimenting on the patients
here, I want people to know.”
“It's not that
simple lady.” Something seemed to drain out of her. “Let
me tell you where you gotta go.”
“Rita says you're
not a cop.” Standing at the end of the alley, the leather-jacketed
Puerto Rican didn't try to hide his suspicion.
“And I didn't
bring any with me.” From under her pea-green jacket, Gwen
drew out the six-shooter she'd brought from her apartment. “If
that gives you any ideas, get rid of them.”
“What kind'a accent's
that? You sound like that Canova dame in the movies.”
“Close enough.” Being
compared to a hayseed actress didn't suit Gwen at all, but
business first. “Nurse Velasquez said you could show me the
reason Keller died.”
“If you're on
the level, you ain't gonna need that gun.”
“It has great
sentimental value, I'll hang onto it.”
“Fine, but when
you see what I got to show you, don't shoot just because
you're scared.”
“I never do.”
She did not like
being alone in a grimy alley with this hoodlum, but she'd
given her word not to contact the police. And Philip at NYU
hadn't been able to tell anything except that the crystals
and the lizard were indeed radioactive. And I can't deny
it's a little thrilling to be doing something for the first
time since the war. “So, show me.” She gestured at the
heavy door behind him.
“Not there.” He
kicked away a rat, moved a pile of boxes and unlocked the
door behind them. He turned on the light inside, revealing
an empty room; when Gwen stayed put, he snapped his fingers
and hissed. “In here quick, then lock it behind you.”
As soon as she
did, he opened a second door. The room exploded with angry
hissing as he entered, but Gwen followed him inside.
“My god.” Under
the glow of a naked lightbulb she saw twenty cages, each
holding a lizard. A man-sized, two-legged humanoid lizard,
thrusting clawed hands through the bars toward them. “Spacemen?”
“Spacemen? That
one's my Aunt Teresa!” Rigid with anger, the man grabbed
Gwen by the shoulder and pointed at the third cage on the
left. “The one two cages down? Mario Contrarez, the toughest
hunk of muscles on my block.”
“Human.” She saw
the absolute conviction in his face, and shuddered. “Keller
did this?”
“Experimental
vaccine.” He spat the words. “We didn't put it together until
long after the first ones started changing, he'd had time
to inject a whole bunch more. We should'a seen, but it was
so crazy, so unbelievable, my grandpop kept talking about
a curse or Santeria or—”
“Vaccine for what?
What was he trying to do?”
“How the hell
should I know? I ain't no egghead.” He swung her around,
pressed her angrily against an empty cage. “My tia ripped
my uncle's arm off before we were able to tie her up. Maria,
11 years old, killed her own baby brother—”
“Why didn't you
report him instead of killing him?”
“My buddy Steve,
his wife tried calling the police. Some guys showed up, took
Steve away, he didn't come back. Tony Vega, he got shot down
by someone when he busted out his momma's back room, yet
you never heard a word about it, did you?” His voice broke. “They're family!
We gotta take care of them!”
“I understand.” Everything
still looked slightly unreal, but she regained enough presence
of mind to slip her small spy camera out and begin clicking. “He
couldn't cure them?”
“We tried making
him.” He released her, staring away into memory. “Velasquez
got us a syringe full of his filthy shit, I threatened to
stick it into him. Son of a bitch started babbling how his
work was going down in history, people would be able to grow
back legs, arms, he just had to get the formula right. When
he saw I wasn't buying, he started screaming how he couldn't
cure them without studying them. I stuck him with the needle,
told him he didn't have any choice now.
“Only he changed
too fast, started to fight—we had to knife him, then get
rid of the body.” He swallowed, fighting back tears. “If
he did have a cure…Rita keeps looking, but maybe I destroyed
their one chance—”
“Or maybe they'd
be wherever your friend Steve wound up. There was no good
solution. Not to something like this.”
“Maybe, but if
I could do it over…” He ran a hand through his dark hair. “Let's
get out, I can't—I can't keep seeing them like this.”
“It's not too
late, perhaps,” Gwen said as he locked the door behind them. “I
know some well-connected people, if we get publicity—”
“For what? So
they can join some sort of freak show?”
“I don't know,
but at least if we get something—”
They stepped out
into the alley. Light flared up around them, with men dimly
visible beyond it.
“You bitch!” He
had her up against the wall in an instant. She felt him snatch
away the gun, lift her, then slam her against the bricks
again, then she heard footsteps behind him and something
black arced through the light to descend on his skull.
“Thorn, arrange
transportation for those things,” Gwen heard Nelson say as
she fell to the asphalt. He stepped closer, becoming visible. “They
are in there, right, Miss Montgomery?”
“You know about
them?” Gwen couldn't see where her gun had fallen; standing,
she laid on her accent again as she straightened her skirt. “He—he
said they were people, we need to call the police and—”
“This isn’t a
job for the cops,” One of Nelson's men dragged the unconscious
Puerto Rican to one side so that men could wheel dollies
through the doorway. “And don't think you fooled us even
for a second with that dizzy-dame act.”
“Fine.” Gwen was
quite sure she had, but obviously not long enough. “What
the hell is going on, Mr. Nelson?”
“That's really
none of your business.”
“What happened
to those people should be everyone's business.” They must
have followed me here, I should have been more careful! “You
do realize Detective Strawn knows exactly where I am?”
“So? We're not
planning to do anything to you.” Nelson turned and yelled
inside the room. “Don't forget to tranquilize them before
you get close…surely you don’t suspect the AEC knew about
this? What evidence do you have?”
“Keller's journal.
It's with the police now.”
Nelson frowned.
From inside the building came hissing shrieks that made Gwen
flinch. “Don't be alarmed. They'll be taken care of…we need
that journal. It may contain classified information.”
“And you want
to hide that Doctor Keller was turning men into monsters.”
He stepped closer.
Gwen wondered if the iron fist was about to slip out of the
velvet glove. “Before you do anything, my boss Miss Gannett
would like to have a word with you and your cop friends.”
“You work for
the public-relations department?” Gwen couldn't help a laugh. “Well,
why not?”
It wouldn't make
any difference to her intentions, but she might learn something
she could use.
Under other circumstances,
Gwen would have admired Jessica Gannett's Dior outfit, and
the organic-design furniture around her large office. But
not today. “Using human beings as guinea pigs without even
warning them? We fought a war against the monsters who did
that.”
“Dr. Keller's
behavior was unacceptable,” Behind her large desk and her
perfect pancake makeup, Jessica Gannett wore a look of concern.
Gwen didn't buy it. “We had no idea that he had begun testing
his mutagenic—”
“Or that he stashed
radioactive substances in his apartment?” Strawn said, sitting
awkwardly in one of Gannett's stylized chairs.
“The risks of
radiation are overstated by hysterics and pacifists,” Gannett
said. “It's my job to provide a sane, counterbalancing voice,
giving the public the truth.”
“So what's the
truth about the other lizard-people?” Gwen said. “A few of
them were taken away earlier—by the AEC, I presume?”
“We only collected
them for humanitarian purposes. We have Keller's notes, it's
quite possible we'll be able to reverse and then perfect
his treatment. Do you know what a regeneration formula would
mean for our veterans?”
“I know what it
meant to Keller's victims.”
“We certainly
don't sanction his methods. They were fully legal, his files
held releases signed by his patients, but his conduct was…flawed.
If nothing else, there's limited scientific value in testing
on so few patients, and all of them Puerto Rican. A more
mixed sample—”
“And you don't
think the public needs to know?” Gwen said. “The very idea
of some scientific renegade doing this—”
“What would it
serve? If they can be returned to normal, wonderful; if not—well,
there's nothing to be gained by hurting the future of nuclear
science for one man’s error, is there? Some mistakes are
better left buried; how would you feel if someone happened
to mention to your parents how much of your work for the
OSS you accomplished on your back?”
“If I get to see
their faces when you tell them, I'm all for it.” That threw
Gannett for a second; Gwen saw Louis looked shocked. “So,
if I or the NYPD disagree about the merits of keeping silent—”
“Even if Captain
O'Keefe hadn’t given me the journal, by itself it's nothing
but a crazy man's babbling. Dr. Keller’s body has been collected
and cremated, his equipment has been removed. And nuclear
research is classified; you would find yourself in serious
trouble if you shot your mouths off. Especially with no evidence.” Gannett
picked up an ivory cigarette holder from the jade ashtray
on her desk and inhaled deeply. “In the future, I strongly
advise you leave these matters to those more qualified to
deal with them—now, unless there’s anything else?”
They emerged onto
the morning street, plodding past commuters and stenographers
bustling into their offices. Louis didn't even notice the
pert blonde giving him a glance. “So that's it? When we found
that journal I thought maybe—”
“I have photos
of Keller's victims,” Gwen said. Louis's eyes brightened. “If
the press got hold of them, perhaps anonymously—”
“It’s still classified.” Nate
gave a basso growl as he pulled out a cigar. “Gannett'll
be tough as nails about that. I've made some calls, PR's
only a fraction of what she does.”
“I can afford
excellent lawyers, remember—but without witnesses to make
sense of the photographs, I don't know that there's a point.” Behind
her veil, she scowled. “I can't stand doing nothing. Someone
at the AEC provided Keller's equipment, helped him set up
the clinic, and even if Gannett wasn't involved, she's willing
to protect whoever was. I don't care how noble Keller’s intentions
were, people are never means to an end, only ends.” The guys
looked at her blankly. “Kant.”
“I know we can't,” Louis
said. “You got guts, Gwen, but I guess everybody's right—you
can't fight city hall.”
“Can't we?” Gwen
glanced down at her camera, trying not to believe it had
come to such an unsatisfying finish.
“Mr. Quarry?” Gwen
knocked on the half-open door even as she strode through
it. “I'm—”
“You the Southern
broad?” Brad Quarry of the New York Times looked up from
the phone in his hand, gave a wolf whistle when he saw Gwen. “Ed,
lemme call you back.“ He hung up the phone, eyes fixed on
Gwen, and missed the cradle. “So, Miss Montgomery, you said
you had a story?”
“I imagine it
must be very frustrating for you,” Gwen said. “First, the
LA Times breaks the news that that trailer park wasn't destroyed
by spacemen, but by mutated ants, then the Chicago Tribune
gets an exclusive interview with James Jeffries about how
the AEC has known for years that radiation is far more dangerous
than it admitted.”
“The Trib story's
not as big as you think.” Quarry lit a cigarette, offered
her one; seeing it was menthol, she declined. “Sure, it got
big headlines, but Gannett's already saying the guy is just
a loudmouth who's sore because he didn't get promoted. It's
his word against the government's.”
“What if there
was evidence? Not only witnesses, but…” She placed a roll
of negatives on the table, along with the few prints she'd
had a friend develop in his darkroom. “…pictures?”
“That would be
...” Quarry swallowed. “What you got?”
“Radioactive mutants.
Here in New York.” He said nothing. “You'll find they're
not faked. And I know people who'll be happy to talk if they
think it'll do any good.”
“Damn right, this
will do some good!” Clutching the roll, Quarry headed for
the door. “Maybe an afternoon edition, I'll be right back,
sweetheart.”
What was that
Pastor Daniels used to say? The mills of God grind slowly,
yet they grind exceeding small? With a satisfied smile,
Gwen lit her own cigarette. “Miss Gannett, prepare to be
ground under.
