Unwise Child | Page 8

"My final inspection?" Mike the Angel arched his heavy golden-blond
eyebrows. "Hell, Wally, Serge Paulvitch is on the job down there, isn't
he? You don't need my okay. If Serge says it's ready to go, it's ready to
go. Or is there some kind of trouble you haven't mentioned yet?"
"No; no trouble," said Wallingford. "But the power plant on that ship
was built according to your designs--not Mr. Paulvitch's. The Bureau of
Space feels that you should give them the final check."
Mike knew when to argue and when not to, and he knew that this was
one time when it wouldn't do him the slightest good. "All right," he
said resignedly. "I don't like Antarctica and never will, but I guess I can
stand it for a few days."
"Fine. One more thing. Do you have a copy of the thrust specifications
for Cargo Hold One? Our copy got garbled in transmission, and there
seems to be a discrepancy in the figures."
Mike nodded. "Sure. They're in my office. Want me to get them now?"
"Please. I'll hold on."
Mike the Angel barely made it in time. He went to the door that led to
his office, opened it, stepped through, and closed it behind him just as
the blast went off.
The door shuddered behind Mike, but it didn't give. Mike's apartment
was reasonably soundproof, but it wasn't built to take the kind of
explosion that would shake the door that Mike the Angel had just
closed. It was a two-inch-thick slab of armor steel on heavy,
precision-bearing hinges. So was every other door in the suite. It wasn't
quite a bank-vault door, but it would do. Any explosion that could
shake it was a real doozy.
Mike the Angel spun around and looked at the door. It was just a trifle

warped, and faint tendrils of vapor were curling around the edge where
the seal had been broken. Mike sniffed, then turned and ran. He opened
a drawer in his desk and took out a big roll of electrostatic tape. Then
he took a deep breath, went back to the door, and slapped on a strip of
the one-inch tape, running it all around the edge of the door. Then he
went into the outer office while the air conditioners cleaned out his
private office.
He went over to one of the phones near the autofile and punched for the
operator. "I had a long-distance call coming in here from the Right
Excellent Basil Wallingford, Minister for Spatial Affairs, Capitol City.
We were cut off."
"One moment please." A slight pause. "His Excellency is here, Mr.
Gabriel."
Wallingford's face came back on the screen. It had lost some of its
ruddiness. "What happened?" he asked.
"You tell me, Wally," Mike snapped. "Did you see anything at all?"
"All I saw was that big pane of glass break. It fell into a thousand
pieces, and then something exploded and the phone went dead."
"The glass broke first?"
"That's right."
Mike sighed. "Good. I was afraid that maybe someone had planted that
bomb, rather than fired it in. I'd hate to think anyone could get into my
place without my knowing it."
"Who's gunning for you?"
"I wish I knew. Look, Wally, can you wait until tomorrow for those
specs? I want to get hold of the police."
"Certainly. Nothing urgent. It can wait. I'll call you again tomorrow
evening." The screen blanked.

Mike glanced at the wall clock and then punched a number on the
phone. A pretty girl in a blue uniform came on the screen.
"Police Central," she said. "May I help you?"
"I'd like to speak to Detective Sergeant William Cowder, please," Mike
said. "Just tell him that Mr. Gabriel has more problems."
She looked puzzled, but she nodded, and pretty soon her image blanked
out. The screen stayed blank, but Sergeant Cowder's voice came over
the speaker. "What is it, Mr. Gabriel?"
He was evidently speaking from a pocket phone.
"Attempted murder," said Mike the Angel. "A few minutes ago a bomb
was set off in my apartment. I think it was a rocket, and I know it was
heavily laced with hydrogen cyanide. That's Suite 5000, Timmins
Building, up on 112th Street. I called you because I have a hunch it's
connected with the incident at Harry's earlier this evening."
"Timmins Building, eh? I'll be right up."
Cowder cut off with a sharp click, and Mike the Angel looked
quizzically at the dead screen. Was he imagining things, or was there a
peculiar note in Cowder's voice?
Two minutes later he got his answer.

5
Mike the Angel was sitting behind his desk in his private office when
the announcer chimed. Mike narrowed his eyes and turned on his door
screen, which connected