Chapter 2: Escape?

Phil sat stiffly on the edge of the narrow bunk, staring blankly at the wall of his improvised cell. It was as though he hoped that the answers needed were printed there for him to read, if only he tried hard enough. Phil knew better, knew that the wall was only painted metal, but its uneven surface didn't even register. It was only a blank screen for him to focus on, reviewing scenes from his recent past.

This case had been screwed up from its very beginning, he mused. He wasn't surprised that it had turned into a real disaster. It had been a sweltering summer day, the kind of weather you learned to expect in Washington, DC. He'd been sitting at his desk, poking with unwilling fingers at the keyboard of an antique word processor in an effort to make out an intelligible report on the case he'd just concluded, when...

"Hey, Phil!" He looked up as a fellow agent slouched against the corner of his desk. "Look alive. The Chief wants to see you."

"What's he want, Ed? Hope it's nothing that will take too long. I'm supposed to have this report finished and ready to turn in by five."

"He didn't tell me," Ed chuckled snidely. "He doesn't always confide in me, you know. Not unless it's something really important."

Phil shook his head as he walked along the corridor, thankful that he was still a field agent. Had it always been this way, or was he just getting old? It did seem like office politics had gotten a lot worse lately. He shook his head, muttering to himself. No, he was sure that it wasn't just his imagination. Since the new director had been appointed last year, a lot of the older career men had decided to drop out, either taking early retirement or just quitting. Their replacements had averaged out to something less than top notch, too.

Was he getting too old for this work? No way, he told himself, not at only thirty-seven! He shook his head again, braced himself mentally and rapped on the door marked:

TREASURY DEPARTMENT

Director: Investigations

Walter Manning

"Come on in, Phil. Sit down." Manning's smoothly handsome face was twisted into a welcoming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, prompting Phil to run the events of the past few weeks over in his mind. He couldn't think of anything he'd fouled up too badly, unless that senator's son had complained... "Nice job you did on that smuggling case. I see by your file that you've accumulated almost three months of vacation time. How would you like to take some of it, and earn a nice bit of change on the side at the same time? With the Department's blessing, of course."

"Sounds too good to be true," he answered, not stopping to think. "What's the catch? One of your friends up on Capitol Hill need his wife or business partner watched over while he's here in Washington?"

"Certainly not!" Manning's face resumed the scowl that was habitual with him when he had to deal with the field agents under his jurisdiction, and Phil inwardly cursed his too-ready tongue. Since Manning had taken charge there'd been none of the easy give and take that Phil had grown accustomed to over his years with the Department. "I was having dinner at my club the other night, and got to talking with an old friend, Matty Matson of the Office of Manpower Management. He's really worried, and with good reason. Ever since those damned trans-dimensional portals were sprung on us, the inter-dimensional trading companies have been steadily slipping farther out from under adequate government control. Matty definitely suspects several of them of illegally recruiting workers from the worlds of other dimensional universes. Too much of that, and they'll free themselves completely from the only real hold we have over them, their source of ready manpower."

"Is it all of them, or just one or two?" Phil leaned forward, interested in spite of himself. He'd been out of touch recently, working under cover, but he'd still heard a few rumors about what was happening.

"The computers have pinpointed one of them in particular, World Traders Incorporated, as having a considerably higher productivity record than they should for the number and quality of workers assigned to them." Manning picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and glanced at it before going on. "Matty and I decided that the best way to find out for sure was to plant a man on one of their more urgent projects, and see what he could uncover. Your name popped out of the computer when we asked for someone with the right kind of cover occupation."

"What kind of a project is it?" Phil reined in his first burst of enthusiasm. "I don't care too much for what I've heard about some of the worlds these companies operate on. Dinosaurs, cave men and such, or else locked into a dome in a vacuum or under a poisonous atmosphere."

"Yes, some of the worlds involved are a little rough. Not this one, though. It's a real paradise." Manning smiled, once more at ease as he sensed Phil's growing interest. "They tell me it's a lot like the central plains of this country must have been before the coming of the Indians. Rolling prairies, with vast herds of wild buffalo, antelope and other wild animals. No intelligent natives to deal with, just a straightforward project to supply fresh meat for the people of Earth. They call it 'Project Aurora', after the name they gave the planet." He turned back to the papers on his desk. "I've already called Matson's office and told him you'd be coming over. Let me see, Wilson was on that last job with you. He can finish up your report and turn it in."

Mr. Matson, head of the Office of Manpower Management for the entire Bos-Wash District, had been strictly a cold fish, looking down his beaked nose at Phil as though he was barely human. Petite, blond "Miss Randolph of our Records Department" had been something else entirely, a really pleasant surprise.

"You'll need a complete set of papers in your new identity," she mused, looking him over almost impersonally. "And you might just as well start out by calling me Audrey. This is going to take us three or four days to do it right. It's lucky for us that you've worked as a surveyor. Companies like World Traders always want more men with survey experience for their projects than we can find for them."

She worked with him as he filled out forms, staying as close as he could to the truth and relying at least partly on her judgment when the facts had to be falsified.

"We can keep the same name, but you'll need a new Social Security number," she told him. "We'll put a job history into the computer in case anyone checks back on you."

"You're the boss," Phil agreed, hiding a smile as he thought of how many times he had done exactly this same kind of thing for the Department. She was sharp, but he knew tricks she'd never even heard of. Oh, well. This didn't look like it was going to be too tough an assignment. "Hey, it's almost five o'clock. Are we going to work all night, or do you have better things to do with your evenings?"

"That depends on what you had in mind," she smiled impishly. "I know a brand new place over on the East Side, it's called the Spinny Spot. It just opened last week."

"Sounds great." He hoped that his smile wasn't too forced. The evening could get a bit rugged, but he thought that the rewards might be well worth the effort. Spinny Spots were the latest rage all over the country. The new chain of clubs had gotten started in England, adding holograms and virtual reality to the old concept of the discotheque, and had quickly caught on with the younger set. It was a good thing that his line of work kept him in shape.

It had taken them a full three days of careful work to alter the records to support his cover identity, days that had been spent studying dossiers of the people he would be investigating. The evenings had been more fun, devoted to getting better acquainted with Audrey and the nightlife of the area. Phil's reflective smile turned sour as that line of thought led to his first encounter with World Traders, Incorporated...

Heat and humidity had already clamped a gray-brown lid over downtown Washington, making the tiny red sports car seem even more out of place than usual as it knifed easily through the sluggish mid-morning traffic. Audrey laughed delightedly at Phil's expression as she cut across two lanes of traffic and swung into a parking place, ignoring the protesting beeps of an aging Honda.

"I'll drop you off here and let you walk the rest of the way, darling. That way, you'll look suitably hot and sweaty for your job interview."

"Better hot and sweaty than battered and bruised." He gave her a quick kiss as she lifted her face to him, and tousled her blond hair affectionately. "I swear, some day you're going to cut one too many corners and get rolled up into a ball by a truck that refuses to be bluffed. They won't even bother to cut you loose, just go ahead and bury the whole tangled mess."

"That's what I like about you, Phil. You have the sweetest way of always looking at the bright side of everything." She grinned as she revved the tiny car's engine, ready to drive off. "Now, do you have all of your papers?"

"The whole works. Relax, Audrey." His easy smile gave no hint of the tension that always gripped him at the start of a new assignment. "As long as these papers you cooked up for me hold together, there's no reason for World Traders to be the slightest bit suspicious. If they're as hard up for workers as you say, they'll sign me up in nothing flat and I'll be on my way. I won't try to report back unless I find out something. I'll mail a card about once a week to 'Aunt Phyllis' at the post office box number you gave me. As long as they keep on coming, you'll know that I'm all right."

"Just be careful. I don't want anything to happen to you just when we're getting to know each other."

His thoughts had narrowed down to the job at hand as he entered the building's spacious lobby. A quick glance at the building directory told him where to go, and a silent elevator had born him swiftly upward to the seventh floor.

There was no door, just a wood and metal pedestal with a sign saying:

World Traders, Incorporated

Personnel Department

His first impression was of spaciousness and all-pervading light. The entire floor was one huge room. A high-vaulted ceiling glowed softly over an expanse of partitioned aisles that divided it into cubicles where people worked quietly and efficiently. Moving his blocky form unobtrusively forward, he presented a plastic card to a receptionist who dropped it into a slot in her console. She studied the information that scrolled across her screen for a moment before handing the card back to him.

"Please follow the light." She smiled, pointing to where a swirling glow seemed to emanate from the deep-piled carpet. "One of our clerks will process your application."

Impressed in spite of himself, Phil followed the moving spot of light to where a young and attractive Black woman waited behind a desk console. A sudden tension gripped him, and it took all of his will power to keep it from showing. What in Hell was she doing here, processing routine job applications?