The Turing Option

Rohart sipped at his coffee before he answered, searching Benicoff’s face for some clue and finding nothing there. “You want me to say it, don’t you? That while I can keep Megalobe operational I have no experience in the kind of investigation that is called for here, that I am out of my depth.”

“I don’t want you to say a thing that you do not think is true.” Benicoff’s voice was flat, dispassionate. Rohart smiled grimly.

“Message received. You are more than a bit of a bastard — but you’re right. Will you conduct the investigation? This is a formal request.”

“Good. I wanted it to be completely clear where the line of demarcation lies.”

“You’re in charge, right? What do you want me to do next?”

“Run the company. Period. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Rohart sighed and slumped back in his chair. “I’m glad that you are here — and I mean that.”

“Good. Now let’s get over to the lab.”

The door to the laboratory building was closed now — and protected by a large, grim man who wore a jacket despite the dry warmth of the morning. “ID,” he said, unmoving in the entrance. He checked Rohart’s identification, then glowered suspiciously at Benicoff when he reached into his pocket, grunted reluctant approval when he looked at the ID holograph and he saw who it was.

“Second door down there, sir. He’s waiting for you. You’re to be alone.”

“Who?”

“That’s all the message I have, sir,” the FBI man said stolidly.

“You don’t need me,” Rohart said. “And I have plenty that needs doing in the office.”

“Right.” Benicoff walked quickly to the door, knocked then opened it and went in.

“No names while the door is open. Get in and close it,” the man behind the desk said.

Benicoff did as he was told, then turned and resisted the impulse to come to attention. “I wasn’t told that you would be here, General Schorcht.” If Schorcht had a first name no one knew it. It was probably “General” in any case.

“No reason you should be, Benicoff. Let’s just keep it like that for a while.”

Benicoff had worked with the General before. He had found him ruthless, unlikable — and efficient. His face was as wrinkled as a sea tortoise — and he was probably as old as one. At one time in the misty past he had been a cavalry officer and had lost his right arm in battle. In Korea, it was said, though Gettysburg and the Marne were mentioned as well. He had been in Military Intelligence ever since Benicoff had known him; something high up, very secret. He gave orders, never took them.

“You’ll report to me once a day, minimum. Oftener if there is anything of importance. You have the secure number. Input all your data as well. Understood?”

“Understood. You know that this is a real bad one?”

“I know that, Ben.” For a moment the General relaxed, looked almost human. Tired. Then the mask dropped back into place. “You’re dismissed.”

“Is there any point in my asking what your involvement is in this matter?”

“No.” The General made himself an easy man to hate. “Report now to Agent Dave Manias. He heads the FBI sweep team.”

“Right. I’ll let you know what they have found out.”

Manias was in his shirt sleeves and sweating generously despite the cool of the air-conditioning, fueled by some furious inner fire as he punched rapidly into his hand computer. He looked up as Benicoff approached, wiped his palm on his trouser leg and shook his hand firmly and quickly.

“Glad you’re here. Told to hold my report until you showed.”

“What have you found out?”

“This is a preliminary report, okay? Just what we have so far. Data still coming in.” Benicoff nodded agreement and the FBI agent stabbed at his keyboard. “Starting right here in this room. We’re still analyzing all the prints we’ve found. But the odds are ninety-nine to one there’ll be no aliens. Just employees. Pros wear gloves. Now look there. Plenty of scratches, grooves in the lino. Hand truck wheel marks. Rough guess from the records what was taken. At least a ton and a half of stuff. Five, six men could easily move all that out in well under an hour.”

“Where did you get that one hour figure from?”

“Records. The front door here was opened by Toth and Beckworth. With private codes. From that time until everything blew was one hour twelve minutes and eleven seconds. Let’s go outside.”

Manias led the way through the front door and pointed to black marks on the white concrete outside. “Tire marks. A truck. You can see where it went over into the grass a little bit, left a groove.”

“Can you identify it?”

“Negative. But we’re still working on it. And the recorder on the main gate says it opened and closed twice.”

Benicoff looked around, then back at the building. “Let me see if I can put together what we know. Just after the visitors entered the building, security was compromised for over an hour. They were blind and deaf inside Security Central, watching and listening to piped pictures and Muzak. During this period all security ceased — so we can assume that all of the guards were part of the operation. Or are dead.”