The Brain Eaters

Chapter 10

Dr. Kitzmiller was waiting when Dena walked into the office at nine on Thursday morning. He wore one of his standard gray suits and a muted tie. The smile he put on to greet her looked as though it hurt his face.

“Thank you for coming, Dena,” he said. “Please sit down.”

This is going to be serious, she thought. When Dr. Kitzmiller used your first name, he meant business. She eased into the chair facing him.

“I trust you slept well.”

“No one else broke into my house after you left, if that’s what you mean.” She was not going to make it easy for him.

“I am sorry about that,” Kitzmiller said. “A most unfortunate occurrence.”

“You said you were going to explain some things to me,” Dena reminded him.

“Just so.” He arranged the single sheet of paper before him so the edges were perfectly squared with the desk. “I assume you and Mr. Bratz discussed some of these matters last night.”

“We talked.”

“May I ask what he told you?”

“Lloyd said there was an accident of some kind during a spraying test from the helicopter. He said you had him and Stu Anderson locked up in the infirmary and kept them there under guard.”

Dena waited for some kind of reaction from Kitzmiller. When there was none, she went on.

“He told me Stu apparently contracted some kind of an illness that affected his mind. It finally killed him. Lloyd escaped from the infirmary, he said, but he was afraid the guards were close behind him. It turned out he was right.”

Kitzmiller compressed his lips into a thin line. He shifted uncomfortably in the padded swivel chair. “And do you accept Mr. Bratz’s version of what happened?”

“I have no reason to doubt him.”

“No. Quite right.”

“Is it true, doctor?”

“In essence, yes.”

Dena stared at him. She realized that what she wanted to hear was a denial. “And what about Stu?”

“I am coming to that.”

“He is not in Brazil.”

“No.”

“Where is he? What happened to him?”

“Please allow me to explain in an orderly manner. There are important details that Mr. Bratz omitted, or of which he is unaware.”

“I’d like to hear them.”

“There was, as he said, an unfortunate accident that occurred during a routine aerial dispersal test. The canister of purple dye, such as is normally used for these tests, was somehow exchanged for one containing an experimental pesticide that had been rejected and marked for disposal.”

“Pesticide, you say.”

“That is correct. Our products at Biotron include both experimental fertilizers and pesticides.”

“I am aware of that, Dr. Kitzmiller.”

“Yes, of course you are. As I say, there was an accidental switch of the canisters. Most regrettable.”

“Criminally careless, I’d call it.”

“Perhaps. But please remember we cannot afford to be emotional over such incidents. There is an ongoing investigation, and procedures will be adjusted to ensure that it does not happen again.”

“Just how dangerous was this pesticide?” Dena asked.

“We don’t know. I can tell you it was considered unsuitable for the use for which it was intended.”

“And this was the stuff Lloyd Bratz and Stuart sprayed over the countryside?”

“Only a small amount was actually released,” Kitzmiller said quickly. “And it was limited to our test area adjacent to an old county road that is no longer used.”

“That road may have been somewhat more used than you think. The highway was under repair that week. The county road was used for a time as a detour.”

“I am aware of that,” Kitzmiller said. “The authorities are taking proper steps to forestall any problems.”

“What authorities?”

Kitzmiller’s shoulders rose and fell in a minimal shrug. “Whoever has the jurisdiction. I am not concerned with these matters.”

Dena was determined not to let him off the hook. “You were going to tell me what happened to Stuart Anderson.”

He glanced over toward the antique hat rack with the mirror, then turned back to face Dena. “A most unfortunate accident. Mr. Anderson succumbed.”

“Succumbed? Then he is dead.”

“I am afraid so.”

Dena stared at him until the chilly blue eyes flicked away from her gaze. “Then Lloyd Bratz was telling the truth. He said Stu died violently. Tore himself apart was the way he put it.”

“Your friend’s perceptions may have been somewhat, ah, distorted by the effects of the pesticide. It is true that Stuart Anderson is dead, but Mr. Bratz’s description of the violence might be exaggerated.”

“Or it might not,” Dena said.

“Since I was not present at the time of Mr. Anderson’s death, I cannot say.”

“Why did you give me that story about Stu being transferred to Rio?”

“I apologize for the deception. Because of the delicate nature of our work, we thought it best to withhold the facts of this unfortunate business until we are sure of them.”

“Where have you taken Lloyd Bratz?”

“We are keeping him under observation.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is as much in his own interest as Biotron’s,” Kitzmiller said.

“Oh, sure.” Dena’s mouth twisted in a mirthless grin. “And his wife, Helen, is she under observation, too?”

“Of course not. The company recognizes its obligation to the families of its employees. Mrs. Bratz has been relocated until such time as she can join her husband.”

“That’s a lot of bureaucratic gobbledygook, doctor. I expected better from you.”

Kitzmiller sighed heavily. “You’re right. I am not comfortable with evasions. I wish I could take you completely into my confidence, but there are compelling reasons that prevent me from doing so. I hope you will accept that.”

“I suppose I’ll have to.”

“I would like your promise that you will keep our discussion here confidential.”

“I’m not sure I can give that promise,” Dena said.

He leaned toward her across the desk. The ice-blue eyes glittered. “Dr. Falkner, there is more involved here than the lives of those two pilots. More than the welfare of Biotron. Much, much more. It is essential that what I have told you is not repeated to the wrong people.”

Dena regarded him levelly. He was a cold, secret man, but she had a deep respect for him. She said, “I won’t say anything, doctor. Not right away. And not unless something else happens.”

“I will accept that,” he said. “When the facts are known, I am sure you will agree that silence now is in the best interests of all concerned.”

“Maybe,” Dena said.

Kitzmiller leaned back in the chair and spread his hands flat on the desk, a signal that the interview was over. Dena rose and walked out without looking back.

When he was alone, Kitzmiller turned his frosty gaze on the mirror. He thumbed the switch of the intercom, and the filtered man’s voice spoke.

“She will have to be watched.”

Kitzmiller nodded and turned away. With no one to see, his face relaxed into a look of inexpressible sadness.

Corey Macklin caught himself whistling as he rode the creaky elevator up to the editorial offices on the third floor of the Herald building. He grinned. He could not remember whistling since he was a boy. It simply was not his style. That morning, however, was different. That morning was going to open a new chapter in his life.

He got out of the elevator and strode through the city room with a broad smile on his face. People who knew him turned and looked a second time. It was not like Corey to be drunk at that time of morning, but they could think of no other reason for the happy expression. He merely smiled all the brighter and waved at them.

There was a note waiting for him at his desk. See Uhlander. Well, fine. That was exactly what he planned to do. He hadn’t expected the editor to be in that early, but since he was, so much the better. Corey gathered and sorted his notes on Stransky-Williamson. He was ready with a strong pitch for a trip to Seattle to get the Andrea Keith story. That would make the third leg of the triangle. There was no doubt in his mind that Porter Uhlander would go for it. How could he refuse?

The editor was seated with his hands folded over his paunch when Corey walked in. A powdering of Tums flecked the corners of his mouth. Corey started to pull the cracked leather chair over when he saw the small, dapper man seated back against the wall. The man had black, close-together eyes and a shrewd mouth.

Uhlander said, “Corey, this is Mr. Eichorn.”

Corey straightened up. “How do you do?” It was the first time since he had worked at the Herald that the publisher had put in an appearance.

Nathan Eichorn stood up and came over to shake Corey’s hand. The smaller man’s grip was cool and moist and quickly released.

“Please sit down,” Eichorn said. Corey lowered himself into the chair, and Eichorn pulled his own closer to the editor’s desk. “I’ve been talking to Porter here about you. I don’t know if he’s mentioned it.”

“He did say something about a column,” Corey said carefully. He did not want to sound eager about accepting some two-bit promotion.

“That was in my mind a while back, but I’ve got something bigger in mind for you, Corey. Much bigger.”

Uhlander belched audibly. Nathan Eichorn shot him an irritated look. Corey waited.

“Does the name Scope mean anything to you?” Eichorn asked.

“Wasn’t that the name of a proposed weekly news magazine that was being kicked around a year ago?”

“That’s right.” The publisher bobbed his head up and down. “Only now it’s well beyond the proposal stage. I hope to get the first issue on the stands by the first of the year.”

“That’s pretty ambitious,” Corey said. He wondered where the conversation was leading.

“Yes, it is,” Eichorn agreed, “but with the right people in the right positions, I know it can be done. I have most of the staff picked out, with one major exception.” He paused dramatically. “I need a managing editor.”

Corey felt a tightening around his diaphragm. “That’s major, all right,” he said.

“I want you to take the job.”

Corey looked at Porter Uhlander for some hint of what was going on. The editor’s expression told him nothing. He turned back to face Nathan Eichorn. “This is … kind of a surprise.”

“I don’t doubt it. But I’ve been watching your work, Corey, and I like what I’ve seen. I’ve also talked to people about you, naturally including Porter here. I’ve had some very good reports. Very good.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Corey said. “It hasn’t always been that way.”

“I know all about your trouble in San Francisco,” Eichorn said. “Ancient history. I have faith in what you can do now, and that’s all that counts with me.”

“Thank you.” Corey wondered at the vehemence of the man. Was he overdoing it?

“Naturally, there are a lot of details you’ll want to hear,” Eichorn went on. “There will be time for that later. Right now I can tell you that you’ll find the salary and benefits damn generous. And if there’s anything that you want and you don’t see, just ask for it. Heh-heh.” The publisher’s laugh was unconvincing.

“It certainly sounds like an interesting opportunity.” A worm of doubt was beginning to gnaw at Corey.

“I’ll tell you how interesting it is,” Eichorn said, leaning forward. “It’s an opportunity that a lot of men in our business would kill for. I understand you have no personal ties in Milwaukee. No family or anything.”

“No family,” Corey said.

“Good, good. Because I want you to get started on this right away. If we’re going to put the book on the stands in January, we’ll have to burn a lot of midnight oil. Can you be ready to leave for Houston in the next couple of days?”

“Houston?”

“That’s where our headquarters are going to be. New York real estate has priced itself right out of sight. Publishers are leaving there as fast as their leases are up. Houston is a booming young city. Vigorous. Cosmopolitan. Ideal for starting a new book like ours. So how about it? Can I pencil you in at the top of the masthead?”

Corey took several seconds to formulate his answer. “It certainly sounds like a challenging job, Mr. Eichorn. I have to admit I’m a little stunned at the suddenness of it all.”

“That’s the way I do things, Corey. Quietly study the facts, come to a decision, and bang, make my move. I didn’t get to be where I am by shilly-shallying.”

“Well, I certainly appreciate it,” Corey said. “There’s just one thing. I’m working on what I think is a very important story right now, and I’d like to wrap it up before moving on to anything else.”

“A story?” Eichorn snapped. “No story is important enough to delay putting Scope together. I’m sure Porter here can assign someone else.”

Uhlander came to life at the mention of his name. “Absolutely,” he said. “No problem.”

“See, Corey, how quickly these things can be solved.”

“I don’t know if Porter told you,” Corey said, “but this story may have wide implications. I got onto it when a Milwaukee man named Stransky — ”

“I know about the story,” Eichorn said. Some of the camaraderie went out of his voice. “I read my newspapers.”

“But you don’t know what I learned yesterday in New York. There was a cabdriver there who — ”

“The story is not important.” The publisher’s tone left no room for discussion. “Forget it. I want to hear your decision on the Scope job.”

“Mr. Eichorn, this isn’t something I can decide in a minute. Can I think it over?”

The atmosphere grew tense in the office as no one breathed for a long moment. Then Nathan Eichorn flashed a smile on and off. “Of course. Think it over, Corey. I’ll be back in town Monday. We can have dinner then, and you can tell me which way you’ve decided to take your career. Acceptable?”

“Acceptable,” Corey agreed.

Eichorn sprang to his feet, gave Corey another quick, cool handshake, and started out of the office. In the doorway he turned.

“One thing. Whatever you decide, we’re not going any further with the Stransky story.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve told Porter here to dump it. It’s not news, and I’m tired of reading about it. So don’t let that influence your decision.”

The publisher was gone before Corey could assimilate what he had just said. He looked questioningly at Uhlander.

The editor’s stomach rumbled. He said, “You heard the word, Corey. If you’ve got the brains I think you have, you’ll grab the magazine job.”

“But the Stransky story. You haven’t seen my New York notes.”

“I don’t care about your New York notes. The story is dead. And so are you if you make trouble for Mr. Eichorn. Think about it.”

“I will,” Corey said. He got up and jammed the folder of notes under his arm. “I’ll think about it.”