The Probability Broach by L. Neil Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

funny was going on. Six or seven miles northwest of Fort Collins, Laporte boasted fewer than five thousand inhabitants—an unlikely place for a bootleg mint, industrial bank, or paratronics factory—whatever that was. It had once been considered—its sole distinction—a potential capital of Colorado Territory, back when Jack Slade ran the stage line and Denver only had one of those newfangled railroad things.
    To the matter at hand: I found my way downstairs (more green cinder block), let myself in to Meiss’s lab, and turned on the lights—forty-watt or less by government decree. The windows were heavily painted over—national security. There was also a stout slide-up-and-down bolt, handmade from a concrete reinforcing rod. Not a bad idea, I thought, as I clanked it shut. It was good for a few seconds’ warning.
    Vaughn Meiss’s lab made all the stereotypes come true. Remember The Fly? It was just like that—strung with wires and insulators, bulky pilot-lighted cabinets looming in the twilight. Only the posters were out of place. One on the back of the door read, GOVERNMENT SCIENCE IS A CONTRADICTION IN TERMS—AYN RAND and, penciled below: Ayn Rand is a contradiction in terms. Another, on the far wall, was a still from some old Boris Karloff flick: THEY NEVER UNDERSTOOD ME AT THE UNIVERSITY!
    There was a dark, steel-framed cubbyhole on the outside wall that might be a fire exit—I couldn’t see very well from where I stood, buried to the hips in infernal machinery. All but one fluorescent tube had been removed from the ceiling. Like everyone else these days, I was developing a caveman’s squint.
    I worked my way to a console at the center, seemingly the command post, covered with knobs and dials. There were a couple of stained coffee cups and a half-filled ashtray I looked in vain for a pack of cigarettes. In the center of the console was a big gray metal notebook. You never know where the next clue is coming from—I peeked: nothing. Very curious, and like that almost-empty drawer upstairs, a sort of clue by omission. Somebody around here was a klepto.
    A scraping at the doorknob—Bealls, no doubt making sure I didn’t arrest any electrons without reading them their rights—footsteps, and muffled conversation. I suppressed my original impulse to go undo the bolt, and stood still, shivering a little. Then a crash! The door bulged, glass shattering into paint-covered fragments. The forty-one flashed into my hand as I ducked behind the console. Again! The doorjamb burst, splinters flying, and a cataract of data disks fountained to the floor. A man stood framed in the doorway, tossed his fire-extinguisher battering ram aside, and drew a weapon from his right hip.
    Shifting gently to one end of the console, I lined the intruder’s head atop my front sight like an apple on a post and waited, heart pounding painfully He scanned the dimly lit room, motioned to someone, left palm outward—stay back a moment—then moved in softly, head panning like a questing reptile. My hand was sweaty on the revolver grip.
    As he drifted past, I swapped the Magnum to my left hand, laid the muzzle on the back of his neck, and rose. “Stand easy, asshole!” I whispered, trying to keep an eye on the door. He turned abruptly. I grabbed, jammed my thumb between the hammer of his automatic and the firing pin. The weapon pointed at my guts, the hammer fell. Pain lanced through my hand but the pistol failed to fire. I wrenched it away, smacked him backhand across the face with mine. Blood spurted, black in the dark, and he crumpled.
    I kicked him hard, just to make sure, then lifted his unconscious bulk—something unpleasant twanged inside my lower torso—and propped him on the console. He mumbled something before I got a hand over his mouth, fell awkwardly against me, and slid. His jacket caught—there was a click, a whining rumble from across the room. More pilot lights winked on.
    At the door, five million flashbulbs were going