Tomorrow Is Too Far by James White Read Free Book Online Page B

Savage.
    It occurred to Carson that he should check on Pebbles’s clearance. For several seconds he dithered between doing it there and then or leaving it until Monday, but the top-heavy aspect of his in tray kept him in his seat.
    There was an unusually large number of reclassifications in the pile. Hart-Ewing’s had no Top Secret projects going--not officially, that was--but there were a few hoary old Secrets and Restricteds connected with the HE93 missile guidance system which had been fighting a losing battle with the more speculative technical journals for several months. These had finally been declassified and they included technical material and strike photographs which Simpson had recently been seeking permission to publish.
    It might be an idea to deliver the good news in. person. Simpson would appreciate that. As well, the publicity man was fond of saying that it was his job to know everything so that he would know what not to write about. Simpson was also responsible for editing the house magazine, whose correspondents sent in news and gossip from every comer of Hart-Ewing’s. Without being aware of it Simpson might have some useful information about the project-without-a-name, and Pebbles.
    Carson yawned, stretched and looked at his watch. In a few minutes it would be Saturday morning and he really should go to bed before he went to sleep. But before he locked up he had another quick look at the contents of the old envelope at the bottom of his junk drawer. It offended his orderly, mind that the project he was trying to uncover did not, so far as he knew, have a name. It was easier to think about something which had a clear label attached to it, even if it was the wrong label in the beginning. One could not think constructively about nothing.
    Project Hush? Triple-Hush? Firebug? Blank? Zero? Remerant? Yehudi...?
    They were ridiculous labels, not worth considering--but there had been precedents for ridiculous project names even at Hart-Ewing’s. Shortly after Carson had joined the company a man-portable missile project called Peashooter had been declassified and a more dignified appellation had been sought, in vain. The engineers responsible for R and D could think of no other name for the weapon system, the Government and military authorities concerned with financing and field trials insisted that a change of name would cause needless confusion in their paperwork, and the result had been that the Hart-Ewing ad-men had been given the job of making Peashooter sound like the supersonic Wrath of God ...
    Which made him think of the unfairly handicapped Pebbles again. His mental development had not been completely retarded because he was able, in his own simple fashion, to plan ahead and learn. Carson had a mental picture of him standing stripped to the waist, clutching a children’s encyclopaedia giving basic information about aeroplanes because he was joining an aircraft company.
    Then there was Pebbles’s tie.
    Was it another try at preparing himself for the job? If so, had the tie helped him any more than the encyclopaedia to sweep floors? Carson felt sure now that the other’s transfer and promotion had not been gained on his own merits. The kids’ book had not helped and he could just as well have used the tie, or any tie, to hold up his pants. Weather permitting he would check on the tie business this weekend, but in the meantime he should try to think of something different and pleasant or he would end up dreaming about the man all night.
    The first really pleasant subject to occur to him was Dr Marshall and he kept a close mental hold on it, wishing that the hold was even closer and physical, on the way to his flat. But even then Pebbles kept creeping in, looking wide-eyed, innocent and without his shirt on ...
    It rained all day Saturday but Sunday morning looked promising. Carson, with a drive of seventy-odd miles ahead of him, set out shortly before eleven-thirty intending to have lunch at the