DEATH'S WISHER
BY JIM WANNAMAKER
Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine February 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
There's just one way to disarm a bomb—be
at least a step ahead of it—but what if
it's always at least a step ahead of you?
Flinn took the seat that Wilmer indicated, dropped his overnight bagbeside it, and tried to relax. He'd had five hours of inactivity onthe plane, but the peremptory manner with which he had been routed outof his California apartment and conveyed to Washington, D. C, had sofilled his mind with unanswered questions that he still found rest tobe impossible. He had been told simply that the government needed him;and when federal wheels started turning, there wasn't much a privatecitizen could do to stop them.
He watched the tall, lean, dark-haired man, who had been introduced asDr. Jackson Wilmer, nuclear physicist, disappear through a door.
Flinn looked around.
The room in which he sat—comparatively small, one of hundreds in thevastness of the Pentagon—seemed to be a sort of minor office. At leastthere were several desks and filing cabinets. Besides himself, therewere now only two other men in the room.
One, a complete stranger, sat at a desk across the room with his backturned toward Flinn.
The other leaned against the wall near the door. All Flinn knew abouthim, despite the fact that they had been as close as boy and dog forthe past seven hours, was that his name was Hayes and that he was aspecial agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. There was amuscular hardness about this young man that betrayed an athleticbackground. He was about thirty, had a craggy face beneath short brownhair, hard gray eyes, and his nose had been broken at least once. Therewas a light trace of beard beginning to show on the agent's face, buthis brown summer suit still looked neat, and the man himself seemedsomething less than tired.
Looking at him, Flinn felt a sense of his own shabbiness. He needed ashave as badly as his slacks and sports jacket needed pressing.
At forty-two, Flinn was somewhat taller than average and slightlyunderweight from overwork and the irregularities of a bachelorexistence. His black hair, beginning to recede a little, was pepperedwith silver, and his normally relaxed face was now tight, and thewhites of his hazel eyes were bloodshot.
The door beside Hayes opened and Wilmer entered, carrying a brownfolder. He was in his shirtsleeves, his necktie pulled down and hiscollar open, and, as he approached, Flinn noted that the deeply tannedface of the physicist was as stubbled and tired-looking as his ownfelt. He was about the same age as Flinn.
Wilmer tossed the folder on the desk in front of Flinn and then perchedon one corner of the desk. He gazed at the parapsychologist for a longfew seconds, his eyes startingly ice-blue in his dark face.
"Well," he said presently, "I guess you're wondering what this is allabout."
"Yes, I guess I am," Flinn said wryly. "This bird dog—" he indicatedHayes with a nod of his head, and the agent retaliated with a flashof teeth—"hauls me away from an important experiment, loads me on anAir Force jet, and, after a high-altitude flight at God only knowswhat kind of fantastic speeds, I find myself in the holiest of holies,surrounded by MPs and—yes, you might say I'm wondering what this is