BREATHES THERE A MAN
BY CHARLES E. FRITCH
ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH
Someone in the place where Dunlop worked was an
agent of the World Bureau Investigation. But how
could they suspect him at a time like this? His tracks
were covered and tangled until even Julie had
no knowledge of them. Then the robot came....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Rocket Stories, July 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Arthur Dunlop busied himself over the blueprints as though he had adeep and sincere interest in them, unmindful of the scurry of sounds inthe office. The incessant clicking of electronic typewriters, muffledthough they were, combined to form a hum of angry bees. Papers shuffledthat were important somehow to the welfare of the State, and men andwomen sat and looked at them, checking and rechecking, checking andrechecking, for it was important that nothing should go wrong, anyplace, in even the slightest aspect.
The small square of paper had been dropped on his desk unobtrusively,and for a brief moment he had stared at it in surprise. Then he coveredit with a casual hand and glanced up in apparent thoughtfulness. Ablonde girl was making her way down the space between rows of metalloiddesks, a bundle of vital-appearing documents in her hands. Arthurstudied the swaying body, as though that were the only thought on hismind, but the paper burned curiously at his palm.
He returned quickly to his work of checking blueprints, for idlenesseven in a trusted employee was looked upon with suspicion. He bent overthe three-dimensional diagram, feigning interest, and slowly opened thefolded square of paper. On it were written the words: "WBI. Careful."The words leaped up at him in a green ink that would fade in seconds,leaving no trace.
He crushed the paper in his hand, trying hard not to look around him.WBI. World Bureau of Investigation. Did they suspect? he wondered. Hethrust the thought from his mind and made a conscious effort to studythe drawing on his desk.
Drawing 2b, one-tenth of the plan for a respirator, newly-designed andimproved, streamlined for the year 2108, Arthur could just imagine theadvertising they'd do on this model. But the other thought crowded itaside: the underground knew there was a WBI man in the office.
And just why would there be a WBI man here? Routine? Possibly. Yet morelikely, somebody smelled a rat. This was no time for plans to go awry.
He looked up, glancing with apparent disinterest at the faces nearhim hovering over their respective desks. They, too, were busywith blueprints. Part 3d of a new atomic engine. Part 14c of athree-dimensional television set designed to bring in bigger and bettercommercials. Et cetera. Et cetera. For security reasons, no two workedat the same project.
He scanned their faces, searching for something indefinable, somethingthat might outwardly betray hidden thoughts. There was Hawkins,a middle-aged, eagle-faced person, been with the local office ofState Enterprises for more than twenty years—unquestionably loyalto the government. Merker, a chubby person with shifting eyes behindthin-lensed glasses; he was okay, for shifting eyes or not, they hadall been checked, even as he had been checked. And Austen, thenewcomer, only twenty-five and fresh from college, a nervous; restlesstype of person; he was the most likely suspect for a WBI man, althoughsome might think it would be too obvious—which might in turn tend toprove the point.
Arthur shrugged mentally and returned to his work. He stared at thedesign of coils and condensers and wires and felt a little sick, whichwas