Final Weapon Page 3

Twelve, dropped his helicopter into the landingarea, and made his way to his office.

  Inside, he went to a file, from which he took his spot-inspectionfolder. Carrying it to his desk, he checked it. Yes, Bond's sector wasdue for a spot inspection. Might be well to make a detailed check of oneof the employees in that sector, too. Morely touched a button on hisdesk.

  Almost immediately, a clerk stood in the doorway.

  "Get me the master quarters file for Sector Fourteen," Morely ordered.

  The clerk went out, to return with two long file drawers. Quickly, heset them side by side on a small table, which he pushed over to hissuperior's desk.

  Idly, Morely fingered through the cards, noting the indexing andcondition of the file. He nodded in approval, then gave the clerk a nodof dismissal. At least, his people were keeping their files in order.

  He reached into a pocket, to withdraw a notebook. Turning its pages, hefound a few of the entries he had made on population changes, thencross-checked them against the files. All were posted and properlycross-indexed. Again, he nodded in satisfaction.

  Evidently, that last dressing down he had given the files section haddone some good. For a moment, he considered calling in the chief clerkand complimenting him. Then, he changed his mind.

  "No use giving him a swelled head," he told himself.

  He drew a file drawer to him, running his finger down its length. Atlast, he pulled a card at random. It was colored light blue.

  He put it back. Didn't want to check a group leader. He'd be afirst-class citizen, and entitled to privacy. He pulled another cardfrom a different section of the file. This one was salmon pink--anassistant group leader. He examined it. The man was a junior equipmentdesigner in one of the communications plants. For a moment, Morelytapped the card against his desk. Actually, he had wanted a basicemployee, but it might be well to check one of the leadmen. He couldhave the man accompany him while he made a further check on one of theapartments in his sub-group. Again, he looked at the card.

  Paul Graham, he noted, was forty-two years of age. He had threechildren--was an electronics designer, junior grade. His professionalprofile showed considerable ability and training, but the securityprofile showed a couple of threes. Nothing really serious, but he wouldbe naturally expected to be a second-class citizen--or below. It was notan unusual card.

  Morely looked at the quarters code. Graham lived in Apartment 7A, Group723, which was in Block 1022, Sector Fourteen. It would be well to checkhis quarters first, then check, say, 7E. Morely went through thenumerical file, found the card under 7E, and flipped the pages of hisnotebook to a blank sheet, upon which he copied the data he needed fromthe two cards.

  He put the notebook in his pocket and returned the cards to their placesin the file, then riffled the entire file once more, to be sure therewould be no clue as to which cards he had consulted. Finally, he touchedthe button on his desk again.

  Once more, the clerk stood in the doorway.

  "This file seems to be satisfactory," he was told. "You may bring in thecorrespondence now."

  The correspondence was no heavier than usual. Morely flipped through theroutine matter, occasionally selecting a report or letter andabstracting data. Tomorrow, he could check performance by referring tothese. At last, he turned to the separate pile of directives, productionand man-hour reports, and other papers which demanded more attentionthan the routine paper.

  He worked through the stack of paper, occasionally calling upon hisclerk for file data, sometimes making a communicator call. At last, hepushed away the last remaining report and leaned back. He spun his chairabout, activated the large entertainment screen, and spent some timewatching a playlet. At the end of the play, he glanced at his watch,then turned back to his desk. He leaned forward to touch a button on hiscommunicator.

  As the viewsphere lit, he flicked on the two-way video, then spoke.

  "Get me Sector Leader Bond." He snapped the communicator off almostbefore the operator could acknowledge, then spun about, switching hisentertainment screen to ground surface scan. A scene built up, showing aview from his estate in the hills.

  * * * * *

  There were some buildings on the surface--mostly homes of upper gradecitizens, who preferred the open air, and could afford to have a surfaceestate in addition to their quarters in the groups. These homes, for themost part, were located in wooded areas, where their owners could findsuitable fishing and hunting.

  Most of the traces of damage done by the bombings of the Nineties weregone from about the estate areas by now, and the few which remained werebeing eliminated. Morely increased the magnification, to watch a fewanimals at a waterhole. He could do a little hunting in a few weeks.Take a nice leave. He drew a deep breath.

  Those years after the end of the last war had been hectic, what with neworganizational directives, the few sporadic revolts, the integration ofhomecoming fighters, and the final, tight set-up. But it had all beenworth it. Everything was running smoothly now.

  The second- and third-class citizens had learned to accept their status,and some few of them had even found they liked it. At least, now theyhad far more security. There was subsistence in plenty for allproducers, thanks to the war-born advances in technology, and to thehighly organized social framework. To be sure, a few still felt uneasyin the underground quarters, but the necessity for protection frombombing in another war had been made clear, and they'd just have to getused to conditions. And, there were a very few who, unable to get orhold employment, existed somehow in the spartan discomfort of thesubsistence quarters.

  For most, however, there was minor luxury, and a plenitude ofnecessities. And there was considerable freedom of action and choice aswell as full living comfort for the full citizens, who had provedthemselves to be completely trustworthy, and who were deemed fit to holdkey positions.

  The communicator beeped softly, and he glanced at the sphere. It showedthe face of Harold Bond, leader of the fourteenth sector. The districtleader snapped on his scanner.

  "Report to me here in my office at eighteen hours, Bond."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And you might be sure your people are all in quarters this evening."

  Bond nodded. "They will be, sir."

  "That's all." Morely flicked the disconnect switch.

  He got up, strode around the office, then consulted his watch. Therewould be time for a cup of coffee before Bond arrived. Time for a cup ofcoffee, and time for the employees in Sector Fourteen to scurry about,getting their quarters in shape for an inspection. They would have noway of knowing which quarters were to be checked, and all would be putin order.

  He smiled. It was a good way, he thought, to insure that there would beno sloppiness in the homes of his people. And it certainly saved a lotof inspection time and a lot of direct contact.

  He went out of the office, and walked slowly down to the snack bar,where he took his time over coffee, looking critically at the neatcounter and about the room as he drank.

  The counter girls busied themselves cleaning up imaginary spots on theplastic counter and on their equipment, casting occasional, apprehensiveglances at him. Finally, he set his cup down, looked at the clock overthe counter, and walked out.

  Bond was waiting in the office. Morely examined the younger man,carefully appraising his appearance. The sector leader, he saw, wasproperly attired. The neat uniform looked as if freshly taken from thetailor shop. The man stepped forward alertly, to halt at the correctdistance before his superior.

  "Good evening, sir. My heli is on the roof."

  "Very good." Morely nodded shortly and took his notebook from hispocket. "We'll go to Building Seven Twenty-three."

  He turned and walked toward the self-service elevator. Bond hurried alittle to open the door for him.

  * * * * *

  Bond eased the helicopter neatly through the entry slot and on down intoone of the empty visitor spaces in the landing area at Block 1022.
Thetwo men walked across the areaway to an entrance.

  As they went up the short flight of stairs into the hall, Morely tookcareful notice of the building. The mosaic tile of the stairs and floorgleamed from a recent scrubbing. The plastic and metal handrails werespotless. He looked briefly at his subordinate, then motioned toward thedoor at their right.

  "This one," he ordered.

  Bond touched the call button and they waited.

  From inside the apartment, there was a slight rustle of motion, then thedoor opened and a man stood before them. For an instant, he lookedstartled, then he straightened.

  "Paul Graham, sir," he announced. "Apartment 7A is ready forinspection." He stepped back.

  Morely looked him over critically, saw nothing that warranted criticism,and went inside, followed by Bond.

  Cursorily, the district leader let his gaze wander about the apartment.The kitchen at his left, he saw, was in perfect order, everything beingin place and obviously