the balding man, remarking that he was doing a favor for a nephew; the young fellow was taking one of those creative writing courses at Emerson and had entered some sort of college competition.
"That kid's got some imagination," said the manager, clipping the stacks of copies together.
"Oh, did you read it?" "Just parts. You stand over that machine with nothing to do but make sure there's no jamming; you look. But when people come in with personal things-like letters and wills, you know what I mean-1 always try to keep my eyes on the dials. Sometimes it's hard." Bray laughed. "I told my nephew he'd better win or he'd be put in jail." "Not anymore. These kids today, they're great. They say anything. I know a lot of people don't like 'em for it, but I do." "I think I do, too." Bray looked at the bill placed in front of him and took his money from his pocket. "Say, you wouldn't by any chance have an Alpha Twelve machine here, would you?" "Alpha Twelve? That's an eighty-thousand-dollar piece of equipment. I do a good business, but I'm not in that class." "I suppose I could find one in Boston." "That insurance company over on Lafayette Street has one; you can bet your life the home office paid for it. It's the only one I know of north of Boston, and I mean right up to Montreal." "An insurance company?" "West Hartford Casualty. I trained the two girls who ran the Alpha Twelve. Isn't that just like an insurance company? They buy a machine like that but they won1 pay for a service contract." Scofield leaned on the counter, a weary man confiding. "Listen, I've been traveling for five days and I've got to get a report into the mails by tonight. I need an Alpha Twelve. Now, I can drive into Boston and probably find one. But it's damn near four o'clock and I'd rather not do that. My company's a little crazy; it thinks my time is valuable and lets me have enough money to save it where I can. What do you say? Can you help me?" Bray removed a hundred-dollar bill from his clip.
"You work for one hell of a company." "That I do." "I'll make a call."
It was 5:45 when Bray returned to the hotel on Salem harbor. The Alpha Twelve had performed the service he had needed, and he had found a stationery store where he had purchased a stapler, six manila envelopes, two rolls of packaging tape, and a Park-Sherman scale that measured weight in ounces and grams. At the Salem Post Office he had bought fifty dollars worth of stamps.
A porterhouse steak and a bottle of Scotch completed his shopping list.
He spread his purchases on the bed, removing some to the table, others to the Formica counter between the Lilliputian stove and refrigerator.
He poured a drink and sat in the chair in front of the window overlooking the harbor. It was growing dark, he could barely see the water except where it reflected the lights of the piers.
He drank the whisky in short swallows, letting the alcohol spread, suspending all thought. He had no more than ten minutes before the telephone calls would begin. His cannons were in place, his nuclear bomb in its rack. It was vital now that everything take place in sequence-always sequence-and that meant choosing the right words at the right time; there was no room for error. To avoid error, his mind had to be free, loose, unencumberedcapable of listening closely, picking up nuances.
Toni?...
No!
He closed his eyes. The gulls in the distance were foraging the waters for their last meal before darkness was complete. He listened to their screeches, the dissonance somehow comforting; there was a kind of energy in every struggle to survive. He hoped be would have it.
He dozed, awakening with a start. He looked at his watch, annoyed. It was six minutes past six; his ten minutes had stretched nearer to fifteen. It was time for the first telephone call, the one he considered least likely to bring results. It would not have to be routed throu ' gh Lisbon, the chances of a tap so remote as to be practically nonexistent. But practically was not totally; therefore, his conversation would last no longer than twenty seconds, the minimum amount of time needed for even the most sophisticated tracing equipment to function.
The twenty-second limit was the one he had instructed the Frenchwoman to use