Fantastic Voyage - By Isaac Asimov Page 0,8

glow on the scene.

There was the rustle in the distance of the beginnings of a gathering crowd.

Gonder cradled Benes' head on his lap. The scientist was completely unconscious now, his breathing slow, his pulse feeble.

Gonder stared earnestly at the man who might well be dead before the vehicle came to its final halt and muttered despairingly to himself, "We were almost there! -Almost there!"
Chapter 3 : HEADQUARTERS
Grant was only dopily aware of the hammering at his door. He stumbled upright and emerged from his bedroom, walking flat-footedly across the cold floor, and yawning prodigiously.

"Coming . " He felt drugged and he wanted to feel drugged. In the way of business, he was trained to come alive at any extraneous noise. Instant alertness. Take a mass of sleep, add a pinch of thump and there would be an instant and vast flowering of qui vive.

But now he happened to be on his own time and to heck with it.

"What do you want?"

"From the colonel, sir," came from the other side of the door. "Open at once."

Against his will, Grant jolted into wakefulness. He stepped to one side of the door and flattened against the wall. He then opened the door as far as the chain would allow and said, "Shove your ID card here."

A card was thrust at him and he took it into his bedroom. He groped for his wallet and pinched out his Identifier. He inserted the card and read the result on the translucent screen.

He brought it back and unhinged the chain; ready, despite himself, for the appearance of a gun or for some sign of hostility.

But the young man who entered looked completely harmless. "You'll have to come with me, sir, to headquarters."

"What time is it?"

"About 6:45 sir."

"A.M.?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why do they need me this time of day?"

"I can't say, sir. I'm following orders. I must ask you to come with me. Sorry." He tried a wry joke. "I didn't want to get up myself, but here I am."

"Do I have time to shave and shower?"

"Well. . ."

"All right, then, do I have time to dress?"

"Yes, sir. -But quickly!"

Grant scraped at the stubble along the angle of his jaw with his thumb and was glad he had showered the night before. "Give me five minutes for `clothes and necessities." He called out from the bathroom, "What's it all about?"

"I don't know, sir."

"What headquarters are we going to?"

"I don't think..."

"Never mind." The sound of rushing water made further speech impossible for a moment.

Grant emerged, feeling somberly semi-civilized. "But we're going to headquarters. You said that, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right, son," said Grant, pleasantly, "but if I think you're about to cross me, I'll cut you in two."

"Yes, sir."

Grant frowned when the car stopped. The dawn was gray and dank. There was a hint of forthcoming rain, the area was a rundown melange of warehouses and a quarter mile back they had passed a roped-off area.

"What happened here?" Grant had asked and his companion was the usual mine of non-information.

Now they stopped and Grant gently placed his hand on the butt of his holstered revolver.

"You'd better tell me what happens next."

"We're here. This is a secret government installation. It doesn't look it, but it is."

The young man got out and so did the driver. "Please stay in the car, Mr. Grant."

The two stepped away for a hundred feet, while Grant looked warily about. There was a sudden jerk of movement and for a split second he was thrown off balance. Recovering, he began to fling the car door open, then hesitated in astonishment as smooth walls grew upward all about him.

It took him a moment to realize that he was sinking along with the car; that the car had been sitting on the top of an elevator shaft. By the time he had drunk that in, it was too late to try to leave the car.

Overhead, a lid moved into place and for a while, Grant was in complete darkness. He flicked on the car's headlights but they splashed uselessly back from the round curve of the rising wall.

There was nothing to do but wait for an interminable three minutes and then the car stopped.

Two large doors opened, and Grant's tensed muscles were ready for action. He called them off at once. A two-man scooter bearing one M.P.-one obvious M.P. in a completely legitimate military uniform-was waiting for him. On his helmet were the letters CMDF. On the scooter were the same letters.

Automatically, Grant put words to the initials. "Centralized Mountain