The Complete Stories_ Volume 1 - Isaac Asimov [23]
"Oh, no," said Foster, "you're bluffing. This is not the twentieth century, you know." There was a stir outside the office, the clatter of feet, a high-pitched shout that Foster was sure he recognized. The door crashed open, the lock splintering, and three intertwined figures stumbled in. As they did so, one of the men raised a blaster and brought its butt down hard on the skull of another. There was a whoosh of expiring air, and the one whose head was struck went limp.
"Uncle Ralph!" cried Foster.
Araman frowned. "Put him down in that chair," he ordered, "and get some water." Ralph Nimmo, rubbing his head with a gingerly sort of disgust, said, "There was no need to get rough, Araman." Araman said, "The guard should have been rough sooner and kept you out of here, Nimmo. You'd have been better off."
"You know each other?" asked Foster.
"I've had dealings with the man," said Nimmo, still rubbing. "If he's here in your office, nephew, you're in trouble."
"And you, too," said Araman angrily. "I know Dr. Foster consulted you on neutrinics literature." Nimmo corrugated his forehead, then straightened it with a wince as though the action had brought pain. "So?" he said. "What else do you know about me?"
"We will know everything about you soon enough. Meanwhile, that one item is enough to implicate you. What are you doing here?"
"My dear Dr. Araman," said Nimmo, some of his jauntiness restored, "day before yesterday, my jackass of a nephew called me. He had placed some mysterious information—"
"Don't tell him! Don't say anything!" cried Foster.
Araman glanced at him coldly. "We know all about it, Dr. Foster. The safety-deposit box has been opened and its contents removed."
"But how can you know—" Foster's voice died away in a kind of furious frustration.
"Anyway," said Nimmo, "I decided the net must be closing around him and, after I took care of a few items, I came down to tell him to get off this thing he's doing. It's not worth his career."
"Does that mean you know what he's doing?" asked Araman.
"He never told me," said Nimmo, "but I'm a science writer with a hell of a lot of experience. I know which side of an atom is electronified. The boy, Foster, specializes in pseudo-gravitic optics and coached me on the stuff himself. He got me to get him a textbook on neutrinics and I kind of ship-viewed it myself before handing it over. I can put the two together. He asked me to get him certain pieces of physical equipment, and that was evidence, too. Stop me if I'm wrong, but my nephew has built a semi-portable, low-power chronoscope. Yes, or—yes?"
"Yes." Araman reached thoughtfully for a cigarette and paid no attention to Dr. Potterley (watching silently, as though all were a dream) who shied away, gasping, from the white cylinder. "Another mistake for me. I ought to resign. I should have put tabs on you, too, Nimmo, instead of concentrating too hard on Potterley and Foster. I didn't have much time of course and you've ended up safely here, but that doesn't excuse me. You're under arrest, Nimmo."
"What for?" demanded the science writer.
"Unauthorized research."
"I wasn't doing any. I can't, not being a registered scientist. And even if I did, it's not a criminal offense." Foster said savagely, "No use, Uncle Ralph. This bureaucrat is making his own laws."
"Like what?" demanded Nimmo.
"Like life imprisonment without trial."
"Nuts," said Nimmo. "This isn't the twentieth cen—"
"I tried that," said Foster. "It doesn't bother him."
"Well, nuts," shouted Nimmo. "Look here, Araman. My nephew and