STORM: The Black Sphere

As he strode along it, his eyes clocked the chrome sign staked into the ground:

INVESTA CORPORATION
EUROPEAN RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT
INSTITUTE

Webb took the black marble steps at a jog. Glass doors slid open silently, admitting him into a vast foyer. The only sound was a trickling from the ornamental Zen water garden. A woman behind the reception desk looked up.

Webb nodded. He headed straight for the corridor that led into the body of the building. Anyone trying to enter without permission would be stopped here by an automatic barricade. Steel doors would slam shut, sealing off the corridor. Alarms would go off, triggering an instant armed response.

Webb himself had signed off on the security system. He knew how it worked. The instant he’d stepped into the foyer, an array of twelve miniature cameras had locked on his face. They’d scanned the unique patterns in his irises—the freckles, pits, furrows, and stripes across the colored part of his eyes. By the time Webb reached the corridor, a hidden computer had confirmed his identity and cleared him for access to all areas.

Webb stomped on, heading for the office of Gustav Pritt, the director of the Sphere. Pritt had called moments before Webb had arrived. Urgent inspections of the experimental drill sites were required. Pritt would be back in his office as soon as possible.

Webb doubted that any such inspections were required. Pritt had made the whole thing up, Webb guessed, in the hope that he would escape the first wave of his boss’s fury.

Webb found the door marked Direktor: Herr Gustav Pritt. Inside, the office was small. Webb saw a black desk with a laptop and a phone and an executive swivel chair. Beside the desk was a glass-fronted bookcase stuffed full of textbooks and journals.

Webb sat down. He slammed his briefcase on the desk and withdrew two files, both of which he’d printed to reread on the flight to Switzerland.

Webb shook his head. Of all the six scientists working on FIREball, Webb had thought Wickett the least likely to crack cold fusion. Webb himself had chosen to put Bailey on the payroll. In the event that he—or any of the other team members—succeeded, Bailey would receive fifteen million dollars, so long as he gave InVesta the tip-off before the European Union bosses were informed.

Gustav Pritt had been put in charge of managing Bailey, and monitoring FIREball’s progress. And then Bailey had called with the news that Wickett had done it—Wickett had called in the instruction to meet at Assembly Point Zebra!

Webb had ordered Pritt to send men to the farmhouse to kidnap Wickett. In case the other scientists were close to their own methods for cold fusion, he had ordered them to be exterminated. Then, once Webb was satisfied that he understood the technique, Wickett would be disposed of too. And Webb would have his hands on an invention that would make him incalculably powerful and wealthy.

But the goons that Pritt had hired to do the job had fouled it up. The explosive had gone off far too early, killing not only four of the scientists, but also the idiots themselves, who had been hiding in the kitchen. Bailey had tried to escape—and Pritt had used a Frisbee to kill him.

It was a miracle no one had noticed the Frisbee, Webb thought. Pritt was fond of the new robot—and Pritt was a fool! But Pritt was also loyal, and he was trustworthy. Webb would wait to get rid of him until this business with Wickett was over.

DAVID AUGUSTUS WICKETT

Age: 37
Nationality: British
Family: none
Friends: none identified

No one to kidnap and hold for ransom in return for the plans for cold fusion, in other words.

It had been prepared three months ago, duly noted, acted upon, and filed. Only, in the present circumstances, the contents were much more riveting . . .

Webb had met Hudson once or twice. He remembered steel-framed glasses. A dark suit. Someone trustworthy, dependable, and honest. Perhaps too honest. Hudson had insisted on presenting this report to Webb in person. Webb could still hear the engineer’s earnest voice: “You must act at once, Mr. Webb. It must be stopped.”

As he swiveled in the chair, he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass of the bookcase. He saw a successful man. What did other people see?