Isaac Asimov Read Free Page B

band-aid took care of that.
    He was tired now, however, tired to the bone. Physically tired, of course, but also tired of the whole crazy foolishness. In his college days, ten years before, they had called him Granite Grant and he had tried to live up to that on the football field, like a dumb jerk. One broken arm was the result but at least he was lucky enough to have kept his teeth and nose intact so that he could retain that craggy set of good looks. (His lips twitched into a silent, flicking smile.)
    And since then, too, he had discouraged the use of first names. Only the monosyllabic grunt of Grant. Very masculine. Very strong.
    Except to heck with it. What was it getting him except weariness and every prospect of a short life. He had just passed thirty now and it was time to retire to his first name. Charles Grant. Maybe even Charlie Grant. Good Old Charlie Grant!
    He winced, but then frowned himself firm again. It
had
to be. Good Old Charlie. That was it. Good old soft Charlie who likes to sit in an armchair and rock. Hi, Charlie, nice day. Hey, there, Charlie, looks like rain.
    Get yourself a soft job, good old Charlie, and snooze your way to your pension.
    Grant looked sidewise at Jan Benes. Even he found something familiar about that shock of grizzled hair, the face with its strong, fleshy nose above the untidy, coarse mustache, likewise grizzled. Cartoonists made do with that nose and mustache alone, but there were his eyes, too, nested in fine wrinkles, and there were the horizontal lines that never left his forehead. Benes’ clothes were moderately ill-fitting, but they had left hurriedly, without time for the better tailors. The scientist was pushing fifty, Grant knew, but he looked older.
    Benes was leaning forward, watching the lights of the approaching city.
    Grant said, “Ever been to this part of the country before, professor?”
    “I have never been to any part of your country,” said Benes, “or was that intended to be a trick question?” There was a faint but definite trace of accent in his speech.
    “No. Just making conversation. That’s our second largest city up ahead. You can have it, though. I’m from the other end of the country.”
    “To me it doesn’t matter. One end. The other end. As long as I’m here. It will be …” He didn’t finish the sentence but there was a sadness in his eyes.
    Breaking away is hard, thought Grant, even when you feel you must. He said, “We’ll see to it you have no time to brood, professor. We’ll put you to work.”
    Benes retained his sadness. “I’m sure of that. I expect it. It is the price I pay, no?”
    “I’m afraid so. You caused us a certain amount of effort, you know.”
    Benes put his hand on Grant’s sleeve. “You risked your life. I appreciate that. You might have been killed.”
    “I run the chance of being killed as a matter of routine. Occupational hazard. They pay me for it. Not as well as for playing a guitar, you understand, or for hitting a baseball, but about what they feel my life is worth.”
    “You can’t dismiss it so.”
    “I’ve got to. My organization does. When I come back,there will be a shake of hands and an embarrassed ‘Good work!’ —You know, manly reserve and all that. Then it’s: ‘now for the next assignment and we have to deduct for that band-aid you have on your side. Have to watch expenses.’ ”
    “Your game of cynicism doesn’t fool me, young man.”
    “It has to fool
me
, professor, or I would quit.” Grant was almost surprised at the sudden bitterness in his voice. “Strap yourself in, professor. This flying junkheap makes rough landings.”
    The plane touched down smoothly, despite Grant’s prediction, and taxied to a stop, turning as it did so.
    The Secret Service contingent closed in. Soldiers leaped out of troop-carrying trucks to form a cordon about the plane, leaving a corridor for the motorized stairway steering its way toward the door of the plane.
    A convoy of three