us."
Elizabeth giggled. "I knew I shouldn't have told you about this. I suppose I'll have to listen to a lot of infantile jokes now."
"No, I think I got them all out of my system for the present," said Richardson .
Elizabeth groaned. "Go back to your desk, you creep." Richardson said,
"I'm going, But you know what?”
“What?"
"I'd have this one checked out." Elizabeth made a face, but he held up his hand in the gesture he used to signal the return of the businesslike Richardson .
"Seriously," he said.
"Checked out with whom?" asked Elizabeth, moving warily toward whatever absurdity he was anxious for her to elicit from him. "And why?"
"I'm not sure who. I guess the bomb squad. Maybe even somebody over in the Agriculture Department. Maybe this sort of thing happens all the time.
Who knows? I'm a city boy myself. But if it does we ought to know about it. We might be sending agents out into the field once a week to find out some farmer blew himself up with his manure spreader."
Elizabeth studied his face, but he seemed serious. "I don't know if you're joking or not, but what you're saying makes sense. It'll take a few minutes to clear this up, and I've got some time on my hands this afternoon."
"Then do it," he said. "If only to cater to my curiosity."
IN THE LOS ANGELES AIRPORT there are some people who stand on the moving walkway, letting the long belt carry them to the end of the corridor.
Others walk forward on it, combining muscle and machinery into something over a dead run; and others, probably the biggest group, don't use the machinery at all. This group consists of people who have spent too much time sitting down and know they'll soon be sitting again for a few hours, or people who arrived at the airport an hour earlier than they needed to. Among them was a man not tall or short, not young or old, not light or dark, with a oneway ticket to Denver in his breast pocket. When the stewardess checks his boarding pass for the seat number a few minutes from now, she won't be able to decide whether he is on his way to one of the military bases in that area, or one of the ski resorts. And she certainly won't ask. After that she won't have time to notice. As soon as the lights go on she will be too busy to study faces. Once they are strapped in she will look mostly at their laps, where the trays and the drinks and the magazines will be.
THE MAN AT Treasury said, "That one's not in our bailiwick, I'm afraid.
Have you tried the FBI?"
"Not yet," said Elizabeth . "I'd hoped to get something on it today."
The man chuckled. "Oh, you've noticed. But I'll tell you what you can do.
9
There's a guy over there who knows just about everything about explosives.
Name's Hart. Agent Robert E. Hart. If you call him direct you'll avoid all the referral forms and runarounds. He's the one you'd get to in the end anyway. He's at extension 3023. Write down that name and number, because it'll come in handy every now and then. Agent Hart."
"Thanks," said Elizabeth . "That'll save me a lot of time." Elizabeth dialed the FBI number and waited. The female voice on the other end seemed to come from the soul of a melting candy bar: "Federal Bureau of Investigation."
Elizabeth retaliated, making her voice go soft and whispery. "Extension 3023
please, dear."
"That'll hold her," thought Elizabeth .
"Whom would you like to speak with, ma'am?" said the voice, now suddenly businesslike and mechanical.
"Agent Hart," said Elizabeth .
"I'll ring his office," said the voice.
The line clicked and there was that sound that seemed as though a door had opened on a physically larger space. "Hart," said a man's voice.
Elizabeth wondered if she had missed the ring. "This is Elizabeth Waring at Justice, Agent Hart. We have an explosives case and we need some information."
"Who told you to call me?"
"Treasury."
"Figures," he said, without emotion. "What do you want to know?"
"Anything you can tell me about fertilizer
Elizabeth giggled. "I knew I shouldn't have told you about this. I suppose I'll have to listen to a lot of infantile jokes now."
"No, I think I got them all out of my system for the present," said Richardson .
Elizabeth groaned. "Go back to your desk, you creep." Richardson said,
"I'm going, But you know what?”
“What?"
"I'd have this one checked out." Elizabeth made a face, but he held up his hand in the gesture he used to signal the return of the businesslike Richardson .
"Seriously," he said.
"Checked out with whom?" asked Elizabeth, moving warily toward whatever absurdity he was anxious for her to elicit from him. "And why?"
"I'm not sure who. I guess the bomb squad. Maybe even somebody over in the Agriculture Department. Maybe this sort of thing happens all the time.
Who knows? I'm a city boy myself. But if it does we ought to know about it. We might be sending agents out into the field once a week to find out some farmer blew himself up with his manure spreader."
Elizabeth studied his face, but he seemed serious. "I don't know if you're joking or not, but what you're saying makes sense. It'll take a few minutes to clear this up, and I've got some time on my hands this afternoon."
"Then do it," he said. "If only to cater to my curiosity."
IN THE LOS ANGELES AIRPORT there are some people who stand on the moving walkway, letting the long belt carry them to the end of the corridor.
Others walk forward on it, combining muscle and machinery into something over a dead run; and others, probably the biggest group, don't use the machinery at all. This group consists of people who have spent too much time sitting down and know they'll soon be sitting again for a few hours, or people who arrived at the airport an hour earlier than they needed to. Among them was a man not tall or short, not young or old, not light or dark, with a oneway ticket to Denver in his breast pocket. When the stewardess checks his boarding pass for the seat number a few minutes from now, she won't be able to decide whether he is on his way to one of the military bases in that area, or one of the ski resorts. And she certainly won't ask. After that she won't have time to notice. As soon as the lights go on she will be too busy to study faces. Once they are strapped in she will look mostly at their laps, where the trays and the drinks and the magazines will be.
THE MAN AT Treasury said, "That one's not in our bailiwick, I'm afraid.
Have you tried the FBI?"
"Not yet," said Elizabeth . "I'd hoped to get something on it today."
The man chuckled. "Oh, you've noticed. But I'll tell you what you can do.
9
There's a guy over there who knows just about everything about explosives.
Name's Hart. Agent Robert E. Hart. If you call him direct you'll avoid all the referral forms and runarounds. He's the one you'd get to in the end anyway. He's at extension 3023. Write down that name and number, because it'll come in handy every now and then. Agent Hart."
"Thanks," said Elizabeth . "That'll save me a lot of time." Elizabeth dialed the FBI number and waited. The female voice on the other end seemed to come from the soul of a melting candy bar: "Federal Bureau of Investigation."
Elizabeth retaliated, making her voice go soft and whispery. "Extension 3023
please, dear."
"That'll hold her," thought Elizabeth .
"Whom would you like to speak with, ma'am?" said the voice, now suddenly businesslike and mechanical.
"Agent Hart," said Elizabeth .
"I'll ring his office," said the voice.
The line clicked and there was that sound that seemed as though a door had opened on a physically larger space. "Hart," said a man's voice.
Elizabeth wondered if she had missed the ring. "This is Elizabeth Waring at Justice, Agent Hart. We have an explosives case and we need some information."
"Who told you to call me?"
"Treasury."
"Figures," he said, without emotion. "What do you want to know?"
"Anything you can tell me about fertilizer
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