Speeding Bullet

People always said that Caleb Conners seemed too young to be president. Though his hair was pure gray, there was something almost unnatural in the note of youth and vitality in his face. This was not because he failed to take seriously the responsibilities of his office. He might be youthful, but he was not frivolous. He was fully aware of the burdens and obligations that weighed on him as the leader of the most powerful nation in the world. And yet, somehow, this recognition never seemed fully to squelch his good humor.

He was sitting in the oval office, talking with Kassim Smith. Kassim Smith stood in an interesting and not altogether clear relation to the president. He was a short, lithe man with olive skin; wavy black hair; hard-bitten features; penetrating eyes; and a strange smile. He always dressed in black. And he always looked as if he were keeping a secret. Which, considering his position, was not surprising.

"So, what sort of storms are brewing on the political horizons today?" President Conners asked, leaning forward to look at his companion.

Kassim thoughtfully rubbed his slight goatee. "Well, there could be something. I just got wind of it myself and so it will be at least a day before the media gets it. But it might make some waves when it gets there."

"Something about Speeding Bullet?"

Kassim looked up quickly, with a strange expression--his secret, enigmatic smile growing more secret and enigmatic. "No. Those reports are out, but people still don't believe them enough to make trouble about them. Anyway, I don't think the bulk of the people would make trouble on that score. Quite a different matter, but one just as explosive. A scandal in the FBI."

There was a moment of silence and then President Connors asked, in a rather tired voice, "What kind of scandal?"

"A rumor is circulating that the FBI has been harassing organizations that support The Other Party."

"Ah." After a moment, he added, "Harassing how?"

"How would you harass someone if you were the FBI? Any way they can. Investigations of supposed wrong-doing for which there is no definite evidence, things like that. Nothing really startling new."

"There's no racket like an old racket?"

Kassim shrugged and burrowed deeper into the collar of his black jacket. "Well, that's the way politics works. But this could be particularly explosive. First, because the Samson Think Tank is involved. It may be one of the groups targeted by this. Second, because there is a possibility it isn't just the FBI. There is a possibility that there are multiple government agencies are involved. If all the government's agencies target one group or person, they're pretty much sunk, even if the government is staying inside its legal authority."

"And there's a possibility it's not?"

Kassim shrugged again. "It always possible, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Just now it's still a whisper in dark places. But it very well could be shouted from the house tops within a few days. I thought you might want to know. As president, you'll have to make some stand about it."

"Hmm. The whole question of course is what is really going on."

"The truth?"

"The whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

Kassim nodded and burrowed so far down into his coat that his chin disappeared completely. "So you think further investigation would be in order?"

"If you want to look into it and find out what's really going on--"

"So further investigation would be in order."

If President Conners noticed the peculiar emphasis Kassim gave to his own wording of the statement or the unusual enigmity of his enigmatic smile, he made no sign. All he said was, "Get on it and see what you can find out. Is there anything else?"

"Not at the moment. But you never know what may happen tomorrow--not in this game." Kassim Smith saluted his leader and employer with two fingers and then sauntered out of the room.

*

Samson Think Tank was one the largest independent centers for propagating the ideas and agenda of The Other Party. It was created, operated, and led by one J. B. Samson, a man of imposing physical and personal presence, the kind of man who dominated any room upon the moment he entered it. He was usually accused--by his opponents--of supporting The Other Party's agenda only for money, but this was almost certainly not the case. Whether or not his dedication was entirely disinterested, it was not all financial. No one solely interested in money would work so long and so hard, and do so much extra work with payment. If anything, he loved his work because it gave him notoriety and a sense of purpose. 

He was in the offices of his organization that night, as every night, doing research and preparation and who knows what else. Aden Lyalisenn, his personal secretary, was with him--a slight, insignificant man who was eclipsed by the personality of his employer.

"Has the FBI been around again?" asked J.B., rather abruptly, as he and Aden stood in the outer area of his office.

"Er, no, not today," answered the man, in his somewhat nasal whine. "But there is still that matter from yesterday--"

"Yes, I know, I know. I've been putting two and two together, Aden--and do you know what they come out to?"

"Four?"

"They come out to conspiracy. Conspiracy, collusion, and persecution. I think, we're being targeted--"

He stopped abruptly. Very seldom did J.B. Samson stop for anything or anyone. But this time he had an excuse. Something was in the room with them, something that had not been there a moment before.

To call it a person might have been a stretch. It was about the height of a person, but there was certainly nothing human in its form. At about J.B.'s own head level or a little taller, there was a gray cylinder with a peaked top, identical in shape to a bullet, though many times larger. It might have been a helmet or hat of some kind, but there was no break in its smooth surface through which human eyes might be looking. From this bullet-shaped object hung what might have been gray tatters of cloth. It could have been a robe of some kind, but there was nothing human discernible in its shape, and it fanned out in a curious, circular fashion. More than anything else, it seemed more like an modern artist's impression of the vortex of air that follows a bullet.

Aden cowered backwards in fear at this abrupt appearance, but J.B. stood his ground. Whatever else he was, he was not a coward. "What are you?"

"I am the Speeding Bullet," came the answer. The voice came from somewhere deep inside the strange figure, but it had an odd, resonating quality that made it difficult to pinpoint.

"The Speeding Bullet," repeated J.B. slowly and with an almost pleased expression. "Yes, I've heard about you. The reports are inconclusive, but they say you're some stooge of the government, maybe even working for President Conner himself."

"I work to forward the cause of justice. And truth."

"Yes, yes, yes. That's what they all say. So not only do we have the FBI , the IRS, and half a dozen other agencies breathing down our neck, we get the government's personal masked hero at our doorstop. Well, what do you want? Do you want to check under the doormats for dusts or is it just some petty matter?"

"I have come because of your suspicions that the government is deliberately persecuting you. I heard you say as much when I arrived."

"Oh, ho, so that's how it is. So you've come to try to scare me into keeping quiet about what's happened here. You're really nothing more than a strong-arm thug. So that's the way Conners runs his administration. I guess all that talk about holding to traditional values just sort of disappears once you get into office."

"You misunderstand me." Speeding Bullet's voice still came in almost a monotone, without expression or emphasis. "I have not not come to try to scare you. I am looking for information."

"Oh?" J.B. only sneered.

"I would like to get the exact record of the supposed persecution."

"If that's all you want, then why come here in that get-up? In a couple days, it'll be all over the news."

"I am hoping to get to the truth of the matter before it is all over the news."

"Well, I have nothing to hide." J.B. walked to a desk and pulled out a stack of papers. "I had these printed out because I was going to show them to some of the other leaders of the Think Tank tomorrow. Don't think that I don't have back-up of it all, though."

"I have no doubt. May I have those reports?"

For the first time, J.B. seemed a little uncertain of them. He looked from the papers in his hand to the weird form before him. "How--" he asked, doubtfully.

Somehow, the gray draperies seemed to coalesce into the rough shape of a human form, though still heavily shrouded by them. A gloved hand reached out and took the papers.

"You may hear from me again," remarked Speeding Bullet, as the papers--and his hand--vanished into the gray robe. The next instant, it seemed as if the tatters had been caught by some wind for they seemed to begin to move. The next instant after that, the figure was gone.

"Oh, ho, ho." J.B. rubbed his hands together. "Just wait till I tell about this tomorrow on our radio program. To think that they'd send someone like him here."

"But, J.B.--" Aden began, coming forward.

"Yes?"

"Well, who is going to believe a story like this?"

J.B. growled. He knew the other had a point.

*

Speeding Bullet teleported himself to a place of seclusion by means of his special bullet-warp. There he stood for some time, slowly and carefully reading through the long report of the supposed wrongs that Samson Think Tank had experienced. Some of them he could easily have chalked up to J.B.'s notorious paranoia. But there were several items which could not be so explained away. Assuming they were really true--and there was always a possibility they were pure falsehoods--than not only did it mean that certain people in the government were deliberately concentrating an attack on the Think Tank, but that in so doing, they had stepped beyond the limits even of their ill-defined and massive powers. 

Was it true? And if so, who was behind it?

These were the questions that repeated themselves over and over again in Speeding Bullet's mind as he read. Finally, he rolled up the papers and stared into space for a moment. Then he laid them carefully aside and activated the controls inside his helmet.

Instantly, the bullet-warp activated, and he felt that weird sensation of the mingling of time and space which always accompanied teleportation, as the warp propelled him through what he liked to call "The basement crawl space of Reality." In literally no time at all he emerged in one of the inner rooms of Building 6.

Building 6 was one a number of buildings in Washington, DC, which had somehow gotten tagged by the numerical order in which they were built rather than by some more conventional name. But Building 6 had garnered a mysterious fame which seemed to fit well with the numerical title, like Area 51. Exceedingly like Area 51, in fact, for it was a government building and there was a great deal of mystery among the uninitiated about what went on inside it. It was the headquarters of the GSA, an agency formed ten years previously during the Great Scare. Officially, it stood for Government Security Agency--but many people claimed that it stood for Government Secrecy Agency.

If Samson's accusations were true, and if Speeding Bullet's deductions from them were correct, then a number of separate government agencies were involved in the conspiracy. Even Speeding Bullet's copious knowledge did not supply him with all the specific information he needed about the various agencies involved. He could find it several ways, but the easiest way would be through the GSA which acted, among other things, as a watchdog and guardian over all the other government agencies. Some people--especially in The Party--favored the abolition of the GSA and President Conners had admitted he would like to dissolve it but was literally impossible at the moment.

Speeding Bullet was counting on the fact that nobody would be in the offices of the GSA at this time of night and that his own--well, rather unusual--method of entry would not disturb any alarms. He would just as soon continue his investigation in private, at least until he found out some more definite facts.

However, this was not to be.

He had not been in the room for more than three minutes when a voice spoke for the doorway. "Halt."

"You cannot halt a speeding bullet," responded Speeding Bullet, pivoting the camera hidden on the outside of his helmet so that he could see the newcomer. "Put down your gun, Mr. Skinner," he added, his voice (as it came through the special microphone, also built into the bullet-shaped helmet) sounding unemotional and almost mechanical. "You and I have met before, and you know better than to try to stop me."

The man stepped into the room. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, dressed in something that looked like a uniform but without any markings or insignias except the small American flag on the right shoulder. He held a small, powerful handgun in his right hand. When he entered the room, he had held it leveled at Speeding Bullet, but now he lowered it--still holding it, though, as if to be ready for use in an instant.

"Don't you ever come in through the door, Speeding Bullet?"

"Speeding Bullet makes his own door."

Adrian Skinner (who was one of the high-ups in the GSA) sighed. "And you still talk in the third person I see. What do you want here?"

For a moment, Speeding Bullet said nothing. Beneath his helmet, he was frowning with consideration. He had already gotten the information he needed, and so he could easily warp out without having any further conversation. Skinner had no authority over him and the last thing he really wanted was to involve the officials at the GSA in his investigation.

But, on the other hand---

"There are claims that the FBI and other government agencies are using their powers to persecute organizations of The Other Party. I am looking into it."

"For President Conners?" asked Skinner. There was evidently a wide-spread suspicion that Speeding Bullet worked directly for the president.

"For the interests of the American people--and of justice." 

Skinner nodded. "So why did you come here?"

"To get information about the various agencies involved in the scandal. From there I can pursue my own investigation."

"And you really expect us to leave that kind of information lying around?"

Speeding Bullet smiled beneath his helmet. "If you really want to keep up your reputation as the most secretive agency in the government, you need to improve your technology. It only took fifteen seconds for me to hack your wireless network and access all your data." And then, in a low voice, he added, speaking to the controls in his helmet, "Warp to base."

An instant later, Speeding Bullet had vanished from Building 6.

Teleporting back to his special, private place where he had left the other documents, he used the computer built into this helmet to collate all the data he had found so far.

He didn't have enough information yet to get a definite fix on what was going on; but it was certain that something was going on. There was too much going for it to be a coincidence. Why within the course of two weeks, would the IRS, the FBI, the local health department, and so forth all start suddenly picking on Samson Think Take on totally different matters? But on the other hand, he didn't have a definite pattern. Was it a conspiracy? If so, who was in charge of it?

Samson Think Tank was the most noticeable of the various agencies that had been supposedly victims of the conspiracy. But Samson had actually noted a few other examples that had come under his notice, other cases which seemed similar. If he was going to find the pattern, he would have to investigate some of these other places. They were pretty widely scattered and visiting them in person would take some time for a normal man. But not for the Speeding Bullet.

As he warped out, his mind stopped to wonder at the amazing power of the bullet-warp. With it, space became a nonentity to him.  Professor Iwata had certainly been a genius to invent it. Why the professor had chosen to make him his special friend he would never know. Certainly, he had not been a promising student, not in physics anyway. Perhaps it was because Professor Iwata had recognized that he was trying his best. Maybe it was an irrational choice. Maybe it was the providence of God.

Speeding Bullet believed in providence. Even if it weren't for the deep Christian training he had had as a child, he would never have been able to accept that all the events of life were merely random. Pieces fit together too well. He was far from a fatalist, but he did believe that certain things were meant to be. The events of life so often hang by a single thread, and if they went differently by a hair's breadth, the whole world might be plunged into chaos. If he hadn't enrolled in that particular college, and if he hadn't gotten into that particular physics class, he never would have met Professor Iwata. If he hadn't met and become friends with the old scientist, he never would have learned the secret of his great discovery, the bullet-warp. If he hadn't been the one to know the secret, Professor Iwata wouldn't have willed it to him when he died. And if he hadn't been the one to get control of the powerful machine, there was no saying who would have gotten it or what they would have done with it. The power of it frightened Speeding Bullet himself. He couldn't imagine what it would be like in the hands of another man. As it was, he prayed every morning for grace and strength to use his power for good.

He would never forget the way he had felt the first time he had warped. It was more difficult then than now, for he had not found the way to hook the bullet-warp up to the advanced computer he used now. But that feeling of the rush of movement that was faster than speed itself--the pure transcendence of space--the feeling of raw power--that was something he would never forget.

His mind went back still farther, to all those Sunday School classes he had gone to as a boy.

What is the chief end of man?

To glorify God and enjoy Him forever.

He had always believed that. All men's works, if they were to be done at all, must be done to glorify God, to show His nature on the earth. The work of everyone, from the highest to the lowest, artists and artisans, poets and politicians, dentists and dirigible pilots--they all had some way of glorifying God, or they might as well throw down their tool and go home. Work, his Sunday School teacher had said many times, is not how we support our praise but a means of praise.

That was the doctrine he had been taught since before his mind could remember. So when he had unexpectedly received the gift of the bullet-warp, he had made up his mind to use it somehow for God's work. First, that meant doing the best he could with it. With the help of his sister Sophia--the only person with whom he had shared his secret, besides his wife--he had designed his helmet and its advanced controls which allowed him to use the bullet-warp with a high degree of precision and a minimum of wear and tear. The computer also helped him in a variety of other ways in his work.

The choice to use the bullet-warp to become the Speeding Bullet had been a more complicated one and one that involved many other events going on in life at the time. Perhaps it had been a strange choice. Sophia had always thought so. To her, his work was little different from that of a detective, and a detective was little different than a spy. "Why can't you use the bullet-warp actually to help people?" she had asked. 

He had tried to explain to her then that what he was doing was to help people. He was a strong believer in the rule of justice, the rule of law. Lex Rex, as Samuel Rutherford had put it: The Law is king. The law is good when it is used lawfully. A rule of established law and justice allowed people to live in peace and develop fully their talents for the kingdom of God. Of course, it also allowed them to fight against it--something he was well aware of. But he thought it was something worth the risk. Safeguarding the laws of a land, and establishing the justice of the community was every bit as much an act of beneficence as feeding the hungry. Though there were other things far more important, he could not claim it did not matter. If you give a hungry person food, you may for all you know be extending his life only so that he may commit further wickedness, but that does not change our duty to do it. Charity and justice were both parts of the nature of God, and by helping to maintain justice in his country, he was helping to glorify God.

Speeding Bullet had not been inactive while lost in thoughts of his past. Using the bullet-warp, he teleported to various places around the country, searching for any data concerning the supposed conspiracy. He searched through various organizations connected in one way or another with The Other Party. He came and went like a phantom. Sometimes he stopped and talked to people; other times he performed his actions with stealth. Most of those who saw him probably immediately doubted the reality of his visit as soon as he left, except perhaps for those few who had heard faint rumors of his existence. Once he was shot at, but the outer folds of the bullet-warp automatically teleported the bullets harmlessly away. Always he was careful to keep within the strict bounds of the law, something that was easier considering the fact that there were no laws dealing with teleportation. The issue of illegal entry was always a danger, but he had a certain authority that rendered it less than it would otherwise be.

And as he traveled, collecting information, collecting it in a more direct and complete manner than anyone else could have done, an ugly fact came to light. The reports were true.

There was always a danger of whatever party was in power using its power to oppress its opponents. It had been going on in one form or another ever since the Alien and Sedition Acts. But this was something more than one or two individual clerks in some government office choosing to use undue authority. The pieces were falling into place, and it showed a wide-spread, concerted effort that stretched over dozens of different government agencies and over the whole country, from sea to shining sea. That kind of conspiracy was illegal on its own, even if the various agencies had been staying within the bounds of their powers.

But they weren't.

The only question left in Speeding Bullet's mind regarded the source of the conspiracy. Who would have orchestrated all this? It would have to be someone high up in the government. Someone at the very top--no, not at the very top, but someone near the very top. A close and personal knowledge of the government suggested various people to Speeding Bullet's mind, but none of them seemed perfectly to accord with his suspicions. They all seemed to lack either the means or the nerve to pull off this kind of scheme. The mystery still puzzled him, as he warped into the last place on his list, a regional office of the IRS somewhere in southern Ohio, technically within the limits of Circleville, but really in the middle of nowhere. It was an odd place for the regional office of anything to be. Speeding Bullet was not personally familiar with the place, but on the satellite feed in his helmet, he noted the extremely isolated nature of the place. It seemed very unlikely that there would be anyone here, but there might be data he could pick up.

Unfortunately, though the computer in his helmet helped him know a little bit about where he was going before he got there--looking before leaping, he called it--it couldn't possibly give him every detail. And so, though he saw something of the small office as he teleported into it, he didn't see several details about it. 

The five men hiding in the shadows with assault rifles, for instance.

The instant he materialized, all five fired on him simultaneously. If it had been only an ordinary armor of some kind that protected him, or if the bullet-warp shield required conscious thought to operate than he probably would have been dead. But he had developed the bullet-warp to the point where it automatically teleported any kind of projectile shot at him, without his having to command it. The vulnerable part was his helmet which was not protected by the warp, though it was made of fairly tough material anyway--but none of their shots went that high.

"It's nice to see you making such good use of your Second Amendment rights," he remarked unemotionally. "But you should know that as fast as your bullets are, they are not as fast as the Speeding Bullet. I think I am justified in this case of thinking your men are not responsible enough to carry firearms, and so I will take them away for the moment." The room had only one entrance, and Speeding Bullet was standing in front of it. He was outnumbered and these men were strong and mean. But the bullet-warp evened the scale quite a bit. He moved up close to one of the men, the warp-field keeping him protected until he was almost on him, and then he dispelled enough of the field for him to reach out his hand and twist the gun out of the man's hand. He was a physically strong man anyway, and the unexpected nature of the attack was in his favor. Moving quickly, he proceeded to do the same with all the other men. Then he left the room, by the door this time. "This room has no windows," he commented, "and the only exit is this door which I am going to lock. If, on the outside chance that I have misjudged you and have no cause to complain of your actions, I will return later and free you. And if I shouldn't return at all, people will find you when the office opens tomorrow." Then he gave a whispered command to his helmet and vanished.

*

The visit of the Speeding Bullet seemed to have disturbed Adrian Skinner of the GSA, for he had not left his post in Building 6. Perhaps he was taking the Speeding Bullet's advice for altering the security system, for he had been working with various computerized devices and looking at various pieces of data.

He stopped suddenly, his eyes narrowing. An unauthorized person was attempting to enter from the outside. He swore under his breath. One illegal entry a night was more than enough. From his terminal, he activated the extra security measured and was moving to investigate, when he looked up and saw Speeding Bullet was standing silently in the shadows, watching him. This took precedence over his other concerns.

"Back again?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"I am back, Mr. Skinner."

"How did your investigations go, Speeding Bullet?"

"Very interesting. I came back here for more information."

"What kind of information could you get here that you didn't get before?"

"I'm wondering how five men with assault rifles happened to be hiding in an IRS office in Circleville. They clearly seemed to be waiting for me, but how could they know I would show up there?"

"You've been investigating all night, haven't you?" Skinner pointed out with a shrug. "Lots of people probably knew you were investigating this particular matter."

"Yes, but how would anyone know that I would show up at that particular office? Of all the places in the United States that I might possibly show up, why did someone happen to be there? And since it doesn't seem to be the kind of place where you would just have hired gunmen hanging around on a normal basis, I can only assume they were planted in advance, meaning they had to be sent by someone who knew of my itinerary in advance."

Skinner looked at him with narrowed eyed.

"And it occurred to me," Speeding Bullet continued, his voice unaltered, "that the one person who knew all that would be you, or at least someone here at the GSA. Since I downloaded information from your databanks, it would be an easy matter to find out what places I had looked at and plant an ambush in one of them. You and I have met before and you know ordinary bullets can't hurt me, but you thought that those assault rifles might. You didn't realize that while wrapped in the warp-field, I am essentially immaterial and can't be injured by any weapon." He moved forward slightly.

"You think you're pretty smart, don't you?" Skinner sneered and backed up slightly.

"No. If I were really smart I would have deduced your involvement from the beginning. The GSA is the only organization with the means at its disposal easily to coordinate a conspiracy of this breadth. The very fact that I could access some of your records so easily should have suggested to me that you have other records, more difficult to access. It would have to be someone near the top of the GSA to pull off such a plot. And granted my knowledge of all the highest-ranking people in the GSA, you seemed the most likely candidate."

For a moment, Skinner stood, apparently considering the matter in his mind. Then he moved forward, his face showing a kind of cunning but also a kind of openness. "So, now you know, Speeding Bullet. But the question is--what are you going to do about it? I don't know who you really are under that helmet, but I know you work for President Conners. And so you know what it means for The Party to stay in power. You know what it would mean if The Other Party could gain ascendancy again. You know the things they stand for. If they were in power, they would destroy this country, tear down everything we believe--everything you believe in. Do you blame me for trying to keep them under control, even if I had to take slightly unethical means to do it?"

"Yes."

"How can you say that? Who are you judge that what I'm doing is wrong? My viewpoint is just as good as yours. I'm a watchman for the government, just like you. How can you know that you're right and I'm wrong?"

"Because God watches the watchmen. Alan Moore was wrong, you know. There is such a thing as transcendent ethics, a right and wrong that has nothing to do with viewpoint and culture. If I didn't believe that, I couldn't be doing what I'm doing. None of us could do what we do. All human efforts would be futile in your world because none of them could have any real meaning."

"Don't you think President Conners would take my side?"

"His personal opinion is irrelevant. 'He that ruleth over men must be just, ruling in the fear of God.' If President Conners wouldn't put a question of justice and the upholding of America's laws over a matter of party considerations than he is not worthy of his office."

Skinner scowled. "And I suppose with all your thinking, you've thought of what it could mean for him if this story breaks? You know he appointed me to this position. If a scandal comes out involving me and the GSA, it will put a black mark on his whole administration."

Speeding Bullet knew this was a strong possibility. But he didn't even hesitate in his response. He had been entrusted with this responsibility for a reason, and he wasn't about to desecrate that trust. "Your reasoning does not interest me," he said, his voice still sounding impersonal and inexpressive as it came through his helmet. "I was sent to find out the truth of this matter, and I have found it. The consequences may take care of themselves. Fiat justitia ruat coelum."

Skinner made an abrupt movement with his shoulders. "All right, all right, stop the speech making. I see there's no point in arguing. Let's say I give up all the information I have. Would that make things any better?"

"Perhaps."

"As you said, it's too easy to hack computers. The really sensitive information is kept on paper." He unlocked a heavy-looking drawer and pulled it partly open. "I think you'll find what you need in there."

Speeding Bullet nodded and the warp-field contracted to allow his arms to reach out to take the papers. And as they did, Skinner leaped forward and grasped his hands in his own powerful, vice-like hands. Speeding Bullet tried to shake the man off, but the man's grip had an almost superhuman strength behind it, the strength of desperation.

"You're not so tough now, are you?" he panted, as he began to twist Speeding Bullet's hands in his. "Without your precious warp to protect you, you're nothing. I've got hold of you now. Even if you warp out, you'll take me with you."

*

In the stress of facing Speeding Bullet, Skinner had rather forgotten the matter of another intruder in the building. After all, the building's defenses were adequate for anyone without Speeding Bullet's teleportation abilities. Or so he had thought. But a figure from the outside had made it inside, and almost to the very spot where Speeding Bullet and Skinner were now wrestling. He had stood in the shadows at the far end of the room and heard all that went on. He would have moved forward to Speeding Bullet's defense when the GSA operative jumped him, but there was a thin glass wall between them and he was still trying to figure out how to hack the door and get through. He was a man who knew something of Speeding Bullet and though he didn't positively know who he was, he did know that underneath that helmet and inside his amazing warp-field, he was still a man. The savage attack would have its effect on him. It might possibly make him lose control of his warping abilities and leave him completely vulnerable.

And then, as he watched, Speeding Bullet's gray warp-field suddenly grew full again and moved slightly, as if he were preparing to teleport out. Speeding Bullet remained where he was, but with a sudden movement, he pulled Skinner's head into the gray folds of the field.

There was a long minute or two where nothing happened, except that Skinner twisted and kicked violently, but he seemed unable to escape. Gradually the movement grew less, and a moment or two later he dropped unconscious on the floor, just as the intruder finally managed to open the door and enter the room.

Speeding Bullet had moved away from the prone body of Skinner, and the helmet moved slightly as if to acknowledge the other's entrance. "Kassim Smith," he said in his impersonal voice, "we meet again."

"Under pretty good circumstances," Kassim agreed, moving forward to stand beside Skinner. He noted the man's head was apparently covered with snow. "Care to explain that last little trick?"

"He knew something about how the bullet-warp works, but he didn't know that in addition to teleportation, I can also use it to form a bridge between places, a hole in space."

"I think I follow. So even though his body was still here, you were able to push his head to somewhere else, so that he was half here and half there. Where was it?"

"Mt. Everest. The thin air and the cold quickly subdued him."

"Naturally."

"I take it," Speeding Bullet continued, "that you are after the same thing I am?"

"Yes. President Conners sent me to investigate this conspiracy matter. It was just a hunch of mine that if anything this nasty was going on, the GSA would be involved somewhere. But I'm not sure I could have actually gotten the positive evidence as you did."

"I think all the evidence you need will be in that drawer. If not, I have more I can give you."

Kassim walked over the drawer that Skinner had opened and glanced through the contents. "Yes, I think there's enough here to blow the cover off this. And oddly enough, I think he was wrong. I think if this is revealed right now--now before the newspapers get a chance to get a hold of it--it will actually do more good than harm to the administration. It might even give Conners the leverage he needs to abolish the GSA."

"And the law has been upheld."

"Yeah, that too." Kassim burrowed down into the collar of his black coat and looked at Speeding Bullet with his enigmatic smile. "I still can't escape the feeling, SB, that if I could get that helmet off you, I might not be all that surprised to see your face."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. But my work here is done. I think you can take care of all the rest of the work."

"I think so."

Speeding Bullet spoke softly into his helmet. "Warp home."

Though his investigations had taken less time than they would have taken a normal man, they had taken much of the night, and he knew there would be little or no sleep for him. Fortunately, there was something restful and therapeutic in the warping process itself, or he never would have survived so long. But he knew sooner or later the lack of sleep was going to catch up with him.

Still, it had been a good night's work. A scandal had been adverted, and a grievous evil had been brought down. He felt good.

Arriving back at his home, he carefully removed his helmet and stowed it in his secret hiding place. Walking to a mirror he glanced at himself. It always surprised him that these long nights of work and travel never seemed to leave any mark on his appearance. There were red marks on his hands from his wrestling match with Skinner, but his face was much the same as usual. Perhaps his gray hair seemed more gray than usual, but that was all. For all the stress, it was still the face of a youthful man, a man of ideals and convictions.

People always did say that Caleb Conners looked too young to be president.