Harry Harrison - Rebel in Time

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Rebel in Time

Harry Harrison

First published 1983, reprinted 1988. ISBN 0-586-05579-7

For Josephine Spencer in fond memory of Kenneth Spencer and Bill.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 1

The Capital Beltway wraps Washington, DC, in a concrete noose. Its six lanes of traffic swing wide

through the forest land of Virginia, brush the outskirts of the dormitory town of Alexandria, then cross the

Potomac into Maryland. Land is cheaper than in the District so that office buildings and pollution-free

factories have been located here, appearing suddenly in forest clearings. Exit 42 branches off in this area

and leads to a divided highway. But just before the stop sign there is an unmarked country lane that

disappears away among the trees.

The old Pontiac rumbled out of this Beltway exit and turned down the lane. Just around the first bend

there was a large, white and windowless building. The driver took no notice of this nor of the sign above

the entrance that welcomed him to Weeks Electronics Laboratory 2. He drove past it and continued

along the lane until he was out of sight of the building. Only then did he pull off into a roadside clearing

and kill the engine.

After emerging from the car he carefully pushed the door shut behind him, instead of slamming it, so that

it made no sound. Then he stood with his back to the fender, looking at his wristwatch, oblivious to the

first glorious russets and golds of the autumn foliage around him. He was single-minded and intense, with

all of his attention concentrated on the watch. A casual observer would have seen a man who was a bit

over six feet tall with a not unhandsome face, although his nose was perhaps a little too sharp for his

features. However, his smoothly tanned skin, his brown hair just touched with grey at the temples, gave

him a most distinguished air. His forehead puckered as he stared intently at the watch; a familiar

expression that had left a permanent cleft between his eyes. He was dressed in a nondescript trenchcoat,

dark blue trousers and black shoes.

He nodded with sudden satisfaction, pressed a button on the watch, then turned and walked off among

the trees. He moved quietly, but swiftly, until he reached an oak tree that had been blown down by a

storm—quite recently because the leaves were just beginning to droop. Then he eased himself down on

to the ground and crawled for at least fifteen feet in the shelter of the tree before climbing to his feet again

and hurrying forward.

Less than twenty yards further on, the grove ended in a grassy ditch that ran along the base of a

chain-link fence. Beyond the fence was green parkland interspersed with occasional clumps of trees; a

corner of the Weeks Electronics building was just visible through the foliage. The man started down into

the ditch—then drew back quickly to the cover of the trees. A moment later a uniformed guard holding a

German Shepherd on a short leash walked by on the other side of the fence. As soon as they were out of

sight the man hurried forward again, down into the ditch, pulling on a pair of leather gloves as he went.

Without stopping he swarmed up the fence until he stood, balancing on the top, just below the double

strand of barbed wire. He flexed his knees, extended his arms to keep his balance, then jumped smoothly

over the wire to land on the other side.

Then he ran, head down, fast, aiming for the nearest clump of trees. But before he could reach it a jeep

raced into sight, cutting sharply across the grass, braking to a skidding stop before him. The guard seated

beside the driver had his carbine raised and aimed at the intruder who stopped, then turned slowly to

face him. The guard looked on in silence as the tall man lifted his arm slowly, glanced at his watch, then

pressed the button in its side.

'Exactly six minutes, nine and three-tenths seconds, Lopez,' he said. The guard nodded expressionlessly

and lowered the gun.

'Yes, colonel,' the guard said.

'That's not good, not very goddamned good at all.' He climbed into the back of the jeep. 'Let's get to the

guardhouse.'

They drove around the laboratory to a low building that was concealed from the road by the larger

building. A group of uniformed men stood beside it, watching in silence as the jeep arrived. A grey-haired

guard with sergeant's stripes on his sleeves stepped forward when the vehicle ground to a stop. The

colonel stepped down then pointed to his watch. 'What do you think of six minutes, nine and three-tenths

seconds from the time I went into the woods from the road until the time I was intercepted?'

'I don't think very much of that at all, Colonel McCulloch,' the sergeant said.

'Neither do I, Greenbaum, neither do I. I was halfway to the lab before the guard turned up. If I had

been an intruder I could have done a lot of interesting things in that time. Do you have anything to say?'

'No, sir.'

'Do you have any questions?'

'No, sir.'

'None? Aren't you interested in how I got as far as the fence without being detected?'

'I am, sir.'

'Good.' Colonel McCulloch nodded as he would at an idiot child. 'But your interest is a little late,

sergeant. Exactly one week too late. That's how long ago I noticed that a newly fallen tree had blocked

part of the field of vision of one of the remote TV cameras. I waited one week for you or one of your

men to notice it. None of you did. I therefore arranged this demonstration to show just how lax security is

around here.'

'I'll see that it's tightened up, colonel…'

'No, you won't, Greenbaum. Someone else will. You are losing those stripes, taking a salary cut to

match, and a reprimand goes into your record…'

'No, it doesn't, McCulloch. Because I'm quitting this job. I'm through.'

McCulloch nodded agreement. 'Yes, you are through. And you have just described yourself as well. A

quitter. You quit after serving twenty years in the Army too. Now you're quitting—'

'Bullshit, colonel, if you will excuse the expression.' Greenbaum glowered in anger, fists clenched. 'I got

out of the service to get away from chickenshits like you. But I just didn't get far enough away. You're in

charge of security at this lab. Which means you got responsibilities too. If you gave a shit you would have

reported that tree. We're supposed to be in this together, you're supposed to help us. Not pull this Boy

Scout and Indian crap. Well I'm getting just as far away from that kind of stuff as I can. Beginning right

now.'

He turned and stamped away. McCulloch watched him go in silence. Only when Greenbaum was out of

sight did he turn to the silent guards.

'I want a written report on this exercise from each one of you. On my desk in the morning.' He waved

Lopez out of the jeep and took his place. 'Get me back to my car,' he told the driver, then turned to the

other guards as the engine started up. 'Every one of you is expendable. Screw up like Greenbaum and

you go just the way he did.'

McCulloch did not look back as they drove away.

At the car he unlocked the boot while the jeep turned and vanished back down the lane. He took off his

coat and threw it into the boot. He was wearing his uniform underneath. It was empty of all decorations

and identifying insignia, other than the silver eagles on his shoulders. He reached into the boot again and

took out his uniform cap, settled it firmly on his head, then took out a black attaché case as well before

slamming the lid shut. A few minutes later he was on MacArthur Boulevard driving south towards the

District.

It was a short ride. A few miles down the road he turned into a large shopping centre, where he parked

close to a branch of the DC National Bank. He locked the car and went into the bank, taking the attaché

case with him. It was a brief visit. He emerged less than ten minutes later, got into his car and drove

away—watched most carefully by the man in the black Impala that was parked two rows away. The

man raised a microphone and spoke into it.

'Able One to Able Two. George is now leaving the lot and turning south on MacArthur. He's yours now.

Over.'

'Will do. Out.'

The man replaced the microphone on the dash and got out of the car. He was lean and blond and

unremarkably dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and dark tie. He entered the bank and crossed to the

receptionist.

'My name is Ripley,' he said. 'I would like to see the manager. About some investments.'

'Of course, Mr Ripley.' She picked up the phone. 'I'll see if Mr Bryce is free.'

The manager stood up from behind the desk and shook his hand when he entered the office. 'Mr Ripley.

Now just what can I do to help you?'

'This is a government matter, sir. Would you please look at my identification.'

He took a leather wallet from his breast pocket, opened it and passed it across the desk. Bryce looked

at the gold badge and the accompanying card behind the plastic window and nodded. 'Well, Mr Ripley,'

he said. 'How can I be of aid to the Federal Bureau of Investigation?' He started to hand back the ID but

the agent stopped him.

'I would like you to authenticate the identification, sir. I believe that you were given an unlisted number for

use if the occasion should arise?'

Bryce nodded and opened the top drawer of his desk. 'Yes, I've used it once before. Here it is. If you

will excuse me.'

The bank manager dialled the number, then identified himself to the party at the other end. He read off

the ID number from the wallet, then placed his hand over the receiver.

'They want to know the case reference.'

'Tell them investigation George.'

The bank manager repeated the words, then nodded and hung up. He passed the ID back to the FBI

agent. 'I was instructed to co-operate with you and to give you any information that you might need about

one of our clients. But I must say that this is not a normal practice…'

'I realize that, Mr Bryce. But you are now involved in a security investigation with a top priority. If you

refuse to cooperate I must go to your superiors and—'

'No, please! That's not what I am suggesting. Please don't misunderstand me. You have my

co-operation, of course. I was just saying that information about our clients is always confidential—in the

normal course of events. But in a matter of national security, very different, naturally. How can I be of

aid?'

Bryce was talking rapidly, unaware when he took the handkerchief from his breast pocket to pat his

suddenly moist forehead. The agent nodded, unsmiling.

'I appreciate that, Mr Bryce. I hope you understand that your voluntary co-operation makes you liable to

prosecution for violation of national security should you mention this to anyone else?'

'Does it? I don't know—but of course, I'll speak to no one.'

'Very good. A few minutes ago a man left this bank after transacting some business. His name is Wesley

McCulloch and he is a colonel in the United States Army. No, don't write that down. You won't have

any difficulty in memorizing this information. You will find the bank employee he dealt with and bring

back the record of any transaction or transactions the colonel may have made. You will tell no one the

reason for your interest.'

'Of course not!'

'We appreciate that, Mr. Bryce. If you don't mind I will wait here until you return.'

'Yes, please, make yourself comfortable. This should not take a very long time.'

The manager returned in less than five minutes with a file folder in his hand. He carefully closed and

locked the door, then opened the folder before him on the desk.

'Colonel McCulloch made a purchase…'

'Did he pay by cheque or with cash?'

'Cash. Large denomination bills. He purchased gold and paid for it in cash. Eight thousand, five hundred

and thirty-two dollars. He took the gold away with him. Is that the information you wanted, Mr Ripley?'

The agent nodded and smiled, ever so slightly.

'Yes, Mr Bryce. That is exactly what I wanted to find out.'

Chapter 2

Sergeant Troy Harmon rode the Metro in from the Pentagon, wondering just what the hell this assignment

was all about. It was so hush-hush that he had been told nothing, absolutely nothing about it. Other than

to get over soonest to this address on Massachusetts just up from Union Station. Transportation was not

provided. He rode the Metro, looking down at the thick, sealed envelope he was carrying. His own

records, the history of his nine years in the Army. Decorations, promotions, goof-ups, Fitzsimmons

Hospital records when they dug the shrapnel out of his back. Two years in Vietnam without a

scratch—then a short round from his own supporting battery. A Purple Heart from a chunk of Detroit

steel. Then a transfer to the MPs, then G2, military intelligence. The records were all here. It would be

interesting to look at them. And military suicide if he were to open the envelope.

And what organization was he going to on Massachusetts Avenue? He knew most of the spook outfits,

starting with the CIA out in Langley right on down. But he had never even heard of this one. Report to

Mr Kelly. And who the hell was Kelly? Enough. He'd find out soon enough. He looked up to check the

station, McPherson Square, then looked back down just in time to catch the eye of the girl sitting across

from him. She looked away quickly. A very foxy girl, what they used to call a high-yellow when he was a

boy. She glanced back again and he gave her his toothpaste commercial smile; lips pulled back so his

white teeth showed in nice contrast to his dark-brown skin. This time she raised her nose slightly and

sniffed as she turned away.

Rebuffed! He had to smile. Didn't she see what she was missing? Five feet ten of handsome, cleancut

soldier.

The train slowed as it entered Metro Center. Troy was the first one off and he stayed ahead of the pack

as they rushed for the escalator to the Red Line. He rode up into the indirectly lit cavern, more like a

futuristic spaceship hangar than a subway. It made the old Independent in New York look like the filthy

hole that it really was.

There was a cool, autumn bite to the air as he walked down Massachusetts checking the numbers. There

it was, a tall, brownstone house, just across New Jersey. No name, no identifying plate, nothing. He

climbed the steps and pressed the polished brass button, well aware of the fisheye of the micro TV

camera above it. The door buzzed and he went through into an airlock arrangement, with another door

ahead of him that did not open until the outer one had closed. Very neat. And another TV pick-up here

as well. Inside was a marble-floored lobby with a desk at the far end. His heels clacked as he walked the

length of it. The receptionist, a very cool redhead in a very tight sweater looked up at him and smiled.

'May I help you?'

'Sergeant Harmon. Mr Kelly is expecting me.'

'Thank you, Sergeant Harmon. If you will take a seat I'll let him know that you are here.'

The couch was too deep and soft to be comfortable, so he sat on its edge. There was a copy of Fortune

and a copy of Jet on the low table in front of him. What was this—catering to his special needs? He tried

to smile as he picked up Jet. Maybe they were trying to tell him something. If so he had got the message

a long time ago. Pics of a big party at the Hotel Theresa, then babies with rat bites in the slums just a few

blocks away. It was a different world to him. He had grown up in Queens, in South Jamaica, a nice,

secure middle-class area of frame houses and green trees. He knew as much about Harlem as he did

about the back of the Moon.

'Mr Kelly will see you now.'

He dropped the magazine, took up his envelope, and appreciatively followed the receptionist's sweetly

rotating bottom into an adjoining office.

'Come in, Sergeant Harmon. Pleased to meet you,' Kelly said, coming from behind his desk to take

Troy's hand. The way he pronounced Harmon was positive proof that he was from Boston. His

elegantly tailored three-piece pinstripe suggested Back Bay and Harvard as well. 'I'll take that envelope,

thank you.'

Kelly took the folder of military records and added it to the file on the desk before him, tapping the edges

until all the papers were neatly in line. He looked at the sergeant as he did this, noting what he saw. Late

twenties, good service record, he could read that from the ribbons without looking at the file. Not too

tall, but solidly built. Jaw like a rock, face expressionless. Eyes black and unreadable. Sergeant Troy

Harmon was obviously a professional soldier and a man very much in charge of himself.

'You've been sent over here on temporary assignment from G2, because of your specialized knowledge,'

Kelly said.

'Just what would that be, sir? I fired sharpshooter on the M-16.'

'Nothing quite that deadly,' Kelly said, smiling for the first time. 'We understand that you know a great

deal about gold. Is that true?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. That particular knowledge will be most helpful to us since we are predominantly headquarters

staff here at QCIC. We depend on the other security services for field personnel.' He glanced at his

Rolex. 'You'll be seeing Admiral Colonne in a few minutes and he will explain the operation in detail. The

admiral is the man who directs this agency. Now—do you have any questions?'

'No, sir. I don't know enough about what is happening here to think of a question. I was given this

address and told to bring my records to you. You just mentioned that this department is QCIC. I don't

even know what those initials stand for.'

'The admiral will explain all that to you as well. My role is strictly liaison. You'll file all reports with me.'

He wrote quickly on a piece of paper and passed it over. 'This is my twenty-four hour phone number.

Keep track of expenses and let me have the slips once a week. Also contact me for any equipment or

specialized-assistance that you might need. The admiral will brief you on this operation, which is

code-named Subject George.'

Kelly hesitated, tapping his fingers on the edge of the desk, before he spoke again. 'The admiral is old

Navy, Annapolis, been around a long time. You know what that means?'

'No.'

'I think that you do, sergeant. When he was on active duty during the Second World War, blacks were

called Negroes and they weren't allowed in the Navy. Other than as mess attendants.'

'Say mess boys, Mr Kelly, that was the term. And my father was in the Army then, fighting to make the

world safe for democracy. Only the Army was segregated and, since blacks couldn't be trusted to carry

guns, they drove trucks and dug ditches. But that was a long time ago.'

'For us, maybe. Let's hope it is for the admiral too. But this is a one hundred per cent WASP outfit. It

couldn't have got that way by accident… hell, sergeant, maybe I'm talking too much.'

Troy smiled. 'I appreciate the thought, Mr Kelly. I'm a firm believer in field intelligence. I'm not too

worried about the admiral.'

'You shouldn't be. He's a good man. And this is a damned important job.' Kelly picked up the file as he

stood up. 'We'll go see him now.'

The roar of the traffic outside on Massachusetts Avenue was muted to a distant hum in the large

conference room. Heavy curtains covered the windows; floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the walls. The

admiral sat behind the long mahogany table, carefully loading tobacco into an ancient briar pipe. He was

suntanned, and almost completely bald; his blue uniform was smooth and unwrinkled, the rows of ribbons

on it impressive. He waved Troy to a chair opposite, nodded at the file that Kelly placed before him, then

struck a wooden kitchen match and puffed the pipe to life. He did not speak until Kelly had gone out and

closed the door.

'You've been seconded to us by military intelligence because of your specialized knowledge, sergeant. I

want you to tell me about gold.'

'It's a metal, admiral, very heavy, and people set great store by it.'

'That's all?' Admiral Colonne scowled from behind a cloud of blue smoke. 'Are you being facetious,

Harmon?'

'No, sir, I'm telling the truth. Gold is an important industrial metal, but that is not what most people care

about. They buy it and steal it and hide it because other people prize it highly. In the West we treat it as a

commodity—but the rest of the world sees it as a safer investment than banks or bonds. Gold purchased

legally here is worth twice as much after it has been smuggled into another country, say India. That's how

I got involved with it. The US Army has men stationed right around the world. The temptation to turn an

easy buck by selling gold is something a number of grunts just have not been able to resist.'

The admiral nodded. 'All right, that's one aspect of gold. What about the industrial use you mentioned?

Other than jewellery—what is it good for?'

'Electronics. It's malleable, does not rust or tarnish—and is a good conductor. All of the contacts in

computers are plated with it. You'll also find that it is used in windows to cut down on the amount of

sunlight that is allowed to pass through…'

'None of this has any goddamned relevance to the case we have here!' The admiral slammed the file on

the table before him. 'What we are interested in are the reasons why a certain Army colonel is buying a

lot of gold. I know that it is all perfectly legal, but I still want to know why.'

'May I ask what "a lot" is, sir?'

'A little over a hundred thousand dollars' worth, as of yesterday. Do you know what the initals QCIC

stand for?'

Troy accepted the abrupt change of topic without comment. 'No, sir, I don't. Mr Kelly said that you

would explain.'

'Quis custodiet ipsos custodes. Do you know what that means?'

'I should. After two years of Latin in college. A literal translation would be—who shall keep watch over

the guardians?'

'Right. Who shall watch the watchers? That little problem has been around for a very long time—or it

wouldn't have a Latin tagline attached to it. Policemen who take bribes are bad enough. But what about

the people who are entrusted with the security of our nation? Someone has to keep an eye on them.

Well—we're the people who have to do just that. That's what this agency is here for. You must realize

that what we do here is vital to the security of this country. Without any conceit, this is undoubtedly the

most important security operation in the land. We cannot afford to make mistakes. As the old saying

goes, the buck stops here. We have the ultimate responsibility in ensuring this nation's security because

we must watch all of the other security operatives. That is the reason why I approved your assignment to

us. There are three things in your record that I like. First, you know all about gold. Second, your security

clearance is Top Secret. Can you imagine what the third reason is?'

Troy nodded slowly. 'I think I can. Is it the fact that I blew the whistle on my CO when I caught him on

the take?'

'It is. A lot of soldiers would have looked the other way. Did you expect some special reward for doing

what you did?'

'No, admiral, I did not.' Troy held his temper under careful control. 'If anything, I expected the direct

opposite. I am pretty sure that the Army doesn't like enlisted men taking potshots at officers. But this was

special. If he had been pocketing officers' club funds or something like that, well, maybe I might have

thought twice. But this was in an MP outfit where we were working full time trying to keep drugs out of

the barracks. Our problems were not just with grass or uppers and downers, but the hard stuff, H, and it

was getting in. When I found out that my own commanding officer, the guy who was supposed to be

stopping the stuff, was getting payola from the pushers, well that was just too goddamned much.' Troy

smiled coldly. 'The last I heard he was still in Leavenworth. I was pulled out of my outfit, I expected that,

but I didn't expect to be bumped two grades and transferred to G2.'

'That was my doing. I overruled some of your officers who were thinking of doing just what you said they

would. No one has ever lost money underestimating the reflex thinking of the military. I have been

keeping a watchful eye on your career ever since. Because men like you are rare enough.' He caught

Troy's expression and smiled. 'No, sergeant, that is not an attempt at flattery but the honest truth. When I

say that I mean that I value most highly men who put their oath of loyalty before personal friendship or

job security. We need you here. I hope that after this operation is completed, that at that time you will

consider a permanent transfer. But that is still in the future. Right now I want you to turn your attention to

this operation. It is code-named George.'

He opened the file and took out a sheaf of papers, then leafed through them.

'Operation George began as a routine check. This sort of thing takes place on a regular basis, all of the

time, a routine surveillance of people with high security clearance. The subject of this particular

investigation is a United States Army colonel named Wesley McCulloch. He has a fine military record

and first class security clearance. Unmarried but, if you will pardon the expression, not unlaid. He keeps

fit, skis in the winter, surfboards in the summer. Owns a small house in Alexandria and only has a few

thousand more to go on his mortgage. All of this is very dull and ordinary stuff…'

'Except that the colonel has been buying a lot of gold.'

'Correct. It started quite recently, just a little over six months ago. At that time he had some money

invested in gilt-edged stock, plus a little more in a savings account. He cleared everything out and bought

gold. Sold some bonds that he had inherited as well. Now we both know that all of this is completely

legal. But I still want to know why.'

'May I see the file, admiral?'

Troy flipped through it quickly but methodically, then held it up. 'There's no mention in here of the

colonel's duties.'

'There wouldn't be. The FBI agents who make up these reports operate on a need-to-know basis.

McCulloch is in charge of security at one of our most important and secret laboratory facilities. His work

there cannot be faulted in any way—he's doing an excellent job. That's not what is bothering us. It's the

gold. It doesn't, well…'

'Smell right?'

'Correct. Call it a hunch, call it anything. It is just too much out of the ordinary—the only unusual thing

that McCulloch has done in his entire lifetime. That's your assignment. Find out why he is buying the stuff.'

'I'll do that, admiral. I'm intrigued by it as well. I can't think of any possible reason for a man in the

colonel's position to be doing this sort of thing. Legal reason, that is.'

'You think that it could be illegal?'

'At this point I think nothing, sir. I have an open mind. What we need are some hard facts before we can

decide anything.'

Chapter 3

The rain thundered down in a heavy tropical downpour. Although it was the end of October the air was

muggy and stifling, one of the main reasons that Washington has the dismal nickname of Foggy Bottom.

Troy Harmon sat behind the wheel of the Pontiac, slumped down in the seat with his hat tilted over his

eyes. It was no accident that the hat, as well as the raincoat, closely resembled those worn by Colonel

McCulloch when he had left his house about thirty minutes earlier. The colonel had also been driving a

vintage Pontiac—the same colour and year as this one. The sound of the rain hammering on the metal

roof almost drowned out the sudden beeping of the radio. Troy lifted it to his ear and thumbed it to life.

'George Baker here,' he said. The earphone rasped in reply.

'George is parking in his usual place in the lot now.'

'Thanks. Out.'

Troy turned the ignition key and switched on the engine. It had taken four days to set everything up,

working slowly and carefully so that there could be no mistakes. He did not believe in rushing into a case

before he was completely prepared. But now, with the preparations completed, he was looking forward

to the next part of the operation. All of the details concerning Colonel McCulloch's daily and weekly

routine had been in the FBI reports. Troy had studied them closely and made the most of the

opportunity. The FBI had supplied him with a guest membership to the athletic club where the colonel

played squash three times a week. He had made a single visit there—and it had taken him less than a

minute to open McCulloch's locker and make impressions of all of his keys. The duplicates were in his

pocket now as he drove the old Pontiac slowly down the tree-lined street. It was hot and stuffy with the

car windows closed—but he liked it that way. All of the glass was now completely steamed up. He had

to lean over to wipe a clear patch on the windshield so he could see out.

As he turned the car into the driveway of the colonel's house Troy pressed the button on the

radio-operated garage opener, now set to the same frequency as McCulloch's. The door swung up and

he rolled under it. Any casual observer would assume automatically that this was the colonel coming

home. Since McCulloch had no friends or acquaintances in the neighbourhood the chances of his finding

out about this unscheduled visit were very slight. Troy waited until the door was completely shut behind

him before he got out of the car. He left the raincoat and hat on the seat, clipped the radio to his belt then

reached over for his attaché case. Instead of turning on the garage lights he used the flashlight from his

jacket pocket.

The burglar alarm box was next to the door that led from the garage into the house. The QCIC technician

had identified the key for him and told him just what to do. Insert, rotate one full turn clockwise, then

remove. He reached up and did just that. The blue light on the front of the box went out. When he left the

house he would have to reverse the procedure. He found the correct door key on his second try,

unlocked it and was about to pull the door open when he stopped. It was too easy. If McCulloch had

anything to hide—wouldn't he take some more precautions than just the burglar alarm?

Troy ran the flashlight along the top of the door, then down the sides. Nothing seemed to be protruding.

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RebelinTimeHarryHarrisonFirstpublished1983,reprinted1988.ISBN0-586-05579-7ForJosephineSpencerinfondmemoryofKennethSpencerandBill.ContentsChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chapter15Chapter16Chapter17Chapter18Chapter19C...

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Harry Harrison - Rebel in Time

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