A Mixture of Genius — Story, Setting & Ideas

Duran had intended quite bluntly to explain that he had more important business. But there was something compelling about the man's apparently ingenuous urgency that caused the senator to change his mind.

"Okay, Loeffler. I'll be right over."

He broke the contact and told Woodvale to dial his home number.

"Ernie, this is Dad," he said at the sound of his younger son's voice. "Tell Mother I'm going to stop off at the Attorney General's office--that's right--but that I'll be home in plenty of time to get ready for the dinner. Got that? That's right. How's school? Something wrong? Okay, son, I'll see you later."

Ernie had said that everything was all right, but with an uneasiness in the way he spoke. Grades, maybe, Duran thought. The boy had been doing pretty well, almost as well as Roger, but was showing the inevitable adolescent ramifications of interest. Duran found himself musing briefly upon his own youthful extra-curricular forays up the tree of knowledge and sighed.

"Go to the capitol building, Jack," he said.

"Which port should I use, sir?" the younger man asked.

"The official one," Duran told him. This was Loeffler's idea.

The senator was surprised to find one of the Attorney General's harried-looking secretaries working late. She glanced up from her typewriter and gave him an equivocal smile of recognition.

"He's expecting you, Mr. Senator," she said, nodding toward the inner office. "Go right in."

Sigmund Loeffler was not alone. But the two other visitors were paled by the aura of importance which emanated from the large black-haired man behind the desk. He rose grandly at Duran's entrance, and without bothering to shake hands proceeded with introductions.

"Fritz Ambly, Senator Vance Duran. Fritz," he explained, "is chairman of the state Youth Welfare Board."

Duran took the thin hand which the other extended to him and noted the concern on the man's slim freckled face. His features were appropriately almost those of a child, but of a worried child.

"And Bob Duff, Senator Duran," Loeffler went on. "Bob is head of our Civil Defense now."

The second man was, in contrast, short and homely, but not without a touch of the other's anxiety.

"Well, gentlemen, you're welcome to stay if you wish," the Attorney General told them. "I'll have to repeat all the facts to Senator Duran, of course."

"I'd better be off," Ambly said. "Perhaps I'll see you at the Governor's tonight?"

"Not me, I'm afraid," Loeffler told him. "The DA and I have a little problem to work out together. I'll call you both tomorrow about the press release."

"We can't wait too long," said Duff. "Rumors can be a lot worse than the truth. Especially about something like this. In fact, I don't see the point in waiting at all."

"Tomorrow, Bob. Tomorrow," Loeffler promised. "Noon at the latest."

His heavy smile faded as the two visitors closed the door behind them. With an unthrottled groan, he lowered himself into the chair and turned his dark gaze upon the senator.

"They think _they_ have troubles," he said.

"And you think _I_ have," Duran returned, seating himself.

"I know _you_ do. Unfortunately I happen to share them to some extent."

He paused to relight the stub of a cigar, then went on.

"It's a crazy world we live in, Vance. Things change. Sometimes it's hard for us adults to keep up with it. The kids seem to, though."

Duran tried to appear suavely bored with the other's musings. But in spite of himself he could sense his gaze becoming intently expectant. Whatever connection there might be between himself, Ambly, and Duff completely eluded him. And that elusive connection had aroused his curiosity.

"Yeah, they keep up with things, all right," Loeffler went on. "And sometimes they get some pretty big ideas."

He halted, puffed thoughtfully, then barked:

"Remember Mel Skinner's lodge out on that island in Wakataoga Lake? Big Spanish-style place. Built it for that wife of his he brought back from Chile or somewhere."

"Yes, I remember it. Molly and I spent a weekend there a couple of years ago. Why?" the senator asked, realizing more than ever how much he disliked Sigmund Loeffler. "What are you getting at?"

"Well, the next time you go you'd better take along some sleeping bags," said Loeffler. "Because the house isn't there anymore."

"Okay," Duran said, strangely anxious. "Let's forget the riddles and get down to business. What happened to Mel Skinner's hacienda?"

The Attorney General stared at his guest for a moment, before remarking harshly:

"A bomb, you mean?" Duran asked.

"Oh, no, no--nothing so crude as that. This was a guided missile. With a warhead."

The senator was thinking fast now, but still the pattern eluded him.

"Not an act of war, surely?" he remarked.