Space Police

by Andre Norton

  The Psychologist’s bodyguard took few chances, but they were not conditioned to look for danger in so blatantly obvious a shape.

  The Psychologist himself, whose dome-shaped dwelling topped one section of the Old Lycannese Hotel, was taking no chances at all these days. From the center of the moving cluster of his henchmen he gave the trailing humanoid’s mind a flicking probe and encountered a mind-shield no different than was to be expected in a traveler with highly valuable commercial secrets to preserve—a shield he could have dissolved in an instant with hardly any effort at all.

  However, so sudden an operation would have entailed leaving a small yellow maniac gibbering in agony on the floor of the lobby behind him—a complication he preferred to avoid in public. He dropped the matter from his thoughts, contemptuously. He knew of the Talpu—a base, timid race, unfit even for slavery.

  A secondary and very different shield, which the more obvious first one had concealed from the Psychologist’s probe, eased cautiously again in the yellow-faced man’s mind, while the Talpu surface thoughts continued their vague quick traceries over both shields, unaffected either by the probe or by the deeper reaction it had aroused.

  As the Psychologist’s group reached the automatic elevator, the humanoid was almost side by side with its rearmost members and only a few steps behind the dignitary himself. There the party paused briefly while one of the leading guards scanned the empty compartment, and then stood aside to let the Psychologist enter. That momentary hesitation was routine procedure. The yellowfaced man had calculated with it, and he did not pause with the rest—though it was almost another half-second before any of the Psychologist’s watch-dogs realized that something had just passed with a shadowy unobtrusiveness through their ranks.

  By then, it was much too late. The great man had just stepped ponderously into the elevator; and the freakish little humanoid, now somehow directly behind him, was entering on his heels.

  Simultaneously, he performed two other motions, almost casually.

  As his left hand touched the switch that started the elevator on its way to the roof, a wall of impalpable force swung up and outwards from the floor-sill behind him, checking the foremost to hurl themselves at this impossible intruder—much more gently than if they had run into a large feather cushion but also quite irresistibly. The hotel took no chances of having its patrons injured on its premises; so the shocked bodyguards simply found themselves standing outside the elevator again before they realized it had flashed upward into its silvery shaft.

  As it began to rise, the yellow-faced man completed his second motion. This was to slip a tiny hypodermic needle into the back of the Psychologist’s neck and depress its plunger.

  One could not, of course, openly abduct the system’s most influential citizen without arousing a good deal of hostile excitement. But he had, Iliff calculated, when the elevator stopped opposite his apartments near the top of the huge hotel, a margin of nearly thirty seconds left to complete his getaway before any possible counterattack could be launched. There was no need to hurry.

  A half dozen steps took him from the elevator into his rooms, the Psychologist walking behind him with a look of vague surprise on his bearded face. Another dozen steps brought the two out to an open-air platform where a rented fast planecar was waiting.

  At sixty thousand feet altitude, Iliff checked the spurt of their vertical ascent and turned north. The land was darkening with evening about the jewellike sparkle of clustered seaboard cities, but up here the light of Lycanno’s primary sun still glittered greenly from the car’s silver walls. The speeding vehicle was shielded for privacy from all but official spy-rays, and for several more minutes he would have no reason to fear those. Meanwhile, any aerial pursuer who could single him out from among the myriad similar cars streaming into and out of the port city at that hour would be very good indeed.

  Stripping the vivo-gel masks carefully from his head and hands, he dropped the frenziedly twitching half-alive stuff into the depository beside his seat where the car’s jets would destroy it.

  The Psychologist sat, hunched forward and docile, beside him—dull black eyes staring straight ahead. Up to this point, the new Vegan mind-lock was conforming to the Third Co-ordinator’s expectations.

  Interrogation of the prisoner took place in a small valley off the coast of an uninhabited island, in the subpolar regions. A dozen big snake-necked carnivores scattered from the carcass of a still larger thing on which they had been feeding as the planecar settled down; and their snuffing and baffled howls provided a background for the further proceedings which Iliff found grimly fitting. He had sent out a fear-impulse adjusted to the beast-pack’s primitive sensation-level, which kept them prowling helplessly along the rim of a hundred-yard circle.

  In the center of this circle Iliff sat cross-legged on the ground, watching the Quizzer go about its business.

  The Quizzer was an unbeautiful two-foot cube of machine. Easing itself with delicate ruthlessness through the Psychologist’s mental defenses, it droned its findings step by step into Iliff’s mind. He could have done the work without its aid, since the shield had never been developed that could block a really capable investigator if he was otherwise unhampered. But it would have taken a great deal longer; and at best he did not expect to have more time than he needed to extract the most vital points of information. Besides, he lacked the Quizzer’s sensitivity; if he was hurried, there was a definite risk of doing irreparable injury to the mind under investigation—at that stage, he hadn’t been able to decide whether or not it would be necessary to kill the Psychologist.

  The second time the Quizzer contacted the Ceetal, he knew. The little robot reported an alien form of awareness which came and went through the Quizzer’s lines of search as it chose and was impossible to localize.

  “It is the dominant consciousness in this subject. But it is connected with the organism only through the other one.”

  The Quizzer halted again. It was incapable of surprise or confusion, but when it could not classify what it found it stopped reporting. It was bothered, too, by the effects of the mind-lock—an innovation to which it was not adjusted. The chemical acted directly on the shields, freezing those normally flexible defensive patterns into interlocked nets of force which isolated the energy centers of the nervous system that produced them.

  “Give me anything you get on it!” Iliff urged.

  The machine still hesitated. And then:

  “It thinks that if it could break the force you call the mind-lock and energize the organism it could kill you instantly. But it is afraid that it would cause serious injury to the organism in doing so. Therefore it is willing to wait until its friends arrive and destroy you. It is certain that this will happen very quickly now.”

  Iliff grunted. That was no news to him, but it gave him an ugly thrill nevertheless. He’d found it necessary to cut his usual hit-and-run tactics very fine for this job; and so far he had got nothing he could use out of it.

  “Does this primary consciousness,” he inquired, “know what you’re trying to do and what you’re telling me?”

  “It knows what I’m trying to do,” the machine responded promptly. “It does not know that I’m telling you anything. It is aware of your presence and purpose but it can receive no sense impression of any kind. It can only think.”

  “Good enough,” Iliff nodded. “It can’t interfere with your activity then?”

  “Not while the mind-lock keeps it from arousing its energy sources.”

  “What of the other one—the human consciousness?”

  “That one is somnolent and completely helpless. It is barely aware of what is occurring and has made no attempt to interfere. It is only the mind-lock that blocks my approach to the information you require. If you could dissolve that force, there would be no difficulty,”

  Iliff wasted a baleful look on his squat assistant. “Except,” he pointed out, “that I’d get killed!”

  “Undoubtedly,”
the machine agreed with idiotic unconcern. “The energy centers of this organism are overdeveloped to an extent which, theoretically, should have drained it of its life-forces many years ago. It appears that the alien consciousness is responsible both for the neural hypertrophy and for the fact that the organism as a whole has been successfully adapted to meet the resultant unnatural stresses—”

  Towards the end of the next half-hour, the pattern of information finally began to take definite shape—a shape that made Iliff increasingly anxious to get done with the job. But which showed also that the Third Co-ordinator’s hunch had been better than he knew!

  Lycanno was long overdue for a Zone Agent’s attentions.

  He should, he supposed, have been elated; instead, he was sweating and shivering, keyed to nightmarish tensions. Theoretically, the mind-lock might be unbreakable, but the Ceetal, for one, did not believe it. It did fear that to shatter lock and shields violently might destroy its host and thereby itself; so far, that had kept it from making the attempt. That, and the knowledge it shared with its captor—that they could not remain undiscovered much longer.

  But at each new contact, the Quizzer unemotionally reported an increase in the gathering fury and alarm with which the parasite observed the progress of the investigation. It had been coldly contemptuous at first; then the realization came slowly that vital secrets were being drawn, piece by piece, from the drugged human mind to which it was linked—and that it could do nothing to check the process!

  By now, it was dangerously close to utter frenzy, and for many minutes Iliff’s wrist-gun had been trained on the hunched and motionless shape of the Psychologist. Man and Ceetal would die on the spot if necessary. But even in its death-spasms, he did not want to be in the immediate neighborhood of that mind and the powers it could unleash if it broke loose. Time and again, he drew the Quizzer back from a line of investigation that seemed too likely to provide the suicidal impulse. Other parts of the pattern had been gained piecemeal, very circumstantially.

  It was tight, carefully balanced work. However, there were only a few more really important points left now. There might be just time enough—

  Iliff jerked upright as a warning blared from an automatic detector he had installed in the planecar the day before, raising a chorus of furious carnivore yells from the rim of the hundred-yard fear-circle.

  “Two planetary craft approaching at low cruising speeds,” it detailed. “Sector fourteen, distance eighty-five miles, altitude nineteen miles. Surface and psyche scanners are being used.”

  And, an instant later:

  “You have been discovered.”

  The rescuers were several minutes earlier than he’d actually expected. But the warning gave him the exact margin required for his next action, and the uncertainty and tension vanished from his mind.

  He snapped a command to the Quizzer:

  “Release the subject—then destroy yourself!”

  Freed from invisible tentacles, the Psychologist’s body rolled clumsily forward to the turf, and at once came stumbling to its feet. Behind it, the Quizzer flared up briefly in a shower of hissing sparks, collapsed, liquefied, and fused again into metallic formlessness.

  Seconds later, Iliff had lifted the planecar over the valley’s tree-top level. The vehicle’s visiglobe was focused locally—every section of the dark little valley appeared as distinct in it as if flooded with brilliant daylight. Near its center, the figure of the Psychologist was groping through what to him was near-complete blackness down into the open ground. Whether the alien mind understood that its men had arrived and was attempting to attract their attention, Iliff would never know.

  It did not matter, now. The planecar’s concealed guns were trained on that figure; and his finger was on the trigger-stud.

  But he did not fire. Gliding out from under the trees, the lean, mottled shapes of the carnivore-pack had appeared in the field of the globe. Forgetting the intangible barrier of fear as quickly as it ceased to exist, they scuttled back toward their recently abandoned feast—and swerved, in a sudden new awareness, to converge upon the man-form that stumbled blindly about near it.

  Iliff grimaced faintly, spun the visiglobe to wide-range focus and sent the planecar hurtling over the shoreline into the sea. The maneuver would shield him from the surface scanners of the nearest pursuers and give him a new and now urgently needed head-start.

  It would please his scientific colleagues back on Jeltad, he knew, to hear that the Ceetal had been mistaken about the strength of their mind-lock! For the brief seconds it survived in the center of the ravening mottled pack, that malevolent intellect must have put forth every effort to break free and destroy its attackers.

  It had been quite unsuccessful.

  Near dawn, in the fifth-largest city of Lycanno IV, a smallish military gentleman proceeded along the docks of a minor space port towards a large, slow-looking, but apparently expensive craft he had registered there two days before. Under one arm he carried a bulging brief case of the openly spy-proof type employed by officials of the Terran embassy.

  The burden did not detract in the least from his air of almost belligerent dignity—an attitude which still characterized most citizens of ancient Earth in the afterglow of her glory. The ship he approached was surrounded by a wavering, globular sheen of light, like a cluster of multiple orange halos, warning dock attendants and the idly curious from coming within two hundred feet of it.

  Earthmen were notoriously jealous of their right to privacy. The military gentleman, whose size was his only general point of resemblance to either Iliff or the yellow-faced man who had been a guest of the Old Lycannese Hotel not many hours earlier, walked into the area of orange fire without hesitation. From the ship, a brazen, inhuman voice boomed instantly at him, both audibly and in mental shock-waves that would have rocked the average intruder back like a blow in the face:

  “Withdraw at once! This vessel is shielded from investigation in accordance with existing regulations. Further unauthorized advance into the area defined by the light-barrier—”

  The voice went silent suddenly. Then it continued, subvocally: “You are being observed from a strato-station. Nothing else to report. We can leave immediately.”

  In the strato-station, eighty miles above, a very young, sharp-faced fleet lieutenant was turning to his captain:

  “Couldn’t that be—?”

  The captain gave him a sardonic, worldly-wise smile.

  “No, Junior,” he said mildly, “that could not be. That, as you should recall, is Colonel Perritaph, recently attached to the Terran Military Commission. We checked him through this port yesterday morning. But,” he added, “we’re going to have a little fun with the colonel. As soon as he’s ready to take off, he’ll drop that light-barrier. When he does, spear him with a tractor and tell him he’s being held for investigation, because there’s a General Emergency out!”

  “Why not do it now? Oh!”

  “You catch on, Junior—you do catch on!” his superior approved tolerantly. “No light-barrier is to be monkeyed with, ever! Poking a tractor-beam into one may do no harm. On the other hand, it may blow up the ship, the docks, or, just possibly, our cozy little station up here—all depending on what stuff happens to be set how! But once the colonel’s inside and has the crate under control, he’s not going to blow up anything, even if we do hurt his tender Terran feelings a bit.”

  “That way we find out what he’s got in the ship, diplomatic immunity or not,” the lieutenant nodded, trying to match the captain’s air of weary omniscience.

  “We’re not interested in what’s in the ship,” the captain said softly, abashing him anew. “Terra’s a couple of hundred years behind us in construction and armaments—always was!” This was not strictly true; but the notion was a popular one in Lycanno, which had got itself into a brief, thunderous argument with the aging Mother of Galactic Mankind five hundred years before and limped for a century and a half thereafter. The unforeseen outcome had, of cou
rse, long since been explained—rotten luck and Terran treachery—and the whole regrettable incident was not often mentioned nowadays.

  But, for a moment, the captain glowered down in the direction of the distant spaceport, unaware of what moved him to malice.

  “We’ll just let him squirm around a bit and howl for his rights,” he murmured. “They’re so beautifully sensitive about those precious privileges!”

  There was a brief pause while both stared at the bulky-looking ship in their globe.

  “Wonder what that G.E. really went out for,” the lieutenant ventured presently.

  “To catch one humanoid ape—as described!” the captain grinned. Then he relented. “I’ll tell you one thing—it’s big enough that they’ve put out the Fleet to blast anyone who tries to sneak off without being identified!”

  The lieutenant tried to look as if that explained it, but failed. Then he brightened and announced briskly: “The guy’s barrier just went off!”

  “All right. Give him the tractor!”

  “It’s—”

  Up from the dock area then, clearly audible through their instruments, there rose a sound: a soft but tremendous WHOOSH! The cradle in which the slow-looking ship had rested appeared to quiver violently. Nothing else changed. But the ship was no longer there.

  In white-faced surprise, the lieutenant goggled at the captain. “Did . . . did it blow up?” he whispered.

  The captain did not answer. The captain had turned purple, and seemed to be having the worst kind of trouble getting his breath.

  “Took off—under space-drive,” he gasped suddenly. “How’d he do that without wrecking—With a tractor on him!”

  He whirled belatedly, and flung himself at the communicators. Gone was his aplomb, gone every trace of worldly-wise weariness. “Station 1222 calling Fleet!” he yelped. “Station 1222 calling—” While Lycanno’s suns shrank away in the general-view tank before him, Iliff rapidly sorted the contents of his brief case into a small multiple-recorder. It had been a busy night—to those equipped to read the signs the Fourth Planet must have seemed boiling like a hive of furious bees before it was over! But he’d done most of what had seemed necessary, and the pursuit never really got within minutes of catching up with him again.