by Jerry
The faculty was feeble in people like Paul. He could not read minds. He could not sort and integrate the confused tendrils of conscious and unconscious thought that broke like an endless stream from a human mind; he could not separate the reality of here-and-now thinking from the strands of fantasy, and memory, and supposition, and frustration, and desire, and half-understanding, and confusion that lay beneath the surface of those minds. He could detect falsehood and he could feel suspicion; he could sense love as he had never felt it before, and he could feel himself gripped in the helpless frustration of pity; he could savor excitement with a thousand tingling nerves, and he could sense the blackest depths of despair, but he could not sort them out to make a coherent picture of the thoughts streaming from a human mind. It took a lifetime of training of a Psi-High mind to do that.
But Jean Sanders could. That was why she was waiting in the room with him when the Alien struck.
She was walking across the room when it happened. She stiffened, screamed, and even Paul’s untrained mind caught the impact of the wave of fear and revulsion that swept from her mind. She sank to the floor, and Paul stood by, watching helplessly as she twisted and writhed in tire blind agony of the powerful invasion. “Please,” she choked, white faced. “Get me a pillow. Then—then listen—”
“Don’t fight him,” Paul whispered. “Let him in. Let him clear in. And then jump on him for all you’re worth. Dig, dig deep—”
Her eyes became huge, like the eyes of an animal, frightened beyond hope, cornered, attacked and helpless to fight back. Her neck strained back, and her teeth clenched. The blood drained from her face as she began moaning. “I can’t, Paul—” she cried, “I—I can’t get in—”
“You’ve got to—” Frantically Paul tried to thrust out with his mind, tried to dig through the wall of immense power that was present in the room. The Alien was close, very close, and the presence of his mind was overwhelming. Paul tried to break through, and then suddenly he felt a pang of white heat sear through his brain, driving him back, a sharp, savage stroke that doubled him up, clasping his hands helplessly to his ears as he fell and writhed on the floor in pain. And then suddenly it was gone as swiftly as it had come. He lay panting for a moment Then he managed to crawl across the room to Jean. He sank his head to her chest, heard the slow pounding of her heart. He shook her, gently; her eyes flickered open, her face filled with horror and loathing. “Oh, Paul, I got—I got so little—
“What did you get, darling?”
“Nothing. A picture or two, nothing more. Oh, he was so strong, I couldn’t make a dent—”
“What pictures?”
She sat up, her breath coming in gasps. “Nothing definite. Ben Towne—yes, there was something about him—just the flash of a mental picture, no, rationality connected with it. And some papers, some sort of file—” She clasped her hands to her head. “He—he stripped me clean! I can’t—”
“Jeannie! There must have been something else—”
She looked up at him, a strange light in her eyes. “I don’t understand it,” she whispered. “There was a picture of a farm—yes, a farm, and a dog, and blood on a pair of pants—”
Paul sat back, staring at her stupidly. And then, suddenly, a light flashed on in his mind, a flash so incredible that he hardly dared think of-it. In an instant he was on his feet, the blood pounding in his throat. He began throwing clothes into a bag as the girl sat there, watching him dully, in growing alarm. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll call you—”
“Paul—where—”
“It’s my show, now, darling. Wait, rest, you’ll be all right. Rest, and say a prayer or two. Because I’ve got this Alien nailed for sure this time.”
IT WAS incredibly dangerous and utterly necessary. Paul found a visiphone booth in the rear of a station where there were few people, and quickly threw an adapter across the camera, and spun a roll of film in. The film started when the party at die other end flipped on the switch. The conversation was brief. Paul gave the address of a roof-garden apartment in Central Washington, and then disconnected. After removing the film, he reconnected with a number he had given Roberts a few hours before. Ted Marino’s face appeared, and Paul heaved a sigh of relief. “How many men do you have, Ted?”
“Two.”
“All Psi-High?”
“Certainly.”
Paul nodded. “All right, we’re beyond the law from now on, Ted. If you or any of the rest want out, take off.”
Marino’s dark eyes sparkled. “Roberts said this is the kill,” he said.
“It’s not the kill you think. But it’s a kill, all right. Take the men to this address.” He gave the roof-garden number. “Have a jet scooter there, and see that nobody spots it. Use Security insignia. Send out a bleeper if anything goes wrong. I’ll be there.”
He rang off, and moments later was rising high above the city in his own scooter. In ten minutes he had reached the roof-garden, and settled the little ship down gently on its gyros. He walked inside and sat down in the darkness, and waited.
He heard another jet scooter land. Marino walked in with two other men Paul remembered vaguely. He nodded to them, and they also sat down. Paul fingered the shocker in his pocket, his nerves screaming a thousand warnings in his ears.
Tire guard robot on the ground floor bleeped sharply. Paul reached for the lock-release switch, and heard the elevator start to whine. He unlocked the door and left it ajar, then motioned to one of the men. “Cover the hallway, and back them up when they come. Don’t be surprised at who it is.”
The man disappeared down the hall. Paul sat quietly, and then heard the elevator open. There were footsteps, and a tapping sound. The footsteps stopped at the door.
“Come on in,” he called sharply. “Bob’ll be with you in just a minute.”
The door swung open and Senatorial Councilman Ben Towne walked into the room, followed by two tight-faced men. One of the men had a hand in his jacket pocket. Towne blinked at Faircloth, and his grin began to fade into alarm. “Who in the hell are you?”
“One of Roberts’ men.”
“Roberts said you had the Alien,” Towne snarled. His green eyes peered around the room.
Marino swung on the man to the right, bringing him down with a blow to the temple. Paul slapped Towne’s cane to the floor, and pounced on the other guard like a cat. The Councilman staggered against the door jamb, trying desperately to reach his cane. Moments later the guards were helpless, and Paul and Marino dragged Towne out to the middle of the room. “The files,” Paul said sharply. “Where do you keep them?”
Towne’s breath came heavily. “You damned snakes can’t get away with this—”
“The files, Councilman.”
His eyes went around the room fearfully. “The boys know where they are,” he said finally, his voice so low it was hardly audible.
“Any duplicates?”
“Not of the files you want.”
Paul nodded to the two men. “Take them down and get the files. Then turn the men and files over to Roberts. Tell him to see that the men forget all about this.” He turned back to Towne. “You’re taking a little ride.”
“When this hits the papers it’ll be the end of the road for you freaks,” Towne snarled. “You can’t stop it now—”
“We’ll see,” said Faircloth. “Now shut up and get moving.”
They left the cane in the room. Paul helped Marino load him aboard the jet scooter. “Take him up to Eagle Rock. Keep him there. Dismantle the engine, if you have to, to keep him there. I’ll Be there in a few hours.”
Marino nodded. “Should I report to Roberts?”
“Don’t bother. Roberts would have a stroke. I brought Towne over here on a dummy visiphone film of Roberts, which will put him in enough hot water as it is.”
“And where are you going?”
“I’m taking a plane west. I’ve got a visit to make. I’ve got to see a man about a dog.”
VIII
T
HE farmer blinked across the table at him, red eyed and fearful. “I don’t know what you want,” he was saying. His voice was high and querulous. “I didn’t ask no trouble of the Federal Men. They asked me all them questions, and I told them—”
“That’s all right.” said Faircloth. “We’re just rechecking. You were the first party the Alien contacted as far as we can tell. The ship landed on your property, didn’t it?”
The farmer nodded. “Over by the river. Scrub oak and elms standing over there on the bluff. Haven’t never cleared it because it’d be too rocky to farm.”
“All right, all right,” said Faircloth
sharply. “I want you to tell me what happened that night.”
The farmer’s eyes flitted to Faircloth’s face and back down to the table. “I already told you twenty times. Why do you pick on me?” he whined. “I couldn’t help it he happened to stop here. Heard him on the porch about ten o’clock at night—I was just gettin’ ready for bed. And he said he was travelin’ and wanted something to eat. We don’t see strangers around here very often, Mister—” he looked up at Faircloth fearfully. “I—I looked at him, and he looked all right to me. My eyes were tired, like I said. I couldn’t see him too well, but he came in, and ate, and I offered to bed him for the night. He said no, he had to make on for Des Moines.”
Faircloth watched the man’s eyes. “Details, Mr. Bettendorf. You’ve left some out along the line, haven’t you? I have a report here that was filed by our field team that talked to you.” He pulled out a sheaf of papers in the dim kitchen light. “Says something about your dog barking.”
The farmer’s face went white. “There anything wrong with that? I reckon the dog did bark. I don’t remember.”
“And you went to open the door, and the stranger was there, eh?”
The farmer nodded his head eagerly. “I told you everything—”
“And you brought him in and fed him and then sent him on his way?”
“That’s right, that’s what I done.”
“You’re a liar,” said Faircloth. He eyed the man coldly. “Try the story over again. Once more now.”
The farmer jolted to his feet, his eyes feverish. “I done just like I told you. I didn’t tell no lie. I heard the dog yelping—”
“And you opened the door and there was a stranger there.” Faircloth’s voice was sharp. “Then what happened? Step by step. Minute by minute. I mean it, mister, I want the truth.”
“I—I looked at him—”
“What light did you have?”
“This here same light. Not very much—”
“And what did he say?”
“He said, ‘I’m a traveler and I’d like something to eat.’ ”
“And what did his voice sound like?” The farmer faltered. “It was funny—like gravel in a tin can. A funny kind of voice.”
“And where was the dog all this time?” The farmer blanched, “He—he done stayed outside. He saw it was all right.”
“Where’s the dog now?”
“I sold him. I mean he ran away. You can’t keep a dog forever, Mister.”
Faircloth’s face was very near the old man’s. “The stranger was out on the porch and you talked to him and let him come in. And then what did you do?”
“I—he sat down at the table, I think—
I—I—”
“You went over to get some food from the stove, didn’t you?”
“Yes, yes, that’s right.”
“And then you saw blood on his pants, didn’t you? And you remembered hearing your dog give a yelp out in the yard, didn’t you? The stranger had blood all over his pants and boots, didn’t he?”
The farmer’s eyes were wide with fear. He was shaking his head helplessly. “No—no—
“And so you picked up your gun and you shot him, didn’t you?”
And then the old man’s face was in his hands, bending over the table, crying like a baby—huge, fearful sobs racking his boney shoulders. “He killed my dog,” he choked between sobs. “He killed old Brownie, gave him a kick that split his head open. He didn’t have to do that to poor old. Brownie. I knew he was a bad one when he did that. I shot him. Yes, I did.”
THE news broke to the nation that night, and the country went into a panic unequalled since the days of the Great Cold War. Paul Faircloth spent an hour on the visiphone from Des Moines talking to Robert Roberts, going over the whole business from beginning to end. The Security chief chain-smoked three cigars for the first time in his life. Finally Roberts put a line through to the Speaker of the Joint Senatorial Councils. Half an hour later, while Faircloth was making his way by jet back to Washington, Roberts was in top-secret conference with the Senate Council Leaders, and then with the President himself. And then the news broke. It was an official White House News conference, and it had been dismissed barely three minutes when the radios and TVs were carrying the casts of the announcement.
Faircloth brought his plane down at Eisenhower Field, and saw the crowd swarming across the landing strip before he got to the ground. A dozen flashbulbs popped, and before he could get into the Security limousine waiting for him, he was in the middle of a tight circle of reporters.
“How long has the Alien been at large, Mr. Faircloth?” one of them asked.
“Sorry. The chief will have to answer that.”
“Is there any doubt that he’s telepathic?”
“No doubt whatsoever. I know that from personal experience. It’s the only way he could move freely in the population.”
“How was he first detected?”
Paul smiled to himself. “The President gave you that information, didn’t he? A Psi-High citizen spotted him in Des Moines. The Psi-Highs have been on his trail ever since.”
One of the reporters was tugging at his arm. “There’s been a lot of talk about some kind of—well, liason between the Alien invader and the Psi-Highs in this country.” Paul frowned. “If that were true, would we be working twenty-four hours a day to trap him? Use your head, man. There’ve been a lot of unfortunate rumors, I’m afraid. But I can speak for the Psi-Highs, and I think Commissioner Roberts will back me up on this—the Alien is menacing our very civilization. He’s struck at one of our most beloved public servants in an attempt to undermine the government and prepare our planet for a full scale invasion. There isn’t a Psi-High citizen in the country who will rest until the monster is caught, and until Councilman Towne has been returned safely to Washington.”
“But what about Towne’s anti-Psi legislation? He’s always hated Psi-Highs.”
“Nonsense. Towne has been a loyal servant of the North American people. He’s fought for what he thought was right, and has, exposed himself to great dangers and personal vilification to do it. If he hasn’t fully understood the Psi-Highs’ side of things, that’s not a matter for us to be vindictive about.” He looked around the circle soberly. “The fact remains that he’s in the hands of a dangerous enemy, and. it’s, our job to save him if it can possibly be done.” He nodded, and stepped into the Security limousine. It honked its way through the crowd, and then dipped down into the government tunnel that led to capitol hill and Central Washington.
He picked up a paper inside the car, and peered at it eagerly. The full-color picture of the President’s grave face stared out at him in tri-di, and on either side pictures of Roberts and Towne. It was an old picture of Towne, a flattering picture. Paul grinned as he read the story rapidly:
COUNCILMAN TOWNE KIDNAPPED
FROM SECRET MEETING
President Reveals Alien Telepath at Large
The President of the North American States revealed tonight in a special press conference that Councilman Benjamin Towne (Federal Isolationist, American Council) was kidnapped from a secret meeting with Federal Security agents last night in what was described as the first step in a plan for large-scale invasion of Earth by an Alien race from another planet. The President reported that one Alien, believed to be fully telepathic, has been
at large in the country since his landing near Gutenberg, Iowa, last May 26th.
The Alien’s presence was first detected by a loyal Psi-High citizen of Des Moines and was reported immediately to the Federal Security Commission. Robert R. Roberts, Chief of the FSC, has been active in directing a nationwide dragnet to capture the Alien.
Councilman Towne left his home last night at 11:00 P.M. in response to a call ostensibly from Commissioner Roberts. It is believed that the call was forged by the use of a dummy-film, and the Councilman was reported missing when he did not return home. The two attaches who accompanied him apparently have suffered severely from the encounter with the Alien’s telepathic powers, and were unable to be questioned at the Hoffman Medical Center this morning.
The President made special note of the excellent and selfless work of certain Psi-High citizens during the past months, in the course of a manhunt that has been shrouded in secrecy. The Alien’s telepathic powers invariably overcame the efforts of psi-negative individuals, but through the efforts of the Psi-Highs, Commissioner Roberts has expressed every hope of ending the search within days and securing Councilman Towne’s release.
Faircloth flipped the page, glancing at the smaller headlines. An interview with Dr. Abrams reporting the training program for Psi-Highs in progress at the Hoffman Center; a long article, discussing the value of Psi-High powers in combatting a ruthless telepathic alien force; an article by Roberts, very carefully worded, explaining that if one telepathic Alien had come to
Earth, others could be expected. Roberts expressed the opinion that human psi-positives were the nation’s strongest safeguard against such an invasion.