"Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo!" Eric Blake squeaked. "Don't forsake me at a time like this!"
"I'm coming," the god grunted. It heaved violently. "How's this?"
The robot police jerked as a torrent of force erupted from the box. Abruptly they disappeared, winking out of existence. Where they had stood a horde of mechanical mice milled aimlessly, spilling frantically through the doorway, out into the yard.
Jennings's face showed astonishment and then panic. He retreated, waving his blaster menacingly. "See here, Blake. Don't think you can scare me. We've got this house surrounded."
A bolt of force hit him in the stomach. The bolt lifted him and shook him like a rag doll. His blaster skidded from his fingers, falling to the floor. Jennings groped for it desperately. The blaster turned into a spider and crawled rapidly off, out of his reach.
"Set him down," Eric urged.
"All right." The god released Jennings. He crashed to the floor, stunned and frightened. He scrambled wildly to his feet and ran from the house, down the path to the sidewalk.
"Oh dear," Pat said.
"Oh dear," Pat said.
"Look."
Pulled up in a circle around the house was a solid line of atomic cannon. Their snouts gleamed wickedly in the late afternoon sunlight. Groups of robot police stood around each cannon, waiting alertly for instructions.
Eric groaned. "We're sunk. One blast and we're finished."
"Do something!" Pat gasped. She prodded the box. "Enchant them. Don't just sit there."
"They are out of range," the god replied. "As I explained, my power is limited by distance."
"You in there!" a voice came, magnified by a hundred loudspeakers. "Come out with your hands up. Or we open fire!"
"Bradshaw," Eric groaned. "He's out there. We're trapped. You sure you can't do something?"
"Sorry," the god said. "I can put up a shield against the cannon." It concentrated. Outside the house a dull surface formed, a globe rapidly hardening around them.
"All right," Bradshaw's magnified voice came, muffled by the shield. "You asked for it."
The first shell hit. Eric found himself lying on the floor, his ears ringing, everything going around and around. Pat lay beside him, dazed and frightened. The house was a shambles. Walls, chairs, furniture, all was in ruins.
"Fine shield," Pat gasped.
"The concussion," the god protested. Its box lay in the corner on its side. "The shield stops the shells, but the concussion --"
A second shell struck. A wall of pressure rolled over Eric, stunning him. He skidded, tossed by a violent wind, crashing against heaps of debris that had been his house.
"We can't last," Pat said faintly. "Tell them to stop, Eric. Please!"
"Your wife is right," the god's calm voice came up, from its overturned box. "Surrender, Eric. Give yourself up."
"I guess I better." Eric pulled himself up on his knees. "But golly, I don't want to spend the rest of my life in prison. I knew I was breaking the law when I smuggled the damn thing in here, but I never thought --"
A third shell hit. Eric tumbled down, his chin smacking the floor. Plaster and rubble rained down on him, choking and blinding him. He fought his way up, grabbing hold of a jutting beam.
"Stop!" he shouted.
There was sudden silence.
"Are you willing to surrender?" the magnified voice boomed.
"Surrender," the god murmured.
Eric's mind raced desperately. "I -- I have a deal. A compromise." He thought fast, his brain in high gear. "I have a proposal."
There was a long pause. "What's the proposal?"
Eric stepped warily through the rubble to the edge of the shield. The shield was almost gone. Only a shimmering haze remained, through which the circle of atomic cannon was visible, the cannon and the robot police.
"Matson," Eric gasped, getting his breath. "The toad. We'll make the following deal. We'll restore Matson to his original shape. We'll return the non-Terrestrial to Ganymede. In return, you waive prosecution and I get my job back."
"Absurd! My labs can easily restore Matson without your help."
"Oh yeah? Ask Matson. He'll tell you. If you don't agree, Matson will be a toad for the next two hundred years -- at least!"
A long silence followed. Eric could see figures moving back and forth, conferring behind the guns.
"All right," Bradshaw's voice came at last. "We agree. Drop the shield and come forward. I'll send Jennings with the toad. No tricks, Blake!"
"No tricks." Eric sagged with relief. "Come along," he said to the god, picking up the dented box. "Drop the shield and let's get this over with. Those cannon make me nervous."
"No tricks." Eric sagged with relief. "Come along," he said to the god, picking up the dented box. "Drop the shield and let's get this over with. Those cannon make me nervous."
"Here I come." Eric advanced warily, the box in his hands. "Where's Matson?"
Jennings came toward him. "I have him." His curiosity overcame his suspicion. "This ought to be interesting. We should make a close study of all extra-dimensional life. Apparently they possess science much in advance of our own."
Jennings squatted down, placing the small green toad carefully on the grass.
"There he is," Eric said to the god.
"Is this close enough?" Pat asked icily.
"This is sufficient," the god said. "This is exactly right." It turned its single eye on the toad and made a few brief motions with its scaly claws.
A shimmer hovered over the toad. Extra-dimensional forces were at work, fingering and plucking at the toad molecules. Abruptly the toad twitched. For a second it shuddered, an insistent vibration lapped over it. Then --
Matson ballooned into existence, the familiar bean-pole figure, towering over Eric and Jennings and Pat.
"Lord," Matson breathed shakily. He got out his handkerchief and wiped his face. "I'm glad that's over. Wouldn't want to go through that again."
Jennings retreated hurriedly toward the circle of cannon. Matson turned and headed after him. Eric and his wife and god were suddenly alone in the center of the lawn.
"Hey!" Eric demanded, cold alarm plucking at him. "What is this? What the hell's going on?"
"Sorry, Blake," Bradshaw's voice came. "It was essential to restore Matson. But we can't alter the law. The law is above any man, even me. You're under arrest."
Robot police swarmed forward, grimly surrounding Eric and Pat. "You skunk," Eric choked, struggling feebly.
Bradshaw came out from behind the cannon, hands in his pockets, grinning calmly. "Sorry, Blake. You should be out of jail in ten or fifteen years, though. Your job will be waiting for you -- I promise. As for this extra-dimensional being, I'm quite interested in seeing it. I've heard of such things." He peered toward the box. "I'm happy to take charge of it. Our labs will perform experiments and tests on it which will..."
Bradshaw's words died. His face turned a sickly hue. His mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came.
From the box came a swelling, frenzied buzz of rage. Nar Dolk! I knew I'd find you!"
Bradshaw retreated, trembling violently. "Why, of all persons. Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo! What are you doing on Terra?" He stumbled, half falling. "How did you, that is, after so long, how could --"
Then Bradshaw was running, scattering robot police in all directions, rushing wildly past the atomic cannon.
"Nar Dolk!" the god screamed, swelling with fury. "Scourge of the Seven Temples! Flotsam of Space! I knew you were on this miserable planet! Come back and take your punishment!"
The god burst upward, flashing into the air. It raced past Eric and Pat, growing as it flew. A sickening, nauseous wind, warm and damp, lapped at their faces, as the god gained speed.
Bradshaw -- Nar Dolk -- ran frantically. And as he ran he changed. Immense wings sprouted from him. Great leathery wings, beating the air in frantic haste. His body oozed and altered. Tentacles replaced his legs. Scaly claws replaced arms. Gray hide rippl
ed as he flew up, wings flapping noisily.
Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo struck. For a brief moment the two locked together, twisting and rolling in the air, wings and claws raking and flapping.
Then Nar Dolk broke away, fluttering up. A blazing flash, a pop, and he was gone.
For a moment Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo hovered in the air. The scaly head turned, the single eye glancing back and down at Eric and Pat. It nodded briefly. Then, with a curious shimmy, it vanished.
The sky was empty except for a few feathers and the dull stench of burning scales.
Eric was the first to speak. "Well," he said. "So that's why it wanted to come to Terra. I guess I was sort of exploited." He grinned sheepishly. "The first Terran ever to be exploited."
Eric was the first to speak. "Well," he said. "So that's why it wanted to come to Terra. I guess I was sort of exploited." He grinned sheepishly. "The first Terran ever to be exploited."
A robot policeman plucked at Jennings's sleeve. "Shall we arrest anyone, sir? With Mr Bradshaw gone you are next in charge."
Jennings glanced at Eric and Pat. "I suppose not. The evidence has departed. It seems somewhat silly, anyhow." He shook his head. "Bradshaw. Imagine! And we worked for him for years. Damn strange business."
Eric put his arm around his wife. He pulled her against him, hugging her tight. "I'm sorry, honey," he said softly.
"Sorry?"
"Your present. It's gone. I guess I'll have to get you something else."
Pat laughed, pressing against him. "That's all right. I'll let you in on a secret."
"What?"
Pat kissed him, her lips warm against his cheek. "As a matter of fact -- I'm just as glad."
The Hood Maker
"A hood!"
"Somebody with a hood!"
Workers and shoppers hurried down the sidewalk, joining the forming crowd. A sallow-faced youth dropped his bike and raced over. The crowd grew, businessmen in gray coats, tired-faced secretaries, clerks and workmen.
"Get him!" the crowd swarmed forward. "The old man!"
The sallow-faced youth scooped up a rock from the gutter and hurled it. The rock missed the old man, crashing against a store front.
"He's got a hood, all right!"
"Take it away!"
More rocks fell. The old man gasped in fear, trying to push past two soldiers blocking his way. A rock struck him on the back.
"What you got to hide?" The sallow-faced youth ran up in front of him. "Why you afraid of a probe?"
"He's got something to hide!" A worker grabbed the old man's hat. Eager hands groped for the thin metal band around his head.
"Nobody's got a right to hide!"
The old man fell, sprawling to his hands and knees, umbrella rolling. A clerk caught hold of the hood and tugged. The crowd surged, struggling to get to the metal band. Suddenly the youth gave a cry. He backed off, the hood held up. "I got it! I got it!" He ran to his bike and pedaled off rapidly, gripping the bent hood.
A robot police car pulled up to the curb, siren screaming. Robot cops leaped out, clearing the mob away.
"You hurt?" They helped the old man up.
The old man shook his head, dazed. His glasses hung from one ear. Blood and saliva streaked his face.
"All right." The cop's metal fingers released. "Better get off the street. Inside someplace. For your own good."
Clearance Director Ross pushed the memo plate away. "Another one. I'll be glad when the Anti-Immunity Bill is passed."
Clearance Director Ross pushed the memo plate away. "Another one. I'll be glad when the Anti-Immunity Bill is passed."
"Another person wearing a hood -- a probe shield. That makes ten in the last forty-eight hours. They're mailing more out all the time."
"Mailed, slipped under doors, in pockets, left at desks -- countless ways of distribution."
"If more of them notified us --"
Peters grinned crookedly. "It's a wonder any of them do. There's a reason why hoods are sent to these people. They're not picked out at random."
"Why are they picked?"
"They have something to hide. Why else would hoods be sent to them?"
"What about those who do notify us?"
"They're afraid to wear them. They pass the hoods on to us -- to avoid suspicion."
Ross reflected moodily. "I suppose so."
"An innocent man has no reason to conceal his thoughts. Ninety-nine per cent of the population is glad to have its mind scanned. Most people want to prove their loyalty. But this one per cent is guilty of something."
Ross opened a manila folder and took out a bent metal band. He studied it intently. "Look at it. Just a strip of some alloy. But it effectively cuts off all probes. The teeps go crazy. It buzzes them when they try to get past. Like a shock."
"You've sent samples to the lab, of course."
"No. I don't want any of the lab workers turning out their own hoods. We have trouble enough!"
"Who was this taken from?"
Ross stabbed a button on his desk. "We'll find out. I'll have the teep make a report."
The door melted and a lank sallow-faced youth came into the room. He saw the metal band in Ross's hand and smiled, a thin, alert smile. "You wanted me?"
Ross studied the youth. Blond hair, blue eyes. An ordinary-looking kid, maybe a college sophomore. But Ross knew better. Ernest Abbud was a telepathic mutant -- a teep. One of several hundred employed by Clearance for its loyalty probes.
Before the teeps, loyalty probes had been haphazard. Oaths, examinations, wire-tappings, were not enough. The theory that each person had to prove his loyalty was fine -- as a theory. In practice few people could do it. It looked as if the concept of guilty until proved innocent might have to be abandoned and the Roman law restored.
The problem, apparently insoluble, had found its answer in the Madagascar Blast of 2004. Waves of hard radiation had lapped over several thousand troops stationed in the area. Of those who lived, few produced subsequent progeny. But of the several hundred children born to the survivors of the blast, many showed neural characteristics of a radically new kind. A human mutant had come into being -- for the first time in thousands of years.
The teeps appeared by accident. But they solved the most pressing problem the Free Union faced: the detection and punishment of disloyalty. The teeps were invaluable to the Government of the Free Union -- and the teeps knew it.
"You got this?" Ross asked, tapping the hood.
Abbud nodded. "Yes."
The youth was following his thoughts, not his spoken words. Ross flushed angrily. "What was the man like?" he demanded harshly. "The memo plate gives no details."
"Doctor Franklin is his name. Director of the Federal Resources Commission. Sixty-seven years of age. Here on a visit to a relative."
"Walter Franklin! I've heard of him." Ross stared up at Abbud. "Then you already --"
"As soon as I removed the hood I was able to scan him."
"Where did Franklin go after the assault?"
"Indoors. Instructed by the police."
"Indoors. Instructed by the police."
"After the hood had been taken, of course. It went perfectly. Franklin was spotted by another telepath, not myself. I was informed Franklin was coming my way. When he reached me I shouted that he was wearing a hood. A crowd collected and others took up the shout. The other telepath arrived and we manipulated the crowd until we were near him. I took the hood myself -- and you know the rest."
Ross was silent for a moment. "Do you know how he got the hood? Did you scan that?"
"He received it by mail."
"Does he --"
"He has no idea who sent it or where it came from."
Ross frowned. "Then he can't give us any information about them. The senders."
"The Hood Makers," Abbud said icily.
Ross glanced quickly up. "What?"
"The Hood Makers. Somebody makes them." Abbud's face was hard. "Somebody is making probe screens to keep us
out."
"And you're sure --"
"Franklin knows nothing! He arrived in the city last night. This morning his mail machine brought the hood. For a time he deliberated. Then he purchased a hat and put it on over the hood. He set out on foot toward his niece's house. We spotted him several minutes later, when he entered range."
"There seem to be more of them, these days. More hoods being sent out. But you know that." Ross set his jaw. "We've got to locate the senders."
"It'll take time. They apparently wear hoods constantly." Abbud's face twisted. "We have to get so damn close! Our scanning range is extremely limited. But sooner or later we'll locate one of them. Sooner or later we'll tear a hood off somebody -- and find him..."
"In the last year five thousand hood-wearers have been detected," Ross stated. "Five thousand -and not one of them knows anything. Where the hoods come from or who makes them."
"When there are more of us, we'll have a better chance," Abbud said grimly. "Right now there are too few of us. But eventually --"
"You're going to have Franklin probed, aren't you?" Peters said to Ross. "As a matter of course."
"I suppose so." Ross nodded to Abbud. "You might as well go ahead on him. Have one of your group run the regular total probe and see if there's anything of interest buried down in his non-conscious neural area. Report the results to me in the usual way."
Abbud reached into his coat. He brought out a tape spool and tossed it down on the desk in front of Ross. "Here you are."
"What's this?"
"The total probe on Franklin. All levels -- completely searched and recorded."
Ross stared up at the youth. "You --"
"We went ahead with it." Abbud moved toward the door. "It's a good job. Cummings did it. We found considerable disloyalty. Mostly ideological rather than overt. You'll probably want to pick him up. When he was twenty-four he found some old books and musical records. He was strongly influenced. The latter part of the tape discusses fully our evaluation of his deviation."
The door melted and Abbud left.
Complete Stories 3 - Second Variety and Other Stories Page 30