“They are quite right,” Paul replied woodenly.
Carnell peered at him. “They are?”
“They are.”
“What . . . what more can you do?”
“Didn’t Roy’s report tell you?” he mocked.
“All right, if you want it that way.” Carnell was obviously unhappy with the situation. “The report suggested that you need not be in the same room with a person, that it was entirely possible to scan minds at a distance.”
“That’s correct—to a degree.”
“To a degree?”
“I must first meet the person and get to know him. I can mentally follow you, or Conklin, or Karen, wherever you go and whatever you do. At any time of the day or night. Whether you like it or not.” Paul glanced at the man’s face and saw the pressure there. “But I can do very little with those people I don’t know as well—Slater, for instance. And I can do nothing with people I’ve never met.”
“But the sergeant, and the courier—”
“I kept watch on the sergeant from the day you first questioned me about him. I knew it was something important and stayed with him. I saw his surroundings through his eyes, heard his conversations through his ears. But I could do nothing at all with the courier at the time because I had never met him, I saw him only when the sergeant saw him. It’s a different situation now since I visited them in jail and deliberately probed their minds. They can never hide from me until they die. Nor can you, or Conklin, or Karen.”
“Slater?” Carnell noted the omission.
Paul frowned at him. “Slater is a slightly different proposition, and I’m not sure I can explain it to you. Slater has the most disciplined mind I’ve ever known. Please don’t take offense at the comparison, but you believe you have an iron-willed mind. Slater’s is impermeable steel compared to yours; I can know his mind and yet I can’t. In the same room with him I am able to follow most of his thinking with ease, but yet if he desires to keep something hidden from me he can do so by rigidly avoiding all thought of the matter. I can see what he is doing, but I cannot see behind that barrier. I can perceive the erection of the barrier, the reasons for it, the strain to maintain it, but I cannot discover what the barrier is concealing.
And that is why he has stayed away from here of late. He senses the limitations of my powers and believes that I can read him only if he’s in the house.”
“What about that last?” Carnell wanted to know.
Paul studied him, knowing that the conversation would be reported to Slater. “Yes and no—I can’t give a clear answer. There are times when I follow him about Washington as easily as I follow you; there are other times when he is lost to me. If I concentrate deeply, I can see him in his office and see what he is doing. But I can’t always discern what he is thinking in that office. I simply haven’t been able to know him as well as I know you. So he stays away from here.”
“I think I understand. Very well; Roy and Grennell are correct in that instance. You are able to scan some minds at a distance. That would seem to explain the knowledge of the escape route.”
“It does. I listened to the courier read it off.”
Carnell’s gaze drifted back to the window. “Roy next suggested powers of clairvoyance and precognition; he believed that knowledge of the escape route was explainable by those terms. But they weren’t . . .” He paused, waiting.
“Roy is again correct. And again the power is limited. I am aware that you—or Slater—are intending to separate Conklin and myself; I’ve realized for some time that Conklin is to be reassigned somewhere else.” He stopped talking as a train of thought flashed into Carnell’s mind. “Now,” he said, “I know why and where. Until this moment I didn’t know why or where, I only realized he was leaving.” Carnell brushed his hands across his face. “Our analysts seem to have done a complete job. I’m still embarrassed by all this, Paul.” His mind skipped down a list committed to memory. “Dr. Roy’s report indicates some sort of mental phenomenon he termed parabolic receptivity. He likened it to radar. The report states that you should have the ability to be constantly aware of persons and things about you, even though you have not seen or touched those objects. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
Carnell waited.
Paul said, “I can describe to you the people in the house at this moment and what each of them is doing. The man who drove you out here today is sitting down in the hall flirting with the telephone operator. I don’t know him, can’t scan his mind. But I’m aware that he is there. Our cook is out in the yard and the potatoes she left on the stove are beginning to burn.”
Carnell started from his chair. “Well, hadn’t we better warn her—”
“No,” Paul grinned at him. “Someone downstairs will smell them in about thirty seconds and yell at her.”
They sat in silence, Carnell straining his ears and absently glancing at his wrist watch. Paul continued to watch the agent’s face, grinning in high humor. A sudden yell sounded through the closed door. Carnell’s eyes darted to his watch.
“Twenty-six seconds,” he announced.
“I missed by four,” Paul said laconically.
“Paul . . .” Carnell turned to him. “All this makes me feel better, immeasurably better. You know the trouble we’re having downtown.” Paul nodded but said nothing. Carnell said, “They pass the most impossible laws to maintain the most impossible secrecy and then give us hell when we can’t fully comply. I thank God Russia doesn’t have you.”
Paul asked quietly, “How do you know they haven’t?”
Carnell’s jaw dropped. “Paul! You wouldn’t—”
“Don’t be silly. I’m not talking about myself.”
The suggestion so unnerved the C.I.C. officer that it was many minutes before he could force himself back into the chair, many minutes before the purpose of his visit returned to mind and he could once again objectively consider the analyst’s report. Carnell paced the floor, his fist smacking into his open palm with monotonous regularity. The suggestion upset him, not only because if true the consequences could be unbelievable, but because they hadn’t thought of that before. They had searched their own military records seeking another possible telepath and now they were searching other government records. Even if it were possible, no one had suggested examining the files of foreign countries. No one had imagined that any other country but the United States could possess a telepath! What idiotic blindness!
Carnell whirled around. “Paul . . .?”
“I’ve already answered that one. There are no others to my knowledge.”
“But you would know if another should appear?”
“I don’t know. Maybe—maybe not. What would I look for? What indications? I’ve never met another person like myself. How would I recognize them?”
“But you could read their minds!”
“If they wanted their minds read,” Paul reminded him. “Do you mean they could forbid it—conceal it?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Carnell. I have nothing to guide me! How can I cope with something I’ve never experienced before, something of that nature? I would actually have to meet one and try.”
Carnell had to be satisfied with that although he didn’t like it. It was difficult for him to understand, because he was not a telepath and did not know the mental processes involved, did not know the problems and shortcomings present in theoretical cases. Another such telepath might or might not readily be apparent to the first one; there would be no real way of knowing until such a meeting occurred. In time, Carnell returned to the matter under discussion, the report on Breen handed in by the analysts.
“Ah, Paul . . . about this matter of teleportation. Dr. Roy indicates that—”
“Dr. Roy missed fire completely on that one,” Paul cut in. “I can’t. I’ve tried, and I can’t move myself an inch unless my legs carry me.”
“You-tried?”
“Certainly. I wanted to find out.”
“But it failed?”
>
“It failed. If it had worked, I would be tempted to move myself away from here at the first opportunity. I’d jump into the next state or the next country, or to the very limit of my powers. I’ve even had some ideas about a writ of habeas corpus to get me out of here, but I know Slater would quash it because I’m still army. So—I can promise you this—if I can make teleportation work in actual practice, I’ll go so far and so fast your department will never find me.”
Carnell dropped his gaze to the rug and after some moments replied, “I didn’t realize you felt that way.”
“I got into this with my eyes closed, Mr. Carnell. I was full of patriotism, I was green, and I was eager to help people whether they wanted it or not. Peter Conklin warned me of what might come, but I was too naive to understand his warning. A long time ago I said that I didn’t want to be pushed around; I didn’t like being pushed around, after I had volunteered for a job. But I was pushed, all the same. You understand what I mean. You have never knowingly pushed me, but it has happened. Karen knowingly did it at first, but she was acting under orders and balked when her conscience hurt. Slater has knowingly and deliberately pushed at all times.”
“I’m sorry. I truly am.”
“I know that; I know you honestly are.” Paul gestured with his hand. “Let’s get on with it.”
“The report,” Carnell continued unhappily, “states that some degree of telekinesis should be present among your talents. The analysts were not too sure just what degree might be expected, what particular direction the faculty might take. They said only that their studies led them to the conclusion that telekinesis is present, in whatever degree of effectiveness.” He looked up. “Can you enlighten me?”
“May I ask a question first? A rather personal and alarming question?”
They both noticed the minute hesitation before Carnell answered, “Well—certainly.” He was instantly on guard before some unimaginable thing.
“Must you report everything said here back to Slater?” Paul wanted to know. “Or can you keep your mouth shut on certain parts of it?”
Carnell was gaping at him, taken aback. “Are you suggesting that I withhold—”
“I’m asking if it is possible to tell you something that will not be repeated to Slater?”
Carnell reached again for the package of cigarettes, found it empty and hurled the crumpled paper across the room. He glanced at Paul in anxious uncertainty, looked away, made up his mind and came back again.
“I’m sorry, no,” he answered finally.
“I’m sorry too,” Paul told him softly. He moved off the bed and stood up. “I guess this has gone about as far as it can go.”
“But the telekinesis—”
“I’d like to tell you about telekinesis, Mr. Carnell. Believe me, I really would. I like you and trust you. There are some matters I’d like to discuss with you in strict privacy, but they aren’t for Slater’s ears. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to ask Dr. Roy about telekinesis.”
Carnell said hesitantly, “Paul, you should know my position. It’s more than a matter of personal loyalty; it’s a national loyalty as well. I have sworn to do my duty, to uphold my office. In a manner of speaking, Slater and myself are the department, and he is my commanding officer. I can’t withhold information from him.”
“He keeps it from you.”
Carnell was caught by surprise, staring at Paul with some incredulity. “That’s his privilege,” he said stiffly. He wandered about the room for a moment waiting for Paul to say more. When nothing more was forthcoming he asked, “Is this all?”
Paul said, “Until I can talk to you alone—yes.”
Carnell walked out without another word.
There was a light tap at the door. Without turning from the window and his casual watching of the cook puttering about the yard, he called, “Come in, Peter.”
“How did you guess it was me?” Conklin asked with a wide grin. He pushed the door shut behind him and stood surveying the room, studying Paul’s back, knowing the signs. “Carnell went by me in a dream—is it raining or snowing? Somebody handed him a big one.”
Paul turned around and leaned against the window sill. “I’m going to hand you another, just as big.”
“Fire away.”
“Would you be able to do something for me, or discuss a matter with me, and not report it to your superiors?”
Conklin blinked and his eyes grew round. “No wonder Carnell was asleep; you knocked him out. Paul, this might be a serious matter.”
“Could you?” Paul persisted.
“I don’t know . . .” Conklin shook his head, puzzled. “Let me think about this. If it is an official matter involving the department, absolutely no. If it were a private matter—Well, let me think about it a moment.”
Paul crossed over to a closet and opened it, getting a bottle of bourbon and two glasses from a rack inside the door. Conklin watched his movements in silence. Paul said, “I will guarantee you, Peter, that what I ask will not harm you in any way. There are two things I would like to have done without knowledge of them going beyond us. I want to make a purchase, and I want some information found. The first will be easy, but the second may prove difficult. When you can make up your mind, I will tell you about it.”
“Let me think,” Conklin repeated.
Paul poured two drinks of bourbon and handed one to Conklin. “Take your time,” he suggested. “But I’d like to know your answer in the next few days.”
“Is there a reason for hurry?” He stared at the drink and at Paul.
“Yes. You’re leaving.”
“The hell I am?”
“I’m afraid you are.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons why. Slater has decided that you and I are too friendly to suit him; he’s breaking us up. He also may believe that in time a part of your loyalty will switch to me, and he doesn’t want that. Do you know about Roy and Grennell?”
“I’ve heard something about the matter,” Conklin replied cautiously.
“Have you read their report?”
“No.”
“That’s the second reason you’re leaving. The report reveals to Slater there’s more to the iceberg than appears on the surface. He’s going to take advantage of that and the advantage involves you.”
“And I’m leaving here?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“In less than a week, I should judge.”
“Where am I going?”
“Russia.”
“Russia! Ye gods—why there?”
“Bomb hunting.”
Conklin rubbed his eyes, dazed by the sudden turn of events. “Russia! Oh, hell. When will I see you again?”
“You won’t.”
X.
Peter Conklin was struck dumb.
He gulped down the bourbon without really tasting it and held himself still, enveloped with shock, his hand enfolding the empty glass. A thinner glass would have been crushed under the brutal pressure. While his eyes seemed to be staring at Paul, they weren’t seeing him, weren’t seeing the room; instead they were looking at something else far away and beyond immediate comprehension. Something halfway around the world.
In all the years Paul had known Conklin, this was the first time he has seen the agent lose his mental equilibrium, had witnessed a fall from character. Since that initial meeting in the captain’s office nearly four years before, Conklin had always been the cool and self-possessed operative who cloaked his identity and his profession behind a poker face. Of late, the face was tempered with laughter and friendliness, with camaraderie and amity, but it remained constantly in original character. Until now.
“I—won’t?” he asked uselessly.
Paul shook his head, mute.
“Oh, hell!” Conklin said again. He struggled to express his emotions, and managed, “I feel sort of pushed in.”
“I’m not happy about it,” Paul offered.
Conklin looked down at the g
lass in his hand and swished the tiny amount of liquor remaining in the bottom. The few drops raced around the glass. “I guess the honeymoon is over; I have to go back to work. It’s been nice.”
“Honeymoon,” Paul repeated with a humorless grin. “Those are almost the words Slater used when he read Dr. Roy’s report on me. Carnell didn’t have the nerve to repeat them, but he was told to tell me, ‘Tell that son of a bitch the honeymoon is over. He goes to work for us—or else.’ ”
“Carnell is delicate about such matters.” Conklin looked up at Paul. “Or else?”
“Slater didn’t elaborate. Maybe he meant the salt mines.”
“Go easy, Paul. Watch your step. He can make it tough for you.”
“Not half as tough as I can make it for him,” Paul retorted flatly. “Not half. Carnell was partially upset because I wouldn’t confirm a part of Roy’s report. Roy had made some brilliant deductions in the field of telekinesis, and they wanted to know if the doctor was right or wrong. I gave them no satisfaction.”
“They’ll keep prying.”
“Slater will make me mad someday and find out the sudden way. I owe him a lot of nastiness.”
Conklin walked over to the window, sat down and put his heels up on the window sill. Paul moved another chair beside him and set the liquor bottle between them. The winter sky was dark with leaden clouds, threatening rain or snow. After a reflective silence, Conklin spoke.
“So I won’t be seeing you again?”
“Not after you leave here—no.”
“Well! We’ve come a long way together. And I think I’ve enjoyed every minute of it, despite some rather stiff jolts back there at the beginning. Is there”—he hesitated—“no chance?”
“None. Slater does not intend to let us see each other again.”
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