Krull staggered to th&. cot. His body was stiff, sore, and his bones felt as if they were on fire; the harsh lights burned his eyeballs. A short time later he heard voices and struggled to a sitting position. Feet clomped on the stairs and Gullfin turned into the passageway with Kruper and several more men. Krull rose, startled. Merryweather! The tall cadaverous man was shambling behind Gullfin wearing a genial smile, as if he were a host come to welcome him. They reached the cell door before he saw Merryweather's companion; the sweat began to come.
Shevach.
Ivan Shevach.
"Nothing to worry about," Gullfin taunted. "I forgot the rubber hose." He roared with laughter, slapping his thigh as if it were a huge joke.
Gullfin opened the door and entered with Shevach and the shambling Merryweather following while Kruper stationed himself outside. The Manager's eyes probed Krull curiously. Merryweather smiled pleasandy. The smile told Krull all he needed to know about Shevach's so-called public relations man. The Manager's voice broke into his thoughts, a cold, precise voice that set Krull's already ragged nerves on edge.
"You are agent Max Krull, IQ 113, Territory of Waimea-Roa." It was a statement of fact and he didn't bother to answer.
"You arelQ 113?"
Krull felt the beginning of panic.
"Silence won't help," Shevach said in a low flat voice. "We have ways of finding what we want to know—for instance, why you murdered Cranston."
Krull watched him, trying to conceal a tremor. Gullfin was brutal but Shevach was deadly, much the more dangerous of the two. He had to be on guard.
"We know you murdered him," Shevach taunted, "but why? Who ordered it? Yargo?" He rapped the questions out with gunfire rapidity, his eyes boring into Krull's skull. He ceased speaking and the cell was absolutely still. Krull looked at Merry-weather. The, smile was there, but his eyes were two drills, two slivers of ice stabbing into his brain. The beginning of a thought nibbled at Krull's mind, tantalizingly beyond his reach. It had something to do with the gaunt man. Shevach broke the tableau by stepping back.
"Now we'll get down to business," he said. "First about your supposed IQ . . ."
Krull never had a chance to discover what he was driving at. There was a commotion in the hall, several loud voices and the Manager turned with a startled look; Yargo pushed his way into the cell followed by a tall square man with silvery hair and a hard face mellowed only slightly by jovial blue eyes. The Prime Thinker glanced at Krull, Merryweather, and looked last at Shevach.
"You have booked agent Krull?"
"Not yet." The manager compressed his lips in a thin slit. "We will."
Yargo turned to his silvery-haired companion. "Grimhorn, this is illegal. Agent Krull hasn't been booked." Krull looked up with sudden interest. Joseph Grimhorn was another of those names very seldom accompanied by a face. He was Chief of World Agents.
"You will bear witness to the fact?"
"I will," Grimhorn replied softly. Krull watched the blue eyes. They were open, candid, with a tinge of laughter, yet hard. He swung his gaze to Gullfin. Shevach's chief of special agents didn't look overly perturbed. Yargo contemplated Shevach's pale features before speaking.
"On what charge did you intend to book Agent Krull?"
"The murder of agent Oliver Cranston."
"Murder?" Yargo seemed astonished. "Since when is an act of self-defense construed as murder?"
"Self-defense?" Shevach smiled thinly. "The court might hold a different view—will, I think."
"There will be no court trial."
"You are setting yourself up as the law? The public would be interested to leam that."
Yargo looked musingly at him and finally said, "The matter of Agent Krull's guilt will be handled by the Prime Thinker. Release him."
"Not without a trial," Shevach snapped. "I know the law . . . even if the Prime Thinker doesn't."
"It is within the province of my office to grant pardons," Yargo reminded. He turned to the Chief of World Agents. "Grimhom, you will bear testimony to the fact that the Prime Thinker has granted an unconditional pardon to Agent Max Krull, Territory of Waimea-Roa, effective immediately."
"Certainly," Grimhom replied. He swung toward Gullfin. "Release him."
Gullfin's flat face was venomous but the Manager had regained his composure. Disregarding Yargo, he turned to Grimhom, compressed his lips and said softly, "I don't believe a man can be pardoned prior to a finding of guilt by a legally constituted court. I wouldn't be surprised if Krull were arrested and tried—after the coming election. It also looks as if we might need a new Chief of World Police."
"It's possible," Grimhom conceded. His voice grew hard. "It's also possible that the Chief of World Police might file charges against the Manager for malfeasance in office. I might' remind the Manager that the law prohibits a person found guilty of such a charge from holding government office."
"Malfeasance?" Shevach arched his eyebrows.
"Yes, malfeasance," Grimhom said, "subjecting a prisoner to a third degree without booking him. Krull was denied due process of law. That makes it malfeasance."
Shevach's face was a study in anger and frustration. He sucked his underlip, started to speak, then swung around and left the cell with Gullfin at his heels.
Yargo looked at KruU's bloodied face. "Feel up to leaving?"
"Can't be too soon for me." He grinned. "Personally, I was beginning to get jittery."
Grimhom laughed and Yargo said, "I can understand that. Let's go." Krull nodded and followed him from the cell with Grimhom following. They reached the street and stopped.
"Thank you for coming, Chief. You've been a big help," Yargo said.
"Glad to have had the opportunity." Grimhom pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Sort of a revelation. Maybe my department needs an overhaul."
"The sour lemons are probably few," Yargo encouraged. They bid him goodnight and Krull followed the Prime Thinker to his private car.
Yargo remained silent until the driver pulled away from the curb. "I came as soon as I learned what had happened."
"How did you find out?"
"A call over my private wire: the details of your arrest and Gullfin's rubber-hose persuasion."
"Even that? I'd like to thank your tipster, whoever he was."
"Oh, he gave a name all right, but I think it was false." "False?"
"Yes, a Mr. Bowman—just Mr. Bowman. I've heard from him before," he added wryly.
Krull concealed his amazement. The president of the World Council of Espers seemed to possess an ominiscience litde short of uncanny. And there was his penchant for using a false name. He started to blurt Bowman's true identity and stopped. Something told him to keep the information to himself—at least until he learned more about the mysterious old man. Another thought occurred.
"How did Gullfin tie me so definitely to Cranston?"
"Bowman explained that, too," Yargo said grimly. KruU looked expectant. "It was Saxon."
"Saxon—your personal aide."
"Saxon teas my personal aide," Yargo corrected. He didn't amplify the statement.
CHAPTER TEN
Yargo's visitor came at midnight, a tall, cadaverously thin man, egg-bald, with luminous myopic eyes tucked behind eld-fashioned thick-lensed glasses. The agent who met his car had taken extreme precautions to assure his arrival—and departure—went unheralded. Even the customary guard at the entrance had been removed.
The agent led him directly to Yargo's study. The visitor followed, walking with a slight limp and appearing to be trailing his long, high-bridged nose as if it were some kind of direction finder. Despite the severe architecture of his features, he had the strangely whimsical expression of an adult watching the cavorting of playing children. His name was Karl Werner and he was Chief Psychmaster of the world. Yargo rose to meet him, smiling cordially, but waited until the agent discreetly withdrew before speaking.
"Karl, it's good to see you again."
"Good to see you, Ben." T
he voice was a flat, precise razor. "You look in good shape, but tired. You're working too hard."
"It's a salt mine," Yargo agreed. "But come, sit down. Care for a drink?" "The old standby."
Yargo mixed two drinks at a wall cabinet and handed one to Werner. "Here's to your health, Karl."
"And yours, Ben." They touched glasses and drank, then Yargo sat on the edge of his desk facing the psychmaster.
He said solemnly, "I should apologize for pulling you all the way from Africa, Karl. I hope I didn't disrupt anything too important."
"You did."
"How important?"
"More important than anything you have to say."
"I doubt it, but tell me," Yargo said expectantly.
"Last month we got word of a seven-year old boy in Tanganyika who passed the Breck-Munson Intelligence Measure with an IQ 212 . .."
Yargo whistled softly and looked thoughtful a moment before speaking. "Hidden esper?"
"Right, he was reading the testmaster's mind. But that part's not important."
Yargo became instantly alert.
"Another Sawbo Fang?"
Werner nodded grimly. "I tested him, Ben. He made . . . pencils . . . move." He dropped each word, watching the Prime Thinker's face.
"A psychokinetic . . ." Yargo's face was a cross between excitement and anxiety. "Does the boy realize his talent?"
"No, he's too young. He didn't realize the nature of the tests. I made sure of that."
"But he will know . . . soon?"
"Very soon. He's just learning to handle the talent . . . can just manage to jiggle small articles by intense concentration. But give him another few years . . ." He left the thought unspoken.
"What's the full potential, Karl?"
"Frankly, we don't know. But we don't think it's like dynamite."
"Explain that."
"The energy released by dynamite is in ratio to the a-mount used. Psychokinesis seems more an all-or-none power. If he could shake a pencil, he could shake a mountain."
"Or the Universe . . ."
"Perhaps," Werner said grimly.
"That's three counting Sawbo Fang," Yargo mused. He seemed to be looking into a great distance, scrutinizing times and places to come.
The psychmaster spoke softly, "Yes, a pk, like Sawbo. The other, a girl of eight, is a down-through . . . can read the future. And see around corners," he added.
"We're coming to a new era, Karl. The new race is coming but the world isn't prepared."
"No, it's not," the psychmaster soberly agreed.
"How about the searchers?"
"They don't know, won't know . . . can't know. We've got
to save them, Ben."
"How are you handling it?"
"Playing safe, we hope. We've isolated them . . . are going to control every facet of their lives, hypnotically indoctrinate them to high moral standards and raise them to become members of the Psychmasters Guild—hope to God they use their talents for the betterment of the race."
"You're wide open, Karl. The Guild, by its better nature, is always suspect. I happen to know the searchers keep it under eye."
"We know, but we have an ace in the hole. We've placed the children under the wing of a man who isn't a member of the Guild. Isn't even a psychmaster, in fact. But he's got the power to shield them."
"Oh. Is he safe?"
"Absolutely." Werner studied the question in Yargo's eyes. The Prime Thinker waited. "Hans Taussig," he added sofdy. "I'll be damned."
"He's their shield against the world and I know we can trust him," Werner said absolutely.
"Yes, you can trust him," Yargo agreed. The sociologist was also a consummate actor.
"We can't take chances," Werner observed. Yargo nodded slowly. "But that's not what worries me, Ben."
"It's the ones we don't detect. My God, imagine what could happen if just one slipped through and used the power for selfish ends."
"I know." Yargo smiled curiously. "Sometimes you feel inclined to favor the searchers."
"Not that," Wemer exclaimed harshly. "You can't deny we've got to live with the fact. More, we've got to protect them, nourish them, feed them the reins. They're the only hope of this damned stagnant mudball, the only hope that humanity will rise above the present mediocrity and make itself known in the Universe. If we let the searchers find them we're as guilty as the mob that killed Sawbo Fang."
"I didn't mean that, Karl. I fully realize the world needs new blood. That's why I summoned you. Would you jump if I told you that what I have to say is even more important than your newfound pk?"
The psychmaster tilted his head back and peered down the long bridge of his thin nose. "I would," he finally said.
Yargo set his glass on the desk and began talking, carefully selecting his words as if he didn't want Werner to miss a single detail. The psychmaster's face took on an initial look of astonishment, gradually replaced by absolute absorption, nor did his myopic eyes ever leave the Prime Thinker's face. Yargo finally finished and leaned back. "That calls for another drink."
"Yes, I believe it does, in view of the fact you're asking me to become an arch criminal."
"You're already one," Yargo said urbanely, "hiding the new race progeny from the searchers."
"Before I came here I would have considered such a request unthinkable. Now . . . I'm not so sure."
Yargo slowly exhaled, visibly relieved. He went to the cabinet, speaking while he mixed drinks. "You've got to admit this is more important than your pk, Karl."
"Yes, but only because of its immediacy. My God, Ben, will the world pull through? The future scares me."
"It scares me, too, but I have faith in the future." He turned with a smile. "That's the good thing about the human race: it always has an ace in the hole."
"It needs a royal flush."
"I've put the cards down. What does it look like?"
"A royal flush," Werner admitted.
"Right. You can see the necessity of what I'm asking?" "Yes, Ben, I can."
"Needless to say, I've placed myself in your hands." He returned with the drinks and placed one before the psych-master, and again perched on the edge of the desk. "You're in a position to scuttle me, Karl. I've never trusted anyone that far before."
"I appreciate that. Of course, if I go along with you, the shoe will be on the other foot."
"It's for humanity," Yargo said solemnly.
"I know that."
"I've delayed because of ethical considerations, Karl. Have I allowed enough time?" "Just..."
After they finished their drinks, Yargo went to a wall safe and returned with a heavy volume, handing it to Werner. The myopic eyes glanced at the tide—Alexander—before he slipped it into his brief case.
"Alexander rides again," he quipped.
"I hope so, Karl, I hope so."
Krull caught the morning carrier to Waimea-Roa. He was stiff and sore and his jaw ached intolerably but his physical discomfiture seemed minor compared with his other problems. He felt like the proverbial sparrow caught in a badminton game.
He was relieved when Waimea-Roa finally crawled over the horizon and pushed his troubles aside, momentarily excited at the prospect of seeing the atolls again. And Jonquil. Jonquil knew the ropes. The Inspector had not only been around but he was IQ 172, with plenty of extra savvy thrown in. He had no doubt but that Jonquil could tell him plenty about the power politics involved, perhaps help him chart a course through the maze of intrigue in which he was snared. He might even have time to see Paha Jon's granddaughter.
There were other things he would like to do, too, such as loafing in the shade of Alba Hoyt's thatch-roofed garden and drinking beer, exploring the barrier reef in search of octopus—or lolling in the sun in Paha Jon's yellow-sailed outrigger while the old man spun tales of his ancestors, the early Polynesians who had sailed their huge twin-hulled log ships across the uncharted wastes of the Pacific to find and people Waimea-Roa centuries before the Atom War. But, he th
ought glumbly, there would be no time. Not this trip. He'd have to wind the job up first—if someone didn't wind him up in the process. He grinned weakly.
The atoll chain came up like a string of green-tinted pearls flung randomly on the sea, the white arcs of its coves gleaming against the pale green water on one side and the darker green interior foliage on the other. The barrier reef joining the two ends of the atoll to create the triangular-shaped Abiang Lagoon appeared like a thin rope awash in the sea. Abiang Village on the central atoll came into view, its coral-pink and emerald-green plastic houses and shops mterrnixed with thatched native huts, making a neat geometric pattern between ocean and lagoon. Chimney Rock was a black splotch against the sea. The larger plastic-block headquarters of the Agency of Police hove into view, then the plane banked, dropping, and the waters of Abiang Lagoon rushed to meet it.
Krull and another passenger, who looked like a commercial salesman, were put ashore and the plane rose again, climbing into the tropic sky in a northwesterly direction. He paused on the landing to breathe the clean warm air; caught the musky fragrance of the verdure beyond the clearing. He walked from the landing to Aala Road, the village's only thoroughfare; his step quickened as he drew near his house. The friendly nods and waves of the villagers—he knew almost all of them—gave him a warm feeling and he wondered why anyone would ever want to live anywhere else.
He stopped at his place long enough to glance around and deposit his bag. Everything looked the same—the untidy bed, dirty breakfast dishes in the sink, a roughed-in sketch of Pahara Rua, one of the village elders. His eyes rested a moment on the sweeps and planes and tilts of Rea Jon's body and face, struck again by her similarity to Anna Mal-roon. There was one noticeable difference. Rea John's face was saucy, provocative, while Anna Malroon's held a note of deep sorrow. He weighed one against the other, decided he liked them both, and went next door to the Agency pf Police. "Hi, Derek."
The wizened desk clerk looked up, startled, and his face wreathed in a smile. "Glad to see you, Krull." His eyes grew curious. "I though you were transferred?"
Jeff Sutton Page 7