The Mindwarpers
Page 17
“It would seem incredible to anyone who hadn’t experienced the results,” put in Bransome, a trifle morbidly, “but I know to my cost how really convincing the effect can be.”
“What it all boils down to,” said Waite, “is that some unknown genius has devised fully automated brainwashing. It’s plenty good enough to convince anyone that Mack is white—provided, of course, that he’s been caught off-guard and doesn’t know what is being done to him.” Feeling in his pocket, he brought out another short length of film and gave it to Bransome. “There’s a small movie-library in that torture-chamber. It has a file of ready-made killings. They’re located all over the place, anywhere from here to Timbuctu. One of them is tagged Burleston though in all likelihood it wasn’t made within a thousand miles of there. How d’you like it?”
Bransome held it up to the poor light. “Holy smoke, that’s Arline!”
“Probably a small-time actress on the other side of the planet,” suggested Reardon.
“I doubt it,” countered Saunders, speaking for the first time in a while. He was still perspiring. “Those murders are far too real. I’ve a sickening feeling that the leading characters literally acted themselves to death.”
“That’s what I think,” agreed Waite.
“How d’you mean?” Reardon pressed.
“The deaths are far too plausible to be faked. My guess is that certain people were marked down for permanent removal. But instead of being subjected to summary execution they were kidded along and taken for suckers. Each was persuaded to play his or her part in a movie and discovered too late that the last scene was in deadly earnest.”
Reardon thought it over. “I wouldn’t put it beyond some people.”
“Neither would I,” said Waite. “Death itself can be made useful to the state. Anyway, the technique is a heller because those who become loaded with guilt are thereby given every inducement not to talk. What can you do to help a man who finds himself a hidey-hole and determinedly conceals the fact that something has gone wrong inside his skull?”
“I know, I know.” Reardon threw a meaningful look at Bransome. He consulted his watch. “We’ll have that gadget taken away for further examination. No use us hanging around here any longer.” Then to Bransome, “You’ll come with us to headquarters. We’ll give you eight hours’ sleep and any meals you want. Then you’ll tell us your story in complete detail and identify those you can of the characters we’ve caught. After that you can go home.”
At six o’clock in the evening Reardon drove him home, conversing on the way. “There’s no doubt you were picked on as the easiest mark in the particular circumstances of that day. You were slugged, drugged and transported to the operating theater. They gave you the treatment. Then they carted you back to the steps, shook you awake, patted your face and sympathized with you. A few days later another guy triggered the effect and got you on the run.”
“That’s how it was,” admitted Bransome. “It’s a pity I didn’t get more curious about those two missing hours.”
“You were confused. The sludge that you think with had been stirred up and mauled around and you were muddle-minded.” Reardon mused a bit, went on, “Now there’s all the other victims to be rounded up. They don’t know they’ve been haunted and that the ghosts have been laid. How’re we going to cope with them? How’re we going to make sure that all this doesn’t happen again? The gang we’ve collared may be only the first of several mobs making ready to function elsewhere.”
“The solution’s easy,” Bransome declared. “Hold me up as a horrid example. Tell everyone what has happened to me and how and why. I don’t mind—I’d be a good antidote. The scientific mind appreciates a clever trick even when it’s a dirty one. Scientists are more concerned with ingenuity than with ethics.”
“Think that’ll bring back the others?”
“Sure thing. They’ll return looking thoroughly sheepish. And they’ll be so annoyed they’ll spend hours trying to concoct a bigger and better counterstroke. Sooner or later they’ll invent one. Thirst for revenge is a pretty good driving force.” He glanced at his listener and invited, “There’s one thing you have not told me, one thing I’d like to know—exactly who was behind all these shenanigans?”
“Sorry, I mustn’t say. There’s a complete clamp-down on basic information. I can give you two items for your own satisfaction. First, three officials of a certain embassy are leaving by plane tonight at our urgent request. Second, nobody is going to give you a medal—but you’re likely to find your pay check a bit larger.”
“Well, that’s something. I think I’ve earned it.”
“I don’t. I think there’s no justice in this world.” The car slid to a stop outside Bransome’s house. Rear-don got out with him and accompanied him to the door. When Dorothy appeared Reardon said rapidly, “I’ve brought back the runaway battered but still whole. I’ve promised him a pay-raise and that entitles me to a large whiskey. I’d appreciate it now.”
Taken aback, Dorothy hurried to get it.
Holding the glass high, Reardon looked pointedly at both of them, said, “Here’s to murder!” and downed the drink.
The phone shrilled, Dorothy answered it, called to Bransome, “Somebody for you.” She edged away, watching Reardon warily. Bransome grinned at her and picked up the phone.
A voice bawled excitedly, “Bransome, you were dead right. I’m in the clear. Did you hear what I said? I’m in the clear! We’ve got to look into this together, Bransome. We can’t let things rest as they are. I’m on my way back and will arrive at ten-thirty. Can you meet me?”
“Don’t worry—I’ll be there.” He cradled the phone and said to Reardon, “That was Henderson. He’s due back at ten-thirty and is all set to do some scalping.”
“We’ll pick him up the moment he shows his face. He can do some identifying for us.” He eyed the whiskey bottle. “I think that’s worth celebrating too. What’re we waiting for?”
Dorothy, still mystified, filled his glass and he raised it saying, “Here’s to another murder!”
Bransome’s gaze included both Reardon and the drink. “Not for me, thanks!” he said wearily.
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