Fifty yards up the cab paused, bucked once joltingly, and something tore a long ragged gash in one wall. The cabby righted his car automatically—before he threw a startled look over one shoulder at Jeske. “My God, Mac, what happened?” he blurted.
“You’re on your own,” Jeske replied. “Get out of here fast, if you want to live!”
The cabby’s lips were a thin streak in his face and the look he gave Jeske promised dire things to come, but he threw the aircar into a slanting, motor-driven dive, using his altitude for acceleration.
Another blackened hole appeared in the floor, before they came out of their dive; but the cabby stayed with it, and Jeske sat with his mind as blank as he could possibly make it as the buildings shot by beneath him.
When the cab straightened again they had covered several miles, and Jeske knew they had left the danger area behind.
“Go on about five more miles,” Jeske said, “and then leave me off at the nearest cab stand.”
The cabby didn’t turn or answer, but when he landed ten minutes later it wasn’t at a cab-stand; it was a vacant lot near the edge of town. He stepped outside and Jeske followed.
“Now, Mac,” the cabby said, “we’ll settle this little thing. You knew what you were getting me into when you hopped my boat. In just two seconds you’re gonna have a mouth full of broken teeth. Nobody kin…”
Jeske held up his hand. “How much damage do you think has been done to your vehicle?” he asked.
“How much damage?” The cabby stopped at the unexpected interruption. “Why it’ll probably cost me a grand to get that baby back in shape.”
Wordlessly Jeske unsnapped a concealed pocket in his belt. He drew out a thousand. And an extra one for the two green slips of currency. “Here’s a thousand. And an extra one for the risk to your neck.”
The cabby took the money, and turned it over in his hands. “Is this any good?” he asked.
“You’ll find that it is,” Jeske said—and vanished.
Chapter 2
Van Horne unlocked the front door of his home, stepped inside and snapped on the lights.
“Welcome home,” greeted the dark-haired young man seated comfortably in his favorite lounging chair. The gun which he held—aimed at Van Horne’s middle—rested in his hand, languidly, but steadily.
Van Horne’s training, and his naturally-alert mind took in the situation in a flash. He had never seen the man before, but the bull-like build, the handsome features, and other minor points of identity all added up to one answer. “You’re Jeske,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“Let’s say I just want to talk,” Jeske answered. “Don’t let this gun disturb you. I’m using it for two reasons only. One, I want to make certain that you’ll listen to me; two, so you’ll see I’m deadly serious.”
“I’ll listen,” Van Horne said. “So you can put the gun away.”
Jeske’s pause was barely perceptible. “I’ll do better than that,” he said. “If you will take that chair across from me,” he indicated with a leisurely nod of his head, “I’ll place the gun on the table—an equal distance from each of us.” He tossed the gun on the table.
“Thank you.” Van Horne sat down. “You realize, of course, that having placed the gun on the table, you are now at a distinct disadvantage?” he said.
“In what way?” Jeske asked.
“If I decide to reach for it, I’ll have the advantage of a split-second start and I’ll beat you to it.”
Jeske smiled pleasantly. He had a charm all of his own, Van Horne acknowledged as he found himself responding to Jeske’s smile. “You are presupposing that your reflexes are faster than mine,” Jeske said; “I would advise you not to gamble on it.”
Van Horne acknowledged the bluff with the inner glow of stimulation an exciting situation always brought. This meeting definitely promised to be interesting. “Then we’ll call it a stalemate,” he said.
“Before we continue,” Jeske said, “let me give you one warning. If you reach for that gun, and I beat you to it, I’ll shoot to kill; I don’t like impulsive people.”
“I’ll remember that,” Van Horne answered. “If I decide to reach, I’ll reciprocate in kind. Shall we continue?”
“As a beginning,” Jeske said, “I want you to know that I heard your meeting with Smith today, and everything you talked about.”
Van Horne’s eyebrows raised inquiringly. “And,” he prompted.
“And I’ve come to tell you what you want to know about myself,” Jeske said. “You won’t believe what I tell you, but right now that isn’t important; I just want you to know it. In time you will believe.”
Jeske stopped and went over his means of expressing what he wanted to say. “If you had investigated Smith as thoroughly as you did me,” he said, “you’d have found that he has no apparent background either. You see…Smith and I are not of this world—or your race.”
He watched for the play of emotions on Van Horne’s face, but none showed. Whichever way he might have taken Jeske’s words, Van Horne had not gotten where he was by callow naiveté.
“Smith’s people are a race imbued with the lust of conquest,” Jeske continued. “He, and those with him—there are more than-a thousand—are the forerunners of that conquest. Whether or not you believe what I am telling you, I want you to spread this story—to as many people as will listen. Make an official report of it. Assume, if you wish, that it is a story told-by a madman. But tell it! If I fail to stop them, it’s your one chance of remaining free.”
When Van Horne saw that Jeske had said all he intended, for the time being, he remarked, “The only part of your story that sounded true was that you are a madman.”
“I expected that reaction,” Jeske answered, “so I’m not disappointed. Tell me this, will you? Personally you like Smith a great deal, don’t you?”
“That’s right,” Van Horne said. “And what does that prove?”
“One of the talents of Smith’s race is that they can read minds. He studies you as he talks with you; he sees how you are reacting to whatever he says or does, and knows exactly what to say to win your best opinion.”
Van Horne yawned. “What other unusual talents does Smith and his people have?” he asked cynically. In the back of his mind he wondered how much trouble he’d have with this man when the time came to seize him.
“They have symbiosis,” Jeske said. “Their culture is a four-level organization. The top level, or hierarchy, consists of roughly one thousand members, having symbiosis among themselves; and each one has a controlling symbiosis with a thousand on the second level. Each member of the second level controls a thousand of the third, and on down through four levels.”
Van Horne found himself, not believing, but interested in this strange hallucination. He decided to go along with the madman. “Starting with a thousand on the top level and going through four levels, as you explained, would give them a population of approximately one trillion,” he said.
“It’s slightly greater,” Jeske replied. “They inhabit well over six hundred worlds in their portion of the galaxy. And your Earth is the first step in a gigantic expansion project. They must be stopped.”
“And just where do you come into this game?” Van Horne asked.
“I am a member of one of the conquered worlds,” Jeske replied; “I am trying to thwart their further expansion.”
“Are you alone?”
“I am the only one of my group on the Earth,” Jeske replied. “When the Kunklies attempted to take over our world we fought them. They used their superior power to wipe out our race—except for a few hundred of us who managed to capture one of their space vessels and escape.”
“Where did you go?” Strangely Van Horne found himself fascinated with Jeske’s tale, and completely carried along with it.
“We decided that boldness was our only chance of survival,” Jeske answered. “We returned to their home world and infiltrated into their population.”
&n
bsp; “Were you so much like them that that was possible?”
“Quite probably, both our races came from the same root-stock,” Jeske said, “for many of our native traits are similar. We both have the ability to change our form to any desired shape; therefore we could pass quite easily as members of their world.”
“Then you can read my mind, too,” Van Horne said. Here might be the chance to expose the absurdity of Jeske’s story.
“No,” Jeske answered. “Somewhere in the lost past, our abilities along that line must have been similar; but now we can read only emotions, not thoughts. The Kunklies have the advantage of us there.”
“You say Smith has others of his race here?”
“I believe Smith brought with him the entire thousand, with whom he maintains symbiosis in the second level.”
“And you expect to defeat him and his thousand by yourself? Despite the fact that they possess mind-reading ability, and you do not?”
“I have one advantage,” Jeske said. “My native world is a “heavy” planet. On their “light” worlds—and the Earth—I can move with a speed which is faster than their optic nerves can follow. I make a pretty elusive target.”
“Are you asking me to believe that you are here to help us Earth people out of purely altruistic motives?” Van Horne asked.
“Not entirely,” Jeske replied. “The few of our race who escaped have dedicated ourselves to stopping the Kunklies’ expansion; my mission here is part of our plan for doing that. If we are successful, we even hope to drive them back—or at least force them to live in amity with their neighbors.”
Van Horne reached swiftly across the table and picked up the gun. “I’m afraid that I can no longer humor you by listening to your fantasy,” he said. “Raise your hands, please.”
Jeske’s hands remained at his sides, and he smiled thinly. “Surely you aren’t fool enough to believe that the gun is loaded?”
“You’re bluffing,” Van Horne said.
“Am I?” Jeske studied his fingernails. “Then I may as well make the bluff a good one. When you pull that trigger, the gun will explode and kill you.”
While Van Horne stood undecided, Jeske rose and walked to the door. “You’re an intelligent man,” he said to Van Horne. “The next time you’re with Smith you’ll be able to see that I have told you the truth. Watch for little things. Like how his body conforms itself—in a way no Earth body can—to fit the chair he sits in. Tell him a joke. Watch how his response is a split-second later than it should be—they have no sense of humor. He’ll laugh, but only after he reads in your mind that he’s supposed to. Or just tell him what I’ve told you. He’ll see that you know, and probably admit the truth, or his version of it. But if you want to stay alive, spread the story—as I suggested—before you meet him again. Jeske opened the door and was gone.
Van Horne looked down at the small weapon in his hand. He turned and went into the kitchen at the rear of his apartment. Filling a bucket with water he dropped the gun into it. For a moment he debated whether to call the police or his office, but decided against it.
* * * *
“Good afternoon, my friend Frank.”
Frank Richey looked up. He frowned slightly as he recognized Edgar Jeske. He knew Jeske only slightly, and he experienced an instinctive aversion to having anyone address him with familiarity without better acquaintance. He nodded tersely.
Jeske, however, seemed unaware of the other’s coolness. He slapped Richey jovially on the shoulder. “I’ve been waiting to speak with you,” Jeske said.
Richey felt a tiny twinge of sharp pain in his shoulder where Jeske’s hand landed and immediately his annoyance was swept away in a cloud of haziness that descended over his senses. He continued to walk forward at Jeske’s side but a close observer would have noticed that his sight was glazed and that he walked with a stiff, robot-like pace. The apparent conversation Jeske continued was only one-sided.
When they reached the river Jeske sat on the grass of the river bank and, at a soft word from him, Richey sat also. He remained erect, staring at the water without interest. They waited there until the dusk had deepened to darkness.
Only then did Jeske rise and look carefully about him before he took Richey by the hand and helped him to his feet. They walked to the river edge and stood for a moment, still hand in hand, before they stepped off the bank and into the river. The water closed over their heads and only a few bubbles marked the spot where they had entered.
Once inside the space ship at the bottom of the river Jeske led Richey to a couch and bade him lie down. From a corner cabinet, Jeske removed a short syringe and injected a light green liquid into Richey’s forearm. Then he watched until the only sign of life was Richey’s slow and shallow breathing.
Jeske stripped himself of every article of clothing and replaced them with those which he removed from Richey. The clothing fit well for he had been careful in picking his involuntary guest. Now Jeske was ready for his next step.
He knelt at Richey’s side and studied the features of the man before him, intently. At first almost imperceptibly, Jeske’s features began to alter. His nostrils became a shade thinner and wider, his lips narrowed and the slight bow straightened. His eye-openings became more nearly elliptical. Jeske brought his hands to his face and vigorously massaged his cheeks and jawline until small hollows pressed against his teeth.
Satisfied with what he had done so far, Jeske rose and walked to the cabinet in the wall of the room. He returned to Richey with a mirror, a strong pair of tweezers, and several small bottles in his hands. He began plucking hair from the fore edge of his scalp until he had reformed the hairline a quarter inch back and left the center with a small widow’s peak. Next he narrowed the arch of his eyebrows. After a careful inspection of his work, he moistened his hair with fluid from two of the bottles. The hair darkened and twisted into small ringlets. The skin itself he saw was the correct shade.
Finally Jeske was satisfied. His face, feature for feature, was the same as that of Richey. He connected a set of anodes to Richey’s temples, and a set of earphones to his own ears—both sets of which were connected to a small dynamo-powered machine—and lay down and slept. When he awoke, he knew, his mind would retain all of Richey’s essential memories.
One segment of his mind would adopt the Richey identity, and Jeske would let it dominate his conscious thinking. It would carry on semi-independent of his own thoughts and sensations, which would be held to a lower level of audibility. This would serve the purpose of an ideal decoy-identity, and prevent the Kunklies from catching Jeske’s personal thoughts. It would be synonymous to a small sound being drowned out by a much louder one.
* * * *
Jeske left Richey’s bedroom apartment in the Majestic Hotel and went downstairs. The dining room was crowded, but he found a small table at the rear.
While he waited for his order he looked over the other diners. To his right a brown-haired girl with large features was eating baked trout and potatoes. Directly ahead three girls sat at one of the round tavern-type tables. Jeske studied them with interest. Their dress would be called daring by Earth standards, and they wore more makeup than their sex generally assumed. Two of the girls were rather ordinary, but the third was beautiful. Something about her held Jeske’s fascinated attention.
With surprise he finally understood that the girl’s attraction was caused by the response of his male glands to her cogent female allure. One of the abilities of Jeske’s race was to assimilate the glandular and emotional proclivities of the peoples whose shapes they assumed.
Now Jeske found his gaze bound to the girl by an animated interest which was—he had to admit it to himself—desire!
The girl looked up, met Jeske’s gaze, and smiled. Startled, Jeske shifted to the portion of his mind that held Richey’s memory and thought-pattern and found that Richey was a friend of hers. He read further and found that her name was Lelanne. She was the star of an act playing at the next door theater,
called the Rialto. She went under the theatrical billing of Lelanne, the Body Beautiful. The outstanding characteristic of the act was the gradual exposing of the females’ bodies, for the edification of the audience. And for male response to her body Lelanne had no equal.
The girls passed his table and Lelanne leaned over and whispered, “I’ll stop in a little after midnight.”
Again Jeske shifted to Richey’s memory-pattern and found, with surprise, that Richey was a man very attractive to the female sex. He was a friend of Lelanne’s, and their friendship was on the point of becoming closer; very probably, shortly after midnight—as Lelanne had hinted.
Chapter 3
Jeske had no opportunity to rig his spy-wire, from Kennedy’s desk to-Smith’s office, until the second day. But Van Horne did not appear until several hours later, and when he did Jeske was ready.
Van Horne went directly into Smith’s office, passing Jeske’s desk on the way. After he had gone by, Jeske rested his hand idly on the interoffice communicator. “Welcome back, my friend,” he heard Smith say. “Have you found out anything new about Jeske?”
“Nothing that you’re expecting,” Van Horne replied. “By the way, where is he? I noticed that his desk was empty as I passed through the outer office.”
“He didn’t show up for work this morning,” Smith answered.
“Last night when I went home I found him waiting for me,” Van Horne said.
“You did?” Smith assumed a surprised look.
“Yes, and he told me a story.”
“Then we may as well lay our cards on the table,” Smith said. “His story was true.”
“You admit it?”
“I’d be a fool to deny it. I can read in your mind that you have been observing me as Jeske suggested, and you’ve already noticed several discrepancies in my makeup.”
“They’re quite apparent, now that I look for them,” Van Horne said thoughtfully. “And it’s true that you can read my mind?”
The 19th Golden Age of Science Fiction Page 14