Wild Talent

by Wilson Tucker

  “What’s the matter—what happened? Did the film break? Hurry up, will you—they’re getting impatient. How did it happen? Can you fix it? What . . .”

  Paul said nothing, working rapidly, but in his annoyance with the man bit off a savage thought: Damn it, get out of here and let me alone!

  He ran the film down past the break, inserted it into the machine and slipped the jagged end onto an empty reel. With one effortless motion he released the brake, started the motor and lifted the dowser to put the picture back onto the screen. Only then did he turn around. The manager was gone.

  Months later he performed another act of supposed usefulness which he was later to regret, an act which for the second time in seven years was to cause considerable consternation in official Washington circles. An impossible kind of lightning struck them twice.

  Paul had since learned of the separate existences of two security bodies in the nation’s capital, two separate spheres of police duties. The Secret Service, operating out of the Treasury Department, guarded the chief executive and performed other functions identified with counterfeiting, federal tax stamps, customs inspection and the like. On the other hand, the Federal Bureau of Investigation was a part of the Department of Justice and concerned itself with national criminal activities. Paul was vaguely aware of the lines of jurisdiction between the two agencies. He realized he had made a mistake in sending his Bixby letter to the White House; the Secret Service people would have opened it. It should have been addressed to the F.B.I. because Bixby had been a member of that body.

  And so with startling naiveté, he wrote a second letter—this one addressed to the Bureau pointing out that his first had been misaddressed. He suggested that possibly they could recover that first letter of seven years before if such incoming mail was saved and filed at the White House. That first letter had contained information on the murder of one of their agents and would be of value to them.

  Paul could be credited with a minute grain of caution: again, he didn’t sign his name to the note nor give his address. As before, he wrote Bixby-twelve. The letter was written on Y.M.C.A. stationery which did not bear the name of any town or city; Paul had previously taken a supply of the letterheads for his own use. He mailed the note later on that week in Peoria, where he had gone with a couple of friends seeking a good time. And as before, the letter was well sprinkled with fingerprints. His new-found powers of clairvoyance and precognition were conspicuous by their absence.

  In Washington, a Bureau official named Ray Palmer drove himself into a rage.

  The receipt of the first letter seven years earlier, finding its way to him through the channels, had been enough of a jolt. Handwriting and fingerprinting systems had readily revealed the letter to be written by a child. The information supplied in the body of the letter led other agents to the upstairs room and eventually to the two gunmen who had murdered Bixby. But in spite of it all, nothing led the Bureau to a child who had used the dead man’s signature and who put the finger on his killers. Millions of people had passed through the gates of the Century of Progress Exposition; tens of thousands had availed themselves of the free stationery distributed by the railroad.

  Who remembered one child, out of thousands, asking for a letterhead and an envelope?

  The receipt of the second letter after seven years was as great a jolt. It provided only one additional clue: the boy—now a young man—apparently lived in or near Peoria, Illinois. An angry Palmer flew to Peoria to take charge of the investigation.

  Paul Breen was not drafted into the army until the spring of 1945, ending a five-year term of apprehension. With countless others he had registered on a cold, blustery October day in 1940, sitting rather stiffly and self-consciously in a chair before one of his former schoolteachers, watching the woman note down the information he supplied. And then the following five years had been a bewildering shuffle through many changes of classification, until at last he found himself ticketed l-A. In the spring of 1945, someone apparently found his file for the first time and noted that he had not yet seen service.

  He was twenty-four years old and somewhat beyond the usual induction age. His services were allotted to the army. And as a matter of routine procedure he was fingerprinted.

  Ray Palmer had been impatiently awaiting just that. The odds were greatly in his favor that the induction machinery would eventually uncover the young man he wanted.

  IV.

  1945

  “Hey—Breen!”

  Paul was resting on his back and staring dreamily at the barracks ceiling, his hands locked beneath his head. Now he lazily moved his head to stare across the? row of cots to the door. The top sergeant stood there, breathing heavily as though he had been moving too fast for his bulk. The sergeant stood in the opened screen door, searching the room. Behind Paul, toward the rear of the barracks room a man was making a terrific, unmusical noise on a banjo and several off-key voices were attempting to follow the banjo with bellowing song. Like the man on the cot next to his, Paul had successfully ignored the noise; that other soldier was sleeping soundly and snoring loudly. “Breen!”

  “Here,” Paul said, raising up on the bed. “Now what?” Behind him the sound had died away.

  “Roll your tail offa there and come on!”

  “This is Sunday,” Paul protested.

  “I don’t give a damn what day it is—get up and trot!”

  “Go on, Breen,” somebody called out from behind him. “Maybe the general wants to give ya’ another merit badge.”

  “Naw,” a second voice objected. “This is important this time. G-2 S found a Japanese map and nobody can read it except the Emperor and Breen.”

  “Knock it off!” the sergeant roared.

  Paul sat up to stare at the man in the doorway. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if fighting away sleep or a sudden pain, and then began to put his shoes on. The topkick seemed in a devil of a hurry and had come on orders of the captain. The captain had been emphatic. Paul bit his lower lip with the sudden awareness that something unpleasant was coming. He put his tie around his neck and tied it. The sergeant was leaning against the doorframe, waiting with obvious impatience.

  They went out into the company street, and the noise again welled up behind them.

  “What’s up?” Breen asked.

  The noncom looked at him curiously. “Don’t you know?”

  Paul shook his head. “I haven’t put in for anything.” He realized that the sergeant didn’t know the reason for the summons either.

  “Just between you and me, soldier, the Old Man’s been keeping his eye on you anyway. Maybe because you didn’t put in.”

  By the spring of 1945, Paul knew enough about himself to keep his mouth shut and his faculties concealed. He was aware, through the books of Rhine and Roy and by studying those around him, that talents such as his were not given to other men, were only now budding in the blind and groping minds of those experimenters in the parapsychology laboratories. Upon his induction into the army, he had discovered himself building up extraordinarily high scores in the intelligence and aptitude tests—not because he was of superior intelligence, but because he was absently picking the minds of those about him, unthinkingly ferreting out the proper answers to the tests.

  Paul saw what he was doing, saw that the officer in charge was talking about his scoring, and slacked off. He had no wish to call attention to himself.

  In camp he struggled not to repeat the earlier episode in the projection booth—that of knowing too much too early, of knowing before he could be normally expected to learn. Despite his precautions, the training sergeant had picked him out one day.

  “You been in the army before, buster?”

  Paul told him he had not and realized that the man didn’t fully believe him. After that he redoubled his guard, but it was difficult not to do what the sergeant thought he should be doing. At first it had been awkward and arduous to distinguish the unspoken thought from the spoken word, to determine which wa
s the mental propellant behind a barked order and the oral order itself. Later he learned the fine distinction between thought and word, thought and deed by careful observation and analysis. The mental thought always preceded the word, the propellant always stimulated the vocalization, regardless of the time lapse between the two. It was very much like hearing the same things said twice for his benefit alone; he had only to remember not to act the first time it was relayed to him. Always to wait for the second and slower command.

  With some of the trainers that had proven easy; their thought patterns were sluggish and lazy in stimulating the vocal cords, but in combat veterans freshly back from the war theaters the reverse was true. The double commands were snapped with hairline triggering, the shouted word following the shouted thought by no more than a millisecond, the two almost blending into one. Under them, Paul had made less mistakes because there was so little need to distinguish the mental from the spoken command, and because they on their part thought and acted so quickly they did not notice Paul sometimes obeying the thought rather than the word. But with the other kind of man found in the army, the unhurried thinker, he learned to watch his movements.

  The top sergeant pushed open the door and walked into the orderly room, Paul following. The room was empty. Paul waited while the sergeant knocked on the inner door, and the double thought-voice of the captain was heard.

  “Come in, come in.”

  The sergeant opened the door. “Private Breen, sir.” He moved aside to let Paul in and then closed the door.

  Paul looked first to the company commander, Captain Evans, and learned next to nothing; the man was highly curious at this new turn of affairs and was eagerly looking forward to the interview, but as yet knew little. Eagerly looking forward to the interview! Paul switched his glance to the two civilians sitting in the office and in the following second received a double shock—the most startling of his life because they bordered on shocks of fear. The two in civilian clothes were calmly staring at him.

  Ray Palmer of the F.B.I., and Peter Conklin of the C.I.C.

  Captain Evans leaned forward, indicating a chair. “Sit down, Breen. These gentlemen want to talk to you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Paul sat down, struggling to control his growing nervousness and struggling to prevent that emotion from showing. He waited stiffly in the chair, knowing what was coming, knowing that two letters and eleven years had finally caught up with him. He realized, too, what had trapped him. The fingerprints on the letters and those taken at the induction center. As he waited, trying not to squirm under their scrutiny, he saw one thing more. They were not

  aware of him, of what he was. They were still wondering how he did it.

  Palmer spoke first, a slow, almost drawling speech that suggested a patient, kindly man with all the time in the world. Only the agility of his mind betrayed the camouflage.

  “Breen, we’ve been interested in you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Interested in your army record, really. A most remarkable record, wouldn’t you say?”

  “In what way, sir?”

  “Well now, let’s consider those intelligence and aptitude tests first of all.” Palmer was slow, unhurried. “You should be proud of your scoring.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t think they were particularly high, sir.”

  “But they could have been,” Palmer pointed out.

  Paul said nothing to that.

  “I think they could have been much higher, don’t you?” He paused to see if Paul might agree. “A pity that they fell off, just as they did.”

  “I didn’t know anything about newspaper procedure, sir. Mats, logos and hellboxes—things like that.”

  “You went along very well on the remainder.”

  “I’ve done a lot of reading, sir. And I’ve worked on projection machinery and an old car I had.”

  “Get around a lot in that car? Did you go out and have a good time on Saturday nights?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ever been to Peoria?”

  “Yes, sir, several times.”

  “And Chicago?”

  “A few times. Not many.”

  “Did you go up to see the Fair?”

  “Yes, sir.” It was coming closer.

  “Enjoy it?”

  “Very much, yes, sir. I stayed two or three days.”

  “I was there too,” Palmer said. “Let’s see, you must have been about twelve or thirteen then.”

  “Thirteen.” Any moment now.

  “With your folks? Your aunt perhaps?”

  “No, sir. I went alone. I saved up the money.”

  “All alone in Chicago? And only thirteen?”

  “I wasn’t frightened, if that’s what you mean.”

  Palmer nodded. “No, I don’t imagine you frighten easily.” He pursed his lips, giving the impression that he didn’t know what to say next, that he was groping around. That too was false. “Gangsters didn’t frighten you, did they?” Paul blinked at him. “Yes, sir, they did.”

  “Oh? Did they threaten you?”

  “No, sir. But I was scared, all the same.”

  Palmer studied him. “What did you do?”

  “I ran away. Back to the hotel.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was scared . . . and . . .”

  “And?” he invited.

  “And because Mr. Bixby told me to run.”

  Palmer nodded to himself. “Bixby told you to run. Well now, that’s sensible. What else did he tell you?”

  That was it. From this point onward he could move in one of two directions. He could tell them the truth and ride it wherever it might carry him—or he could lie, and hope with further lies to find a way out of explaining the entire situation. Already he saw a vague picture of where the truth might take him, saw a solidified kind of future looming up on the periphery of his mind. He saw too that he had already hesitated in answering the question, and the hesitation had been noticed. Paul decided to tell them the truth and let the consequences come as they may.

  “Nothing,” he said in answer to the last question.

  Palmer looked through him. “Bixby told you nothing else? Only to run away?”

  “That’s all, sir.”

  There was a long moment’s silence. Captain Evans was frankly eager for the conversation to continue; he was enjoying it and he fancied he was learning great things. Not every day did the F.B.I. and the C.I.C. descend upon your office to quiz one of your men. He always thought there was something queer about Private Breen!

  Paul flicked him a quick glance, hiding a smile.

  He looked back to find both civilians studying him. He was becoming used to Palmer, to his quick mind and his slow speech, but the silent Conklin tended to make him nervous. As yet there was no way to know how Conklin’s mind and tongue co-operated in action. His thinking was sharp, razor sharp, and he had already formulated a working theory—Paul sucked in his breath, astonished at the near accuracy of the theory! He stared at Conklin, conscious of the man’s potentiality; he had best watch the C.I.C. agent.

  Paul realized that Palmer had briefed Conklin in advance, had filled in his background; he knew that the two of them had gone over his army record together and arrived at the same general conclusions together. But he saw now that Conklin was far ahead of Palmer in theorizing; where the F.B.I. man still didn’t know the Chicago answers, Conklin was already making shrewd guesses. Paul considered that difference for a moment, and then did something he had very rarely done in his life. He gently probed into Conklin’s mind to see why he was theorizing.

  Conklin knew about the book!

  He knew about the battered copy of Roy’s Studies in Psychokinesis which he still had, tucked away in his foot-locker. The C.I.C. agent then had been peering around, had come prepared to this Sunday afternoon meeting. And so—he was theorizing. He didn’t believe yet, he refused to allow his orderly min
d to admit the possibility that Paul Breen was a telepath. But that old book certainly suggested it.

  Paul found one other thing. Conklin had no intention of telling Palmer of the book or his theories. Whether much or little came of it, it would remain C.I.C. property alone.

  That’s what he thought! Paul was suddenly glad he’d decided to tell them the truth. Both of them.

  Ray Palmer cleared his throat and continued talking in his easy, unhurried drawl. “I’d like to hear about Chicago, about Bixby and those gangsters.”

  Paul gave him a frank glance. “I’ve already told you most of it.” He found no visible reaction to that, but the man’s thoughts leaped—This soldier knew who he was!

  “Tell me again,” Palmer suggested.

  “I was wandering around the streets pretty late at night—lost. I couldn’t find my way back to the hotel. I turned a corner and saw Mr. Bixby in the alley; he was on his knees, and had been shot by two men who were hiding in an upstairs window across the street. I stopped to help him, and he told me to run. I waited a minute longer and did run. Somebody showed me the way back to the hotel. And the next day at the Fair I sent the letter to tell you about it.” He paused and almost smiled at the memory. “Only I didn’t know where to send it.”

  “Jehoshaphat!” the captain burst out. “All that at thirteen?”

  The C.I.C. agent silenced him with a glance.

  “I’m surprised,” Palmer said mildly.

  “Sir?”

  “That you didn’t know where to send the letter. Apparently you knew everything else: Bixby’s name and code he used as a signature, the names of the men who shot him, where they were hiding. I’m surprised you didn’t know where to send that letter.”