On the train Conklin likens Breen to a Cro-Magnon man in the midst of the Neanderthal ape men and warns him that he will eventually be thoroughly hated by the rest of Mankind. During the discussion Paul suddenly realises that a passenger is taking more than passing interest in them. Scanning his mind Paul discovers the man is an ex-Army sergeant—that he is thinking about something called an atomic bomb.
VI.
1945
Conklin had understated the facts when he said that Washington, in July, was insufferable. Paul Breen surveyed Washington—as much of it as could be seen from the high office window—with all the delight of the first-time visitor. He compared the restricted view to those newsreel shots he had often seen in which the camera stared straight ahead, recording some politician mouthing meaningless words while all around and behind him Washington lived and breathed. By putting his cheek to the glass and straining his eyes, he could make out the nearer surroundings, but for the moment he had to be content with what could be seen before the window. He had not given much heed to the heat on the street. Two rooms away from the office where he waited, the temperature was much higher.
A stranger waited in the office with him, casually smoking a cigarette and saying nothing at all while he stood at the window. The stranger knew nothing about him; Paul found in one swift sweep that the man had only been sent in to keep him company while Conklin reported to his superiors. The report was in progress two rooms away, and the heat there was intense.
“Where’s the Mall?” Paul asked the newcomer, “and the Needle?”
“Around on the other side; this window faces the wrong way.” The man talked around his cigarette and looked at Paul curiously, wondering what the score might be.
“Is there an elevator or do you have to walk?”
“The Needle? An elevator.”
“Does it really sway in the wind?”
“I’ve heard that it does.”
Paul turned. “Haven’t you been up in it?”
“No—why?”
“Well, people come thousands of miles to see that—you live here.”
“I was born and raised in New York,” the stranger told him. “I haven’t seen the Statue of Liberty, either.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” He finally removed the cigarette from his mouth. “I don’t have time.”
Paul went back to the scene outside the window.
Two rooms away, Conklin was having a difficult time. Paul gave a part of his attention to that room and to Conklin as he inspected the small slice of Washington. With some amusement he listened to Conklin making his report, listened to the highly vocal, highly doubtful reception the report was getting, amid hints that perhaps Conklin was in need of a psychiatrist. The agent stood by his story and, disregarding the veiled suggestions concerning his mental stability, told how he had been contacted in Saint Louis by Ray Palmer, of the F.B.I., and had been acquainted with the Breen case which had sorely puzzled that other Bureau for almost twelve years. Inasmuch as Breen had been located on an army post and was therefore within C.I.C. jurisdiction, the two of them had gone out to the post to interview Breen. The result was astonishing. Conklin sketched in the background and general details of the case, carefully repeating the conversations that had taken place in Captain Evans’s office—and including the three men’s reactions.
Paul remained at the window. There was no sound in the office other than the minute noises made by the man waiting behind him, obviously bored. Nothing of the heated conversation in that other room was audible, but Paul still listened to it, wondering how Conklin would convince the two men who were his superiors—how he could convince them short of parading them in and asking Paul for a stage performance.
Conklin unknowingly found a way.
He launched next into a recital of events on the train coming from Saint Louis, ending his report by stating that Breen in the dining car had discovered a former army sergeant thinking about something called an atomic bomb.
The temperature in that other room dropped alarmingly.
“An atomic bomb?” one man questioned.
“Yes, sir.”
“What about an atomic bomb?”
“I don’t know, sir. Breen only reported to me that another man in the dining car recognized Palmer and myself as plain-clothes policemen. This man was somehow familiar with what we represented and supposed that we had Breen under arrest. Upon further questioning, it developed that the man was a former army sergeant and had recently been in contact with something called an atomic bomb.”
One of the men sitting in that far room turned to his companion with, “What the hell?”
The companion demanded, “Get Breen in here!”
Paul did not move away from the window or turn to face the door as Conklin left his superiors and approached the smaller office where he waited. Instead, he let Conklin end him still inspecting the Washington scenery. An empty, nothing-to-report shrug passed between the agents behind him, and Paul turned as Conklin called to him. Back again in that other room down the hall, Conklin attempted to put Paul at ease by introductions. “Mr. Breen,” he said quietly, “this is Mr. Slater and Mr. Carnell.”
Neither of the two left their chairs or made any sign of acknowledgment. Instead, Slater favored Conklin with a probing stare, and in his mind there was the question, What the hell? Mr. Breen? Both of them studied Paul, and he waited patiently for someone to speak. Slater was the older of the two and the greater authority; he was heavier in body and his white shirt, turned up at the sleeves, showed the distress of the heat. Carnell was thin, wore a small mustache and horn-rimmed glasses. He seemed to be the deeper, more introspective man, given to fast but sure judgments. Paul liked him on sight, liked what he saw of the man’s mind; Slater was the type he would never know or care to.
Slater said, “Well, Breen, this is quite a story.”
Paul waited, not answering. They did not invite him to sit down.
“So Captain Evans was diverting coal for private use, eh? Are you expecting a reward for telling that?”
“No, sir.”
“Everybody on the post knew it, I suppose?”
“I don’t believe so. I never heard it mentioned.”
“No? How did you find out?”
“Captain Evans asked for proof of what was in his mind, sir.” Paul glanced at Carnell and then back to Slater. “I told him.”
“Yes, so it seems. And you told Palmer what was in his mind. Did you also tell Conklin?”
“No, sir. He asked me not to.”
“But you knew, nevertheless?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I suppose you’re standing there reading mine?” Paul nodded, knowing what was to be next.
“Well, well—tell me.”
Paul started, “Your wife—”
“No!” Conklin burst out.
Slater jerked his eyes around, glaring at Conklin. “You have an objection, Mister Conklin?” He eyed the agent with reprimand.
“No, sir. I only thought to warn you that it is a shocking experience, the first time.”
“I can stand it,” Slater retorted. “Very well, Breen, what about my wife?”
Paul had caught the warning. “Your wife phoned you about an hour ago,” he substituted lamely. “She wanted to know if you would be late again tonight.”
Slater turned to Conklin. “That’s shocking?”
“Ask more.”
“All right, Breen. Let’s hear more.”
Paul considered for a moment. “You sent eighty men to Potsdam with the president, including several from the Baltimore office although they could hardly be spared there. The Baltimore office is having trouble with the theft of large amounts of military goods on the docks; several supply ships have sailed with useless cargo because tools or parts were missing. You have made arrangements for other shipments to replace the stolen material and hope that the original shipments and the replacement parts reach France at about the same
time. You know that dock workers have been organized by criminals to loot the supplies, but still you are unable to stop it. You are considering the abandoning of those docks, as was done some years ago when a similar situation arose in Brooklyn.” He paused. “Enough?”
Slater s eyes bored into his. “Let’s hear more.”
Paul regarded him curiously for a moment longer wondering why he kept trying to hide a man’s name, wondering why Slater continually fought not to think about someone named Willis. The name itself was easily grasped, but the reason for hiding it was not. “You already knew about Captain Evans,” he said. “You knew that the fifteen tons of coal was only a small part of an over-all picture of thievery, and you’ve drawn up a report on it all.” Then Paul went on to list in exact detail the names, places, dates and materials on the report as he visualized it in Slater’s mind. He repeated the list of missing articles and the amounts: coal, gasoline, oil, lumber, clothing, foodstuffs, PX supplies, miscellaneous items; he told the geographical location where each had been stolen and the date when each had or had not been reported; he named the men in charge of those locations and the names of the men suspected of the thefts. As he talked, he found Slater interpolating false entries into the list. In an effort to trap him, Slater would casually insert a name or a place not on the list and then wait to see if Paul repeated that deception. Paul ignored the traps, somewhat surprised at the man. If Slater admitted that he was actually reading his thoughts, he should also realize Paul had the sense and the ability to determine the false from the true—to know his whole mind and not just those parts Slater chose to feed him. He formed a strong dislike for Slater.
When he had ceased talking, Carnell spoke. “Tell us about the man in the dining car, the former sergeant.” Paul turned his attention to Carnell and smiled. He was almost the exact opposite of Slater, was more like Conklin in his manner and patterns of thought. He could be a friend if the matter were handled carefully. Paul said, “Yes, sir,” and repeated the incident at the breakfast table.
“No more than that?” Carnell asked. “Didn’t you get a more detailed picture of the man or his background? Did he get on the train at Saint Louis? Where was he from?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Paul closed his eyes, dwelling on the scene in the diner and what he remembered of the man at the far table. “It seems to me there was something about a desert—I’m not sure. He thought about the bomb and the desert, but I’m not sure the two were connected.”
“Did this man see the bomb?”
“On the ground, do you mean? Or in an ammunition dump? No, sir, I don’t think so. But he saw a bright flash that hurt his eyes; the bomb was exploded, I guess.”
“Did you get any clear picture of his separation from the army? Why he was no longer in uniform?”
“No, sir, only an impression when he looked at me. He was glad he wasn’t wearing his any longer.”
“Do you know where he got off the train?”
“He didn’t. He was going to New York.”
“New York! How do you know that?”
Paul hesitated and then shrugged. “I just do.”
Carnell said to Conklin, “Go into the next office and phone New York; use my authority. Give them the description of the sergeant and tell them to take him off the train at all costs. Bring him back here.”
After Conklin had left, Carnell and Slater held their silence, again studying Paul. Paul waited, still standing for lack of an invitation to sit, and found that he could follow Conklin’s telephone conversation with ease. That was a recent accomplishment; once he had met and talked to a person, once he had become aware of a person’s mental habits and patterns, he could if he chose follow that man forever afterward regardless of the distance between them. It was like a familiar voice being heard over a long-distance wire, a wire that could not be broken no matter how far or how fast the voice moved. The trick would not work with those who were still strangers to him, with those whom he had not yet met. He was conscious of several people working in the many adjoining offices, but he knew nothing of them and would not until he had seen them face to face and glimpsed what was in their minds. After that meeting, however brief, he would always know them and where they were and what they were doing or thinking. Paul believed that he knew Conklin so well, he could keep in constant mental contact with the man if he were sent to the other side of the world. At this moment, for instance, Captain Evans was wondering about the outcome of the interview in his office, was wondering when an official reprimand would come for the theft of the coal. He was cursing Breen, wishing his tongue were cut out.
Paul absently licked his lips, tasting his tongue. His especial gift was a strange and perplexing one, and he often wished there was someone he could talk to about it, someone who might have some knowledge of the endowment and who could advise him, teach him the many uses of it. Those few books he had managed to locate were enchanting introductions to a wonder world; they had guided him and actively helped him to understand a part of his problem, but still they were no more than introductions written by men who theorized and experimented with a force they thought to exist. What he desperately needed was an experienced teacher.
He had blindly groped his way thus far, discovering and learning to use the mental tools by trial and error, by accident. Beginning with those faintly understood wishes of his aunt, he had grown up finding new worlds on every side and making mistakes in some of them because there was no one—parent, mentor, or skilled friend to serve as counselor. Teaching yourself the proper use of a new tool or technique was difficult in the extreme. He realized he was lucky to come off with as few errors as he did.
Carnell broke the silence. “Well, Breen, what are we going to do with you?”
“I suppose I can go back to the post, sir.”
Carnell permitted himself a fleeting smile. “No, I’m afraid you can’t. For a number of reasons. We would be very foolish to send you back there.”
“Mr. Conklin thought I might help out here, sir.”
“Help out? In what way?”
“In finding people you want found.”
Carnell nodded. “Yes, I daresay you’d be quite useful. And invaluable in that respect.” He favored Paul with a frank stare. “Tell me, how do you feel about all this? What is your reaction?”
Paul weighed his answer carefully, searching first to determine if the question were an honest one and if Carnell expected an honest reply. He did. There was no guile in the man’s mind, nothing but genuine curiosity.
“Well, sir, I don’t like some parts of it. I didn’t like being drafted and I didn’t like the army, but I was determined to go through with it and get it over with. And I told Mr. Conklin I was willing to help, if he wanted it.” Paul faltered, glancing at the hostile Slater. “But I don’t like being regarded as a freak. I’m not a freak to myself and I resent being treated as one.” Paul hesitated again to look down at the uniform he still wore. “Can I speak my mind?”
Carnell said, “Certainly.”
“I don’t like being pushed around. I expected it in the army because it is part of the army. I don’t expect it if I stay here.”
Carnell pursed his lips and said nothing. The trace of a cruel smile appeared on Slater’s face.
“You’re still in that uniform, Breen,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“And still subject to orders from proper authority.”
Paul said, “Yes,” and deliberately omitted the sir.
“So . . .?” Slater held the vague threat in his mind.
“I know the extent of army regulations. I know what’s expected of me physically and morally, but the army is notorious for discouraging thinking.” Paul waited a long moment to drive the hint home and then leaned forward to frown at the officer. “Do you have a headache, Mr. Slater?”
Slater gaped at him with pained surprise and then abruptly rose up and stalked out of the room. The door had no sooner slammed behind him than it was opened again,
and Conklin re-entered with a puzzled expression on his face.
“What’s the matter with him?” he queried.
Paul said, “Mr. Slater has a splitting headache.”
“Yes . . .” Carnell nodded quickly, peering up at Paul with bright and speculative eyes. “I think he has just that.”
Dressed in new clothing paid for by Conklin, Paul toured Washington like any other summer visitor. He chose a thin and cool appearing summer suit of blue-checked pattern, a sport shirt and white shoes; he had felt an unquiet moment when he learned the amount of the bill, but Conklin brushed that aside as nothing. Both the clothes and the trip about the city had been early requests and were quickly granted. Neither of them mentioned the addition of two bodyguards who now accompanied them wherever they went.
The party of four rode the slow and creaking elevator to the top of the Washington Monument where Paul spent a long and delightful hour gazing out across the Mall, asking Conklin to identify the various government buildings and city landmarks. And afterwards the party of four visited the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials—where at least two of their number displayed unmistakable signs of becoming tired of it all; they spent nearly half a day wandering through the vast halls of the Smithsonian Institution and later the Botanical Gardens. It was during the course of this last that the attitudes of the bodyguards shifted to boredom. Conklin inwardly laughed and kept going. Because it was midsummer and Congress was not in session, Conklin found someone in the office of the Senate’s sergeant-at-arms who took them down onto the floor of the Senate chamber and later into the private waiting rooms behind it. Paul stood beside the desks, looking up and around the room he had seen so often in the newsreels and in that picture Jimmy Stewart had made, looking now at the empty room and easily imagining it packed with men giving their undivided attention to another man standing on the rostrum. Still later they visited the Bureau of Engraving and Printing where Paul had hoped to see money being printed, but there was no activity that day. As they drove past the imposing structure housing the Library of Congress, he was struck by an idea and resolved to make further requests very soon. He was already discovering that Conklin’s official connections—or more properly, Conklin’s and Slater’s and Carnell’s official connections—could get him almost anything he wanted within reason. After a moment’s reflection he added, And some things not within reason. He was beginning to understand the fantastic value they were placing on him.
Wild Talent Page 7
