Wild Talent

by Wilson Tucker

  Some young woman had already moved into the adjoining apartment.

  He had not the slightest doubt that she would be young and attractive and compliant with his wishes. She would be ever ready to dance with him, drink with him, make love with him. Slater would have thoughtfully arranged that, just as he had arranged to eavesdrop on every future minute of his life. Their lives. Both apartments, both bedrooms. Slater didn’t particularly care if Paul was happy or not, but he saw to it that his comforts were taken care of. There had never been a complaint about food or drink, about the few articles of clothing requested, about the numerous books and other things Paul had purchased from time to time. A large paycheck was delivered every month—a check that Paul had signed and given to Conklin or Carnell to deposit in the bank. His bankbook now reflected a considerable balance. And since that initial meeting in the hotel five years ago, Karen had been more or less a constant companion, absenting herself as she chose or as the occasional demand of outside duty required. In truth, his comforts were well supplied. But a new world demanded a new population.

  Paul wondered if this new woman in the adjoining apartment would be a plant, as Karen had been, or would she be an outsider imported for a single purpose? She could be either. Slater might be relying on the microphones to tell him all he wished to know, in which case the girl would be hired only to cater to him. Or Slater might be playing it doubly safe and ringing in another operative on him. Whatever the case, Slater knew he would instantly know which and apparently that didn’t bother the department chief. The woman was there and Paul could suit himself. Slater—the good provider.

  He sank lower in the chair and closed his eyes, letting his mind roam over the house. The entire structure formed a vague pattern on his consciousness and with a little effort he divided off the rooms into their proper perspective. Some of the rooms were peopled, but as he had not met those persons yet he was only aware they were there, no more. Room after room opened to his gaze and in half an hour he had the house committed to memory. It was a deceptively large place, capable of housing many more people than would be supposed from an exterior examination. He found the cable and radio rooms and found operators already there on duty; discovered a switchboard set away at the back of the house and the vague image of a girl seated before it. A man lounged at the back door, and another sauntered about the yard. There was a very large dining room in one wing of the house, and another and smaller one in the opposite wing. Several people were lounging in the kitchen. The second floor seemed to be arranged in several units that suggested classrooms. Oh, yes—there the new agents would be trained.

  They would come in from all over the country or the world to study the latest code, to participate in refresher courses, and Paul was to mingle with them, pretend to be one of them, meanwhile closely studying each individual and prying deeply into his or her mind. And in the end, Paul would be permanently attached to them in a certain mental sense, and they would be sent out again to various places in the world to look and to listen. Spynet supreme. No visible lines of communication, beyond the perfunctory filing of cables which every government watched as a matter of routine. And should an agent suddenly find himself in a position where he was unable to transmit physical messages, they would continue to be received anyway.

  That was the work intended for Paul in the years to come.

  He brought his attention back to the room in which he sat, and found himself contemplating the buried microphone. Idly, he wondered if he could damp it, destroy its sensitive parts so that it would not transmit—and then he rejected that idea. They would only replace it. It would be better to blanket the device temporarily, cause it to cease functioning for only as long as he wished. If he used reasonable caution they would suspect nothing, yet his privacy would be assured.

  Paul put forth a slow and careful finger of probing mental perception, scanning the construction of the tin ear and its component parts. His mind reached a solder joint and with minor effort opened it. The microphone ceased transmitting. Quickly he swung back to those men in the far room who were listening, but there was no change in their attitudes; they were unaware of the change. Getting up from the chair, he quietly closed the library door, shutting off sound to the other rooms, and then spoke aloud. With satisfaction, he noted that his words had not been heard in the earphones. With that, he laughed aloud. And Dr. Roy had called him a fake and a fraud because he had not used telekinesis to roll a pencil across a table.

  Paul released his grip on the device and allowed the solder joint to close again. Whistling, he left the library and walked to the entrance door of the apartment. As he stepped out into the corridor one of the bodyguards appeared from the opposite wing.

  “Hi,” Paul greeted him. “I’d like to look over the house.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man punched the elevator button.

  At dusk, he took the elevator back to the third floor and his room. The house had been pretty much as he had visualized it earlier, but now he had the added advantage of having met most of the people currently occupying it. The bodyguard and he had taken a turn about the grounds, pausing beside the pool to wish for warmer weather. Paul flipped a farewell salute to the accompanying man and opened his apartment door.

  He heard water running in the bathroom of the connecting apartment. She was in.

  Almost before he could close his door, there came a light tap, and the butler stood there. “Pardon me, sir. Dinner will be at seven. Would you care to join the gentlemen downstairs, or would you prefer to dine here?”

  “Here, tonight, I think,” Paul told him after a moment’s consideration.

  “Yes, sir. For one or two, sir?”

  Paul glanced at him with some surprise and then turned to study the closed door of the other apartment. The sound of running water came through very clearly. “Make it two,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” Singer closed the door and departed.

  Paul shaved and changed clothes. When he emerged from the bedroom the noise of the water had ceased, and now there were only tiny sounds indicating movement in the other apartment. He idled about the room, wondering what he would say to her. How did one invite a total stranger to dinner—and in the privacy of his rooms? The incongruity of that struck him at once and he laughed. But still, how should he go about it? He had never done it before and lacked a precedent. He couldn’t just walk up and bang on her door and shout, “Soup’s on—come and get it or we throw it to the hogs!”

  Similarly, consider the superfluity of introducing himself as a means of starting the conversation. She would already know his name. Then why not play it the direct way? Rap on her door. Invite her to dinner. Here. At seven. She would reply yes or no. As easy as that.

  Paul walked across the room. He rapped on her door. The small noises from the other side stopped.

  “Yes?” Her voice was soft. He liked it.

  “I’m having dinner sent up for two. Join me?”

  “Why, yes, thank you. I’ll be there in just a moment.” There seemed to be a smile in her voice.

  There! See how simple it was? He waited. She moved about behind the door. He put his hands in his pockets and tried not to be nervous. She neared the door, paused with one hand on the knob. Paul saw the knob turn and jerked his hands from his pockets. The door opened and the girl stepped through, smiling prettily. Paul stared at her. He exclaimed, “Jehoshaphat!” A borrowed word.

  Martha Merrill said, “Hello, Paul. You evidently remember me.”

  “I saw you—saw you in that building downtown, about five years ago.”

  “Of course. I was breaking in on the switchboard. I heard you had asked about me.” She advanced across the room and held out her hands to him. “I’ve come up in the world, as you can see.”

  She realized at once she shouldn’t have said that, or at least phrased it quite that way. Paul was frowning at her and, despite himself, flicked a quick glance over her shoulder at the open doorway. Martha stopped, studying him, and befor
e she could control it the shadow of an inward storm raced across her face.

  “I don’t like what you’re thinking, Paul.”

  “I’m sorry. I apologize. You caught me by surprise.”

  She tarried a few seconds longer. “All right,” she agreed then. “I’ll forgive you.” She put out her hand and Paul took it. “Fix me a drink?”

  “Delighted. Come and see where the bar is hidden.” He led her to the library and carefully closed the door behind them. Once inside, he put a finger to his lips to indicate silence and then stood a moment with his eyes closed. The solder joint in the microphone snapped open, destroying contact. Paul whirled around quickly and grasped the girl’s arms.

  “You screamed,” he said with excitement.

  Martha nodded. “Yes, Paul. I screamed.”

  “You—weren’t there on the street?”

  “No, I was quite some distance away. At home.”

  “But you were watching me?” His excitement grew. Martha reached up and gently pried loose the tight grip he held on her arms. “I’ve been watching you and listening to you for five years, Paul. Since the day you arrived in Washington and walked past my switchboard.”

  “Martha,” he whispered, “what are you?”

  She smiled at him happily. “The same as you, Paul. Or very near the same.” One hand raised and a finger pointed toward the ceiling. “I didn’t know about those microphones. I can’t break the connection as you just did.”

  “Are you reading me now? Have you been?”

  “Of course, all the time. Forgive me again, Paul, but I was very amused at your hesitancy outside my door.” She moved back from him. “And now, Paul, you had better replace the connection and make sounds of opening bottles. Someone will become suspicious.”

  “But I want to—”

  “Not now,” she cut him off. “We must keep up the pretense. Bottle noises, please.”

  Reluctantly his mind reached out and restored the solder joint. Hardly taking his eyes from her face, he reached into the footstool for the liquors. She gave the appropriate exclamation of surprise at discovering the cabinet and then told him how much to pour into her glass.

  “No ice,” he said then. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. You have a beautiful place here.” Martha clinked glasses with him and then surprised him a second time. “It isn’t necessary to use spoken words, you oaf! Use your head” No sound had passed her lips as she deftly inserted the suggestion into his consciousness, via telepathy.

  Paul stared open-mouthed, taken aback. “Why, I . . . Why, I never thought of that! What’s the matter with me?”

  “You aren’t used to it, as I am. You’ve had no opportunity to practice, you don’t know what it means to converse in this manner.”

  “Practice? And you have? How?”

  “I have two brothers, Paul. Like myself. All telepaths. And now you make four.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” he said aloud.

  “Oh,” she covered for him, “did you spill it? Try to be more careful.” Martha winked and indicated the hidden ears.

  “Where are they?” he demanded.

  “At home right now. In the islands.” She took his hand and led him to the sofa. “Don’t ask so many questions, Paul. Look in and see. My mind is open to you.” She pushed him down and then sat beside him, holding his arm. “Look . . .” she urged.

  Paul closed his eyes without thinking, knowing that it was unnecessary, and peered ever so cautiously into her conscious mind. She tightened her hold on his arm, urging him forward. Paul looked.

  There were five of them in the family; Martha, her two brothers, her father and mother. The children were telepathic, the parents were not. Her father was that rare breed of man, a man who calmly and wholeheartedly accepted the strange gift possessed by his children and actively encouraged it. He aided them in their plans, did what he could to maintain the cloak of secrecy over them and acted as the fiercely proud father was supposed to act.

  Their real home was in the West Indies, tucked away on a tiny island of the Grenadine archipelago, far off the trade and tourist routes and reachable only by native schooners working out of Grenada or St. Vincent’s Island. Her parents were British subjects, her father a retired civil servant, and the whole of the West Indies were filled with retired civil servants of the Crown. He was but one among many, unnoticed, unobtrusive. Their home, back from a long white-sand beach, was visited only by the trade winds and a few native fishermen or boatmen from the neighboring islands. Her brothers were there now. One had just come back from London; the other was preparing for a trip to South Africa.

  Her supposed residence was in Savannah, Georgia. A carefully if fraudulently documented background existed there for any who cared to investigate. And of course she had been investigated before obtaining her present employment many years ago. The Savannah camouflage had withstood the test. Her purpose in Washington was the same purpose as those of her brothers in London, or Capetown, or wherever they chose to go: hunting for others like themselves, like Paul. To date, he had been the only find. Her particular choice of sentry duty, that of the Counter-Intelligence Corps, was a favorable one in that if other telepaths existed it was likely they would turn up there eventually, or be turned up by the agents of the C.I.C. As Paul had demonstrated.

  It hardly seemed necessary to furnish reasons for wanting to locate other telepaths—her father referred to them as Telemen. He entertained dreams, as they sometimes permitted themselves to do, of an island, or a country, or the entire world populated by telemen. But meanwhile there were but four of them, and they should be together. There was one other reason. Martha was most emphatic on the point. She could not marry one of her brothers; she had no desire to marry a man who did not share her faculty. And so she had hunted with doubled vigor. And Paul arrived.

  But why hadn’t she spoken out sooner? Why had she waited for five years?

  Because her brothers had cautioned against any rash act. They were free agents, Paul was not. He was most securely wrapped in the arms of the C.I.C. and it was wisest for the time being to let him remain there. If and when the future brought about a natural means of releasing him from their jurisdiction, well and fine. If there were indications that freedom was never coming, steps would then be taken. Paul’s initial mistake was to call attention to himself too early, to become embroiled in a government security agency. If that hadn’t happened and he had remained a free man, mutual discovery might have been a long time in coming, but eventually they would have found him, or he them. It would have been quite different. But as it was, she had followed her brothers’ advice and kept silent, watching and waiting for the opportunity. That opportunity had come when she learned of plans to renovate the Maryland place for his residence, learned of Slater’s intentions to provide him with feminine company.

  Because Slater was unaware of her, he was not on guard against her. Probably to his own mild surprise he changed his mind one day about the woman he was going to send to Maryland. He called Martha Merrill into his office, explained to her the desirability and necessity of placing a confidential agent in the adjoining apartment, outlined what her duties might consist of, and asked if her religion or morals forbade it. After a suitable delay, she accepted. They were both satisfied. Paul was here, she was here, they were at last together. The future would determine the next steps.

  She hoped he didn’t think her too bold?

  “I should say not!” Paul exclaimed and then looked around guiltily. Martha laughed at him.

  “What of your brothers?” he sent.

  Dave, the elder, was a roving correspondent for the Times of London. One couldn’t wish for more adequate protective coloration, couldn’t hope for a better excuse to roam the world. Marty, the younger, conducted guided tours to all parts of the globe for the American Express Agency. Herding tourists was an onerous chore, but it served the purpose. She had chosen this particular agency in the United States because of what it and the
nation was. If Brazil had been the world’s leading power, she would be working in the Brazilian foreign office, if that were at all possible. Her parents remained on the island, keeping the sanctuary against the day it might be needed.

  Did he remember the early day when he had asked after her, asked about the possibilities of a date and Conklin had said she flew home on emergency leave?

  Yes.

  She had gone to the island by a circuitous route to inform her parents of her discovery. Had she not left so quickly she would have probably met him that night or the next. She later regretted missing him, but it was not to be helped. The shock and the thrill of the discovery as he walked past the switchboard had upset her, had sent her packing with the news.

  Paul rubbed his eyes and opened his mouth to say something, when a tap sounded at the door.

  Singer had brought their dinner.

  XV.

  1950-1952

  He constantly watched the girl across the dinner table.

  “You’re pretty,” he had informed her bluntly. “I thought so five years ago and I think so now.”

  “Thank you, Paul. Now eat your dinner.”

  He permitted his thoughts to roam over her, around her and at her aimlessly and undisciplined, while he ate. (I like your hair; I’ve always liked long hair, I think. I like the way it curls inward against your neck and shoulders. There’s a name for that, isn’t there?) She nodded, went on eating and listening to his random mentation. (Brown eyes, too. Snappy. Brown eyes and brown hair make a perfect combination—well, I think so. I would judge you at about five foot three or four. Aren’t you? Pretty package, gal. Your skin is rather pale; maybe you need more sun. Not that I’m the complaining kind, you understand. I think you have magnificent . . .) He stopped, swallowed, and the color ran high in his cheeks.