The Normals had long since discovered that the only way to overcome a Controller was by force of numbers. A Controller could only hold one Normal mind at a time. That was why a mob could easily kill a single Controller; that was why the Psychodeviant Police had evolved the “net” system for arresting a telepath.
Harris, then, had been framed. Or could it be called a frame-up when Harris was really guilty of the actual crime? Because the crime he had really been accused of was not that of controlling Sir Lewis, but the crime of being a telepath. That, and that alone, damned him in the eyes of the Normals; the crime of taking over a mind for gain was incidental. The stigma lies in what he was, not what he did.
Harris himself was in the bottom of the plane, in the baggage section near the landing gear. After his trial, still drugged, he had been secretly put aboard, to be taken to the Long Island Spaceport in New York. It had had to be secret; no Normal would knowingly ride on an aircraft which carried a Controller, even if he were drugged into total unconsciousness.
With Harris were two PD Police guards. Their low conversation impinged on Harris’s ears, and was transmitted to Houston’s mind.
Suddenly, one of them said: “Hey! He’s moving!”
“Better give him another shot, Harry;” said the other, “when those guys wake up, they drive you crazy.”
Houston could almost feel the sting of the needle as it was inserted into the arm of the helpless prisoner.
Slowly, Harris’s thoughts, which had begun to become fully coherent, again became chaotic, finally sliding off into silence and darkness.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Houston looked up from his intense concentration. The stewardess was standing by his seat. He realized that there was a film of perspiration on his brow, and that he probably had looked dazed while he was concentrating on Harris’s mind.
“Sure,” he said quickly, “I’m all right. I’m just a little tired. Had to get up too early to catch this plane.” He rubbed his forehead. “I do have a little headache; would you happen to have any aspirin aboard?”
She smiled professionally. “Certainly, sir. I’ll get a couple of tablets.”
As she left for the first-aid cabinet, Houston thought bleakly to himself: Harris was framed. Possibly others have been, too. But by whom? And why?
He could see why a Normal might do such a thing. But why would a Controller do it?
There was only one answer. Somewhere, there was a Controller, or a group of Controllers who were megalomaniacs par excellence. If that were so, he—or they—could make the late “Blackjack” Donnely look like a meek, harmless, little mouse.
* * * *
The one part of Continental U.S.A. over which the American Government had no jurisdiction was small, area-wise, in comparison with its power. The District of the United Nations occupied the small area of Manhattan Island which ran from 38th Street on the south to 49th Street on the north; its western border was Third Avenue, its eastern, the East River. From here, the UN ruled Earth.
There were no walls or fences around it; only by looking at street signs could anyone tell that they had crossed an international border. Crossing Third Avenue from west to east, one found that 45th Street had suddenly become Deutschland Strasse; 40th Street became Rue de France; 47th was the Via Italiano. 43rd Street’s sign was painted in Cyrillic characters, but beneath it, in English, were the words “Avenue of Mother Russia.”
Third Avenue was technically One World Drive. Second Avenue was labeled as Planetary Peace Drive, and First was United Nations Drive.
But New Yorkers are, and always have been, diehards. Just as The Avenue of the Americas had forever remained Sixth Avenue, no matter what the maps called it, so had the other streets retained their old names in conversation.
Even the International Post Office, after years of wrangling, had given up, and letters addressed to Supreme Headquarters, United Nations Police, 45th Street at Second Avenue, were delivered without comment, even though the IPO still firmly held that they were technically misaddressed. And, privately, even the IPO officials admitted that the numbers were easier to say and remember than the polyglot street names that had been tagged on by the General Assembly.
So when David Houston signalled a taxi at Grand Central Station and said, “Forty-fifth and Second,” the driver simply set his automatic controls, leaned back in his seat, and said, “Goin’ to see the cops, huh?”
When no answer was forthcoming, the driver turned around and took a good look at his passenger. “Maybe you’re a UN cop yourself, huh?”
Houston shook his head. “Nope. Some kids have been scribbling dirty words on my sidewalk, and I’m going to report it to the authorities.”
The driver turned back around and looked ahead again. “Jeez! That’s serious. Hadn’t you better take it up with the Secretary General? I wouldn’t be satisfied with no underlings in a case like that.”
“I’m thinking of taking it up with the Atomic Energy Control Board,” Houston told him. “I think those kids are using radioactive chalk.”
“That’s one way for ’em to get blue jeans,” said the driver cryptically.
There was silence for a moment as the taxi braked smoothly to a halt, guided and controlled by the automatic machinery in the hood.
Then, suddenly, the driver said: “Ship up!” He pointed east, along 45th Street, toward Long Island. Far in the distance was a rapidly rising vapor trail, pointing vertically toward the sky, the unmistakable sign of a spaceship takeoff. They didn’t leave often, and it was still an unusual sight.
Houston said nothing as he climbed out and paid the driver, tossing in an extra tip.
“Thanks, buddy,” said the driver. “Watch out for them kids.”
Houston didn’t answer. He was still watching the vapor trail as the cab pulled away.
* * * *
There goes Harris, he was thinking. An innocent man, guilty of nothing more than being born different. And because of that, he’s labeled as an inhuman monster, not even worthy of being executed. Instead, he’s taken into space, filled full of hibernene, and chained to a floating piece of rock for the rest of his life.
Such was humanity’s “humane” way of taking care of the bogey of Controllers. Capital punishment had been outlawed all over Earth; it had long since been proved that legalized murder, execution by the State, solved nothing, helped no one, prevented no crimes, and did infinitely more harm than good in the long run.
With the coming of the Controllers, a movement had arisen to bring back the old evil of judicial murder, but it had been quickly put down when the Penal Cluster plan had been put forth as a more “humane” method.
Hibernene was a drug that had been evolved from the study of animals like the bear, which spent its winters in an almost death-like sleep. A human being, given a proper dosage of the drug, lapsed into a deep coma. The bodily processes were slowed down; the heart throbbed sluggishly, once every few minutes; thought ceased. It was the ideal prison for a mental offender that ordinary prisons could not hold.
But it wasn’t quite enough for the bloodthirsty desire for vengeance that the Normals held for the Controllers. There had to be more.
Following Earth in its orbit around the sun, trailing it by some ninety-three million miles, were a group of tiny asteroids, occupying what is known as the Trojan position. They were invisible from Earth, being made of dark rock and none of them being more than fifteen feet in diameter. But they had been a source of trouble in some of the early expeditions to Mars, and had been carefully charted by the Space Commission.
Now a use had been found for them. A man in a spacesuit could easily be chained to one of them. With him was a small, sun-powered engine and tanks of liquefied food concentrates and oxygen. Kept under the influence of hibernene, and kept cool by the chill of space, a man could spend the rest of his life there—unmoving, unknowing, uncaring, dead as far as he and the rest of Mankind were concerned—his slight bodily needs tended automatica
lly by machine.
It was a punishment that satisfied both sides of the life-or-death argument.
Houston shook off the bleak, black feeling of terrible chill that had crept over him and pushed his way into the UN Police building.
* * * *
The thirteenth floor housed the Psychodeviant Division. As he stood in the rising elevator, Houston wondered wryly if the number 13 was good luck or bad in this case.
He stepped out of the elevator and headed for the Division Chief’s office.
Division Chief Reinhardt was a heavy-set, balding man, built like a professional wrestler. His cold blue eyes gleamed from beneath shaggy, overhanging brows, and his face was almost expressionless except for a faint scowl that crossed it from time to time. In spite of the fact that a Canadian education had wiped out all but the barest trace of German accent, his Prussian training, of the old Junkers school, was still evident. He demanded—and got—precision and obedience from his subordinates, although he had no use for the strictly military viewpoint of obsequiousness towards one’s superiors.
He was sitting behind his desk, scowling slightly at some papers on it when Houston stepped in.
“You wanted me to report straight to you, Mr. Reinhardt?”
Reinhardt looked up, his heavy face becoming expressionless. “Ah, Houston. Yes; sit down. You did a fine job on that London affair; that’s what I call coming through at the last moment.”
“How so?”
“Your orders to return,” he said, “were cut before you found your man. We have a much more important case for you than some petty pilfering Controller. We are after much more dangerous game.”
Houston nodded. “I see.” Inwardly, he wondered. It was almost as if Reinhardt knew that Houston had found out that the recall had come early. Houston would have given his right arm at that moment to be able to probe Reinhardt’s mind. But he held himself back. He had, in the past, sent tentative probes toward the Division Chief and found nothing, but he didn’t know whether it would be safe now or not. It would be better to wait.
* * * *
Reinhardt stood up, walked to the wall, and turned on a display screen. He twisted a knob to a certain setting, and a map of Manhattan Island sprang onto the screen in glowing color.
“As you know,” Reinhardt said pedantically, “no Controller can do a perfect job of controlling a normal person. No matter how much he may want to make John Smith act naturally, some of the personality of the Controller will show up in the actions of John Smith. Am I correct?”
Houston nodded without saying anything. The question was purely rhetorical, and the statement was perfectly correct.
“Very well, then,” Reinhardt continued, “by means of these peculiarities, our psychologists have found that there is widespread, but very subtle controlling going on right in the UN General Assembly itself! The amazing thing is that they all bear the—shall we say—trademark of the same Controller. Whoever he is, he seems to have a long-range plan in mind; he wants to change, ever so slightly, certain international laws so that he will profit by them. Do you follow?”
“I follow,” said Houston.
“Good. It has taken painstaking research and a great deal of psychological statistical analysis, but we have found that one company—and one company only—benefits by these legal changes. Did you ever hear of Lasser & Sons?”
“Sure,” said Houston. “They’re in the import-export business, with a few fingers in shipping and air transport.”
“That’s them,” said Reinhardt. “Someone in that company, presumably someone at the top, is a Controller. And he’s a very subtle, very dangerous man. Unlike the others, there is nothing hasty or overt in his plans. But within a few years, if this goes on, he will have more power than the others ever dreamed of.”
“And my job is to get him?” Houston asked.
Reinhardt nodded. “That’s it. Get him. One way or another. You’re in charge; I don’t care how you do it, but this one Controller is more dangerous than any other we’ve come across, so get him.”
Houston nodded slowly. “Okay. Can you give me all the data you have so far?”
Reinhardt patted a heavy folder on his desk. “It’s all here.” Then he tapped the projected map on the screen. “That’s the Lasser Building—Church Street at Worth. Somewhere in there is the man we’re looking for.”
* * * *
David Houston spent the next six weeks gathering facts, trying to determine the identity of the mysterious Controller at Lasser & Sons. Slowly, the evidence began to pile up.
At the same time, he worried over his own problem. Who was betraying non-criminal Controllers to the PD Police?
In that six-week period, two more men and a woman were arrested—one in Spain, one in India, and one in Hawaii.
There weren’t very many Controllers on Earth, percentagewise. Of the three and a half billion people on Earth, less than an estimated one-thousandth of one percent were telepathic. But that made a grand total of some thirty-five thousand people.
Spread, as they were, all over the planet, it was rare that one Controller ever met another. The intelligent ones didn’t use their power; they remained concealed, even from each other.
But someone, somewhere, was finding them and betraying them to the Psychodeviant Police.
As more and more data came in on the Lasser case, Houston began to get an idea. If there were a really clever, highly intelligent, megalomaniac Controller, wouldn’t it be part of his psychological pattern to attempt to get rid of the majority of Controllers, those who simply wanted to lead normal lives?
And, if so, wasn’t it possible that both his cases—the official and the unofficial—might lead to the same place: Lasser & Sons?
It began to look as though Houston could kill both his birds at once, if he could just figure out when, how, and in what direction to throw the stone.
In the middle of the seventh week, a Controller in Manchester, England, was mobbed and torn to bits by an irate crowd before the PD Police could get to him. There was no doubt in Houston’s mind that this one was a real megalomaniac; he had taken over another man’s brain and forced him to commit suicide. The controlled man had taken a Webley automatic, put it to his temple, and blown his brains out.
The Controller’s mistake was in not realizing what the sudden shock of that bullet, transmitted to him telepathically, could do to his own mind. In the mental disorder that followed, he was spotted and killed easily.
* * * *
There was still no word from Dorrine. She had flown back to the States a week after Houston had returned, but she had had to get back to England after three days. Since then, he had had three letters, nothing more. And letters are a damned unsatisfactory way for a telepath to conduct a love affair.
The one other factor that entered in was The Group, the small band of sane, reasonable telepaths who had begun to build themselves into an organization—a sort of Mutual Protective Association.
Personally, Houston didn’t think much of the idea; the Group didn’t have any real organization, and they refused to put one together. It was supposed to be democratic, but it sometimes bordered on the anarchic.
He stayed with them more for companionship than any other reason. When Dorrine had come back for her short stay, Houston had met with them and tried to get them to help him trace down the megalomaniac Controller who was doing so much damage, but they’d balked at the idea. Their job, they claimed, was to get enough members so that they could protect themselves from arrest by the Normals, and then just let things ride.
“After all,” Dorrine had said, “things will work themselves out, darling; they always do.”
“Not unless somebody helps them, they don’t,” Houston had snapped back. “Someone has to do something.”
“But, Dave, darling—we are doing something! Don’t you see?”
He didn’t, but there was no convincing either the Group or Dorrine. She was passionately interested in the recruiting wo
rk she was doing, and she thought that the Group was the answer to every Controller’s troubles.
And then she had rushed back to England. “I’ll be back soon, Dave,” she’d said. “I think I have a lead on a girl in Liverpool.”
So far, the girl hadn’t been found. Controllers didn’t like to give themselves away to anyone, so they kept a tight screen up most of the time.
It seemed as though everyone on Earth was in deadly fear all the time. The Normals feared losing their identities to Controllers, and the Controllers feared death at the hands of the Normals.
And death or the Penal Cluster were their only choices if they were discovered.
Houston worried about the risks Dorrine was taking, but there was nothing he could do. She was doing what she thought was right, just as he was; how could he argue with that?
Houston went on with his job, putting together facts and rumors and statistical data analysis, searching out his quarry.
And, at the end of the eighth week, everything blew high, wide, and hellish.
* * * *
It was late evening. A cool wind blew over New York, bringing with it a hint of the rain to come. Church Street, in lower Manhattan, was not crowded, as it had been in the late afternoon, but neither was it entirely deserted. The cafes and bars did a lively business, but the tall, many-colored office buildings gaped at the street with blind and darkened eyes. Only a few of the windows glowed whitely with fluorescent illumination.
In one of the small coffee shops, David Houston sat, smoking a cigarette and stirring idly at a cup of cooling coffee.
Across the street was the Lasser Building; high up on the sixtieth floor, a whole suite of offices was brightly lit. The rest of the building was clothed in blackness.
Who was up there in that suite? Houston wasn’t quite sure. He had narrowed his list of suspects down to three men: John Sager, Loris Pederson, and Norcross Lasser, three top officials in the company. Sager and Pederson were both vice-presidents of the firm; Sager was in charge of the Foreign Exports department, while Pederson handled the actual shipping. Lasser, by virtue of being the grandson of the man who had founded the firm, was president of Lasser & Sons, Inc.
The Randall Garrett Megapack Page 11
