"I did; I had no time for further horsing around. I didn't dare risk being picked up anywhere but here. To tell this story in any police barracks or sheriff's office, where they didn't know the score, would eventually land me in an asylum."
"Couldn't you have saved time, trouble and anxiety by calling us long distance?"
"How far would I have got that way? Some underling would have sent police to the booth to pick up a loony. I've had a tough enough job reaching the right people in person."
None of the listeners relished that remark, but were unable to deny the truth of it. A formidable guard of minor officials stood between the high executive and a besieging force of malcontents, theorists, halfwits and world-doomers. Perforce they also held at bay the rare individual with something genuinely worth hearing.
General Conway harumphed, decided that there were no satisfactory methods of overcoming this difficulty, went on to say, "You have made contact with an alien life-form. So far as we know, you're the only one who has done so and remained able and willing to talk about it. Can you add anything that may help us to determine the true nature of the foe?"
"I didn't see it with my own two eyes. Therefore, I cannot assist you with an accurate description."
"Quite so. But you must have gained some kind of an impression."
Thinking it over, Harper conceded, "Yes, that's true."
"Let us have it. No matter how vague or fleeting, we need every datum we can get on this subject."
"For no apparent reason, I felt that alien ownership of another body is a natural phenomenon. That is to say, I knew, more or less instinctively, that the thing occupying the body of Jocelyn Whittingham was functionally designed for such a purpose. It was perfectly at home, and knew how to use what it had gained. The girl was a human being, from toes to hair, in all respects but one: another and different life-spark had been substituted."
"Which suggests that it's nature, is wholly parasitic?" asked Conway. "It normally exists in possession of some other life-form?"
"Yes. It's an old hand at that game."
"And that, in turn, suggests that when it acquires another body, it also gains the data within the brain, all the knowledge, the memory and so forth?"
"Undoubtedly. It could not survive without doing so; otherwise, its own incompetence would betray it at once."
Turning his attention to Benfield, the general remarked, "The inevitable deduction is that Venus harbors various life-forms, some of which are the natural prey of a possessive parasite. Also, that this parasite is capable of taking over a form higher than any in its own habitat. It can adapt right out if its own environment and, if I may put it that way, it can raise itself by its own bootstraps."
Benfield nodded agreement.
"Also," continued Conway, "It is probably microscopic, or germlike. That's my guess; I'll have to leave that angle to others more expert. They'll be able to make shrewder estimates of its characteristics."
"It would help more than somewhat if we could discover how that girl was mastered," Harper pointed out. "Her body might tell the story."
'That is being looked into. We have confiscated her corpse, despite violent objections from her relatives."
Harper looked at him, eyes glowing. "Which of them raised the biggest outcry?""
About to add something more, Conway paused and registered momentary bafflement.
"Why?"
"We Venusians must stick together."
"You mean—?"
"Yes, I mean what you're now thinking."
Firming his lips, Conway reached for the phone, ordered, "Take the entire Whittingham family into safekeeping at once. No, it is not an arrest; there are no charges. Tell them it's for their own protection. Eh? If their lawyer chips in, refer him directly to me."
"That will do a fat lot of good," remarked Harper. "If one or more of the Whittinghams is no longer of this world, you're helping him create a bunch of Venusian cops out west."
"It's a risk we'll have to take."
"Not necessarily. You could put them in animal cages, and feed them with long tongs. Anything — anything, so long as they can't get near enough to help themselves to their own guards."
"That would be gross violation of their constitutional rights. We could get away with such tactics only by justifying them before the public. To do that, we must release information that we wish to reserve, at least for the time being." His eyes questioned Harper as if to say, "What's the answer to that?"
Harper took it up promptly. "Tell the Whittinghams that Jocelyn died of a new, malignant and highly contagious disease. They must be isolated until found free from it. The black plague again."
"What, when they know she was shot?"
"I had the disease. I was raving mad with it. I touched her, contaminated her; she's lucky to be dead. You've got to give a clean bill of health to whoever handled her afterward. Some clause in the health laws can be finagled to cover their incarceration. No protectors of civil liberties are going to bawl about the freedom of suspected lepers — and the story will be substantially true, won't it?"
"You may have something there." Conway used the phone again, gave instructions, finished, "Consult Professor Holzberger about the technical description of a suitable pretext. What is needed is something strong enough to convince, but not strong enough to cause a panic." He ended, said to Harper, "And now what?"
"When there's a chance, let me go out there to look them over. If I find them all clean, give them a mock check-up by some worried-looking medico and let them go. They'll be too relieved to gripe."
"But if one of them is possessed?"
"I'll smell him at first sniff; he'll know it, too. Keep him at all costs. When the others have gone, pull him apart. You could do that without a qualm, because you'll be carving an animated corpse. With luck you might be able to isolate whatever it is."
Conway frowned. Jameson looked slightly sick. Benfield didn't enjoy it, either; he was visualizing his hands shaving himself at another's behest."
"We'll take that up shortly," said Conway. "There is one more cogent point- yet to be considered. You say that the instant you recognized the Whittingham girl, her immediate thought was of escape?"
"Yes."
"But not to a specific place?"
"No."
"Therefore her impulse to flee was instinctive, and no more?"
"Not entirely. She experienced the shock of somebody deprived, without warning, of a long-established and greatly valued truth — namely, that recognition is impossible. She was confronted with an irrefutable fact which was contrary to all experience. She felt the dire need to get away from me and tell the others."
"Which others? Where?"
"I don't know."
"You know only that she didn't know?"
Harper fidgeted around, brooded at the floor. "Frankly, I'm unable to give a satisfactory answer; she may have known, but succeeded in suppressing the knowledge. That I doubt. Or—"
"Or what?"
"She may have possessed some alien sense which enables her kind to contact each other. "Something like the homing instinct of pigeons or dogs, but on a species basis."
"But you are convinced that she was not telepathic?"
"Not in the way that I am."
"In some other way, perhaps?"
"Nothing is impossible," said Harper flatly. "It is beyond my power to list the attributes of things native to some place umpteen millions of miles away, after a one-second glance. Catch me another dozen. I'll take a longer look, and tell you more."
Responding to Conway's gesture, Benfield switched off the tape-recorder.
"Catch you another dozen," echoed Conway. "How the devil are we going to do that? We know of three, and it's not beyond our resources to find and seize them sooner or later. Getting any others who may be around is a different matter. We have nothing to go upon, no details concerning them, no way of identifying them." His gaze came up, levelled on Harper. "Excepting through you. That's wh
y you're drafted. We require your services to test every suspect we can lay hands on."
"So I'm expected to stay put, wait for your lineups, look them over and say yes or no?" –
"Exactly. There is no other way."
"There is," Harper contradicted.
"For instance?"
"You could use me for bait."
"Eh?"
"They want me as badly as you want them. They need to learn what makes me a nuisance, fully as much as you need to learn about them. In that respect, they have an advantage. You must try to grab an unknown number of unknown pseudo-people; they have to snatch one man whose name, address and car-tag number have been shouted all over the country. Give them half a chance, and they'll swarm around me. Then all you need do is step in."
Conway breathed heavily and objected, "It's a risk, a grave risk."
"Think I'm tickled pink about it?"
"If anything should go wrong, we'll have lost our most effective counter-weapon, and be without means to replace it."
"The beauty of that will be," said Harper cheerfully, "that I will no longer care one-tenth of a damn. The dead are splendidly indifferent about who wins a war, or gains a world."
"Perhaps not; but well still be living."
"That won't concern me, either. My great-grandmother doesn't give a hoot about the hole in my sock."
"And you may still be living," retorted Conway. "Even though dead.
"I'll be a goner, either way," Harper gave back. "What if some midget alien is wearing me like mink?"
He grinned at them, enjoying the repulsion in their minds.
9. Three Rotten Apples
The general was like a chess-player trying to decide whether checkmate could be ensured by sacrificing his queen. To his military mind, telepaths were expendable — providing the supply of them was endless. Unfortunately, they were neither shells nor guns; they could not be manufactured to order. So far as could be determined, he had one, and only one, telepathic weapon in his armory. If that one went, there'd be no more.
Conway was still stewing it over, when again his phone called for attention. He took it meditatively, listened, abruptly came to full attention.
"Who?" When did this happen? Yes, yes, you'd better." He cradled it, scowled forward.
"Something wrong?" asked Harper.
"You know what's wrong; you must have heard the details being recorded in my mind."
"I wasn't listening. I was full of my own thoughts. I can't make noises at myself and at the same time take note of other people's cerebral trumpetings."
"One of the witnesses is dead; the old man at the filling station."
"Murdered?"
"Yes. It happened a couple of hours ago, but they found him only within the last fifteen minutes. Whoever did it has a good headstart." Conway cocked an inquiring eye at Jameson. "I don't know what to think of it. You've far more experience in such matters; do you suppose this may be mere coincidence?"
"How was he killed?" Jameson asked.
"They discovered him lying by his pumps, his skull crushed by a single blow from a heavy. instrument. They say it looks as if he filled somebody's tank, and was struck down when he tried to collect."
"Any evidence of robbery? Had his pockets been emptied or the cash register cleaned out?"
"No."
"H'm!" That doesn't prove that robbery wasn't the motive," Jameson opined. 'The culprits may have been scared off before they could complete the job. Or maybe they were joyriders who slugged him for a free tank of gas, overdid it, and made it murder."
Conway turned his attention to Harper. "The police out there feel hamstrung because they're under strict orders to abandon everything in favor of the hunt for missing pilots.-Yet one investigation may be part of the other, and I don't want it to be ignored if there is a connection. On the other hand, I'd rather not countermand orders unless such a connection exists. What is your opinion?"
"If Venusians did it to shut the old fellow's trap, they arrived too late. He saw their photos and set the fireworks going before they could stop him. But they wouldn't know that."
"You think this is not a coincidence?"
"No," said Harper carefully. "Jameson has given his viewpoint, and I'm trying to consider its opposite. I'm telling you that if those three are aware of the identity of the girl they converted, her death will give them the shakes. Two and two make four on any planet. They'll add up the news, make it the correct total, and decide she'd been found out somehow, God knows how."
"And so—?"
"They know a nation-wide hunt will be after them, unless they can cover up. If they can postpone capture long enough, it will come too late. Many people spotted them in that Thunderbug, but only two saw them with the girl, and took a close look at them at the time. Those were Alderson and the oldster. The former is too dead to study pictures; it would help them some to have the latter in the same condition."
"Then why were they so slow to get at him?" commented Conway. "They dealt with him three to four hours behind time."
"I killed that girl and came here as fast as I could go, and have been hanging around all day. The news didn't break until some time after I'd left. If, when they saw the news, they had to rush back as far, or perhaps farther, they must have moved as swiftly as they dared. It takes time to cover territory, even in these days."
"I suppose so." Doubtfully, Conway shifted his gaze to Benfield. "Have you any ideas?"
"Yes, General. I think it best to pursue this matter on the principle of overlooking nothing."
"That's the boy," approved Harper. "With all the troops and police Uttering this country, we should be able to spare a couple of dozen to chase a possibility. The grave loss of manpower won't make us topple any quicker."
Conway did not approve the humor, which smacked to him of unwarranted sarcasm; but it served its purpose of stinging him into immediate action. He made his call.
"Williams, about that filling-station murder; I want it looked into. Make it quick and thorough. Yes, orders are suspended with respect to this case only. It may be linked with the search; if so, one of the wanted men has been in that area today. Call me and report directly you make progress." He ended, gave a challenging look at the others. "That settles that. There's little more we can do until we make our first capture — and it's to be hoped we get him alive."
"It's also to be hoped that one will lead to the others," put in Benfield.
"And it's further to be hoped that, sometime before Christmas, somebody will make up his mind about accepting or rejecting my offer to dangle on the hook," said Harper.
"Your first job is to check the Whittingham family," Conway shot back. "After that we'll consider what to do with you next."
"Then let's go." Harper waved a familiar goodbye to General Conway, performing it in the manner of a rookie too raw to know better. Conway involuntarily bristled at him, a fact he found most pleasing.
"There's no sense in going out of your way to irritate the old boy," reproved Jameson, when they had exited and reached the car. "He has troubles enough."
"I was reasserting the freedom of the individual at the moment when it's likeliest to become disputed," snapped Harper.
Back at headquarters, Jameson said, "The sooner you get out there and do your stuff, the better. We'll send you by plane or copter. Sit down and wait — I'll find out what can be done."
"You restore my good character while you're at it," Harper suggested. "Cancel that dragnet for me. I don't like it, even if it is being ignored. Priority of pilot-search won't prevent some sharp-eyed cuss from grabbing me, if he notices me right under his nose."
"We'll tend to that eventually. Meanwhile I'll send a couple of agents with you, to be on the safe side."
"Think I can't look after myself?"
"It's Conway's order."
"Oh, all right." As the other went through the door, Harper called, "And I want my gun back. It's my property, isn't it?"
Jameson returned in
two minutes, tossed him the weapon and a large brown envelope. "Study that while I get things moving — all planes are busy, and you'll have to use a copter." He departed again.
Tucking the gun under his left arm, Harper extracted the envelope's flap, slid out three full-plate glossy photographs. Each had a typed slip of data attached to its back. He examined them closely.
The first was of William Gould, twenty-eight, test-pilot-in-chief, a frank-faced, blond-haired, husky individual who weighed one-eighty pounds and had a half-moon scar on the left brow. The thinner, dark-haired face smiling from the second picture was that of Cory McDonald, twenty-four, test-pilot and computer, a wiry type of one-fifty-five pounds, no identifying marks on body. Picture number three showed the thoughtful, serious features of Earl James Langley, twenty-seven, test-pilot and astronavigator, dark-haired, one-sixty-two pounds, small mole on right thigh, white scars on both kneecaps.
"Gould, McDonald and Langley," recited Harper to himself, as he shuffled the photos to and fro and memorized the faces. "Gould, McDonald and Langley. Three good boys who went away full of hope and came back full of hell. God rest their souls!"
He felt vengeful as he looked at them.
Three fine young men.
Three rotten apples.
"Damn!" he said loudly. "Damn!"
"What are you cussing over?" inquired Jameson, coming through the door.
"Somebody's sons — and what's been done to them."
"Don't bother your head about them. We've a bigger worry — namely, that of what they're doing to others."
"I know. But it's in my nature to deplore the deplorable." He returned the photographs to the envelope, handed it over. "If I can have copies, will you see they're put in my car? They're too large to fold into my pocket."
We're printing thousands of smaller ones, wallet-size; you'll get a set in due course." Jameson gazed expectantly toward the door. Two men entered. They were young, lean, well-dressed, with an air of quiet competence. Jameson introduced them. "Meet Dan Norris and Bill Rausch. Try getting away from them."
"These are the escort?"
"Yes."
"Hope I won't bore you, boys," said Harper. "Are we ready to go?"
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