"It's true enough; he got a scare that sent him into a panic."
"That's all we want to know."
* * *
At three o'clock the following afternoon, Harper was taking it easy, his chair tilted on its back legs, his feet on the rim of the desk, his mind wide open as idly he watched Moira sorting invoices.
His mental faculty had two distinct methods of functioning, which he liked to symbolize as radio and radar. When he was playing at radio, he merely listened and put up with whatever programs were being broadcast in "the vicinity. If he switched to radar, he transmitted a pulse of his own which stimulated some other mind into producing a required response.
When he listened, ninety-nine times out of a hundred it was stuff not worthy of a moment's attention. But when he probed, he got what he wanted by nudging the other mind into thinking of it. So far as ordinary human beings were concerned, it made no difference which method he adopted because they were unconscious of both.
With a Venusian mind it wasn't the same; that had been his first lesson, learned when he contacted the entity owning the Whittingham girl. In some subtle way the Venusians differed. He could listen to one, radio-fashion, without it realizing that it was being overheard. But if, radar-like, he prodded one to compel release of a wanted fact, it felt the prod and took immediate alarm.
Right now, Harper was slowly and rhythmically rocking the chair and straining its hind legs, which gave forth protesting squeaks. Over the last few days he had not listened continuously; it was impossible to do that and give attention to other matters. Besides, it was sufficient for his mind to make a two-seconds sweep around the neighborhood every couple of minutes, much like a lighthouse beam circling across dark and stormy seas.
He rocked and made his umpteen hundredth or thousandth sweep, ceased punishing the chair, sat erect. Moira glanced at him expectantly, saw that his attention was not on her, and resumed her sorting. He listened again to something far away, perhaps a thousand yards or more, half-hidden in the general hubbub. It grew nearer, slowly but steadily, at a rate corresponding with walking pace. It was an inhuman mind gaggling like an angry gander.
"Norris!" he yelled.
Moira gave a jerk, dropped a bunch of papers, scrabbled for them on the floor.
The door whisked open and the agent looked in. "What's the matter?"
"I think this is it."
"You mean—?"
"It's coming on two feet. No car. On the sidewalk taking a stroll."
"Stay where you are!" ordered Norris. He bolted from sight.
Going to the window, Harper looked onto the road ten feet below. He opened the casement, and leaned out to get a better view.
If there was one pedestrian in sight, there must have been a thousand. The mind he sought had to be among that cluster on the left-hand side of the road, between four and five hundred yards to the north. His directional sense assured him of that much, but it could hot detach one individual from a distant bunch of nondescripts.
Still leaning out and watching, he waited for the weird mind to draw closer. Three hundred yards, two hundred, one fifty. By now he had narrowed the possibility down to three people — a smart housewife tripping along perkily; a plump and prosperous-looking businessman in his early forties; a lanky, lantern-jawed individual who slunk along close to the Wall.
Behind him, Norris reappeared and said, "All set. Now can you—?"
Ignoring him, Harper made a vicious mental stab along the receiving-line. The result came back in a split second: intense shock, wild alarm, frantic desire to escape and carry a warning elsewhere.
The housewife kept going, without faltering or changing pace. The lanky slinker maintained pace and manner. The plump man stopped in his tracks, glared wildly around, swung on one heel and started back whence he had come, at a rapid walk.
Harper jumped out the window. He heard a gasp from Norris, and an exclamation from Moira, before he landed heavily. His gun was already in his right fist as he regained balance and plunged forward, in the wake of the escapee.
Something in the expressions of passers-by told the quarry that things had begun to happen behind him. Lifting arms to sides, he broke into a headlong run. For one of his portly build, he showed a remarkable turn of speed.
A bewildered clerk carrying a large box danced in front of the charging Harper, who snarled, "Out of my way, Stupid!" brushed him aside and pounded on. Back of him, someone was shouting indistinguishable words in authoritative tones. On the comer, six hundred yards ahead, someone else blew a shrill whistle. A police-car siren started wailing. Two agents stepped out of a doorway ahead of the fugitive, weapons in hands, and bawled an order to halt. Two more came racing down the opposite side of the road.
The plump man wasn't finished yet. Taking as little notice of the guns as one would of peashooters, he dived through the main door of an office building. Harper went in five seconds later, red-faced and breathing hard; two agents followed close upon his heels. A car squealed into the curb, unloaded four more.
One of a bank of self-operated elevators was going up fast, taking the fugitive with it. Stopping at its folding gate, Harper scowled upward, watched the other's feet disappear from sight. One pair of agents raced up nearby stairs; two more jumped into an adjoining elevator and boosted it skyward.
Putting the muzzle of his weapon to the gate's lock, Harper fired, broke it, hauled the gate open and halted the elevator at the third-floor level. He had hoped to get the quarry stuck between floors, but the apparatus proved to be of automatic-levelling type and responded to sudden loss of power by letting its box sink into adjustment.
Listening to the minds above, he detected the fugitive's break-out onto the third floor, the nearness to him of the agents on the stairs, and knew what was going to happen before he could prevent it.
He galloped up the stairs with sweat beading his brow. He had covered the first flight and half the second, taking steps three at a time, when overhead there sounded a terrific blast, a tinkle of falling' glass, a brief pause followed by a hammering burst of explosions. His speed upped itself another twenty per cent while his lungs heaved.
While taking the turn from second to third, he heard the yowl of an alien spark becoming extinguished in a useless body, also the wild, despairing cry of something more human on its way out. He slowed down, mounting the remaining stairs at normal pace, knowing that he was too late.
The third floor corridor was a shambles. Three agents stood in a little group looking over the scene. One was holding a heavy riot gun still warm in the muzzle. Another was mopping blood that dripped steadily from his left ear. The third was gazing gloomily at the body of a fourth sprawled near the top of the stairs, crimson splotches on chest and face.
Ten yards from the elevator lay the corpse of the plump man. He was not a pleasant sight.
11. The Elusive One
The man with the dripping ear bent over the agent who lay supine by the stairs, slid a hand under his vest, felt around and rasped, "He's dead." He stood up, patted a crimson-spotted handkerchief to the side of his head. "If he hadn't beaten me to the top, he mightn't have got it. And if I hadn't been four steps lower, I'd have got it all over and right through."
"We soared past him in that other box," explained the one with the riot gun to Harper. "When he stopped so suddenly, we overshot him and had to back down. It was just then that he got out and tossed an egg at the other pair. A splinter went right through the floor and between my feet. We jerked open the gate, saw him running down there, and gave him a burst before he could throw any more."
A horde came charging up the stairs, Norris and Rausch in the lead. Loud murmurings came from the street far below. Harper realized that he was still gripping his gun, and tucked it away.
Norris glanced around, thinned his lips, examined the agent lying by the stairs. "He looks gone to me. Rush him down to the ambulance, just in case." He turned to the others. "What happened?"
They told him, finishing,
"Fat chance we had of taking him alive."
One of the onlookers opened a penknife, picked at the wall, dug out a ragged piece of metal. He studied it closely and said, "Army grenade by the looks of it." He gave the fragment to Norris. "What do you think?"
"Yes, you may be right. We'll have to start checking the armories. Frisk him, and let's see what else he's got."
They made a thorough search of the plump man's clothes. The grenade was all he had carried in the way of lethal objects. He had an expensive watch, a diamond stickpin, and a well-filled wallet. His clothes were of top quality, and his shoes were also expensive.
They laid him flat on his back, revealing a double-chinned and amiable face, close-shaven and well cared-for. Even now, his features wore the expression of one who would not harm a fly — unless it tried to make off with his stickpin. His hands were clean and soft, with pink, almond-shaped nails expertly manicured.
Apart from the watch, pin, wallet and two fine linen hand- kerchiefs, there wasn't another thing in his pockets: no driving permit, business card or identity card; no pen, cigarette case, lighter or keys. His clothes were devoid of a tailor's label; his shoes bore no maker's mark other than that indicating the size. There wasn't a thing by means of which he could be identified quickly.
"More delay," remarked Norris bitterly. "It's going to use up valuable time finding out who he is." He became momentarily hopeful. "I don't suppose you can tell us anything about him?"
"Sorry," said Harper, genuinely regretful. It was beyond his power to dig data out of a dead brain. Although he had not had a chance to put it to the test, he suspected that a Venusian, involuntarily identifies himself as a Venusian, and not as the entity he has usurped. That was the cause of all the trouble, the reason why one exceptional man could recognize them.
"We'll have to do the best we can, and do it quickly, too." Norris handed the wallet to an agent. "Make a list of those numbers and have them circulated to the banks fifty miles around. See if anyone has them recorded as paid out and, if so, to whom."
Rausch had opened the watch and examined its insides. He snapped it shut, gave it to another of his men. "This ought to tell us something. It's one of those newfangled jobs drawing power from variations in barometric pressure. There shouldn't be a million of them around, considering what they cost. Find the local distributor. He'll have the movement number on his books, and be able to say where it went. Follow it through until you learn who bought it."
The agent took the watch, hastened downstairs.
Studying the stickpin, Rausch said to Norris, "It's a poorer bet, but we'll have to take it." He beckoned another agent. "Show it to the leading jewelers. Phone us at once if you trace a sale."
"If his prints are on record, we'll know him in a few hours' time," commented Norris, inwardly doubting that they were recorded. "We'll roll a copy and let Washington have a look. Let's hope they've got him on their files. Somebody had better tote those shoes around town. Any good shoeshop should be able to tell us who makes jobs like those."
"May I see them?" asked Harper. He took them, turned them over and over, doubled them toe to heel, and felt their softness and pliability. He handed them back. "Made to measure for him."
Norris nodded, let go a yell of, "Where's the cameraman?"
That worthy appeared, his apparatus dangling from one shoulder. He glanced at the deceased with the professional air of one who had yet to see a corpse with a new shape, size, expression or attitude.
"Tidy his pan and make him look sweet," Norris ordered. "I want a good head and shoulders stereo-study; someone might recognize him on video. Give me the pic just as soon as you can have it ready." He turned to Harper. "That's all we can do for the moment. We'll escort you back to your office."
Harper rubbed his chin, looked hesitant, said, "I'm so overawed by surrounding talent that I'm reluctant to offer a suggestion."
"Let's have it," urged Norris.
"Well, then," said Harper, "how many grown men go round without even a solitary key in their pockets?"
"That's right. I think he stripped himself of anything he thought likely to give us a lead, but he made a sloppy job of it. Or maybe he knew that if anything happened to him, it would be enough for him to cause a little delay."
"I also noticed that his right shoe is worn in the center of the sole," Harper went on. "More so than is the left shoe." He paused thoughtfully, continued, "And he has the general appearance of a man who has enjoyed prosperity for many years. If he's ever been without a thick bankroll, it was a long, long time ago. Yet he walked down the street."
"What are you getting at?"
"He has a car and uses it. His type almost invariably goes in for big, powerful cars the size of an ocean liner. But he didn't employ it this time. Why? Answer: for reasons best known to himself, he parked it somewhere and did the rest on foot. But he did not leave it locked, otherwise he'd have the keys. Why didn't he lock it? Because somebody's sitting in it waiting for him, with the missing keys dangling from the instrument board. Is that someone still sitting and waiting? Answer: he probably is, unless parked near enough to have seen or heard the ruckus."
"Let's go down to the cruiser and put out a radio call. I have enough prowlers to rake the whole area, and—'
"Now, now!" Harper chided. "More space, less heed. There are hundreds of parked cars standing around, and dozens have people sitting in them. Unless Fatty's playmate happens to be Langley, McDonald or Gould, how are you going to spot him?"
"He may be one of those three," said Norris, bursting to start the search. "Probably that's why this dead boy walked part of the way. None, of those three would risk exhibiting himself near your place; he would keep out of sight, and let a stooge do his dirty work."
"All right. Then I suggest you have all cars make a comb-out for Langley and company, paying special attention to parked jobs with waiting occupants. If the accomplice is not one of those three, then he's Mr. Anonymous and your men are out of luck."
"But you could identify him?"
"Provided I manage to get near enough. You'd better take me on a personal tour of all the parking places within, say, half an hour's walk. Within a two-mile radius. Fatty wasn't running merely for exercise. He scooted in the hope of losing himself a short while, until he could make a fast getaway."
"I think you may be right," agreed Norris. "Let's go!"
* * *
They piled into one of the several cruisers now lined up outside the building. Norris took the wheel, Rausch sat by his side, Harper slumped in the back with another agent. About to start, Norris was struck with a thought; he looked over his shoulder at the agent in rear.
"We don't know this area too well. You'd better get out and make room for a local cop who can show us around."
"I can direct you to all the likeliest places," said Harper. "Get going. Take the second turn on the right."
At once they moved off, made the turn and reached a lot holding some two hundred cars. Seven had people sitting inside, or lounging nearby. Harper made a mental dig at each, picked up no vicious reactions.
"Turn left," he ordered. "There are a couple of small dumps on that road and a big one about a mile up."
They trundled along at moderate pace, examining all machines en route; nothing was seen to arouse suspicion, and no alarm was sprung.
A mile farther on, they reached an underground hiding place holding more than a thousand cars. Rolling down one of the half-dozen wide entrance-ramps, they entered a brightly lit cavern in which concrete pillars soared at intervals from a mass of silent vehicles. An attendant came toward them, his curiosity aroused by sight of a police prowler. Norris lowered the window and stuck his head out.
"Quick!" yelped Harper, sitting up and staring ahead. "There he goes — out the middle exit!"
Norris jumped the car forward, narrowly escaped knocking down the attendant. The car roared along the mainway between packed ranks of its fellows. Overhead lights flashed faster and faster, re
ceded into the rear distance. Supporting pillars zipped past with enough speed to make them resemble a paled fence. The car's hood lifted as they hit the exit ramp. The last light fled by; they shot into daylight and the street.
From the left Harper could still pick up the rapidly fading gobble-gobble-gobble of an agitated brain intent on escaping with what it had learned — namely, that gobblings can be heard.
The siren commenced wailing as they spun off the ramp and started down the middle of the broad street. Traffic scattered to the sides, leaving a clear road far along which a big.black car was hurtling as if driven by a maniac. Holding grimly to the wheel, Norris pressed the accelerator to the floorboard. Rausch felt around under a panel, took out a hand-mike, held it near to his mouth.
"Black Roadking escaping southward on Bailey Avenue. All cars in region of Bailey Avenue South, Greer Avenue South and Mason Turnpike intercept black Roadking."
"If this loaded heap catches a Roadking, it'll be a miracle," Harper observed.
They took no notice. The agent beside him leaned over, tugged a gun from a pocket, held it on his knees.
"Car Forty-one making for Bailey Avenue South," said an impassive cop, speaking out of the instrument board.
Harper squinted ahead, decided they'd lost a couple of hundred yards in less than a mile. He held on as they rocked around a halted bus.
"Car Eleven on Mason," announced another voice.
"Car Four on Mason at Perkins Comer," said a third.
The fleeing Roadking, now visibly diminished by its increased lead, made a sudden swerve, as if about to dive up a side road, but at the last moment swerved back, cut the comer and continued down Bailey.
A moment later, the reason became evident when a cruiser rocked out of the side road, set after it in hot pursuit. The newcomer was about halfway between Harper's car and the Roadking; it made better time because of its lesser load, but still could not gain an inch on the excessively high-powered fugitive.
Three to Conquer Page 10
