Three to Conquer

by Eric Frank Russell

  A couple of burly characters walked ten yards behind her rapidly clicking heels. They knew where she was going, because the mike planted in the office had informed Norris, or whoever happened to be listening in. But they weren't going to let her out of their sight and hadn't from the start of fixing the trap. It was just as well.

  He did not open the window, as he had done at the approach of Ambrose Baum.

  This time he was not going to make the mistake of transmitting a mental stab and getting the foe to flee with the knowledge so ardently sought. He was going to do no more than listen, and thus leave the other mind blissfully unconscious of its open state.

  Leaving the window, he flopped into his chair and stared unseeingly at Moira's desk while he listened and waited. It was a unique and most curious experience, despite previous brief encounters.

  Even though directing his attention elsewhere, Harper was able to do some thinking of his own. What if this were none other than William Gould? How could he hope to walk in on Harper' and get away with whatever he planned to do?

  It was hardly likely that his purpose was to kill, even at cost of his own life, because the foe would gain little enough from that. The prize they wanted, and must secure at all costs, accurate knowledge of the means by which they could be identified. To slay the only one able to reveal this secret would leave them as perilously ignorant as before.

  Their sole rational tactic was to capture and hold Harper for long enough to force the truth out of him. Once successfully grabbed, the technique of compulsion would be simple and effective. They'd take possession of him exactly as others had become possessed, after which they would find the wanted datum recorded in his mind, and it would be theirs, entirely theirs to use as they wished.

  The alien thought-stream had grown much stronger now, and was replete with brief, unrecognizable scenes like glimpses of some nightmarish landscape. Harper removed attention from it for a moment while he scoured the area for minds like it. Perhaps there were a dozen or twenty, converging by prearrangement upon his address, hoping to take him by sheer weight of numbers.

  There were not. He failed to detect any others.

  Still, he did not probe. Neither did he warn Norris, as he was supposed to do. He sat tight, determined for the time being to play things his own way.

  The other mind was now passing beneath his window, but Harper did not try to take a look that, if noticed, might create premature alarm.

  It turned in at the front door, and immediately the thought-stream switched to human terms. The arrival had come into contact with a couple of agents on guard and immediately adapted itself to cope with a human situation.

  Harper read the minds of the agents, even as they swapped a few words with the newcomer.

  He picked up the agents' mental images as they let the enemy walk through. He changed attention to Norris, outside sitting on a bench in the workshop, almost saw through his eyes as idly he watched the other reach the door.

  Then the gobbler entered, and Harper said in the manner of one completely fooled, "Hello, Riley; what brings you here?"

  16. Deadly Encounter

  Helping himself to the absent Moira's chair, Riley seated himself carefully, looked at Harper and all unwittingly gave him a piece of his mind.

  "He is supposed to know us on sight in some mysterious way. Everything adds up to that fact. But he does not react in this case. That is strange. Something's wrong somewhere."

  Vocally, Riley responded, "I'm keeping my finger on your pulse."

  "Why?"

  "There's a five thousand dollar reward in the bag for whoever finds Alderson's killer. Captain Ledsom hasn't forgotten it, despite all the hullabaloo about three fellows who've done nobody knows what. I haven't forgotten it, either. It's a lot of money."

  "So you're hoping to sell me for that sum eventually?"

  "No, I'm not. I don't believe you did it, but I think you know more than you've told. And I'm betting that when all this ruckus is over, you'll get busy on it."

  "And then?"

  "You may need my help, or I may need yours. Between us, we might lay hands on that sack of gold."

  "You're becoming mercenary in your old age, and sloppy to boot."

  "What do you mean, sloppy?"

  Carefully steering the conversion into mentally revealing channels, Harper said, "Fooling with Moira while I'm away."

  "Bunk."

  "Cajoling her with a theater ticket."

  That did it.

  The responding flash of secret thought lasted no more than two or three seconds, but was detailed enough to present the picture. Moira innocently enjoying the show in seat U.17. William Gould apparently doing likewise in U.18. Conversation between acts, a planned pick-up and a stroll home — with Moira finishing up no longer human.

  Gould was young, attractive, had enough glamour to make the plot workable; only a previous date had spoiled it.

  "I couldn't use it," said Riley. "What should I have done with it? Masticate it?"

  "You could have given it to your wife."

  Another picture came in response to that and confirmed what Harper had reluctantly taken for granted. Riley's wife was no longer a wife. She was a living colony of fuzzy balls that had the urge to spread, but were utterly indifferent to the sex of the host. By implication, that added one more datum to knowledge of the foe — namely, that a person could not be confiscated by means of sexual union with one of the possessed. The virus needed direct entry from the suffused bloodstream to the new bloodstream.

  "She doesn't like to go by herself," said Riley. "What are you griping about, anyway? Why should you care where Moira goes or what she does of an evening?"

  And then, "There's something significant in this sudden concern for Moira. It smacks of deep suspicion. I don't see how he can be suspicious. Either he actually knows or he doesn't, and by the looks of it, he does not know."

  "According to the Feds, I'm in some sort of danger," informed Harper. "If so, Moira shares it simply by working with me and being closest to me. I don't want her to suffer for my sake."

  That had its calculated effect by lulling the other mind. It was much like playing a conversational version of chess, Harper thought.

  The next moment Riley emphasized the simile by making a dangerous move. "That may be so. But I am not Gould, McDonald or Langley. So why pick on me?"

  Eyeing him steadily, Harper said, "I am not yawping about you personally. I am uneasy because I don't know who gave you that ticket."

  The mental answer came at once: Gould.

  "What does it matter?" Riley evaded. "How was he to know I wouldn't use it myself, or that I'd offer it to Moira?"

  "Oh, let's drop the subject," Harper suggested, with pretended weariness. "This chase after three men has got me jumpy enough to question the motives of my own mother."

  Soothing lotion again. The opposing grain accepted it, because it was plausible.

  "The sooner they're picked up the better I'll like it," continued Harper, offering fresh bait. "Take McDonald, for instance. He was around these parts quite recently. A smart copper like you ought to be able to find him."

  Eureka! Out came the reaction, as clearly as if written upon paper. Gould, McDonald, the Reeds and two others previously unknown were clustered together in Riley's own house, waiting — waiting for Harper to come along on the strength of whatever pretext Riley could think up.

  So here was the real purpose of the visit. Riley had not vet got around to the enticement, but would do so before leaving.

  The intelligence now animating Riley proved itself sharp enough to bait the baiter. "What makes you think that I should succeed where a regiment of agents has failed?"

  Harper had to react fast to that one. "Only because you're a local boy. They're out-of-towners. You have sources of information not available to them. You know the ropes, or ought to after all these years."

  It was not quite enough to halt the probe.

  "Then why didn't they rel
y on the police instead of pushing themselves in by the dozens?"

  "Ask me another," Harper said, shrugging. "Probably someone's decided that the more men on the job, the better."

  "It has bought them nothing so far, has it?" asked Riley, seemingly a little sarcastic.

  But it was not sarcasm; it was an invitation to make mention of the Baums, to come out with a reply indicating how they'd been recognized for what they were.

  The mind of Riley was working fast, driven on by the urgency of the slime that commanded it. But seek as he might, he could not find a satisfactory explanation of the contrast between his own immunity and the speedy downfall of others of his type.

  Temporarily, the only theory that fitted the circumstances was an unsatisfactory one — namely, that Harper's menacing ability functioned haphazardly, or under certain specific conditions not present at this moment.

  In the few seconds that Riley spent mulling these problems, Harper strove to cope satisfactorily with some of his own. By dexterous use of leading comments, how much could he get out of Riley without giving himself away?"

  "No," agreed Harper. "It hasn't gained them a cent so far."

  Refusing to be stalled, Riley took it further. "Except that they've wiped out a couple of boys named Baum. We got a routine report from a patrolman about that. It wasn't an auto accident, no matter what the official version says. It was the result of a fracas in which you were involved."

  Harper offered no remark.

  "Maybe it's no business of mine," Riley went on, with just the right mixture of resentment and persuasiveness, "but if I knew how and why the Baums were finished, it might give me a lead to this McDonald."

  "Why?" asked Harper, looking straight at him. "Is there any connection?"

  "You know there is; it's all part of the same crazy business."

  "Who says so?"

  The other's mind had a moment of confusion, born of sudden need to cast doubt on what it knew to be true.

  "Well, isn't it?"

  "Maybe and maybe not," said Harper, keeping a perfectly expressionless face.

  "Damn it, if you don't know what's going on, who does?"

  Harper side-stepped the trap, feeling cold down his back as he did it.

  "All I can tell you is that they were known to have become pally with McDonald; therefore, they were wanted for questioning. Immediately they were spotted they fled for dear life, and one thing led to another." He paused, fought cunning with cunning by adding as a mystified afterthought, "It beats me completely. They weren't accused of a major crime, so why did they flee?"

  Turmoil grew strong in the opposing brain. It had been asked the very question to which it desired the answer, as a matter of life or death. The assumed holder of the secret was seeking the solution himself.

  Why did they flee?

  Why did they flee?

  Round and round whirled the problem, and persistently threw out the only answer — namely, that the Baums had run because they'd become known and had realized how they'd become known. Therefore the mode of identification must be self-revealing; the possessed could not be fingered without sensing the touch.

  Yet, now that it was put to actual test there was no recognition, no dramatic exposure, no feelable contact, no touch, nothing.

  What's the answer to that?

  "As a guess, divide this world's bipeds into types A and B. The former is vulnerable because identifiable by some method yet to be discovered. Joyce Whittingham was of that type. So were the Baums. So might others be. But for unknown reasons, type B is impervious to the power of Harper and any who may share that power. By sheer good fortune, this body called Riley happen to be of that kind."

  So the alien thought-stream ruminated while Harper listened, mentally thanking God that it had retained its pseudo-human role and not switched to trans-spatial double-talk.

  It went on, "If this notion should be correct, then salvation lies around the corner. We must learn the critical factor that protects type B and how to distinguish one type from another. Henceforth we must take over only type B. The vulnerable ones can be dealt with afterward."

  Determined to make the most of his opportunity while it lasted, Harper went on, "Someone once remarked that the only difference between those in prison and those outside is that the latter have never been found out. Possibly the Baum brothers had something on their consciences and wrongly supposed it had been discovered. So they ran like jack rabbits."

  "Could be," admitted Riley, while his thoughts said, "It doesn't fit the facts. They had no cause for flight other than realization of betrayal. Harper knew them for what they were, but refuses to admit it. That is at least consistent of him. He always did keep a tight mouth about his power." A pause, followed by, "Yet at the moment he lacks that power. Why? The reason must be found!"

  "Anyway, what's the use of gabbing?" Harper continued, craftily spurring the other on. "Talk gets us nowhere, and I have work to do."

  "You can't give me one useful hint concerning McDonald?"

  "No. Go look for him yourself. You'll get plenty of kudos if you nail him. Besides, he may lead you to Gould, who is wanted just as badly."

  "Gould?" Riley stared across, thinking, "Do they know or suspect that he is in this town?"

  "And his contacts," added Harper, panning for pay dirt. "Every one of them for the past three months."

  The result was disappointing. He got fleeting, fragmentary pictures- of a score of people without any means of determining who they were, or where they lived, or what parts they were playing in this struggle for a world.

  "When Gould and McDonald have been fastened down good and tight," he went on, "we may then have time to seek afresh for Alderson's killer, and try for that five thousand you covet."

  He was doing fine. The reference to Alderson brought the hoped-for reaction: a fragment of memory radiated with vividness. McDonald holding Joyce Whittingham while Gould sank a needle into her arm. Joyce struggling and screaming. A police cruiser suddenly halting right behind. Alderson jumping out and making for the Thunderbug. Langley pulling a gun and dropping him before he could intervene. So Langley had done it.

  Hah! That brought up something else of considerable significance. The country's entire forces of law and order, Riley included, had been alerted to capture three men, not two.

  Daringly, Harper rushed the issue. "As for Langley, nobody need worry about him any more."

  Riley said nothing vocally but did utter a mental, "Of course not. He's finished."

  "Who told you?" asked Harper.

  "Told me what?"

  "About Langley?"

  "I don't know what you mean; nobody has said anything to me concerning him."

  "I've just mentioned that Langley is out of the running,"' Harper reminded him. "You made no remark, showed no surprise. So I took it for granted that it was old news to you, though I can't imagine how you got hold of it."

  "You're wrong," contradicted Riley, hastening to cover up a minor blunder. "It's the first I've heard of it. The information failed to sink in."

  He was too late. His mind had lagged seconds behind Harper's wits and his tongue had come last in the field. Despite intervening hundreds of miles, Riley had known of Langley's end the moment it occurred. He had sensed it as surely as one may gaze across a valley at night and see a distant light become suddenly extinguished.

  The same sense could detect a dreadful urgency radiated by another, the equivalent of a cry for help. It was strictly non-telepathic. A psi-factor. In effect, Riley could look afar, see it winking a summons for assistance, see it go dark. No more than that.

  Perhaps it was the ultimate form of what Earth called the herd instinct. An alien protective device, evolved on another world where survival sometimes demanded a rapid gathering of the clans and the lone individual went under.

  Therefore, elsewhere they must have a natural enemy.

  What could it be? The datum was precious enough to be worth discovering, if it could be gotten
. But how to get it? How could Harper entice it from a hostile and wary mind without giving himself away? How can one question a Venusian concerning the fauna and flora of Venus, while successfully managing to uphold the pretense of regarding him as a natural-born native of Earth?

  Wetting his lips, he said, "Langley and some other fellow were trapped. They shot it out like madmen. It proved impossible to take them alive."

  Riley raised an eyebrow in false surprise. "Everybody knew he was wanted, but nobody's been told what for. Judging by that reaction, the reason must have been mighty serious. So where's the sense in all the secrecy?"

  "Don't ask me. I have no say in government policy." Harper made a gesture of bafflement. "You know how the top boys sometimes love to be mysterious."

  The other grunted in disdain.

  Now then, this was it, the critical play. It had to be done delicately, like handling dynamite. One slip and there'd be an explosion of wild action, with Norris and the others caught by surprise. Thank goodness Moira was out of it.

  With a deceitfully reminiscent air, Harper went on, "It's possible that Langley really was cracked in the head. If so, I don't like it. Everyone has pet fears, and I've got mine."

  "Such as what?"

  "When I was a small child I was afraid of big black dogs. Now that I'm older, I have a violent revulsion toward mental disease; I fear loonies." He pulled a face, nerved himself and made the move. "What scares you the most?"

  By God, he got it! He got it clearly and vividly, as only a lifelong terror can be pictured. What's more, he felt sure that he recognized it — not by its form, but by its brutal nature. And it was here, on Earth, waiting around and ready for use. He had to tighten his mouth to prevent himself from shouting aloud.

  Standing up, Riley frowned at him and asked in taut tones, "What makes you ask me that?" And his mind followed on with, "A while ago he said that talk was of no avail, that he was busy and had work to do. Yet he's been maintaining the conversation ever since. He has been prompting me repeatedly, and I've had to keep avoiding his leads. Nevertheless he appears satisfied with answers that I've been careful not to give. How can that be?"