"Bowman . . . Chester Bowman," Anna supplied.
"Yes, Mrs. Bowman." He slid the keys across the counter and returned to his magazine. Krull held Anna's arm up the stairs. She steered him to the right at the second floor and stopped before Room 211. He followed her in and looked around curiously at the large, square, somewhat old-fashioned room with its sagging divan, double bed, battered chairs and small wall TV. There were a couple other items of equally dilapidated furniture and, off to one side, a door leading into a bath. At the opposite side of the room was a small pantry-type kitchen from which he could hear the steady drip of a leaky faucet.
"Looks homey," he observed. "Part of the plan?"
"Yes."
He glanced around, then looked at her. "I think I'm going to like it," he said firmly.
"I hope so—Max." She looked wistfully around the room. "It's not the best blace in the world but it's . . . it's anonymous, safe."
"Bok said that?"
"Yes . . ."
"Then it's safe," Krull decided. "Coffee?"
"Ummm, yes, please." He heard the rattle of pots in the kitchen and mused over his situation while waiting for her to return. Mr. and Mrs. Bowman—he liked the idea. She was a strange girl—beautiful, but her dark eyes were haunted; her olive face was taut, expectant, as if she were awaiting some blow.
"The news should be on," she called. He walked over, pressed a button and the screen came to life. The fat face of a well-known newscaster looked out at him. The lips were moving rapidly but it was a moment before the sound came on. When it did, Krull caught his breath.
". . . IQ 113, Agent of police," the voice was saying. He heard Anna's quick footsteps coming from the kitchen. ". . . Wanted for the brutal double murder of Herman Bok, President of the World Council of Espers, and Joe Kruper, a fellow agent who had been instructed to question Krull on a routine matter . . ."
"They can't hang Bok's murder on me," Krull said.
"Listen . . ." Anna beckoned for silence.
"Bok was slain in his quarters in the House of Espers, located in the exclusive HIQ district of northwest Sydney just moments ago." The announcer paused to lick his lips.
"Krull was believed fleeing the house when he met and killed Agent Kruper, IQ 116. Gordon Gullfin, Chief of Special Agents for the Manager, witnessed the fatal shooting and immediately subdued Krull, but in turn was attacked from behind and slugged unconscious by an accomplice of the slayer. Regaining consciousness, he sought aid at the House of Espers and subsequently discovered the body of the esper leader. Bok was serving his eighth consecutive term as President of the World Council of Espers . . ."
"This makes it rough," Krull said. She nodded silendy and he saw her eyes were tear-filled.
". . . Agents of police believe Krull was engaged in a secret conspiracy with the leader of the espers, who was eighty-seven years old, and killed him following an altercation. All agents of police, troop police and private citizens are warned to watch for the killer and immediately report his presence to the nearest police agency, or directly to Gordon Gullfin, who is spearheading the search. Now . . . here is what the killer looks like . . ."
The announcer held up an enlarged photo. Krull was startled, recognizing it as a picture taken in his room at the Edward Crozener; every detail was clear. The announcer lowered the photo.
"Next we will have a brief word from our Submarine Seafood announcer about a new process which makes Submarine Seafoods the world's most delicious . . ." Krull reached over and snapped it off.
"I won't be able to budge from this trap," he said grimly. Anna watched him quietly. "I can't risk trying to call Yar-go from here—they'd nail us in a second."
She looked thoughtful. "The clamor will die down in a day or two, at least so far as the general public is concerned."
"Can we risk it here that long?"
"There's no other choice. I don't feel any sense of immediate danger." She went to the kitchen and he heard some cups rattle before the significance of what she had said struck him.
She returned with Uieir coffee and he thoughtfully said, "I forgot you were an esper. Can you really sense danger— at a distance?"
"It depends . . ." She set the cups on the table. "It's related to, well, the intensity of the thought. A hateful, violent mind like Gullfin's is like a broadcasting station. . . . You should know that." Of course, she would know, he thought.
"I don't really know if I am an esper," he replied truthfully. "I seem to draw mostly blanks."
"Of course, it takes practice, like learning anything else. It's not much use in the latent state." Her lips pursed speculatively. "You've spent your life hiding your talent, submerging it, denying it was there. That was a mistake, Max. There's nothing wrong with being an esper . . ."
"Except that it gives you an advantage over other people that they resent," he cut in.
"So does a high IQ."
"I don't have that trouble." He grinned. "I'm 113."
"Part of your hiding role," she said softly.
"Besides, a high IQ doesn't bear the same connotation. There's no invasion of privacy involved. That's the difference: the LIQ's and MIQ's and HIQ's aren't peeping one another."
"Good espers don't invade the privacy of others either," she said. "Telepathy is just another form of communication —another sense receptor put to use."
"But you peep non-telepaths?"
"Occasionally," she said calmly, "but only as a means of self-preservation.
"Bok must have done it on a mass scale."
"Oh no," she denied, "Mr. Bok never peeped people."
"Never? Come now, that's a big statement in view of what he seemed to know."
"Never," she repeated stoutly. "You see, Mr. Bok wasn't a telepath."
"Not ... a telepath?" Krull uttered the words slowly, with disbelief. There was a span of silence before he continued. "But he was an esper—President of the World Council of Espers."
"The greatest esper," she affirmed.
"How can an esper not be an esper? Tell me that."
"Don't growl. You sound perfecdy horrid."
"Answer me."
"I didn't say Mr. Bok wasn't an esper. I distinctly said he was the greatest esper."
"You said he wasn't a telepath," he accused.
She faced him, a look of understanding growing in her face. "All the known adult espers—all members of the World Council of Espers, as far back as we know—have been tele-paths. All but Mr. Bok—that's what made him the greatest. He was a down through. He saw down through time."
"Impossible," Krull snapped.
"Down through is a case of special clairvoyance." She looked speculatively at him. "You've heard of clairvoyance?"
"Certainly," he said, ruffled. "The theoretical ability to see objects or events not present to the known senses, but it's stricdy a psychmaster's dream."
"Have you heard of precognition?"
"A fancy word for prophecy—also a theoretical possibility."
"Mr. Bok combined them," she said simply. "He saw . . . future events."
He started to protest and abrupdy closed his mouth.
Bok had seen him entering before, perhaps, he had left the hotel. It also explained his knowledge that Kruper would try to murder him. A telepath might have detected Kruper's presence, but Bok had known his physical location; had also stated that Krull would uncover the conspiracy—stated it with undeniable certainty.
A sudden humility gripped him. It must have shone on his face for Anna said, "Now you believe . . ."
"Yes, I believe." He was silent a moment, absorbing the drama in the life of the fragile old man who had so calmly planned Kruli's deliverance in the face of his own imminent death. Jonquil had been wrong. But, of course, he couldn't have suspected the esper's special talent. He had forgotten die presence of Anna until she spoke.
"I'll be going now."
"Going?" he asked, startled.
"We're hiding out—remember?" She flung a cape over her
shoulders and drew it together at the neck. "My name's Ruth Bowman, IQ 90, and I'm a poor ^working girl."
"Is this a joke?"
"Not at all. It's part of the camouflage." "What kind of work—where?"
"The Cassowary Cabaret, up on the next block. I got the job last week when . . . when . . ." "When Bok told you to?"
"No, when Mr. Bok told me I was going to," she corrected. "There's a difference." Her eyes were grave. "If I acted on Mr. Bok's orders, he would be influencing the future, but when he tells me what is going to happen, he is merely reporting the future."
"Supposing you don't do something he says you're going to do—that is, you know what's ahead and deliberately take another route, so to speak. Then the future would be different."
"No, that's not possible," she contradicted. "When Mr. Bok reported what he saw in the future, that meant it would actually happen. But if the causal chain which led to the event were changed—which isn't possible—he could not have seen the event but, rather, the event which would have occurred in its place. Can't you see that?"
"It's not crystal clear," he confessed, grinning.
"I'd better hurry. I'm going to be late as it is."
He looked ruefully around the room. "I thought we were supposed to be married," he complained. She laughed and went to the door, then turned and gave him an impish look.
"Not that married."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Krull slept. He kicked off his sandals and flopped on the divan the moment the door closed behind Anna's slim figure, and was asleep almost immediately. It was a deep, undisturbed sleep, without dream or awareness; when he woke, the pale dawn light was filtering through the smudged lace curtains of the room's single window. He raised to his elbow and looked around—Anna had returned sometime during the small hours of the morning and was asleep on the bed. Her bosom rose and fell gendy under the thin covers and her face, in repose, had lost its haunted look.
He swung off the divan, slipped on his sandals and left the room without disturbing her. He passed through the deserted hotel lobby—the clerk was nodding behind the counter—and paused when he reached the sidewalk. The street was just awakening to the day's activity. A few cars and trucks were on the move, and farther down the block a couple of pedestrians were ogling a drunk lying on the sidewalk. The air held the tang of the harbor, the industrial odors of smoke, coal tars and fish scents from nearby canneries.
An elderly couple pushed a handcart laden with junk toward some unknown destination, their heads bent into the morning chill. Krull wondered if this was what Bok had meant when he referred to the people for whom there was no tomorrow. But there had to be workers—society couldn't be blamed for the vagaries of genetics. Still, the sight disturbed him. He walked down the block until he found a place where he could buy a morning paper and breakfast.
A tired, middle-aged waitress with shadowed eyes looked up at his approach, closed the magazine she was reading and smiled artificially. He nodded, glancing around, disturbed to find he was the only customer; it would make him more conspicuous. Sighing, he sat down and gave his order. As the waitress shambled toward the kitchen he opened the paper.
A picture of himself leaped to meet him. He quickly scanned the accompanying story, conscious of mounting tension, then looked at the headlines again:
BOK'S KILLER LINKED TO ATOMIC CONSPIRACY
The picture was the same one shown on the screen. He read the story again, this time more slowly. According to the paper, "... A high government official who refused to allow his name to be used last night disclosed that the renegade agent, Max Krull, sought for the murders of Herman Bok, President of the World Council of Espers, and Agent Joe Kruper, was believed implicated in a secret atomic conspiracy that had seizure of world power at its goal."
Krull whistled softly. The story named him as a special agent assigned to the Prime Thinker's personal staff. Farther down it stated Yargo had secured his release from police a few days before, following his cold-blooded slaying of Oliver Cranston, another agent assigned to investigate him. The story obliquely inferred that his activities had Ben Yar-go's sanction.
Shevach—it's Shevach, Krull thought. The Manager was using him to undermine Yargo. The article was calculated to arouse public anger on one issue that was practically a world phobia—atomic research.
Was there some other motive? More important, could Yargo ride it out? The waitress slid the coffee and hot rolls in front of him. "Anything else?"
"No thanks." He glanced up. Her face held a coquettish look.
"It's awful about that killer, isn't it?"
"Pretty bad." He stirred his coffee, keeping his face a-verted.
"Imagine, a man wanting to blow up the world." "What?" he asked, startled.
"That's what it says—he's making atomic bombs, just like the kind that wrecked the world before."
"Hadn't read that part," he admitted. The waitress got an interested look.
"With a killer like that around, I'm almost afraid to go to my room . . . alone." Her eyes flicked to the clock. I'm off in half an hour. I feel afraid . .. living alone."
"You don't have to be," he consoled.
"Why not?" Her face perked up.
"He only kills agents—not pretty girls."
"Oh . . ." She looked pleased until he returned to the paper. When she saw he had no intention of following her lead, she sauntered disconsolately back to her magazine. Finished with his coffee and breakfast roll, he tucked the paper under his arm, left some change on the counter, and returned to the hotel. Anna was in the kitchen making coffee.
"A working girl needs more sleep than that," he said.
"I'll nap in the afternoon," she promised. She saw the worried expression on his face and came out to meet him. "Trouble?"
"A storm brewing." He forced a smile and indicated the paper. "Now I'm a member of the atomic conspiracy—along with the late Mr. Bok." He heard the sharp intake of her breath and handed her the paper, pouring himself a cup of coffee while she read it. She finished and looked up at him with fear in her eyes.
"You didn't expect that?" he asked.
"No, of course not."
"I thought you knew the future?"
"Only milestones along the way." Her eyes met his. "It would be terrible to know every moment of the future. There would be nothing to live for—no anticipation or expectation because the end would already be known. Mr. Bok knew that. That's why he only told me certain things—and even his telling was part of the causal chain in events to come. No, I couldn't bear to know the entire future."
"Bok did."
"That was his tragedy. He even knew ... his murder."
"Yet he didn't try to change things," Krull mused.
"He couldn't. He was seeing what was to happen . . .
just as a historian sees what has happened. But neither has the power to change what he sees." "No, I suppose not."
She glanced toward the TV; he nodded and turned it on, discovering he had become a world villain overnight. The announcers had tried and convicted him of triple murder, and violation of the First Law of Mankind. He was pictured manufacturing atom bombs in a secret laboratory, plotting to destroy the world. Anna got more coffee.
"Good for the nerves." She set a cup in front of him and sat down, smiling faintíy. The commercials were followed by a geography professor who used a large globe to show how radiation from the Atomic War had blanketed all but a few areas of the world.
"But we could not expect to be so fortunate next time," he concluded. He smirked at the audience and withdrew and the Zarkman suit man came on with a pitch for high IQ clothing. Krull flipped the switch.
"That's where we came in." He looked at Anna. "What now?"
"Wait. We'll have to wait."
"Wait and get trapped. I think we ought to be getting out of here." "Where to?"
"I'll have to figure that out."
"We'll be safe ... for a while." Her eyes were pleading.
"I
won't do anything rash," he promised,
"You did this morning."
"I didn't think it was rash, then."
"But you won't leave again? Everyone will be watching for you."
"Not until I can figure a plan of action," he promised, "a safe way of getting in touch with Yargo."
"That might be the answer," she mused. They fell silent for a while, then she began talking about telepathy. He got the idea she didn't think he was much of an esper. She switched to Bok and her face became almost reverent.
"I'm glad I'm not like Bok," he cut in.
"No, you're not like Mr. Bok," she said quiedy. Her eyes got a strange look. "Max .. ." "What?" "Nothing."
"You were going to say something."
Her eyes brimmed with sudden tears. "Max, I'm frightened for you."
"Why?" he demanded.
"Mr. Bok's burden was easy in comparison." She rose suddenly and left the room; he heard her heels echoing through the hall. Now what in hell, he thought savagely.
Krull stayed close to the room the rest of the day, occasionally turning on the TV to catch the news. The story had blown big and before evening dominated the world news. According to the announcers, Yargo had declined to give an official press release; the Manager stated that Krull had been assigned to Prime Thinker's staff "... in a secret capacity that Ben Yargo declined to reveal to the public."
Rumors were legion. Krull variously was reported spotted in Wellington, Melbourne, the floating city of Kulahai, and as far away as Leningrad and Capetown. A man answering his description had been arrested boarding the Hawaii carrier at Honolulu, and agents of police had picked up a number of suspects, including a wino, an IQ 50 farmhand with a record of window peeping, and an IQ 90 laborer who had just been released from the Dreamland Mental Hospital as a cured manic depressive. All espers suspected of political activities, or who had majored in physical sciences at a postgraduate level, had been rounded up for questioning by the searchers. Anna returned in time to hear the last bit of news.
"Regular witch-hunt," Krull growled.
"Dangerous. Everyone will be watching for you."
"Maybe not so dangerous," he reflected aloud.
Jeff Sutton Page 10
