Jeff Sutton

by The Atom Conspiracy

  "How do you mean?"

  "By now I've been reported seen all over the globe. Everyone will think I'm somewhere else."

  "I know." She was quiet a moment. "I worry, even though I know you'll . . . come through, all right." She went to the kitchen leaving him to ponder her meaning. After supper they talked until it was time for her to go to work. She made him promise he would remain in the room.

  "Cross my heart," he told her.

  "I'd be afraid if you went out." Her eyes were soft; she turned suddenly and departed. After a while he kicked off his sandals and lay on the divan.

  Sleep came slowly.

  "Max . . ." He woke with a start, pushing himself to his elbow.

  "Max . . ." He saw her or, rather, her shadowy form. "What is it?" he asked guardedly.

  "Max, there's not much time left." Her voice was low, husky, intense.

  "Not much time . . ." His vision cleared and he cut the words off abruptly, catching the reflection of dim light through the window on the dusky skin of her body.

  He got up, slowly, and moved toward her, realizing that, somehow, time was running out—for Anna Malroon.

  They were subdued during breakfast but Anna looked happy, contented and, for the first time during wakefulness, had lost the haunted look. She hummed softly while she returned to the kitchen for more coffee. It was good to see her so cheerful, yet he was uneasy. He had the feeling she had come to a crisis, had met it in her own way, and now was waiting for the predetermined to come to pass.

  How much had Bok told her?

  They spent the day as they had the previous one—listening to news broadcasts; but, unlike the day before, she avoided any talk of the future. When night came, she prepared for work, only this time she didn't caution him against leaving the room. She merely said, "Goodnight, darling."

  Her eyes flooded with tears. She closed the door and rushed down the hall before he could stop her. He waited, half expecting her to return—knowing she wouldn't.

  He was awakened by a sensation almost as sharp as an electric shock. He sat upright on the divan, feeling his heartbeat rise to a fast hammering, conscious of a warning signal flashing in his brain like a signal light blinking on a dark sea.

  Dangerl

  The warning screamed in his brain. He leaped from the couch, shoved his feet into his sandals and stole to the door. The faint sound of music came from somewhere down the hall; the warning came again, sharp as a rapier—the slow shuffling of feet in the hall came to a halt at his door.

  "Here."

  He heard the low single word and backed quickly into the room, peeping the hall. He got the vague impressions of several forms, a towering figure, a mixed jumble of thought. He grabbed his gun and moved to the single window which overlooked a dark alley—closed his eyes and concentrated. The sense of danger diminished; he deliberately concentrated on the hall again—the warning rose to a high jangle in his brain.

  Danger . . .

  Runl Run!

  He raised the window without hesitation, slipped through feet first and hung from the sill while trying to see the ground below. No use; it was lost in shadows. The door splintered inward and he released his hold, flexing his legs to absorb the impact. He struck hard—involuntarily winced— and fled down the alley toward the nearest corner, slowing his pace when he reached it. A few pedestrians were abroad and several small groups of loafers stood before a bar on the opposite side of the street. The garish reds and greens of neons gave the scene an odd pattern of shifting light and movement. A few cars and trucks were parked at the curbs but moving traffic was light—nothing that resembled a police car.

  The flick of danger came again, this time from the alley at his rear; he started hurriedly down the street. He reached the next corner, glancing over his shoulder in time to see several figures emerge from the alley and start in his direction. He turned the corner and increased his pace, conscious that his shadows were closing in. Faster . . . Fasterl

  He was halfway down the block when a police car rounded the corner, a spotlight combing the street. He cursed and ducked into a dark doorway, hugging the wall. He sensed his pursuers—how many?—drawing near. The danger signal rose to a discordant howl and he tried to peep the source. A now-familiar mental pattern filled his mind, movements in various shades of gray; it sharpened and the imagery of a face took form.

  A face . . .

  His facel

  He was startled until he remembered. Of course, they were concentrating on him; he was picking his picture from their minds. The police car swept its torch across his hiding place and moved on. He exhaled slowly and fled down the street. He spotted a bar garishly lit by green and red neons and filled with the sound of raucous music. It would be jammed, noisy, filled with people.

  A place to hidel

  He slowed down and pushed through the door. It was crowded. Most had their backs toward him—they were watching a tall blonde perform a strip tease. He elbowed his way to the rear and, as he hoped, found an exit. He turned the knob and looked out; it opened onto a dark alley.

  The jangle rose in his brain again and he quickly looked back. The dark, lantern-shaped face of Henry Cathecart was framed in the door. Another figure loomed behind him, thin, gaunt, tall . . . Merryweather .. .

  The Searchmaster!

  A lean arm swept up and pointed in his direction; Krull flung the door open and fled into the night, his mind a jumble of thoughts. He heard feet pound the pavement behind him and gave an extra burst of speed, rounding the corner onto the street without slacking his pace. Several startled pedestrians stepped aside without trying to stop hirn. Run. Run.

  He reached the next corner, fled halfway down the block, ducked into a recessed doorway to get his bearings. His heart pounded and sweat dripped from his body and stung his eyes. He gripped his gun and peered back down the street. Empty. He was starring to breathe easier when three figures rounded the comer. One of them crossed the street—all three moved in his direction. Merryweather was tall, thin, an ominous skeleton towering above his companions. Krull cursed, debating whether to try and ambush them.

  He watched, gripping his gun, feeling his heart thump against the rib case. Suddenly they stopped and the bony hand came up again, pointing toward his hiding place. He broke and ran, trying to fathom Merryweather's uncanny ability to detect him. Run, dodge, hide . . . He twisted through the dark narrow streets of the LIQ section, frantically trying to elude his pursuers—trying to shake the gaunt lean figure of Merryweather.

  He ducked through several groups of bystanders and rounded corners at top speed, fearful he would encounter a police car. He was halfway down another block when the alarm sounded in his brain. He stopped abruptly. It was ahead of him . . . No, behind him. He turned bewildered. Boxed in! Trapped! He spotted an alley almost across from him and fled toward it. If he could reach it, reach the shadows . . .

  "Stop that man!"

  The cry was harsh in his ears and it took him a second to realize it was a human voice and not a telepathic warning. Several men standing in front of a bar ran to intercept him—he tried to dodge them. A hand caught him and he slugged out, feeling the crunch of bone beneath his fist, followed by a sharp cry of pain. Before he could twist free someone struck him a glancing blow on the jaw. His head reeled and he staggered, his gun clattering against the pavement as he broke free and darted into the black mouth of the alley. Shouts . . . the sound of running feet . . . the

  jangle of danger . . . darkness . . . the thump of his heart.

  Something stung his shoulder. A bullet whizzed past his ear and he broke into a frenzied burst of speed. A whistle shattered the air—the noise behind him grew until he couldn't separate the jangle in his brain from reality. Hide. He had to hide! He raced into the alley. There were more shouts, another whistle, this time ahead of him. He stopped abruptly, breathing heavily, conscious of a dull burning ache at the top of his shoulder.

  Boxed in—done for . . .

  He hurriedly s
tudied the sides of the alley and tried to allay his panic. His breath was a hoarse rasp in his throat. He saw the dim outlines of a door and twisted the knob. Surprisingly, it was unlocked. He leaped in, closed it behind im. His hand located a small bar lock and slipped it in place—he leaned against the door trying to control the harsh sound of his breathing. Feet pounded up the alley; they stopped—silence—followed by a faint shuffling.

  "Here," a monotone voice said, "he's inside."

  Krull recoiled, feeling a stab of fear. Merryweather! Only Merryweather wasn't the genial man he had met. This Merryweather was a bloodhound.

  "Krull—give yourself up or well kill you."

  He froze, immobile. It struck him then. Merryweather—an esper! Suddenly he saw the whole picture. His first encounter with Merryweather hadn't been happenstance. No, the gaunt man had met him for the sole purpose of peeping him. He was Shevach's eyes and ears, Shevach's hidden power. Then Shevach knew he was an esper, knew it and feared him. That explained the attempts on his life.

  "Krull—we're coming in!"

  He turned, moved deeper into the cellar, feeling his way and tiying to find an exit.

  "Krull . . ." The voice was soft, almost at his side. He recoiled instinctively. "Follow me—I'm a friend."

  "Who?" He whispered harshly, girding himself to either fight or run.

  "There's no time to explain. Follow me." The voice was soft, yet imperative, and all at once he saw the oudines of a man's body. A small man. "This way!"

  The figure started to retreat and he followed carefully, watchful, certain it was a trap. If he had a gun . . . Behind him the door splintered inward and a beam of light caught him in full circle. He whirled toward it and froze, half-blinded, conscious that his breathing was harsh in his ears. He tensed his body to spring.

  "Don't try it," a voice grated. A figure moved into the circle of light and Krull struggled to clear his vision. Hard-face Cathecart, holding a gun.

  "Not so damned mighty this time, are you?"

  Krull moved his eyes sideways from the center of the light, trying to see the man holding the beam.

  "You've come to the end of the rope—Killer." Cathecart's eyes swung around the cellar, as he reached over and took the flashlight from his companion:

  "Leave us alone, Peter. I'll handle it from here." Krull heard a merry chuckle; the door opened, outlining a tall gaunt figure for a moment before it closed behind him. He was alone with Cathecart—except for the mysterious man hiding somewhere in the shadows behind him.

  Cathecart glanced around the cellar. "Nice execution chamber you've selected."

  Krull cursed him calmly. The hand holding the gun moved up; he found himself looking down its barrel. "You've murdered a couple friends of mine. Seeing as we're alone, and you're attempting to excape . . ."

  His finger tightened on the trigger. "So long—killer!"

  Krull dropped to a crouch and sprang sideways at the same time; flame lanced past his ear. He sprawled off balance, hearing the sound of bullets thudding into flesh. Cathecart staggered and grunted. The flame lanced out again and this time he saw it came from his rear. Cathecart swayed, tried to raise his gun, half-spun on buckling legs, gasped, and slumped to the floor.

  "Let's get the hell out of here," the voice behind Krull growled. "My car's around the comer." The shadow broke into a blur of movement and Krull scrambled after him. His companion broke into a sprint when they reached the street, but Krull noted that his unknown benefactor was short, slender. They reached the comer—there was a small black car parked against the curb. The man pulled open the door and leaped in; Krull followed. The engine roared to life.

  He pulled the car away from the curb, rounded the first corner too fast for comfort, zig-zagged for several blocks and finally turned onto a freeway. Krull studied his profile; it was familiar, a face he knew and couldn't place. He remembered the voice ... it was familiar also. A name was surging at the back of his mind.

  "Dutterfieldl" The little public works engineer from Ben-bow Deeps. Butterfield turned and looked at him full-faced.

  "Butterfield." He repeated the name, stupidly, then a wave of anger struck him. "Just who the hell are you?"

  "Oh, I guess you could call me the head of Yargo's special agents. Sort of an honorary title."

  Krull was jolted. Butterfield, the timid engineer, wasn't an engineer. Further more, he wasn't timid. Krull's anger turned to Yargo. The Prime Thinker had suckered him, played him for a clay pigeon. Why?

  Butterfield spoke. "Looks like I got to that cellar just in time."

  "Yeah . . . you did. How did you know? I picked that particular spot on the spur of the moment."

  "Damned strange." The engineer's lips pursed thoughtfully.

  "How did you know that I'd be there ... at that particular spot, at that moment?" Krull demanded.

  "Like I said—damned strange. All I know is that Yargo got a letter saying you'd be there . . . and under what circumstances. So he sent me."

  "Who was the letter from?" Krull asked harshly.

  "Bowman. Some guy named Bowman, but I can't get a line on who he is."

  "Was . . ." Krull corrected automatically.

  "Was?"

  "Listen," he interjected, "you've got some questions to answer.

  "Not I," Butterfield said. "Ask Yargo." "Damned right IT] ask him."

  "You might ask him about Bowman, too," Butterfield said hopefully. "That one's got me baffled."

  "No problem there," Krull answered maliciously. The engineer turned toward him mquiringly, but he remained silent. If Butterfield wouldn't talk, neither would he.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Khull idly watched the lights of oncoming cars sweep past. Herman Bok knew the end of the story; otherwise he wouldn't have bothered to post the letter that had brought Butterfield to Krull's rescue after his own death. Anna Mal-roon had known what was going to happen. Why hadn't she warned him? Had she known he would be saved?

  His companion swung the car into the lane leading to the House of the Prime Thinker and Krull's interests perked up. How would Ben Yargo explain Butterfield—the use of Butterfield to decoy him to Benbow Deeps? They passed the sentry box and the house came into view, a black square against the sky with only a single lighted window at the upper story. The car rolled to a stop under the portico and Butterfield got out.

  "Wait here," he ordered softly. He walked toward the porch; a shadowy figure emerged to meet him. They huddled a moment before he returned and beckoned Krull.

  "Follow me." He led the way into the house, went upstairs in the dark and opened a door at the end of a second floor corridor, stepping aside to let Krull enter. He closed the door behind them and switched on the lights.

  "Part of the family quarters," he explained. "You're to stay here until Yargo decides what to do with you. Don't leave—and keep out of sight."

  "How about seeing Yargo?"

  "In the morning."

  "Is he up now?" Krull asked doggedly.

  "I wouldn't know."

  "Listen . . ." he started to protest.

  Butterfield opened the door and cut in decisively, "It'll keep."

  Krull watched the door close behind him and fumed inwardly.

  He looked around; the room was large, comfortably furnished and possessed a wall TV and—yes—a phone. He listened—the house was quiet. He crossed to the phone, looked up a number and dialed, waiting impatiently while the phone at the other end rang. It occurred to him that the room was probably bugged, but he didn't care.

  Someone answered, "Cassowary Cafe."

  "I'd like to speak to one of your employees—Ruth Bowman," he said.

  "The cigaret girl. . . she's not here."

  "Where is she?"

  "Can't say. She didn't show tonight . . . left us short-handed."

  "Thanks." He hung up thoughtfully. Sure, she had known what was coming—had taken off. Yet, there had been something more in her voice than just the end of their short masquerade whe
n she had said: There's not much time left, not much time ...

  She had sounded more as if she had been referring to herself.

  He moodily undressed for bed when he saw blood on the shoulder of his shirt, and remembered the stinging bite of the bullet that had struck him in the cellar. He went to the bathroom and examined it—the wound was superficial, creasing the top of the shoulder. He found a tube of antibiotic salve in the medicine cabinet, rubbed some into the wound and dropped into bed. He was just getting to sleep when a light knock at his door jolted him to sudden wakefulness. Instantly alert, he shoved his hand to the gun under his pillow, and waited. The knock was repeated.

  "Come in," he called softly. The door opened, framing a slender figure against the rectangle of dim light; it closed and he caught a whiff of fragrance.

  "Mr. Rrull." The voice was soft, husky and definitely feminine, but he wasn't about to be caught off guard. He kept his fingers curled around the gun.

  "What do you want?"

  "To talk with you." The voice was faindy familiar, but he couldn't place it.

  "At this time of night?" he asked sarcastically.

  "Yes, at this time of night," she answered calmly, adding, "I'm Jan Yargo."

  "Oh . . ." Sure, he placed the voice now. He snapped on the bedside lamp, at the same time rehnquishing his grasp of the gun. The girl watching him from the foot of the bed was Yargo's daughter, all right. Her blue eyes held a bemused look. She wore a light house cape over a negligee-more revealing than concealing, he thought—and she hadn't forgotten to make up her face. He was pondering the proper etiquette of his next move when she solved the problem by coming around to the side of the bed and sitting on it.

  "What now?"

  "Please don't be rude."

  "Excuse me," he said stiffly, "but I didn't expect the Prime Thinker's daughter after midnight—in my bedroom." She smiled. "You sound like a stuffed shirt." "Don't make that mistake," he advised sofdy. Her smile sobered. "I won't." "How did you know I was here?" "Butterfield told me." "I suppose I'm a prisoner."

  "No—not that." She looked levelly at him. "But it wouldn't be safe to leave."

  He deliberately moved his eyes the length of her body, taking in the curving lines beneath the thin attire and ending at her face. She didn't alter expression and he said, "At least I've got a lovely jailer."