Jeff Sutton

by The Atom Conspiracy

  The Searchmaster!

  Krull's blood ran cold but he remained watching. Mer-ryweather was pivoting his head from side to side, covering the intersection. His face looked like a mask under the garish yellow light and where his eyes should be were two black holes. He looked as if he were sniffing the wind. He thought again that the gaunt man was a bloodhound, a shadow he couldn't shake.

  The festivities and sounds of occasional brawls grew louder. He liked that . . . something comforting in the din, the press of bodies, the sweat and the odor. Even Merry-weather couldn't pick a single mind from a throng like this.

  But when the crowd thinned? He'd have to hide.

  A black cellar?

  He remembered.

  The cellar where Foxhill had killed Cathecart. It was the perfect spot, the last place they'd look. It would give him time to think, to plan, time to tie the threads together. He traversed several blocks trying to recall its location. After a while he spotted the bar where he'd taken refuge and remembered. Keeping his face turned down he pushed through the crowd. Capes. Black capes. The agents seemed all around. Another scream, another image, a jumble of milling, sweating bodies blocking his path, a voice calling his name. He held his head low and hurried.

  Noise ...

  Screams . . .

  Wild laughter . . .

  A young LIQ with purpled lips and hair lacquered in a spiral cone stopped his progress, swaying in front of him supported by the arms of two escorts who, he thought, resembled stevedores. She swayed and looked blurry-eyed at him.

  "Come along, honey, join the party."

  "Get along," one of the drunks growled, looking meanly at Krull. He pushed around them, followed by her shrill laughter. It took him a while to find the alley. It was a black maw opening into the street. Its entrance was blocked by the mob—some still carrying Shevach banners. He managed to gain the entrance and slip into the shadows.

  He probed his way by memory, occasionally circling to avoid a whispering voice or the dim outiines of swaying bodies. The din gradually receded and, as his eyes became dark-adapted, the outlines of buildings took form.

  He finally located the door he was seeking, more by feel than by sight. He twisted the knob and it opened. He waited, trying to discern thought in the blackness of the cellar, and failed. After a moment he stepped into the blackness, conscious that he was sweating and breathing heavily. He stood for a while, hearing his heart thud against his ribs. Nothing happened. Strange—he had half-expected Peter Merryweather. He hesitated. Distant cries and laughter came from the street but the cellar was a tomb. He saw nothing, heard nothing, nor did his mind register any cause for alarm. After a moment he breathed easier and felt his way toward one wall where he remembered seeing a jumble of old furniture.

  He rummaged around until he found a comfortable place to he down; in moments he was asleep. Once he woke to the sound of shrill voices and screams, revelry from the streets. His muscles ached from the hard floor; he shifted position and drifted off to sleep again.

  Next time he woke it was early morning. Pale light filtered in through cracks above the door and half-covered window. He felt a sudden fear, rose and peered cautiously around. He debated sneaking out for something to eat and discarded the idea. He'd be too conspicuous on the almost deserted streets. Well, he'd found himself a hideout, all right. Now the trick would be to get out of it. He grinned ruefully and settled back to wait it out, thinking that night was a long time off. During the day he heard activity in the building above him; once someone entered the far end of the cellar and rummaged around a pile of boxes. Krull hid under the plastic tarp until he left.

  He passed the hours debating his course of action. He wasn't getting any place this way—he'd have to make a break. How? Bok—but Bok was dead. Still . . . the esper would have a successor. It seemed logical that this person would have been a party to Bok's activities.

  He'd go to the House of Espers and force the information.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The day seemed eternal, but finally the half-light of the cellar darkened and the shadows around him jelled into a solid black. He waited a while longer, planning his exact moves as carefully as he could, knowing that success or failure perhaps depended upon the next few hours. Finally he emerged from hiding and started toward the door. "Max ..."

  He froze and his heart suddenly sped up again, booming inside him.

  "Max . . ." It was a soft voice, husky and low. He turned slowly.

  "It's . . . Anna."

  "Anna." He repeated the name huskily, without believing; saw the shadow of her body moving toward him. "How did you know I'd be here? . . . Herman Bok?" "Yes," she admitted. She was next to him. "Oh Max . . ." "What else did he tell you?" "Nothing."

  His eyes were becoming dark-adapted and he saw the paleness of her face; even in the darkness he knew it was wistful, filled with sorrow. He spoke more gendy.

  "Nothing at all, Anna?"

  She hesitated. "Nothing, Max, but he gave me some orders." Her voice trailed away. "Go on," he ordered. "I'm to take you to the conspirators." ' "What?"

  She repeated the statement, and added, "But, please, follow me. There's a schedule, Max."

  As she started to withdraw, he caught her hand and pulled, gendy. She came back, looked into his face a mo ment, and flung herself in his arms. He felt her body trembling, heard her sob. He lifted her chin and kissed her. Her hps were cold. She broke away again. "Please, we have to hurry."

  She led him through the same passage Butterfield had taken. They reached the alley and walked toward the corner. He heard the voices ahead and hesitated.

  "Please don't worry, Max. I'll get you there safely," she said, as if reading his thoughts.

  Did Bok tell you that, too?"

  "Yes," she said simply.

  "Okay." He followed her to the mouth of the alley, took her arm and walked by her side until they reached her car. She pulled into the stream of traffic and headed toward the bay.

  "Where to?" Krull asked curiously.

  "The seaplane ramp."

  "The police will be there."

  "Yes, but they won't stop us."

  "If Bok was right."

  "He was right," she said simply.

  "Okay, 111 take a chance." After a moment another thought struck him.

  "Who are the conspirators?"

  "That I can't say," she answered simply.

  "Can't or won't?"

  "Max . . . please, I've told you everything I can." "Except the destination .. ." She turned and looked soberly into his face. "Well?" he demanded impatiently.

  "Waimea-Roa," she said simply. She turned back to the traffic, leaving him for the minute speechless.

  Anna reached the seaplane ramp and headed directly toward the ticket booth. Krull nervously followed—Shevach wouldn't leave any of the transportation routes unattended. There, ahead, just as he feared, he saw a bulky man lounging across from the ticket window watching the crowd.

  AGENT was stamped across his features. Krull tugged Anna's arm.

  "It's watched."

  "Bok said we would be safe."

  He hesitated, shrugged and followed, covertly watching the man. Krull studied him out of the corner of his eye, prepared to either fight or flee, trying to play it by ear. To his amazement, the watcher didn't seem to notice them. They turned down the ramp, and Krull could almost feel the cold eyes follow them. They reached the bottom.

  Anna excused herself a moment.

  Krull fretted nervously until she reappeared. Just in time. Five minutes later the seaplane engines roared to life; it taxied into the stream and started its sluggish take-off. Minutes later Sydney was a sea of fights rapidly falling astern.

  The floating city of Kulahai fled past; there was only a vast expanse of stars and black sea beneath until the scattered lights of Abiang Atoll rushed toward them from the heart of Waimea-Roa. The plane dropped lower, banked, let down to a smooth landing on the surface of the lagoon and taxied toward
the ramp.

  "Okay," Krull said harshly, "now what?"

  "Wait. . . until we're alone."

  "That'll be a couple of minutes," he promised grimly.

  They were the only passengers to disembark, he noted. At least Shevach didn't have a shadow on his heels yet. He steered Anna to the top of the ramp, halted and faced her.

  "Let's have it," he said quietly. "I know every person on the atolls. Start spilling names."

  "But I don't know them," she protested. "All I know is the place."

  "Where?"

  "Chimney Rock."

  "What?" He spat the word incredulously, then laughed mirthlessly. She watched him, puzzled. "Bok's been taking us in," he said finally. "Chimney Rock is just a pillar, a massive black chunk jetting up from the sea. Even birds have a tough time getting a toehold," he added grimly.

  "Not on the rock—under the rock," she said quiedy.

  "Under . . ."

  "A cavern, a huge grotto. There's a laboratory, factory, places to live ..." "You've seen that?" "Bok told me," she said simply. "Impossible. It couldn't go undetected." "It's been built over the years .. . decades." "I don't believe it." "I do."

  "Then why are you leading me there?" he challenged. "Why would Bok undo the work he says he believes in? No, it doesn't make sense."

  "Because you're not going as an agent, Max."

  "I'm not?" He smiled sardonically.

  "No—Mr. Bok says you're necessary to ... to its completion."

  "No," he said stonily. Another thought struck him. "How do we get there?"

  "There's a way. I can't tell you yet. I'll have to . . ." "Yeah, there's a way," he cut in. "Follow me." "Max . . ."

  "Follow me," he repeated roughly. He started down the main street of Abiang Village and, after a moment, heard her footsteps behind him. He reached the small pastel house that had been his home since coming to the atolls, unlocked the door and beckoned her to precede him. She walked past him tight-lipped.

  "Make yourself at home," he mocked. "I'll be back."

  She turned and her voice was a plea. "Max . . ."

  He had one hand on the door when she screamed, "Max —you've got to listen."

  He spun back. "Okay, make it short." He held the door ajar and waited.

  "Herman Bok was a great man," she said, "great because

  he was different . . . because he was a down through, Max, could see the future." "I know that," he cut in.

  "Yes, but you don't know what it does to a man . . . the damnation of being able to see every moment of every day ahead of time; being able to see your own personal failures and disasters, your own death, not being able to change things . . ."

  "So ...r

  "Why do you think Herman Bok considered it so important that you find the conspirators?" "I don't know."

  "Mr. Bok said you would save the conspiracy. Do you hear that, Max? You're going to save it." She laughed hysterically and he felt a desire to take her in his arms and soothe her. He took a step toward her.

  "No, I'm not crazy, if that's what you think."

  "All right, you're not crazy," he said quietly, "but Bok was, at least with regard to me."

  "He wasn't," she whimpered. "You don't know . . ."

  "No . . . P" He leaned against the door and contemplated her bemusedly. "Look, Anna, I'm supposed to be an esper. Well, I've tried it. I can get vague impressions from people's minds, but I really can't read them. Once in a while I get sharp images but not often. As an esper, I'm a dud, and I know it . . ."

  "You don't know..."

  "I can't see into the future," he said bluntly, "so don't try and give me that." There was a tinge of regret in his voice. "I'm just an agent—a plain agent. But right now I'm going to make the damnedest haul. . ."

  He yanked the door open and stepped into the night, gritting his teeth savagely. Damn, all his life he'd hated the knowledge he was an esper. Now, when he wanted to be an esper, he wasn't; all Bok's ravings couldn't alter that. He stomped into the station surprised to find Derek behind the desk. The wizened clerk gasped a flustered welcome.

  "What are you doing here at this time of night?" Krull asked.

  Derek nodded toward the door. "The Old Man's in. There's something hot."

  "You can say that again," Krull snapped. He walked past the clerk and entered the Inspector's office without knocking. Jonquil looked up in surprise and his face wreathed into a smile.

  "Welcome home, Max. I wasn't expecting you but I'm sure glad to see you."

  "I'm glad, too," Krull said fervendy. He plopped into a chair opposite the littered desk. "The chips are down and we're going to work."

  Jonquil abruptly rose, motioning him to silence, and drew him to the corner of the room.

  "You've located the conspiracy?"

  Krull nodded.

  "That ties in. I've got orders to marshal my agents and stand by."

  "Then why the need for secrecy?"

  Jonquil looked grim. "The orders were from the Manager. He's coming personally—due to land shortly." Krull digested the information.

  "I also got an order from Yargo not to assist Shevach— I'm in the middle."

  "Don't help him," Krull urged.

  "We've got to plan but I think we'd better get out of here," Jonquil murmured. "Right now I don't even trust Derek."

  "Listen, I've got to break that conspiracy myself," Krull said desperately. "It's the only chance I've got for vindication. Besides, if Shevach beats me, he's got the world in his hand."

  "I know. So does Yargo. But he won't beat you. Go over to Dying Girl Point—111 meet you there in a few moments. Maybe there's a way but we'll have to work fast."

  Krull nodded assent and began talking in normal tones for the benefit of any possible electronic listener: "111 see you in the morning. Right now I'm going to turn in and get a good night's sleep."

  Jonquil winked. "Good night, Max," he replied conversationally.

  Krull left the station, hesitated, then popped his head in the door of his house. Anna was studying the sketch of Rea Jon; she turned at the sound of the door.

  "Wait, I'll be back," he snapped.

  "Max . . ." Her eyes were pools of sorrow again. "I have something to say."

  "Say it," he spat. "I've got work to do."

  "Next time you see me, read my mind." / "Why?" He was startled.

  "I can't say . . . now. Just read my mind!"

  Mystery. Hell, couldn't she ever come out and say what she thought? He yanked the door shut without giving her time to protest and struck off toward Dying Girl Point. The night was cool in his face and his clothes were damp on his body. He walked swiftly to the promontory which jutted into the sea, picking his way more cautiously until he reached its end. The point was a favorite spot, filled with fond memories. He and Jonquil had set their canvases there, had fished from its heights with both line and speargun. On nights like this he had come here with Rea Jon. He looked upward. Stars—millions of stars pinned against the sky all the way down to where it merged with the blackness of the Pacific.

  Stars.

  Espers.

  Atoms. The world was all fouled up.

  He heard footsteps and turned; Jonquil came out of the night, a lean silhouette. Krull moved to meet him and they stopped, facing each other across the span of feet. He saw that the Inspector was disturbed. There was a heavy silence before Jonquil spoke.

  "Max, you are my friend." .

  "And you are mine." .

  "You've been like a son to me." The anguish in his voice startled Krull. He's worried, he thought. I'm putting a load on his shoulders, asking liim to share my job. He felt guilty.

  "I didn't mean to burden you, Martin, but I need help. You're the only one I can trust."

  "Don't say that," Jonquil replied sorrowfully.

  "Why not?" Krull asked. "It's true." He looked at the Inspector's face. Even in the dim light he could see it was a mask of sorrow. A gaunt hand came out from under the cape holding a snub-nosed a
utomatic.

  "Because I have to kill you."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Kbull stepped back, startled, and fought to relax, conscious that his life span had become measured in moments. He kept his eyes riveted on the Inspector's face. "Why?" he asked simply.

  "I love you," Jonquil said. "You've been like a son to me —the son I never had—but this is bigger than us. I've been asking myself if I could really do this—kill you. Now I know I can—must. But it'll be like killing myself, Max. Worse, for you have been dearer to me than life."

  "Then, why?" Krull asked, conscious of a deep inner sorrow, not for himself but for the man standing in front of him. Jonquil didn't answer. Krull turned and took a few slow steps toward the cliff, speaking as he did.

  "You are my friend, Jonquil, more than a friend. We have lived and played and dreamed together—swum these waters together . . ."

  "Stop," Jonquil rasped harshly.

  "I don't know what drives you," Krull continued, trying to keep his voice free of the touch of panic he felt, "but I know it can't be bad enough to demand such a price."

  "Stop—don't move another step," the Inspector warned. Krull hesitated, deliberately took the last step which separated him from the edge of the cliff, momentarily expecting a burst of slugs to rip his body. He turned slowly, saw the muzzle of Jonquil's gun move slowly upward and said, "You are one of the conspirators."

  Jonquil stopped the weapon in midair, hesitating as if to voice a denial.

  Krull did something he had never done before—did it feeling as if he had violated a sacred trust. He peeped his friend; he closed his mind to everything except the In-pector's face and concentrated on his mind. In the first seconds it was like looking into a whirlpool, a maelstrom of flurried thoughts, resolution and decision surcharged with pain. The jumbled thoughts focused and became imagery; but it was the imagery of a bizarre montage in which he simultaneously glimpsed a series of pictures, one merging into another. There were faces, an odd-fantastic structure that appeared like a rocket, a grotto bustling with men and machines, filled with a blue dancing light resembling the harsh brittle glare of an arc welding torch—a hand holding a spitting automatic. The imagery suddenly vanished, replaced by a formless gray mosaic, an unbroken pattern of nothingness. He came back to reality, with a start.