It took him several minutes to jimmy open the elevator door. His mind was sensitive enough to sense the nearness of others, so there was no chance of his being caught red-handed. When he got the door open, he stepped into the shaft, brought his loathing for the bottom into the fore, and floated up to the top floor. From there it was a simple matter to get to the roof, drop down the side, and enter the open window of an officer’s apartment.
He entered a lighted window rather than a darkened one. He wanted to know what he was getting into. He had his gun ready, just in case, but there was no sign of anyone in the room he entered. A quick search showed that the other two rooms were also empty. His mind had told him that there was no one awake in the apartment, but a sleeping man’s mind, filled with dimmed, chaotic thoughts, blended into the background and might easily be missed.
Then Spencer Candron used the telephone, punching the first of the two code numbers he had been given. A connection was made to the room where a twenty-four-hour guard kept watch over James Ch’ien via television pickups hidden in the walls of his prison apartment in the basement.
Candron had listened to recordings of one man’s voice for hours, getting the exact inflection, accent, and usage. Now, he made use of that practice.
“This is General Soong,” he said sharply. “We are sending a Dr. Wan down to persuade the guest. We will want recordings of all that takes place.”
“Yes, sir,” said the voice at the other end.
“Dr. Wan will be there within ten minutes, so be alert.”
“Yes, sir. All will be done to your satisfaction.”
“Excellent,” said Candron. He smiled as he hung up. Then he punched another secret number. This one connected him with the guards outside Ch’ien’s apartment. As General Soong, he warned them of the coming of Dr. Wan. Then he went to the window, stepped out, and headed for the roof again.
* * * *
There was no danger that the calls would be suspected. Those two phones could not be contacted except from inside the Palace, and not even then unless the number was known.
Again he dropped down Elevator Shaft Three. Only Number One was operating this late in the evening, so there was no fear of meeting it coming up. He dropped lightly to the roof of the car, where it stood empty in the basement, opened the escape hatch in the roof, dropped inside, opened the door, and emerged into the first basement. Then he started down the stairs to the subbasement.
The guards were not the least suspicious, apparently. Candron wished he were an honest-to-God telepath, so he could be absolutely sure. The officer at the end of the corridor that led to Ch’ien’s apartment was a full captain, a tough-looking, swarthy Mongol with dark, hard eyes. “You are Dr. Wan?” he asked in a guttural baritone.
“I am,” Candron said. This was no place for traditional politeness. “Did not General Soong call you?”
“He did, indeed, doctor. But I assumed you would be carrying—” He gestured, as though not quite sure what to say.
Candron smiled blandly. “Ah. You were expecting the little black bag, is it not so? No, my good captain; I am a psychologist, not a medical doctor.”
The captain’s face cleared. “So. The persuasion is to be of the more subtle type.”
“Indeed. Only thus can we be assured of his co-operation. One cannot force the creative mind to create; it must be cajoled. Could one have forced the great K’ung Fu-tse to become a philosopher at the point of a sword?”
“It is so,” said the captain. “Will you permit me to search you?”
The affable Dr. Wan emptied his pockets, then permitted the search. The captain casually looked at the identification in the wallet. It was, naturally, in perfect order for Dr. Wan. The identification of Ying Lee had been destroyed hours ago, since it was of no further value.
“These things must be left here until you come out, doctor,” the captain said. “You may pick them up when you leave.” He gestured at the pack of cigarettes. “You will be given cigarettes by the interior guard. Such are my orders.”
“Very well,” Candron said calmly. “And now, may I see the patient?” He had wanted to keep those cigarettes. Now he would have to find a substitute.
The captain unlocked the heavy door. At the far end, two more guards sat, complacently playing cards, while a third stood at a door a few yards away. A television screen imbedded in the door was connected to an interior camera which showed the room within.
The corridor door was closed and locked behind Candron as he walked toward the three interior guards. They were three more big, tough Mongols, all wearing the insignia of lieutenants. This was not a prisoner who could be entrusted to the care of common soldiers; the secret was too important to allow the hoi polloi in on it. They carried no weapons; the three of them could easily take care of Ch’ien if he tried anything foolish, and besides, it kept weapons out of Ch’ien’s reach. There were other methods of taking care of the prisoner if the guards were inadequate.
The two officers who were playing cards looked up, acknowledged Dr. Wan’s presence, and went back to their game. The third, after glancing at the screen, opened the door to James Ch’ien’s apartment. Spencer Candron stepped inside.
It was because of those few seconds—the time during which that door was open—that Candron had called the monitors who watched Ch’ien’s apartment. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered. He needed fifteen seconds in which to act, and he couldn’t do it with that door open. If the monitors had given an alarm in these critical seconds…
But they hadn’t, and they wouldn’t. Not yet.
The man who was sitting in the easy-chair on the opposite side of the room looked up as Candron entered.
James Ch’ien (B.S., M.S., M.I.T., Ph. D., U.C.L.A.) was a young man, barely past thirty. His tanned face no longer wore the affable smile that Candron had seen in photographs, and the jet-black eyes beneath the well-formed brows were cold instead of friendly, but the intelligence behind the face still came through.
As the door was relocked behind him, Candron said, in Cantonese: “This unworthy one hopes that the excellent doctor is well. Permit me to introduce my unworthy self: I am Dr. Wan Feng.”
Dr. Ch’ien put the book he was reading in his lap. He looked at the ceiling in exasperation, then back at Candron. “All right,” he said in English, “so you don’t believe me. But I’ll repeat it again in the hope that I can get it through your skulls.” It was obvious that he was addressing, not only his visitor, but anyone else who might be listening.
“I do not speak Chinese,” he said, emphasizing each word separately. “I can say ‘Good morning’ and ‘Good-by’, and that’s about it. I do wish I could say ‘drop dead,’ but that’s a luxury I can’t indulge. If you can speak English, then go ahead; if not, quit wasting my time and yours. Not,” he added, “that it won’t be a waste of time anyway, but at least it will relieve the monotony.”
Candron knew that Ch’ien was only partially telling the truth. The physicist spoke the language badly, but he understood it fairly well.
“Sorry, doctor,” Candron said in English, “I guess I forgot myself. I am Dr. Wan Feng.”
Ch’ien’s expression didn’t change, but he waved to a nearby chair. “Sit down, Dr. Feng, and tell me what propaganda line you’ve come to deliver now.”
Candron smiled and shook his head slowly. “That was unworthy of you, Dr. Ch’ien. Even though you have succumbed to the Western habit of putting the family name last, you are perfectly aware that ‘Wan,’ not ‘Feng,’ is my family name.”
The physicist didn’t turn a hair. “Force of habit, Dr. Wan. Or, rather, a little retaliation. I was called ‘Dakta Chamis’ for two days, and even those who could pronounce the name properly insisted on ‘Dr. James.’ But I forget myself. I am supposed to be the host here. Do sit down and tell me why I should give myself over to Communist China just because my grandfather was born here back in the days when China was a republic.”
* * * *
Spencer Candron knew that time was running out, but he had to force Ch’ien into the right position before he could act. He wished again that he had been able to keep the cigarettes. Ch’ien was a moderately heavy smoker, and one of those drugged cigarettes would have come in handy now. As it was, he had to handle it differently. And that meant a different approach.
“No, Dr. Ch’ien,” he said, in a voice that was deliberately too smooth, “I will not sit down, thank you. I would prefer that you stand up.”
The physicist’s face became a frozen mask. “I see that the doctorate you claim is not for studies in the field of physics. You’re not here to worm things out of me by discussing my work talking shop. What is it, Doctor Wan?”
“I am a psychologist.” Candron said. He knew that the monitors watching the screens and listening to the conversation were recording everything. He knew that they shouldn’t be suspicious yet. But if the real General Soong should decide to check on what his important guest was doing.…
“A psychologist,” Ch’ien repeated in a monotone. “I see.”
“Yes. Now, will you stand, or do I have to ask the guards to lift you to your feet?”
James Ch’ien recognized the inevitable, so he stood. But there was a wary expression in his black eyes. He was not a tall man; he stood nearly an inch shorter than Candron himself.
“You have nothing to fear, Dr. Ch’ien,” Candron said smoothly. “I merely wish to test a few of your reactions. We do not wish to hurt you.” He put his hands on the other man’s shoulders, and positioned him. “There,” he said. “Now. Look to the left.”
“Hypnosis, eh?” Ch’ien said with a grim smile. “All right. Go ahead.” He looked to his left.
“Not with your head,” Candron said calmly. “Face me and look to the left with your eyes.”
Ch’ien did so, saying: “I’m afraid you’ll have to use drugs after all, Dr. Wan. I will not be hypnotized.”
“I have no intention of hypnotizing you. Now look to the right.”
Ch’ien obeyed.
Candron’s right hand was at his side, and his left hand was toying with a button on his coat. “Now up,” he said.
Dr. James Ch’ien rolled his eyeballs upward.
Candron had already taken a deep breath. Now he acted. His right hand balled into a fist and arced upwards in a crashing uppercut to Ch’ien’s jaw. At almost the same time, he jerked the button off his coat, cracked it with his fingers along the special fissure line, and threw it to the floor.
As the little bomb spewed forth unbelievable amounts of ultra-finely divided carbon in a dense black cloud of smoke, Candron threw both arms around the collapsing physicist, ignoring the pain in the knuckles of his right hand. The smoke cloud billowed around them, darkening the room and obscuring the view from the monitor screens that were watching them. Candron knew that the guards were acting now; he knew that the big Mongols outside were already inserting the key in the door and inserting their nose plugs; he knew that the men in the monitor room had hit an alarm button and had already begun to flood the room with sleep gas. But he paid no attention to these things.
Instead, he became homesick.
Home. It was a little place he knew and loved. He could no longer stand the alien environment around him; it was repugnant, repelling. All he could think of was a little room, a familiar room, a beloved room. He knew the cracks in its ceiling, the feel of the varnish on the homely little desk, the touch of the worn carpet against his feet, the very smell of the air itself. And he loved them and longed for them with all the emotional power that was in him.
And suddenly the darkness of the smoke-filled prison apartment was gone.
Spencer Candron stood in the middle of the little hotel room he had rented early that morning. In his arms, he held the unconscious figure of Dr. James Ch’ien.
He gasped for breath, then, with an effort, he stooped, allowed the limp body of the physicist to collapse over his shoulder, and stood straight again, carrying the man like a sack of potatoes. He went to the door of the room and opened it carefully. The hall was empty. Quickly, he moved outside, closing the door behind him, and headed toward the stair. This time, he dared not trust the elevator shaft. The hotel only boasted one elevator, and it might be used at any time. Instead, he allowed his dislike for the stair treads to adjust his weight to a few pounds, and then ran up them two at a time.
On the roof of the hotel, he adjusted his emotional state once more, and he and his sleeping burden drifted off into the night, toward the sea.
* * * *
No mind is infinitely flexible, infinitely malleable, infinitely capable of taking punishment, just as no material substance, however constructed, is capable of absorbing the energies brought to bear against it indefinitely.
A man can hate with a virulent hatred, but unless time is allowed to dull and soothe that hatred, the mind holding it will become corroded and cease to function properly, just as a machine of the finest steel will become corroded and begin to fail if it is drenched with acid or exposed to the violence of an oxidizing atmosphere.
The human mind can insulate itself, for a time, against the destructive effects of any emotion, be it hatred, greed, despondency, contentment, happiness, pleasure, anger, fear, lust, boredom, euphoria, determination, or any other of the myriads of “ills” that man’s mind—and thus his flesh—is heir to. As long as a mind is capable of changing from one to another, to rotate its crops, so to speak, the insulation will remain effective, and the mind will remain undamaged. But any single emotional element, held for too long, will break down the resistance of the natural insulation and begin to damage the mind.
Even that least virulent of emotions, love, can destroy. The hot, passionate love between new lovers must be modified or it will kill. Only when its many facets can be shifted around, now one and now the other coming into play, can love be endured for any great length of time.
Possibly the greatest difference between the sane and the unsane is that the sane know when to release a destructive force before it does more than minimal damage; to modify or eliminate an emotional condition before it becomes a deadly compulsion; to replace one set of concepts with another when it becomes necessary to do so; to recognize that point when the mind must change its outlook or die. To stop the erosion, in other words, before it becomes so great that it cannot be repaired.
For the human mind cannot contain any emotion, no matter how weak or how fleeting, without change. And the point at which that change ceases to be constructive and becomes, instead, destructive—that is the ultimate point beyond which no human mind can go without forcing a change—any change—in itself.
Spencer Candron knew that. To over-use the psionic powers of the human mind is as dangerous as over-using morphine or alcohol. There are limits to mental powers, even as there are limits to physical powers.
Psychokinesis is defined as the ability of a human mind to move, no matter how slightly, a physical object by means of psionic application alone. In theory, then, one could move planets, stars, even whole galaxies by thought alone. But, in physical terms, the limit is easily seen. Physically, it would be theoretically possible to destroy the sun if one had enough atomic energy available, but that would require the energy of another sun—or more. And, at that point, the Law of Diminishing Returns comes into operation. If you don’t want a bomb to explode, but the only way to destroy that bomb is by blowing it up with another bomb of equal power, where is the gain?
And if the total mental power required to move a planet is greater than any single human mind can endure—or even greater than the total mental endurance of a thousand planets full of minds, is there any gain?
There is not, and can never be, a system without limits, and the human mind is a system which obeys that law.
None the less, Spencer Candron kept his mind on flight, on repulsion, on movement, as long as he could. He was perfectly willing to destroy his own mind for a purpose, but he had no intention of destroying it usele
ssly. He didn’t know how long he kept moving eastward; he had no way of knowing how much distance he had covered nor how long it had taken him. But, somewhere out over the smoothly undulating surface of the Pacific, he realized that he was approaching his limit. And, a few seconds later, he detected the presence of men beneath the sea.
He knew they were due to rise an hour before dawn, but he had no idea how long that would be. He had lost all track of time. He had been keeping his mind on controlling his altitude and motion, and, at the same time, been careful to see whether Dr. Ch’ien came out of his unconscious state. Twice more he had had to strike the physicist to keep him out cold, and he didn’t want to do it again.
So, when he sensed the presence of the American submarine beneath the waves, he sank gratefully into the water, changing the erosive power of the emotion that had carried him so far, and relaxing into the simple physical routine of keeping both himself and Ch’ien afloat.
By the time the submarine surfaced a dozen yards away, Spencer Candron was both physically and mentally exhausted. He yelled at the top of his lungs, and then held on to consciousness just long enough to be rescued.
* * * *
“The official story,” said Senator Kerotski, “is that an impostor had taken Dr. Ch’ien’s place before he ever left the United States—” He grinned. “At least, the substitution took place before the delegates reached China. So the ‘assassination’ was really no assassination at all. Ch’ien was kidnaped here, and a double put in his place in Peiping. That absolves both us and the Chinese Government of any complicity. We save face for them, and they save face for us. Since he turned up here, in the States, it’s obvious that he couldn’t have been in China.” He chuckled, but there was no mirth in it. “So the cold war still continues. We know what they did, and—in a way—they know what we did. But not how we did it.”
The Second Randall Garrett Megapack Page 27
