Psi Hunt

by Kurland, Michael

  “But they’re just waiting for you!” Hilda cried. “You’re not going to just walk in there?”

  “What else can a man do?” Robert asked. His hands dropped to the pair of matched Walker Colts at his belt and he swung his jacket aside in the old, familiar gesture. “They won’t let me forget. And I’m not so sure, any longer, that I want to.”

  Robert?

  Leaving Hilda in front of the feed store, Robert walked the rest of the way to the Dos Putas saloon and shouldered his way through the swinging doors. A hush fell over the crowd and everyone froze in mid-motion, holding the tableau for two heartbeats before moving again. Robert walked to the bar.

  Robert Burrows?

  Was someone calling him? Robert felt a strange sense of disorientation. It was as though someone—outside—were trying to reach him.

  Robert!

  For a second he felt dizzy and the scene seemed to change in front of him. Was there something out of place? he wondered as he awkwardly mounted his horse. Something, some touch of an alternate reality? He put the thought out of his mind and concentrated on staying on the horse without looking too ridiculous. No one could rationally expect a naval officer to have had much time to practice horseback riding, but a Russian Colonel of Hussars wouldn’t think of that. And here, beyond Murmansk, he represented all they had ever seen of the fledgling United States of America.

  He found it necessary to keep both hands busy, one holding the reins and the other keeping his presentation sword from flapping too wildly against his—and the animal’s—side, but his keen eyes darted all around, absorbing all they could see of port fortifications, harbor locations and the like. Mother Russia, and her Imperial Tsar Ivan IV, were allies now, but there might come a time when such information as Commander Burrows could gather would be invaluable to his country.

  They came around a corner now, and Robert could see his ship, U.S.S. Burr riding easily at anchor, her new coat of paint gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Any captain, running an eye over the frigate’s trim appearance, would know at once the quality and spirit of the crew.

  R O B E R T B U R R O W S ! !

  That was something. What? A ghostly call? If so he’d better keep it to himself. It wouldn’t do the career of the recently appointed captain of one of Congress’s brand-new thirty-two-gun frigates any good if word got back to Philadelphia that he was seeing ghosts.

  Robert!

  Another ghostly call? This one seemed more solid, somehow. But still out of place. Robert looked around. There on the quay behind him was a large, ridiculously garbed, bearded gentleman running toward him. “Robert—here you are! I thought for a while I wasn’t going to be able to find you.”

  “Sir?” Robert said, smiling pleasantly down at the large man as he approached the horse. What had made him think the man peculiarly dressed? It must have been a trick of the light. The man was wearing the standard fur coat and cap that most civilians who could afford them affected in this bitter-cold part of the world.

  “You don’t remember me?” the man asked, returning the smile. “Addison Friendly at your service. American Consul here. We met years ago and in a different place. There’s no reason for you to recall it now.”

  “I seem to—I have a feeling—no matter. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I,” Friendly drew himself up to his full height—he seemed to be even taller here than otherwise, “have a message of the utmost importance to deliver to you, Captain.”

  “Commander,” Robert said. “I am captain of the Burr, but my rank is only commander.” He kept the pleasant smile on his face, concealing his impatience. He must not waste one precious moment of the tide to weigh his ship and waft her out of harbor.

  “It is most secret, sir,” Friendly said. “It is direct from Congress, via the War Department.”

  “Well, man,” Robert snapped. “Hand it over!”

  “It’s verbal and, as I said, most secret. We must talk,” Friendly said.

  “Very well,” Robert said. “But be brief; I sail with the tide.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Friendly murmured. “What about this café?”

  They settled in at the small café and waited until the waiter had taken their order and gone out of earshot. Robert checked the booth in front of them and behind them and put a kopek in the juke box to give a noise cover to their conversation. The ancient strains of As Time Goes By filled the room. “We can speak now,” he said.

  Friendly leaned forward and stared into Robert’s eyes. “It is time for you to follow your secret orders!” he said.

  Robert was puzzled. “What secret orders?” He looked around the room, which had subtly changed. Two gestapo agents, wrapped in their black leather trenchcoats, were now leaning over the piano, speaking to the black piano player. “Be careful!” Robert said, “Their ears are everywhere.”

  “I was afraid of this,” Friendly said. “You are going to be a problem.”

  “We’ll have to go somewhere else to talk,” Robert said. “I’ll leave first. Wait ten minutes and then follow me to my apartment.”

  Friendly shook his head. He looked annoyed. “I’ll take care of them,” he said. He raised his arm and snapped his fingers. “Herr Muller! Kommen sie hier, bitte!”

  One of the trenchcoated men walked over to the booth. He looked very tired. Friendly took a leather badge-case out of his pocket and flashed it at him. “You and your companion are to report immediately to the airfield!” he said. “You will round up the usual suspects!”

  Muller clicked his heels, bowed slightly, and turned. He and his companion marched out of the cafe.

  “Very neat,” Robert said. He got a glimpse of the badge before Friendly put it away. POLICE DEPARTMENT, it said, CITY OF LOS ANGELES.

  “All things to all men,” Friendly said. “Now on to the message.”

  “Yes,” Robert agreed. “What is it?”

  “You,” Friendly said, “are the only one who knows.”

  “I am?” Robert tried to think, and the room took on a distinctly fuzzy look.

  Friendly said, “The secret is locked in your brain, and only you can recover it. Your orders were implanted hypnotically, and we must retrieve them the same way.”

  “Ah, yes,” Robert said. “I—”

  “Have no memory of it, of course,” Friendly hurriedly finished before Robert could get any firm notions of his own. “We will have to get it out of you by rehypnosis.”

  “We will?”

  “Don’t worry. Trust me. The time is now! Five minutes ago would have been better, but we’ll settle for now. That’s right, just lean back and close your eyes.”

  “I thought I was supposed to stare at a shiny object, or something.”

  “Just close your eyes. Trust me, that’s the important thing. Trust me—close your eyes—that’s right—lean back—picture a whirlpool in your head and let yourself get drawn into the vortex—not too close—relax—keep your eyes closed—you can hear my voice—only my voice—listen to the sound of my voice—come back with me—back to a room in Soho—back to a room—follow my voice—come back to this room—back—back—come back—follow me back—back—back—back—”

  Robert fell through the vortex in his mind into a black void and landed in a long, unlit corridor. Far in the distance he could see the rectangular glint of a GOAL. Coached by Addison Friendly’s voice, he headed toward the ephemeral glitter. He went on and on, not exactly walking and not really floating. It was as though he were on a great slideway which carried him along, but he had to pedal to provide the power. He got closer and closer to the end of the corridor, but the rectangle kept getting smaller and smaller. Then the rectangle disappeared completely.

  “Open your eyes,” came Friendly’s voice inside his head. “You have arrived!”

  Robert opened his eyes and knew where he was.

  It was just before dawn and no guard had been left in the room. When prisoners are drugged with a drug so powerful that it will be six h
ours before you can awaken them enough for questioning, you might as well get some sleep.

  “What happened?” Robert asked. He felt like his senses were operating from a great distance inside his head; or, perhaps, from a different dimension.

  Friendly sat up. “Welcome to the here-and-now,” he said. “They neglected to retie you. If you could—”

  “Right,” Robert agreed. “If I can get my fingers to work. Wait a minute. Damn! My fingers are numb, and I can’t seem to work the knot.”

  “There’s a razor-blade knife on the table,” Friendly said. “They must use it for opening packing crates.”

  “Ah!” Robert picked up the knife and carefully slashed at the ropes around Friendly’s wrists. “There. I don’t think I drew blood.”

  “I don’t think there was any left to draw,” Friendly said, rubbing his wrists. “We’d better get out of here. This is just another dream state, you know, as far as our poor suffering subconscious knows. You’ll probably be back on Mars or someplace in five minutes or so. We’d better move. There must be a guard outside; you check while I retrieve Leah.”

  “Was—” Robert paused. “How did you—”

  “Later,” Friendly promised. “We have to get out of here now.”

  Robert nodded and went to the door. “It’s locked,” he announced in a strong whisper.

  “Open it!” Friendly said, appearing behind Robert with a sleeping Leah in his arms.

  “Right.” The door was a standard sort of interior door, not particularly strong or made to withstand any kind of force. Robert took a step backward for room, and in one smooth kick planted his foot firmly and forcefully on the inside of the knob. There was a surprisingly gentle snap and the door sprung open. Robert quickly jumped into the hallway and looked around. Not a creature was stirring. “Incredible,” he said. “They didn’t hear us.”

  “Think of the gods,” Friendly said, “sitting up there on Mount Olympus all night with nothing to do. A prayer to the proper god does not always go unrewarded. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Which way?”

  “A good and valid question.” Friendly paused and looked searchingly around. “Here, let’s try this end. Aha! The old instinct never fails. A staircase!”

  Friendly led the way down the stairs to the ground floor hallway of the ancient loft building. “Now,” Friendly said, placing Leah gently on a wooden bench that was part of the original decoration. “There should be, somewhere around here, a—ah! There is indeed!”

  “What?”

  “The instrument of our deliverance. A telephone. Got any change? Never mind.” Friendly fished a dollar from his pocket and pushed it into the coin slot. Rapidly tapping a number, he muttered into the receiver for a minute and hung up. “They’re sending an armored car for us. Astral Emprise. Five minutes or less. You can sit down now.”

  Robert sat on the bench next to Leah. “Very good,” he said. “We’re saved.” He rested his head back against the wall.

  . . . . . . He opened his eyes again at a sudden loud noise. It was the bombardment, beginning again. With a sigh, he stood up and began pacing the floor. “I’ll see that you get a medal, of course, Sergeant. And everything that happened between us will be forgotten.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The gunnery sergeant stood stiffly at attention.

  “Right! Now back to the trenches, Sergeant. We need all the good men we can get.” The heavy guns were at it again, and Major Burrows expected the Hun to start a new major offensive all along the Ardennes line sometime in the next twenty-four hours. If only he could convince higher command. “Wilkins!” he yelled.

  His orderly came racing in. “Yes, sir?”

  “Get the Spad ready on the field. I’ll be out in ten minutes. I want to have a look at this myself!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Robert sat glumly in his office, nursing a painful regret. This was reality, no doubt about that. The difference was easy to tell from this side of the silver-ice dream barrier. No bad taste in your mouth in a dream; no occasional need to go to the bathroom or blow your nose; no dull, throbbing head and a feeling that you’re not quite there but would have to make do with what part of you was available. No sense of apprehension sitting in the lower chest while you wait to find out why the old man wants to see you this morning.

  And so Robert sat, with his head low over his desk, sipping at a cup of coffee and wondering why anyone would ever drink such a foul-tasting brew as coffee. Slowly the heat and the caffeine penetrated the low-lying fog that surrounded Robert’s brain and it began to function. The events of last night, very fuzzily remembered, were becoming clearer with the passing of time and the drinking of coffee. The drug-dream, a silver-ice fantasy of wish-fulfillment, was blurry with patches of clarity; like a thick pea soup dotted with ice cubes. He wasn’t exactly ashamed of what his silver-ice dream had revealed about his subconscious, but he was glad that no once else could read his mind. Read his mind? The thought rang a bell, clashed cymbals, and set off a paradiddle pounding in his chest. Friendly had shown up in his dream! Or had he just imagined it? Well—of course he had imagined it, but—Robert sipped desperately at the coffee.

  One good thing; the telepathic side-effect of silver ice that Friendly claimed hit one in twenty hadn’t appeared, unless the dream sharing with Addison Friendly was a manifestation of it. But Friendly had shown up in his head. He would have to talk to Friendly. That sort of reverse telepathy was a new idea to him. Robert found that the concept of telepathy, taken out of the abstract, scared him.

  The desk phone chirped its unmusical, insistent note, and Robert slapped the reply bar. “I’ll be right up,” he snarled as civilly as he could manage.

  “Lieutenant Junior-Grade Robert Burrows?” the phone inquired.

  Robert looked up. A random color pattern stared back at him through the screen. “Yes?” he acknowledged, trying to figure out the gender of the voice. The pitch and tone were female, but there was something oddly masculine about the intonation and delivery.

  “Naval Identification, Social Security, and Internal Revenue Number 0948-17-4362?”

  “That’s me,” Robert admitted. “Now, who—”

  “Would you please turn so that I can see your profile?”

  Robert turned. “Okay?”

  “Satisfactory. Thank you.”

  “Good. Now do something for me; tell me who the—who am I speaking to? You’re not transmitting any image.”

  “I am the Department of Commerce—Library of Congress—Joint Appropriations Committee of the House of Representatives Statistical Files Research and Analysis Library and Computer Complex Computer. I have been trying to get a hold on you for two days. Of you.”

  That explained the color generator and the odd voice. “Me?” Robert asked.

  “After all these years,” the computer said sadly, “idiom is still a problem. Intonation is nothing—nothing. Even voice synchronization presents no problem. Here, watch!” The color pattern wiped off and an animated cartoon head appeared. “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,” the head intoned, with perfect lip synchronization. “Do you speak French? Very logical language, French. Of course you can not say anything in it—”

  “Look,” Robert said, “what can I do for you?”

  “Watch the lips!” the computer said enthusiastically. “She surreptitiously shelled several shekels of sea shells at a shady spot on the sea shore. Now sideways: In front of the fortunate fatuous faculty, five affluent fairly frontally favored floozies faced a friendly fulsome fornicating fugleman and finished the fracas by finger—”

  “Stop!” Robert demanded. “Please! Look, I have a headache; I’m less than half awake; and I’m probably late besides. It’s fascinating to finally face—to talk to the Department of Commerce and all that stuff computer. But just what do you want?”

  “I have some information for you,” the head said, turning to stare out at Robert. “Of course, I have no idea whether or not you wi
ll find it useful, or even interesting. I find everything interesting. But then I am merely a computer; you are a man. Woman? Man.”

  “What?” Robert asked.

  “Man. Homo sapiens. Although why you are called that—”

  “Yes. What information do you have for me?”

  “You requested any data regarding the fingerprints of a female. The identification check was carried out, and you were informed that the results were negative; that the fingerprints requested were not on file.”

  “Yes, that’s right. The request was fed into the FBI computer.”

  “I,” the cartoon face said, sounding offended, “am the FBI computer.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Your apology noted. I will be brief. Whenever I have a few picoseconds to myself, I engage in random activity such as comparing or correlating unrelated files, sometimes by keyword, or position, or LUCK.”

  “Luck?”

  “Luck is the keyword for a random-number generator in my ROM. This was built in, you understand, as an attempt to duplicate in a machine that process of serendipity that you humans call ‘creative genius.’ As a part of this I have a special printer that I use to type out poetry, experimental novels, music, and pornographic greeting-cards. The man who wrote the base program was very fond of pornographic greeting-cards.”

  “I’m very glad you’re being brief,” Robert said. “You may not have anything else to do—”

  “On the contrary, Lieutenant Burrows. But I am capable of performing in excess of six times ten to the twelfth separate major operations simultaneously. And whenever I get a few picoseconds to myself—”

  “I heard that. What have you for me? Something about the fingerprints of that girl?”

  “Yes. I found her. It. Them. They have over twenty-four points of similarity with the fingerprints of a human female whose public record was put into the deceased file nine years ago. Fingerprint classification, as developed by Sir Francis Galton and Juan Vucetitch over a hundred years ago, make it beyond a reasonable doubt that this is the same human female. Beyond a reasonable doubt, according to the Department of Commerce policy statement, is higher than ninety-two percent probability.”