“Not as yet,” said Ben Towne.
“And you can’t, as yet, dictate to me how I am to run the activities of the Federal Security Commission.”
“Not as yet.”
Roberts’ eyes blazed. “All right. Now you listen carefully, Mr. Secretary, tape recording or no tape recording. We’ve got an enemy in our midst, an alien we’ve never even seen. That alien could be the most malignant threat we’ve ever faced in all history. We can thank a psi-positive citizen out in Des Moines, Iowa, that we ever discovered the alien was here at all. That citizen had the good sense and the loyalty to report to us when he had accidental extrasensory contact with a psi-presence stronger than any he had ever encountered before, and thought that this was very strange. Normal psi-negative individuals can’t recognize this alien for what he is, can’t identify him, can’t even get near him. We know that because we’ve tried. So far we have not used Psi-High agents against him, but we’re going to have to, whether you happen to like it or not. Psi-negatives are whipped, the alien can run circles around them. Our only hope of catching him is to fight fire with fire, and in this case the only fire we have is the best-trained psi-positive agents we can get our hands on. Like Jean Sanders here. Or Ted Marino in Chicago. So that’s the way it is You can try to stop me if you want to, but you’re going to have to reorganize Federal Security to do it.”
Benjamin Towne lurched to his feet, his face white. “I may do that, Roberts.” He reached for his cane. “I may just do that.”
“Then you’ll have to throw the Liberal Administration out of office just. They’re supporting me, and they’re outvoting the Isolationists two to one. The President is also supporting me.
Towne gave him a shrewd look. “Well, you’d better start watching the telecasts and newstapes,” he said bluntly. “There are already rumors going around about some kind of a mysterious alien fugitive—oh, I know it’s been classified top secret, but you know how secrets leak out.” He grinned maliciously. “People get nervous about rumors like that, especially when the Administration denies them so sharply. You’d just better catch that alien pretty fast, that’s my advice.” The secretary nodded to his aide and limped to the door. Then he glanced back over his shoulder. “And if you’re really smart, you’ll keep your Psi-High freaks out of it, or you’re going to wish you’d never heard of them before.”
The door slammed behind him. Jean Sanders stood up, white-faced and trembling. “What a vicious man,” she murmured. “What did he mean, Bob? About wishing you’d never heard of us?”
Robert Roberts shook his head slowly. “I’m not sure I know,” he said.
III
Paul Faircloth finished reading the teletape briefing just as the little jet helicopter slipped down toward the hangar slot in South Chicago. He tossed the spools into the erasure can and flipped the switch to activate the distortion field inside the can. Then he stretched his legs, so tense he could hardly move them, and stared out at the city rising up below. For the twentieth time he wondered if he was going to come out of this alien mess alive or not, and for the twentieth time he wished it were all over.
It wasn’t all over, of course. Down there somewhere in that city, in a room high in a residential skyscraper, an utterly imponderable and dangerous alien creature from another world was once more located and pinpointed in a specific area at a specific time. It was Paul Faircloth’s job, now, to see that he did not again break through the dragnet.
Jean’s parting hug was still warm in his memory, and he remembered the worry in her big gray eyes as she had kissed him and said, “Be careful, Paul. I wish I could go, too. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened—” Only words, spoken aloud, but she had said so much, much more without words. Those unspoken things were only vague shadows in Paul Faircloth’s mind, but even so he could sense the meaning of those shadows.
A man was waiting for him down below on the landing ramp. The hangar vault Was dark and deserted, probably Security’s work, too, he thought. He scanned the agent’s ID card, even though the face was familiar enough. “Marino? I’m Paul Faircloth. Where do we stand?”
“No change since you left Washington,” Marino said. “He’s still there.” The agent was a small, wiry man with catlike movements and exceedingly bright eyes under his jet black eyebrows. “We’d better be on our way over while I brief you.”
Faircloth nodded, and stepped into the little tube-car waiting at the end of the platform. It was a tight fit for two men, and Paul stiffened by reflex as it lurched and dipped down the chute into a narrow tunnel, hanging from the overhead cable and speeding ahead on its electronic guide beam. “You said it was the Condor Building where he was spotted?”
Marino nodded. “In Center City Chicago. First thirty-six floors are commercial, and the twenty above are residential You’ve studied the floor plan? Fine. He’s pretty definitely holed up in a large residential suite on the forty-second floor. No guessing why he chose it, or how long he’s been there, but I’m one hundred percent certain that that’s where he is—” He shot Faircloth a nervous glance, almost apologetic. “I’m Psi-High, you know. That’s why I’m sure he’s there. I located him and then three of us got him triangulated. Hard to explain exacdy how, but we did, and we can keep him pinned pretty well, too. If he doesn’t try to shower us, that is. We’re pretty sure he knows we’re there.”
“What do you mean, shower you?”
Marino tapped his forehead grimly. “Throw a barrage at us, the works. This creature has powerful voltage, and I mean powerful. He showered one of our Psi-High people yesterday, and it was brutal. Nearly ripped his mind apart.”
Faircloth shivered. “But you can keep track of him.”
“Yes.” Marino lit a cigarette with nervous fingers. “Whether you can or not is something else again. No offense. I know it’s a touchy thing, but it’s just plain fact that psi-negatives have trouble keeping track of this bird at all without the help of psi-contact. You really shouldn’t be here at all, as far as logic is concerned, but those are the orders. Roberts put us Psi-Highs out to spot him, but he doesn’t want any Psi-Highs in on the kill.” Marino’s voice was flat with disappointment. “Political pressure, I guess. Wouldn’t do to give a Psi-High credit for anything.” He glanced at Faircloth and reddened. “Sorry, it just slipped out.” He bit his lip. “Anyway, you’re to have a dozen other psi-negatives to help you. I hope God’ll be helping you too.”
Faircloth grinned tightly. “Got you nervous?”
“It’s got me plenty nervous.”
“Well, cheer up. Those ‘orders’ were strictly for the record that Benjamin Towne is going to be seeing sooner or later. Roberts has no intention of pulling you off this, or any of the others, Psi-High or otherwise. As for me, I want your best Psi-High men—every one of them—to go in with me. We’ve got to get this creature, and get him cold. He’s slick, and he’s too dangerous to fool around with. Have you got the building sewed up?”
Marino grinned. “Tight as a vacuum.”
“Good. Keep it very unobtrusive and try to keep the Psi- Highs from broadcasting any more than they have to.”
Marino gave him a queer look. “They’ll do the best they can, of course.”
“Right.” Faircloth ran a hand through his brown hair, and loosened his tie a trifle. “As soon as rush hour is over and the building is cleared we’ll go up in the elevator. I want the power cut the second we step off, all over the building. Elevators, lights, everything. We’ll be on the forty-first floor, and we’ll have a team on the forty-third. Then we’ll close in together. Sound all right?”
Marino shrugged. “I guess so. Thing is, they had him boxed in just as tight in Des Moines last week and he slid right through.” The man’s eyes were worried. “We just don’t know what we’re fighting. That’s the whole trouble. Even the Psi- Highs are up a tree.”
The car gave a lurch, and slid to a stop. They stepped out into a brightly lighted tunnel filled with people emptying out of the hu
ge building above. The two men waited to board an express surface elevator and stepped off on the main concourse of the Condor Building. The last sunset rays made a dazzling golden display on the banks of heliomirrors, and Faircloth blinked, shielding his eyes a moment after the softer light below. Then he glanced at his watch. “Let’s get some coffee,” he said. “We’ve got a few minutes.”
They slid into an eating booth along the concourse and dropped in coins for coffee. It was so clumsy, this whole approach, Faircloth thought. Three and a half weeks since the ship had been spotted along the Mississippi, and they were still just learning how clumsy they were. Right from the beginning, when the first report of alien contact had come in, and the ship itself discovered, the attempt to examine it was a blunder. Even a crack demolition team couldn’t get near it. It had exploded when they were ten yards away. And then picking up the alien’s trail—true, they had been able to trace his route from the first farmhouse where he had stopped the night he landed, then west through the farm country to Des Moines, then northeast to the great Chicago metropolis. But when it came to contacting the creature, or capturing him. . Faircloth shook his head. Clumsy just wasn’t the right word.
He glanced at Marino, and reached across the booth and buzzed for a newstape. He scanned the Washington news hurriedly—another upheaval in the Liberal Party over the Coalition question with South America—another proposed International Council meeting—and another vicious attack by Medical Affairs Secretary Benjamin Towne on the Hoffman Center’s training program for Psi-Highs. Denouncing Dr. Reuben Abrams as the leader in a plan to train all Psi- High deviants (Towne actually used the word I) and to seek repeal of the present laws preventing two Psi-Highs from marrying. Paul went tense, searching for Jean Sanders’ name. It was not mentioned, and he took a deep breath and clenched his fist. If that filthy rabble rouser ever dragged her name into the public eye—He finished his coffee, watching sourly as the tape moved slowly up the screen.
Then his eye caught a small item with a Des Moines dateline, well hidden among the minor items. He read it, frowning:
Woman Charges Psi-High Conspiracy
Des Moines, la., 27 June 2177. A woman whose name was withheld today placed charges of assault and invasion of privacy against Miss Martha Bishop, 23, of Oak Park Section, Chicago, whose name is listed in the Federal psi- positive registry. The charge, made at local Federal Security offices, accused Miss Bishop of gross mental interference. The victim, who allegedly had information concerning “rumors of an alien visitor,” claimed that Miss Bishop had attempted to prevent her from reporting her information to authorities. After failing in this attempt, Miss Bishop allegedly employed her psi- powers to erase the information from the woman’s mind. Miss Bishop could not be reached for comment.
Mr. J. B. Dunlap, Liberal Administration spokesman, has repeatedly denied other rumors of alien visitors which have been persistently appearing this summer. Nevertheless, the charges against Miss Bishop are being investigated fully—
Faircloth snapped off the tape angrily and returned to his coffee. Finally he nodded to Marino. “Better drink up,” he said, “and contact your men. It’s time to go.”
Marino finished his coffee in a gulp. Then they stepped out onto the concourse again.
IV
Ted Marino left to give his men a final briefing, arranging to meet Faircloth back in the concourse five minutes later. Paul found a visiphone relay booth, and sank his long, lean body down in a relaxer facing the screen. The last of the rush.hour people were still drifting by in the corridor;
Paul watched them anxiously. If only he could talk to Jean! He wondered what she would think of the news item from Des Moines. He battled an impulse to call her, then compromised and dialed the priority code for the Federal Security Commission offices in Washington.
The relays clicked, and the code carried him through the front-line secretaries without any trouble. He gave a sigh of relief. He was in no mood to argue with secretaries. A moment later he was blinking at Roberts’ 3-D image on the screen.
Roberts’ face, usually quite youthful in sharp contrast to his gray hair, looked haggard now. He nodded to Faircloth. “You got there, then. Good. How does it look, Paul?”
“Everything’s just real nice,” Faircloth growled. “They think they’ve got him pinned. I hope so. The building here has a central power source, and we can bottleneck the whole place if we time it right.”
“Don’t miss, Paul.” Roberts’ voice was tense. “Whatever you do, don’t miss.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Ben Towne has worked his way into this.”
“Well, that figures. But what can he do?”
“Maybe a lot, if we miss this time. He has the whole Isolationist Party behind him, and the Liberals can’t hold out long on no results. Towne has a whole lot of people worried about these alien rumors, and if we don’t wrap it up fast I’m afraid things here in the Capitol are going to blow sky high.”
Faircloth scowled. “Did you see the newstapes tonight?”
“You mean the Bishop girl in Des Moines?” Roberts nodded unhappily. “Got the report from Des Moines on it this afternoon. Trumped up from beginning to end. I tell you, Towne is not playing around. I don’t know just how he plans to work tilings, but I’m afraid that story was just a starter. He’ll do everything he can to spread the rumor without an outright Security leak, and he’ll do his best to connect the alien with the Psi-Highs in the public eye. And you know Ben Towne when he gets rolling. The way things are in the Senate now, that could mean trouble.”
“Who’s controlling Security news releases?”
Roberts gave a short laugh. “I am, of course. But they’re monitored by the Cabinet, and Towne is on the Cabinet. Don’t miss tonight, my friend.”
Faircloth nodded, and signaled off. He sat swearing quietly to himself for a few moments. Then he saw Marino and swung out into the hall again, glancing at his watch. “Ready?”
Marino nodded. “I’ve got teams placed on the forty-first and forty-third. Power goes off when we step off the elevator on the forty-first. Okay?”
Faircloth grunted, and spread out a floor plan of the Forty- second floor, studying the careful pencil marks. “Is the building all clear?”
“The commercial levels, yes. And autolocks go on every door in the place but the one we want when the power goes off.”
“Good. At least we won’t have residents underfoot. You’ve got Psi-Highs posted outside the building?”
“Yes, in ’copters. Circling the building fairly close, out of sight range of the forty-second.”
“All right. We’ll move in on him as soon as the power goes off. I want cameras going everywhere—in the corridors, in the stairwells, even the ’copters outside. We’re going to get him, but in case somehow we don’t I want to see where he goes, and especially I want to get a picture of him. A good picture of him. Maybe he can fuzz up human eyesight, but he’ll have trouble fuzzing up a photo plate. Let’s go.”
They stepped on the elevator, felt it rush up until the automatic brake slowed it and stopped at the forty-first floor. They stepped off. As the door closed behind them, the whirring motors died, and the lights went out. Faircloth led the way swiftly to the closed stairwell where they met four other men standing by, one with a motion camera. “Cover everything,” Paul said sharply. “If you see him, stop him with a shocker, not with pellets. We want him alive.” He opened the stairwell and started up with the men behind him. Moments later they met part of the group from the forty-third; they started swiftly down the park corridor toward the pinpointed residential suite—
And then, like a bolt of lightning, something exploded in Faircloth’s brain. He cried out, felt his arms jerk, and fell forward on his face. Wave after wave of blinding light seemed, to bum through his brain; he couldn’t see, couldn’t move, couldn’t even force a sound from his throat. Somewhere nearby he heard shouts, and a whistle shrilled. Someone was running, and someone e
lse tripped over him, tumbling to the floor with a bone-jarring crash. He tried to move, tried to fight the blinding, searing waves of fire in his mind, like staring into a succession of flashbulbs going off whoom—whoom—whoom right before his eyes, but nothing worked right. Three shots rang out even as he dragged himself to his knees, controlling his rebellious muscles by sheer force of willpower. Blinded, he clawed his way along the wall as more footsteps echoed frantically in the corridor. Suddenly, Marino was shaking his arm, helping him up, and together they pushed aside the open door of the target suite as a roar of malignant, derisive laughter seemed to burst and echo and re-echo in his mind . . . .
Faircloth opened his eyes. Through a burning red haze of pain, he saw the empty room. Then his legs gave way and he collapsed on a chair, exhausted, as Marino raced from room to room like a madman.
“Gone,” Marino groaned.
Unbelieving, Faircloth stared at him. “You—you got him on the stairs, didn’t you?”
Marino shook his head miserably. “Nobody could see him. Not a soul. He hit us with a shower and that was that. Must have gone down that stairwell like a shot, and if we didn’t get him, nobody stopped him below either.”
“What about the cameras?” Faircloth gasped.
“Three of them are smashed. I don’t know about the rest”
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