“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” a girl said behind him.
Without turning, Powell replied: “I’m sorry. ‘No Loud Talking or Laughter.’ But don’t you think this is the most ludicrous—” Then the pattern of her psyche hit him and he spun around. He was face to face with Duffy Wyg&.
“Well, Duffy!” he said.
Her frown changed to a look of perplexity, then to a quick smile. “Mr. Powell,” she exclaimed. “The boy-sleuth. You still owe me a dance.”
“I owe you an apology,” Powell said.
“Delighted. Can’t have enough of them. What’s this one for?”
“Underestimating you.”
“The story of my life.” She linked arms and drew him along the path. “Tell me how reason has finally prevailed. You took another look at me, and—?”
“I realized you’re the cleverest person Ben Reich has working for him.”
“I am clever. I did do some work for Ben…but your compliment seems to have deep brooding undertones. Is there something?”
“The tail we had on Hassop.”
“Just a little more accent on the down-beat, please.”
“You took out our tail, Duffy. Congratulations.”
“Ah-ha! Hassop is your pet horse. A childhood accident robbed him of a horse’s crowning glory. You substituted an artificial one which—”
“Clever-up, Duffy. That isn’t going to travel far.”
“Then, boy-wonder, will you ream your tubes?”
Her pert face looked up at him, half serious, half amused. “What in hell are you talking about?”
“I’ll spell it out. We had a tail on Hassop. A tail is a shadow, a spy, a secret agent assigned to the duty of following and watching a suspect…”
“Contents noted. What’s a Hassop?”
“A man who works for Ben Reich. His Code Chief.”
“And what did I do to your spy?”
“Following instructions from Ben Reich, you captivated the man, enravished him, turned him into a derelict from duty, kept him at a piano all day, day after day, and—”
“Wait a minute!” Duffy spoke sharply. “I know that one. The little bem. Let’s square this off. He was a cop?”
“Now Duffy, if—”
“I asked a question.”
“He was a cop.”
“Following this Hassop?”
“Yes.”
“Hassop… Bleached man? Dusty hair? Dusty blue eyes?”
Powell nodded.
“The louse,” Duffy muttered. “The low-down louse!” She turned on Powell furiously. “And you think I’m the kind that does his dirty work, do you! Why, you—you peeper! You listen to me, Powell. Reich asked me to do him a favor. Said there was a man up here working on an interesting musical code. Wanted me to check him. How the hell was I supposed to know be was your goon? How was I supposed to know your goon was masquerading as a musician?”
Powell stared at her. “Are you claiming that Reich tricked you?”
“What else?” She glared back. “Go ahead and peep me. If Reich wasn’t in the Reservation you could peep that double-crossing—”
“Hold it!” Powell interrupted sharply. He slipped past her conscious barrier and peeped her precisely and comprehensively for ten seconds. Then he turned and began to run.
“Hey!” Duffy yelled. “What’s the verdict?”
“Medal of Honor,” Powell called over his shoulder. “I’ll pin it on as soon as I bring a man back alive.”
“I don’t want a man. I want you.”
“That’s your trouble, Duffy. You want anybody.”
“Whooooo?”
“Any-y-bod-y.”
“NO LOUD TALKING OR LAUGHTER… PLEASE!”
Powell found his police sergeant in the Spaceland Globe Theater where a magnificent Esper actress stirred thousands with her moving performances—performances that owed as much to her telepathic sensitivity to audience response as to her exquisite command of stage technique. The cop, immune to the star’s appeal, was gloomily inspecting the house, face by face. Powell took his arm and led him out.
“He’s in the Reservation,” Powell told him. “Took Hassop with him. Took Hassop’s luggage too. Perfect alibi. He was shaken up by the crash and he needs a rest. Also company. He’s eight hours ahead of us.”
“The Reservation, huh?” the sergeant pondered. “Twenty-five hundred square miles of more damned animals, geography, and weather than you ever see is three lives.”
“What’s the odds Hassop has a fatal accident, if he hasn’t had one already?”
“No takers at any price.”
“If we want to get Hassop out we’ll have to grab a Helio and do some fast hunting.”
“Uh-uh. No mechanical transportation allowed in the Reservation.”
“This is an emergency. Old Man Mose has got to have Hassop!”
“Go let that damn machine argue with the Spaceland Board. You could get special permission in maybe three four weeks.”
“By which time Hassop’d be dead and buried. What about Radar or Sonar? We could work out Hassop’s pattern and—”
“Uh-uh. No mechanical devices outside of cameras allowed in the Reservation.”
“What the hell plays with that Reservation?”
“Hundred percent guaranteed pure nature for the eager beavers. You go in at your own risk. Element of danger adds spice to your trip. Get the picture? You battle the elements. You battle the wild animals. You feel primitive and refreshed again. That’s what the ads say.”
“What do they do in there? Rub sticks together?”
“Sure. You hike on your own feet. You carry your own food. You take one Defensive Barrier Screen with you so’s the bears don’t eat you. If you want a fire you got to build it. If you want to hunt animals, you got to make your own weapons. If you want to catch fish, likewise. You versus nature. And they make you sign a release in case nature wins.”
“Then how are we going to find Hassop?”
“Sign a release and go hike for him.”
“The two of us? Cover twenty-five hundred square miles of geography? How many squadmen can you spare?”
“Maybe ten.”
“Adding up to two hundred and fifty square miles per cop. Impossible.”
“Maybe you could persuade the Spaceland Board—No. Even if you could, we wouldn’t be able to get the Board together under a week. Wait a minute! Could you get ’em together by peeping ’em? Send out urgent messages or something? How do you peepers work that anyway?”
“We can only pick you up. We can’t transmit to anybody except another peeper, so—Hey! Ho! That’s an idea!”
“What’s an idea?”
“Is a human being a mechanical device?”
“Nope.”
“Is he a civilized invention?”
“Not lately.”
“Then I’m going to do some fast co-opting and take my own Radar into the Reservation.”
Which is why a sudden craving for nature overtook a prominent lawyer in the midst of delicate contractual negotiations in one of Spaceland’s luxurious conference rooms. The same craving also came upon the secretary of a famous author, a judge of domestic relations, a job analyst screening applicants for the United Hotel Association, an industrial designer, an efficiency engineer, the Chairman of Amalgamated Union’s Grievance Committee, Titan’s Superintendent of Cybernetics, a Secretary of Political Psychology, two Cabinet members, five Parliamentary Leaders, and scores of other Esper clients of Spaceland at work and at play.
They filed through the Reservation Gate in a unified mood of holiday festivity and assorted gear. Those that had gotten word on the grapevine early enough were in sturdy camping clothes. Others were not; and the astonished gate guards, checking and inspecting for illicit baggage, saw one lunatic in full diplomatic regalia march through with a pack on his back. But all the nature-lovers carried detailed maps of the Reservation carefully zoned into sectors.
Moving swi
ftly, they spread out and beat forward across the miniature continent of weather and geography. The TP Band crackled as comments and information swept up and down the line of living radar in which Powell occupied the central position.
“Hey. No fair, I’ve got a mountain dead ahead.”
“Snowing here. Full b-b-blizzard.”
“Swamps and (ugh!) mosquitoes in my sector.”
“Hold it. Party ahead, Linc. Sector 21.”
“Shoot a picture.”
“Here it is…”
“Sorry. No sale.”
“Party ahead, Linc. Sector 9.”
“Let’s have the picture.”
“Here it comes…”
“Nope. No sale.”
“Party ahead, Linc. Sector 17.”
“Shoot a picture.”
“Hey! It’s a goddam bear!”
“Don’t run! Negotiate!”
“Party ahead, Linc. Sector 12.”
“Shoot a picture.”
“Here it comes…”
“No sale.”
“AAAAAAA-choo!”
“That the blizzard?”
“No. I’m a cloud-burst.”
“Party ahead, Linc. Sector 41.”
“Shoot a picture.”
“Here it is.”
“Not them.”
“How do you climb a palm tree?”
“You shinny up.”
“Not up. Down.”
“How’d you get up, your honor?”
“I don’t know. A moose helped me.”
“Party ahead, Linc. Sector 37.”
“Let’s have the picture.”
“Here it comes.”
“No sale.”
“Party ahead, Linc. Sector 60.”
“Go ahead.”
“Here’s the picture…”
“Pass ’em by.”
“How long do we have to keep on travelling?”
“They’re at least eight hours ahead.”
“No. Correction, peepers. They’ve got eight hours start but they may not be eight hours ahead.”
“Spell that out, will you, Linc.”
“Reich may not have trekked straight ahead. He may have circled around to a favorite spot close to the gate.”
“Favorite for what?”
“For murder.”
“Excuse me. How does one persuade a cat not to devour one?”
“Use Political Psychology.”
“Use your Barrier screen, Mr. Secretary.”
“Party ahead, Linc. Sector 1.”
“Shoot a picture, Mr. Superintendent.”
“Here it is.”
“Pass ’em by, sir. That’s Reich and Hassop.”
“WHAT!”
“Don’t make a fuss. Don’t make anybody suspicious. Just pass ’em by. When you’re out of sight, circle around to Sector 2. Everybody head back for the Gate and go home. All my thanks. From here on I’ll take it alone.”
“Leave us in on the kill, Linc.”
“No. This needs finesse. I don’t want Reich to know I’m abducting Hassop. It’s all got to look logical and natural and unimpeachable. It’s a swindle.”
“And you’re the thief to do it.”
“Who stole the weather, Powell?”
The departing peepers were propelled by a hot blush.
This particular square mile of Reservation was jungle, humid, swampy, overgrown. As darkness fell, Powell slowly wormed his way toward the glimmering camp fire Reich had built in a clearing alongside a small lake. The water was infested with hippo, crocodile, and swambat. The trees and terrain swarmed with life. The entire junglette was a savage tribute to the brilliance of Reservation ecologists who could assemble and balance nature on the point of a pin. And in tribute to that nature, Reich’s Defensive Barrier Screen was in full operation.
Powell could hear mosquitoes whine as they batted against the outer rim of the barrier, and there was an intermittent hail of larger insects caroming off the invisible wall. Powell could not risk operating his own. The screens hummed slightly and Reich had keen ears. He inched forward and peeped.
Hassop was at ease, relaxed, just a little beglamoured by the idea of intimacy with his puissant chief, just a little intoxicated by the knowledge that his film cannister contained Ben Reich’s fate. Reich, working feverishly on a crude, powerful bow, was planning the accident that would eliminate Hassop. It was that bow and the sheaf of fire-tipped arrows alongside Reich that had eaten up the eight hours start on Powell. You can’t kill a man in a hunting accident unless you go hunting.
Powell lifted to his knees and crawled forward, his senses pinpointed on Reich’s perception. He froze again as ALARM clanged in Reich’s head. Reich leaped to his feet, bow ready, a featherless arrow at half-cock, and peered intently into the darkness.
“What is it, Ben?” Hassop murmured.
“I don’t know. Something.”
“Hell. You’ve got your Barrier, haven’t you?”
“I keep forgetting.” Reich sank back and built up the fire; but he was not forgetting the Barrier. The wary instinct of the killer was warning him, vaguely, persistently… And Powell could only marvel at the intricate survival mechanism of the human mind. He peeped Reich again. Reich was mechanically resorting to the tune-block he associated with crisis: Tenser, said the Tensor, Tenser, said the Tensor. Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun. Behind that there was turmoil; a mounting resolution to kill quickly…kill savagely…destroy now and arrange the evidence later…
As Reich reached for the bow, his eyes carefully averted from Hassop, his mind intent on the throbbing heart that was his target, Powell drove forward urgently. Before he had moved ten feet, ALARM tripped again in Reich’s mind and the big man was on his feet once more. This time he whipped a burning branch from the fire and hurled the flare toward the blackness where Powell was concealed. The idea and execution came so quickly that Powell could not anticipate the action. He would have been fully illuminated if Reich had not forgotten the Barrier. It stopped the flaming branch in mid-flight and dropped it to the ground.
“Christ!” Reich cried, and swung around abruptly at Hassop.
“What is it Ben?”
In answer, Reich drew the arrow back to the lobe of his ear and held the point on Hassop’s body. Hassop scrambled to his feet.
“Ben, watch out! You’re shooting at me!”
Hassop leaped to one side unexpectedly as Reich let the arrow fly.
“Ben! For the love of—” Suddenly Hassop realized the intent. He turned with a strangulated cry and ran from the fire as Reich notched another arrow. Running desperately, Hassop smashed into the barrier and staggered back from the invisible wall as an arrow shot past his shoulder and shattered.
“Ben!” he screamed.
“You son of a bitch,” Reich growled, and notched another shaft.
Powell leaped forward and reached the edge of the Barrier. He could not pass it. Inside, Hassop ran screaming across the far side while Reich stalked him with half-cocked bow, closing in for the kill. Hassop again smashed into the Barrier, fell, crawled, and regained his feet to dart off again like a cornered rat, Reich following him doggedly.
“Jesus!” Powell muttered. He stepped back into the darkness, thinking desperately. Hassop’s screams had aroused the jungle, and there was a roaring and an echoing rumble in his ears. He reached out on the TP Band, sensing, touching, feeling. There was nothing but blind fear, blind rage, blind instinct around him. The hippos, sodden and viscid…the crocodiles, deaf, angry, hungry…swambats, as furious as rhinoceri whose size they doubled… A quarter mile off were the faint broadcasts of elephant, wapiti, giant cats…
“It’s worth the chance,” Powell said to himself. “I’ve got to bust that Barrier. It’s the only way.”
He set his blocks on the upper level, masking everything except the emotional broadcast, and transmitted: fear, fear, terror, fear… driving the emotion down to its primitive level…Fear, Fear
. Terror. Fear… FEAR - FLIGHT - TERROR - FEAR - FLIGHT - TERROR - flight!
Every bird in every roost awoke screaming. The monkeys screamed back and shook thousands of branches in sudden flight. A barrage of sucking explosions sounded from the lake as the herd of hippos surged up from the shallows in blind terror. The jungle was shaken by the ear-splitting trumpetings of elephants and the crashing thunder of their stampede. Reich heard and froze in his tracks, ignoring Hassop who still ran and sobbed and screamed from wall to wall of the Barrier.
The hippos hit the barrier first in a blind, blundering rush. They were followed by the swambats and the crocodiles. Then came the elephants. Then the wapiti, the zebra, the gnu…heavy, pounding herds. There had never been such a stampede in the history of the Reservation. Nor had the manufacturers of the Defensive Barrier Screen ever anticipated such a concerted mass attack. Reich’s Barrier went down with a sound like scissored glass.
The hippos trampled the fire, scattered it and extinguished it. Powell darted through the darkness, seized Hassop’s arm, and dragged the crazed creature across the clearing to the piled packs. A wild hoof sent him reeling, but he held on to Hassop and located the precious film cannister. In the frantic blackness Powell could sort the frenzied TP broadcasts of the stampeding animals. Still dragging Hassop, he threaded his way out of the main stream. Behind the thick bole of a lignum vitae Powell paused to catch his breath and settle the cannister safely in his pocket. Hassop was still sobbing. Powell sensed Reich, a hundred feet away, back against a fever tree, bow and arrows clutched in his stricken hands. He was confused, furious, terrified…but still safe. Above all, Powell wanted to keep him safe for Demolition.
Unhitching his own Defensive Barrier Screen, Powell tossed it across the clearing toward the embers of the fire where Reich would surely find it. Then he turned and led the numb, unresisting Code Chief toward the Gate.
13
The Reich case was ready for final submission to the District Attorney’s office. Powell hoped it was also ready for that cold-blooded, cynical monster of facts and evidence, Old Man Mose.
Powell and his staff assembled in Mose’s office. A round table had been set up in the center, and on it was constructed a transparent model of the key rooms of Beaumont House, inhabited by miniature android models of the dramatis personae. The lab’s model division had done a superlative job, and actually had characterized the leading players. The tiny Reich, Tate, Beaumont, and others moved with the characteristic gaits of their originals. Alongside the table was massed the documentation the staff had prepared, ready for presentation to the machine.
The Demolished Man Page 15
