Complete Short Fiction, page 384
Here was evidence of incredible power without radiation.
Slowly, Wentworth braced himself. The moon station had a dozen mobile units stored against an unnamed emergency, but they would have to be charged up; which would take somewhat over an hour.
He explained his plan quietly to the men around him. “We’ll use several mobile units with each search crew.”
He used his TV key on the nearest communicator and issued a specific order: “All observers stay at your posts. As soon as the supplementary mobile units are ready, call me at—”
He hesitated, then he gave Dr. Denovich’s address.
He was aware of Carr coming up beside him. Without looking at the plump man, Wentworth said, “Doctor, I want you to remain well in the rear of future action. Let’s remember that when this being spotted you observing him, he immediately tried to kill you. Apparently, he has not considered it worthwhile to attempt to exterminate anyone else. That’s got to be significant.”
Carr said in a nervous tone: “You don’t think he was just surprised into striking at me?”
It was, of course, possible. But Wentworth was not prepared to take the risk.
Beside him, Carr continued uneasily. “There’s something I should report. When I first looked at that little woman’s face, just for a second it seemed as if I couldn’t read it. Do you think that alien had some way of scrambling her thoughts, so that her face didn’t display them?”
Wentworth felt sorry for the plump man, for obviously the partial failure meant that the ESP ability was coming to the end of his initial stage. It was a cruel prank of fate, but—equally obviously—the time had come for Carr to understand his situation.
Deliberately, he faced the psychologist and said gently, “Why don’t you read me, Doctor?”
Carr gave him a quick look. Then he frowned, and then some of the color drained from his cheeks.
He said at last, unhappily, “I’m having difficulty, and it’s a pretty complicated thought. You’re thinking that my ability to read faces is a—a—”
He shook his head, bewildered. “I don’t get it—a common stereotype? That doesn’t seem right.”
The near miss established once more for Wentworth that the marvelous ability was beginning to disappear. Aloud, he said, “Let’s go to Doctor Denovich’s office. I’m sure I now have time to tell you both the whole story.”
An hour later, there was still no call to indicate that additional mobile units were ready; and he had finished his account.
Carr’s face had a blotched look, and his lips twitched. He had the appearance of a man confronting an unpleasant truth. He mumbled, “It all seemed so natural. I’ve thought about people’s expressions for years.”
“When did the ability actually start?” asked Wentworth.
“Well,” Carr muttered, “it was when I was studying the faces of the other passengers on my way to the moon two days ago that the pieces started to fall into place. When we landed, I had the entire system worked out on a practical application basis.”
“So it was just a few hours short of the two days when you finally called me. And so the ability is now in its fading stage; and the twist will show up in a few hours.”
Carr grew even paler, if that were possible.
He said thickly, “But what form could such an intensification of face reading take? I can’t imagine anything more complete than what I have been able to do.”
Denovich, thin face taut, thin body tense as he leaned forward, interrupted harshly: “I feel outraged by all this secrecy. Why was I not briefed on arrival? Why has there been no previous publicity on this important matter?”
The English security officer pointed out stiffly that the moon station in its present form was now only eight years old. Space travel was still new. People were easily alarmed. Such a freak happening might have been a great setback. However, the information blackout was now going to be ended. A joint paper had been prepared by their predecessors. This was to be given to the world press after it had been cleared by the U.N. Security Council.
“And,” Wentworth continued, “as for briefing you and Doctor Carr—I intended to do that after you had guessed that one of you would be—uh—a victim of the condition?” Under the circumstances it had seemed credible that it might be a genuine system, as worked out by an expert.
Wentworth smiled his faint smile. “I hope, Doctor Carr, that you kept records.”
“I have complete notes,” replied Carr glumly.
“It will be the first time,” said Wentworth. “So we have a win.” Having made the comment, he spread his hands almost helplessly. “And there’s your story.”
He stood up. “I think I’d better go and see what progress is being made on those mobile units.” He addressed himself to Dr. Denovich. “Keep an eye on your colleague, sir.” The psychiatrist nodded curtly.
When the two men were alone, Dr. Denovich gazed at the plump American with a hint in his manner of personal concern.
“This seems to have been quite a shock to you, Doctor Carr. Why don’t I give you a mild sleep potion, so that you can be in a relaxed state while the ability is fading?”
Carr studied the older man’s face with narrowing eyes. “My ability may be fading,” he said, “but you ought to be ashamed of yourself for what I think you’re thinking.”
Denovich protested. “I’m sure you’re reading me wrong.”
“You intended to get my notes while I slept,” the psychologist accused.
“I thought of your notes,” admitted the Russian, “and realized how important they were. It did not occur to me that you were not planning to share them.”
Carr muttered, “I guess what I saw could have meant that.” He broke off. “I apologize. Look, we’re both on edge. So let’s take a look at the situation.”
As he analyzed it, here were two experts confronted by phenomena. Why didn’t they sit down, and keep a moment by moment record of the fading of the special ability?
“Perhaps,” he concluded, “by continual discussion and restatement, we can prevent my memory from fading.”
It was an excellent idea, and the two men settled down. For two and a half hours, the plan seemed to work, in that there was no apparent memory fading.
Then the phone rang.
It was Wentworth, reporting that the search parties had finally been augmented by additional mobile units. The security officer asked, “I wondered if you cared to come along?”
Denovich explained that what Carr and he were doing was too important to leave.
When he turned from the phone, he was startled to see that the psychologist was leaning back with eyes closed. What was startling was that his body seemed limp. Denovich bent over the man, shook him, but there was no quickening of wakefulness. A swift examination established a sleeping man’s pulse, the slow, deep breathing of sleep.
Dr. Denovich wasted no time. He prepared a syringe and injected a sleep potion in the American’s arm. Then he dispatched his secretary on a research errand that would keep her away from the office for the rest of the day. Quickly he searched the unconscious man, found his key ring; then, picking up his copying camera, he headed along the hall and up the elevator to Carr’s office in the American section.
He had no sense of guilt. “This is not a moment to be squeamish,” he told himself. National interests—paramount.
He found the notes almost at once. They were unexpectedly voluminous. Expertly, he set about his task. Half an hour later, he was still intently copying one sheet after another—when he heard a faint sound behind him.
Denovich was not to be rattled. He turned slowly. And then a thrill of fear struck through him.
A figure stood there.
How the creature could ever have been taken for human was not clear to the startled Russian. The gauntness of the body was unnatural; the face, blackened as it was, did have something human in it. But the legs under the long gown showed . . . wrong—the way the cloth lay against them and outlined them! His physician’s eye recorded the details in a single, flashing look.
The next instant a voice from the headpiece said in Russian, “Where is—” hesitation—“Doctor Carr?”
Denovich had not in his entire life had a single desire to be a martyr and he had none now. But, as in the past, he faced the Communist dilemma. Party doctrine required that he do what was necessary “for the people” in any situation, regardless of personal danger. Failure to do so meant that he would have to attend a self-criticism meeting and explain his dereliction.
He had long ago solved the problem by a simple, quick analysis on the spot by one yardstick: the chances of discovery.
No chance of that here, he decided. But he deduced in a single, continuing evaluation that his only way of escape from this baleful being was total collaboration, and he had but one anguished hope: Maybe he’ll let me live.
“Eleven floors down, the Russian section—my office—422-N.” He spoke hoarsely.
The creature gazed at him somberly. Then, contemptuously: “Don’t worry. We’re not after people. And, in view of the secret computation you just made, I’ll leave you your memory.”
A flash of indescribably bright light from the headpiece struck the psychiatrist’s forehead.
Blackout!
V
It took a while for Xilmer, by his careful method, to read 422-N. But presently he stood over the man lying on the couch and sent a message, describing Carr’s unconscious state.
“So far as I can see, I could destroy him without him or anyone else being able to prevent it.”
“Wait!”
There was a silence of several minutes, then: “Tell us exactly how his unconsciousness came about.” Xilmer dutifully reported what he had perceived in the psychiatrist’s mind about the special ESP aspect, and how Denovich had injected Carr with a strong sedative. “It is this sedative that puts his body at our mercy.”
He concluded, “He seems completely helpless, and I strongly urge that he not be allowed to awaken. Who knows what the ESP twist would be?”
“Wait!”
Again the receiving unit on his head stilled; finally:
“According to our calculations,” came the message, “this human being has had time to go into the advanced ESP state, which apparently is a part of his cycle. So before you do anything, examine what is going on in the lower brain.”
“I have already done so.”
“With what result?”
“Despite his unconscious condition, something inside the brain is observing me and, I would say, is monitoring this conversation.
. . . But there were no energy connections strong enough to control power flows. So Carr could not fight back. Whatever the twist was, it was not in itself a weapon capable of causing an impact.
Xilmer concluded grimly, “I think we can safely say that, if we do not permit this man to awaken, the inhabitants of this star system cannot defend themselves.”
“Too bad!” was the laconic, unsympathetic reply.
They grinned at each other mentally through the head mechanism, and enjoyed the feeling of total superiority.
“What is the recommendation?” Xilmer asked, routinely now.
“Kill him!”
When Denovich came to, he was lying on the carpeted floor. He raised himself and looked around. He was greatly relieved when he saw no sign of the alien. Trembling, he stood up and went to the outer door; peered out. Nothing. Not a soul in sight.
Fighting panic, he collected his equipment, but hesitated as he realized that his copying task was not completed. After a moment’s thought, he picked up all the psychologist’s notes, including those he had previously photographed.
As he hurried along the hallway, he glanced at his watch for the first time. It was two hours since he had been rendered unconscious. That was briefly startling. He thought, shocked: “The creature has had all that time to find Carr in my office.” He expected to find his quarters damaged. But at first look, everything was in order. Hastily he locked up the stolen notes, then went through the door to the treatment room, where he had left Carr sleeping.
There was no one on the couch.
Denovich was about to turn away, when he saw the object lying half-hidden on the far side of the little cot. He walked over and looked down at Xilmer’s turban. The cloth was disarrayed and stained by a bluish fluid, and a metal structure was visible through the folds of the silk-like stuff.
After a moment, he saw that the blue carpeting was heavily encrusted by more of the dark blue liquid.
As he stood there, undecided, voices sounded in his outer office. He recognized Wentworth’s British baritone, and then Carr’s softer voice. Denovich turned and faced the entrance. Seconds later the two men entered.
The Soviet psychiatrist was aware of several other men crowding the doorway, but they stopped short of it. He had seen only one of them before—recognized him as a Russian member of the security police. Their gazes met, held for an instant, significantly, then separated.
Wentworth said, “Oh, here you are. Doctor.”
Denovich said nothing. He was gazing tensely at the face of the plump American, thinking: “Right now, this instant, he’s in this superstate.”
And, if Carr had been able to read thoughts on faces before, what he could do now must be so far in advance that his—Denovich’s—every act of the past few hours was as plainly visible to the other as a picture on a screen.
The Soviet psychiatrist cringed, then braced himself. Denials rushed to the tip of his tongue and waited there, ready to be spoken.
Wentworth was continuing: “Doctor Carr is puzzled, sir. When he came to he was lying on this couch, and he had no idea how he had got here. But that—” he indicated Xilmer’s turban—“was lying right there. As he went out, he saw your name on the door. That’s how he knows you, because, of course he has no memory of the first stage of the ESP. What happened?”
Even as Wentworth was talking, Denovich’s mind began to race around seeking a plausible explanation for his own whereabouts. But he knew better than to make a quick answer. And so, as the English officer ceased speaking, Denovich addressed Carr.
“Are you all right, Doctor?”
Carr gave him, perhaps, too long a look before answering, but when he spoke he said simply, “Yes.”
“You’re not hurt?”
“No. Should I be?” His eyes were, of all things, shifty, uneasy, puzzled.
“What about the, uh, twist?” Denovich said.
“The what?”
Denovich was thunderstruck.
What he had expected, he didn’t know. But not this!—this ordinary person, with ordinary, everyday responses. And no memory.
“You mean,” he said, “you have no awareness of anything unusual?” Carr shook his head. “Really, Doctor, I think you have more information on this matter than I. How did I get into your quarters? Have I been ill?”
Denovich turned and stared helplessly at Wentworth. He had his own story ready now, but he felt too bewildered even to offer it.
“Colonel,” he said, “if you will fill me in, I’ll do the same for you.” Wentworth did so succinctly. After the phone conversation, he had accompanied one of the parties scouting for Xilmer. A few minutes ago, Dr. Carr had been seen wandering along a corridor; and since people had been forbidden to leave their apartments, Wentworth had been called to deal with the situation. He had come at once.
“Naturally, knowing where he had last been, I asked him what had happened, and of course, discovered only that he had awakened and seen this turban and all that sticky stuff.” He bent down, touched the bluish liquid gingerly with the tip of a finger, and when apparently it did not hurt him, raised it to his nose and sniffed. He made a face.
“Must be the blood of this race,” he said. “Quite a strong odor.”
“What race?” Carr asked. “And, look, gentlemen, what—”
That was as far as he got. At that moment a voice spoke from Xilmer’s headpiece in English.
“We have been monitoring this conversation, and it would appear that an accident has befallen our agent.”
Wentworth stepped forward quickly. “You can hear me?” he said.
The voice continued, “Give us an exact description of the present condition of our agent.”
Wentworth replied firmly, “We’re quite willing to do so. But in return we would like some information from you.”
“We’re only about three hundred thousand miles away. You’ll see us in slightly less than an hour, and unless your explanations are satisfactory, we shall blast your entire station out of existence. Now, quick!”
The threat was chilling, and instantly convincing. One of the men at the door said, “My God!”
Wentworth, after a long, tense moment, described in an even tone exactly what was left of Xilmer.
When he had finished, the voice said, “Wait!”
At least three minutes went by; then: “We must know exactly what happened. Interrogate Doctor Carr.”
“Me?” said Carr, his voice scarcely more than a croak.
Wentworth made a ssssh gesture, then silently waved the men in the open door away, and then nodded at Denovich and Carr.
“Get it out of him!” he commanded Dr. Denovich, then he tiptoed from the room and headed for the phone in the psychiatrist’s private office.
Blackout!
VI
As the Russian faced Carr, he was aware of the Englishman’s muffled but earnest voice sounding the alarm. Consciously, he shut out the other’s voice and gazed at Carr.
“Doctor,” he said, “what is your last recollection?”
The American psychologist swallowed, as if something unpalatable was in his throat; it was that much of a grimace. Then he countered: “How long have I been at the Moon station?”
Dazzling lights of understanding blazed through fee psychiatrist’s mind. “Of course,” he thought, “he really doesn’t remember anything after he got feat first ESP on his actual journey to fee Moon.”
