Get Off the Unicorn, page 27
“No odder than it is for your hundreds of patrolmen throughout the city, Commissioner, to overlook a girl so bizarrely dressed,” op Owen said with firm good humor. “When you ‘saw’ the coat, Gil, where was it?”
“Thrown across the loveseat, one arm hanging down to the floor. I distinguished the edge of the sill and the tree outside, the first folds of the curtain, and the wall heating unit. I called in, you sent over enough finders so that we were able to eliminate the similarities. It took us nearly an hour . . .”
“Were you keeping an ‘eye’ on the coat all the time?” Gillings demanded in a voice so devoid of expression that his contempt was all the more obvious.
Gil flushed, bit his lip, and only partially inhibited by op Owen’s subtle warning, snapped back, “Try keeping your physical eye on an object for an hour!”
“Get some rest, Gil,” op Owen suggested gently. He waited until the finder had turned the corner. “If you are as determined to find this criminal as you say you are, Commissioner Gillings, then do not destroy the efficiency of my staff by such gratuitous criticism. In less than four hours, on the basis of photographs of the stolen objects, we located this apartment . . .”
“But not the criminal, who is still in possession of a sable coat which you found once but have now unaccountably lost.”
“That’s enough, Gillings,” said Pennstrak, who had rejoined them. “Thanks to your arrival, the girl must know she’s being sought and is shielding.”
Pennstrak gestured toward the dingy windows of the flat, through which the vanes of the big copter were visible. A group of children, abandoning the known objects of the development play-yard, had gathered at a respectful but curiosity-satisfying distance.
“Considering the variety of her accomplishments,” op Owen said, not above using Pennstrak’s irritation with his Commissioner to advantage, “I’m sure she knew of the search before the Commissioner’s arrival, Julian. Have any of these items been reported, Commissioner?”
“That console was. Two days ago. It was on ‘find,’ too.”
“She has been growing steadily bolder, then,” op Owen went on, depressed by Gillings’ attitude. And depressed that such a Talent had emerged twisted, perverted, selfish. Why? Why? “If your department ever gets the chronology of the various thefts, we’d appreciate the copy.”
“Why?” Gillings turned to stare at op Owen, surprised and irritated.
“Talent takes time to develop—in ordinary persons. It does not, like the ancient goddess Athena, spring full-grown from the forehead. This girl could not, for instance, have lifted that portable set the first time she used her Talent. The more data we have on . . . the lecture is ill-timed.”
Gillings’ unspoken “you said it” did reach op Owen, whose turn it was to stare in surprise.
“Well, your ‘finders’ are not novices,” the Commissioner said aloud. “If they traced the coat once, why not again?”
“Every perceptive we have is searching,” op Owen assured him. “But, if she was able to leave this apartment after Gil found the coat, taking it with her because it obviously is not here, she also is capable of shielding herself and that coat. And, until she slips that guard, I doubt we’ll find it or her.”
The report on the laboratory findings was exhaustive. There was a full set of prints, foot and finger. None matched those on file in the city records, or Federal or Immigration. She had not been tested at the Center. Long coarse black hair had been found. Skin flakes analyzed suggested an olive complexion. Thermo-photography placed her last appearance in the room at approximately the time the four “finders” fixed on her apartment, thus substantiating op Owen’s guess. The thermal prints also revealed that she was of slender build, approximately five-four, weighing 105 pounds. Stains on a kitchen knife proved her to possess blood type O. No one else had occupied the apartment within the eight-day range of the thermography used.
From such records, the police extrapolator made a rough sketch of Maggie O as she was called for want of a better name. The sketch was taken around the neighborhood with no success. People living in Block Q didn’t bother people who didn’t bother them.
It was Daffyd op Owen who remembered the children crowding the police copter. From them he elicited the information that she was new in the building. (The records indicated that the apartment should be vacant.) She was always singing, dancing to the wall-’caster, and changing her clothes. Occasionally she’d play with them and bring out rich food to eat, promising they could have such good things if they’d think hard about them. While the children talked, Daffyd “saw” Maggie’s face reflected in their minds. The police extrapolator had been far short of the reality. She was not much older than the children she had played with. She had not been pretty by ordinary standards but she had been so “different” that her image had registered sharply. The narrow face, the brilliant eyes, slightly slanted above sharp cheekbones, the thin, small mouth, and the pointed chin were unusual even in an area of ethnic variety.
This likeness and a physical description were circulated quickly to be used at all exits to the city and all transportation facilities. It was likely she’d try to slip out during the day-end exodus.
The south and west airstrips had been under a perceptive surveillance since the search had been inaugurated. Now every facility was guarded.
Gil Gracie “found” the coat again.
“She must have it in a suitcase,” he reported on the police-provided hand unit from his position in the main railroad concourse. “It’s folded and surrounded by dark. It’s moving up and down. But there’re so many people. So many suitcases. I’ll circulate. Maybe the find’ll fix itself.”
Gillings gave orders to his teams on the master unit which had been set up in the Center’s control room to coordinate the operations.
“You better test Gil for pre-cog,” Charlie muttered to op Owen after they’d contacted all the sensitives. “He asked for the station.”
“You should’ve told me sooner, Charlie. I’d’ve teamed him with a sensitive.”
“Lookit that,” Charlie exclaimed, pointing to a wildly moving needle on one of the remotes.
Les was beside it even as the audio for the Incident went on.
“Not that track! Oh! Watch out! Baggage. On the handcart! Watch out. Move, man. Move! To the right. The right! Ahhhh.” The woman’s voice choked off in an agonized cry.
Daffyd pushed Charlie out of the way, to get to the speaker.
“Gil this is op Owen. Do not pursue. Do not pursue that girl! She’s aware of you. Gil, come in. Answer me, Gil. . . . Charlie, keep trying to raise him. Gillings, contact your men at the station. Make them stop Gil Gracie.”
“Stop him? Why?”
“The pre-cog. The baggage on the handcart,” shouted Daffyd, signaling frantically to Lester to explain in detail. He raced for the emergency stairs, up the two flights, and slammed out onto the roof. Gasping for breath, he clung to the high retaining wall and projected his mind to Gil’s.
He knew the man so well, trained Gil when an employer brought in the kid who had a knack for locating things. Op Owen could see him ducking and dodging through the trainward crowds, touching suitcases, ignoring irate or astonished carriers; every nerve, every ounce of him receptive to the “feel” of a dense, dark sable fur. And so single-minded that Daffyd could not “reach” him.
But op Owen knew the instant the loaded baggage cart swerved and crushed the blindly intent Talent against an I-beam. He bowed his head, too fully cognizant that a double tragedy had occurred. Gil was lost . . . and so now was the girl.
There was no peace from his thoughts even when he returned to the shielded control room. Lester and Charlie pretended to be very busy. Gillings was. He directed the search of the railway station, arguing with the stationmaster that the trains were to be held and that was that! The drone of his voice began to penetrate op Owen’s remorse.
“All right, then, if the Talents have cleared it and there’s no female of the same height and weight, release that train. Someone tried the johns, didn’t they? No, Sam, you can detain anyone remotely suspicious. That girl is clever, strong, and dangerous. There’s no telling what else she could do. But she damn well can’t change her height, weight, and blood type!”
“Daffyd. Daffyd.” Lester had to touch him to get his attention. He motioned op Owen toward Charlie, who was holding out the hand unit.
“It’s Coles, sir.”
Daffyd listened to the effusively grateful store manager. He made the proper responses, but it wasn’t until he had relinquished the hand unit to Charlie that the man’s excited monologue made sense.
“The coat, the dress, and the necklace have reappeared on the store dummy,” op Owen said. He cleared his throat and repeated it loud enough to be heard.
“Returned?” Gillings echoed. “Just like that? Why, the little bitch! Sam, check the ladies’ rooms in that station. Wait, isn’t there a discount dress store in that station? Have them check for missing apparel. I want an itemized list of what’s gone, and an exact duplicate from their stock shown to the sensitives. We’ve got her scared and running now.”
“Scared and running now.” Gillings’ smug assessment rang ominously in Daffyd’s mind. He had a sudden flash. Superimposed over a projection of Maggie’s thin face was the image of the lifeless store dummy, elegantly reclad in the purloined blue gown and dark fur. “Here, take them back. I don’t want them anymore. I didn’t mean to kill him. I didn’t mean to. See, I gave back what you wanted. Now leave me alone!”
Daffyd shook his head. Wishful thinking. Just as futile as the girl’s belated gesture of penance. Too much too soon. Too little too late.
“We don’t want her scared,” he said out loud. “She was scared when she toppled that baggage cart.”
“She killed a man when she toppled that baggage cart, op Owen!” Gillings was all but shouting.
“And if we’re not very careful, she’ll kill others.”
“If you think I’m going to velvet glove a homicidal maniac . . .”
A shrill tone issuing from the remote unit forced Gillings to answer. He was about to reprimand the caller but the message got his stunned attention.
“We can forget the paternal bit, Owen. She knocked down every one of your people and mine at the Oriole Street entrance. Your men are unconscious. Mine and about twenty or more innocent commuters are afflicted with blinding headaches. Got any practical ideas, Owen, on catching this monster you created?”
“Oriole? Was she heading east or west?”
“Does it matter?”
“If we’re to catch her it does. And we must catch her. She’s operating at a psychic high. There’s no telling what she’s capable of now. Such Talent has only been a theoretic possibility . . .”
Gillings lost all control of himself. The fear and hatred burst out in such a wave that Charlie Moorfield, caught unaware, erupted out of his chair toward Gillings in an instinctive defense reaction.
“Gillings!” “Charlie!” Les and Daffyd shouted together, each grabbing the whilom combatants. But Charlie, his face white with shock at his own reaction, had himself in hand. Sinking weakly back into his chair, he gasped out an apology.
“You mean, you want to have more monsters like her and him?” Gillings demanded. Between his voice and the violent emotions, Daffyd’s head rang with pain and confusion.
“Don’t be a fool,” Lester said, grabbing the Commissioner by the arm. “You can’t spew emotions like that around a telepath and not get a reaction. Look at Daffyd! Look at Charlie! Christ, man, you’re as bad as the scared, mixed up kid . . .” Then Les dropped Gillings’ arm and stared at him in amazement. “Christ, you’re a telepath yourself!”
“Quiet, everybody,” Daffyd said with such urgency he had their instant attention. “I’ve the solution. And there’s no time to waste. Charlie, I want Harold Orley airbound in the Clinic’s copter heading south to the Central Station in nothing flat. We’ll correct course en route. Gillings, I want two of the strongest, most stable patrolmen on your roster. I want them armed with fast-acting, double-strength trank guns and airborne to rendezvous near Central Station.”
“Harold?” Les echoed in blank astonishment and then relief colored his face as he understood Daffyd’s intentions. “Of course. Nothing can stop Harold. And no one can read him coming.”
“Nothing. And no one,” op Owen agreed bleakly.
Gillings turned from issuing his orders to see an ambulance copter heading west across the sky.
“We’re following?”
Daffyd nodded and gestured for Gillings to precede him to the roof. He didn’t look back but he knew what Les and Charlie did not say.
She had been seen running east on Oriole. And she was easy to follow. She left people doubled up with nausea and crying with head pains. That is, until she crossed Boulevard.
“We’ll head south-southeast on an intercept,” Gillings told his pilot and had him relay the correction to the ambulance. “She’s heading to the sea?” he asked rhetorically as he rummaged for the correct airmap of the city. “Here. We can set down at Seaman’s Park. She can’t have made it that far . . . unless she can fly suddenly.” Gillings looked up at op Owen.
“She probably could teleport herself,” Daffyd answered, watching the Commissioner’s eyes narrow in adverse reaction to the admission. “But she hasn’t thought of it yet. As long as she can be kept running too scared to think . . .” That necessity would ever plague Daffyd op Owen: that they must run her out of her mind.
Gillings ordered all police hovercraft to close in on the area where she was last seen, blocks of residences and small businesses of all types.
By the time the three copters had made their rendezvous at the small park, there were no more visible signs of Maggie O’s retreat.
As Gillings made to leave the copter, Daffyd op Owen stopped him.
“If you’re not completely under control, Gillings, Harold will be after you.”
Gillings looked at the director for a long moment, his jaw set stubbornly. Then, slowly, he settled into the seat and handed op Owen a remote com-unit.
“Thanks, Gillings,” he said, and left the copter. He signaled to the ambulance to release Harold Orley and then strode across the grass to the waiting officers.
The two biggest men were as burly as he could wish. Being trained law enforcers, they ought to be able to handle Orley. Op Owen “pushed” gently against their minds and was satisfied with his findings. They possessed the natural shielding of the untemperamental which made them less susceptible to emotional storms. Neither Webster nor Heis was stupid, however, and they had been briefed on developments.
“Orley has no useful intelligence. He is a human barometer, measuring the intensity and type of emotions which surround him and reacting instinctively. He does not broadcast. He only receives. Therefore he cannot be harmed or identified by . . . by Maggie O. He is the only Talent she cannot ‘hear’ approaching.”
“But, if he reaches her, he’d . . .” Webster began, measuring Harold with the discerning eye of a boxing enthusiast. Then he shrugged and turned politely to op Owen.
“You’ve the double-strength tranks? Good. I hope you’ll be able to use them in time. But it is imperative that she be apprehended before she does more harm. She has already killed one man . . .”
“We understand, sir,” Heis said when op Owen did not continue.
“If you can, shoot her. Once she stops broadcasting, he’ll soon return to a manageable state.” But, Daffyd amended to himself, remembering Harold sprawled on the ground in front of the building, not soon enough. “She was last seen on the east side of the boulevard, about eight blocks from here. She’d be tired, looking for someplace to hide and rest. But she is also probably radiating sufficient emotion for Harold to pick up. He’ll react by heading in a straight line for the source. Keep him from trying to plow through solid walls. Keep your voices calm when you speak to him. Use simple commands. I see you’ve got hand units. I’ll be airborne; the copter’s shielded but I’ll help when I can.”
Flanking Harold, Webster and Heis moved west along Oriole at a brisk even walk: the two officers in step, Harold’s head bobbing above theirs. His being out of step was a cruel irony.
Daffyd op Owen turned back to the copter. He nodded to Gillings as he seated himself. He tried not to think at all.
As the copters lifted from the park and drifted slowly west amid other air traffic, op Owen looked sadly down at the people on the streets. At kids playing on the sidewalks. At a flow of men and women with briefcases or shopping bags, hurrying home. At snub-nosed city cars and squatty trucks angling into parking slots. At the bloated cross-city helibuses jerking and settling to disgorge their passengers at the street islands.
“He’s twitching,” Heis reported in a dispassionate voice.
Daffyd flicked on the handset. “That’s normal. He’s beginning to register.”
“He’s moving faster now. Keeps wanting to go straight through the buildings.” Reading Heis’ undertone, op Owen knew that the men hadn’t believed his caution about Orley plowing through solids. “He’s letting us guide him, but he keeps pushing us to the right. You take his other arm, Web. Yeah, that’s better.”
Gillings had moved to the visual equipment along one side of the copter. He focused deftly in on the trio, magnified it, and threw the image on the pilot’s screen, too. The copter adjusted direction.
“Easy, Orley. No, don’t try to stop him, Web. Stop the traffic!”
Orley’s line of march crossed the busier wide north-south street. Webster ran out to control the vehicles. People turned curiously. Stopped and stared after the trio.
“Don’t,” op Owen ordered as he saw Gillings move a hand towards the bullhorn. “There’s nothing wrong with her hearing.”
Orley began to move faster now that he had reached the farther side. He wanted to go right through intervening buildings.
“Guide him left to the sidewalk, Heis,” op Owen advised. “I think he’s still amenable. He isn’t running yet.”
