Jeff Sutton Read online

  "Mind repeating that name?"

  "Butterfield-William Bixby Butterfield."

  "That's what I thought you said." Her face wrinkled in thought followed by startled comprehension. "Just a moment." She briskly turned away and headed for an office at the far end of the room. She emerged from the office followed by a man.

  Her boss? He took a second look and decided against the conjecture. The fellow accompanying the clerk was tall, thin; a lantern-shaped face with a beaked nose and livid slash across one cheek giving it the impression of a perpetual sneer. An LIQ or MIQ who lived for the semblance of authority he enjoyed over his fellow men, Krull thought. An agent.

  They reached the counter and the clerk stepped deferentially aside. Her companion fixed Krull with gimlet eyes and rasped, "You the fellow asking about Butterfield?"

  "That's right."

  "Why?"

  "That's my business. It's a public record."

  "Maybe it's my business, too." He reached up and moved his cape back, displaying an agent's badge—and a small automatic in an underarm holster. He looked at Krull as if expecting him to flinch.

  "Okay, so you're an agent," Krull said calmly. "Now just trot out the ledger like a nice fellow."

  "Maybe you don't know it but you've got some questions to answer."

  Krull sighed and reached toward his pocket—Hardface's body stiffened. His hand came back with his credentials and he shoved them under the agent's eyes.

  "Okay, there they are," he said. "Now let's get the files, like a good public servant."

  Hardface glanced at the credentials, took a longer second look, then squinted at Krull. "Don't mean a thing to me. I don't work for the gent."

  "Okay, give me your boss. Maybe he's heard of Ben Yargo."

  "Maybe," the agent said, and added, "I work for Jordan Gullfin." He stared at Krull as if the name should have brought awed recognition, and appeared disappointed when it didn't. "He's the Manager's special agent," he added.

  "The Manager works for my boss," Krull said drily.

  "He won't—after this month." Hardface spun on his heel and moved toward the phone. So, that's it, Krull thought, the Manager's boys are already savoring victory. Hardface dialed, spoke briefly into the instrument, cupping the mouthpiece with his hand. He finished and came back.

  "Gullfin says okay." He gave Krull a malignant look, nodded toward the clerk and vanished back into the office.

  The file on William Butterfield was interesting. William Bixby Butterfield, age 52, had checked into the New Empire Hotel at 7:00 p.m. on November 23—the last he was seen alive. A curious maid found him dead in bed. Reason for the death: Coronary occlusion. The doctor had had the sense to falsify the record and contact Yargo immediately. But if the real reason for bis death was secret, why Hardface? It was obvious the Manager didn't intend to keep the file secret. He merely wanted to ascertain who might be curious about it—and why.

  Krull picked up the details: identification, physical description, IQ, occupation, and all the facts that survive a man who departs the world via the coroner route. Farther down: survived by George Henry Butterfield, IQ 138, public works engineer. His address was listed as Number 27, Cell A-15, Benbow Deeps, a submerged city lying below the shallow waters of the Pacific west of the Mala Take Atolls. So, William Bixby Butterfield had a living brother. Yargo hadn't mentioned that. He studied the notation carefully. It was made in a slightly different hand and there were faint differences in the intensity of stroke and color of ink. He made a few pertinent notes, slid the ledger back across the counter, smiled at the clerk's suspicious look and departed.

  His next stop was the Bureau of Missing Persons. He didn't expect it to yield much—it only included local disappearances—but it was a start. The Bureau turned out to be under the charge of a beetle-browed agent with heavy jowls and a cigar shoved deep into his mouth. As in the case at the Bureau of Public Records, his request was passed from the clerk to the heavy-faced man now staring at him. The latter eyed him suspiciously while he gave his request: a look at the files of persons who had dropped from sight during the fall of 2444. The agent looked incredulous.

  "That runs into the hundreds." He spoke with the tone of a man humoring a child.

  "I know."

  "What's your reason?"

  "Do I have to have one to look at a public record?" "You do—in this case."

  Krull sighed and produced his credentials. The agent stared at them, then back at Krull. "Your reason?" "An investigation," Krull snapped. "Oi what?" "That's my business."

  The agent dropped his eyes to the credentials again and a look of fear suffused his face. Krull took a chance and did something he had seldom done before: he peeped him.

  Fear, formless chaotic fear mingled with hate, a kaleidoscopic pattern of shifting emotions without clear form or content; fear and hate and suspicion, welded together and reaching out to engulf Krull. A name flashed into the mental pattern, blinking on and off like a neon sign: Gullfin . . . Gullfin . . . Gullfin. The thought-pattern jelled and the name was accompanied by the imagery of a bullet-skulled man with mean black eyes, a smashed nose and a forehead that reminded him of pictures he had seen of ancient cavemen.

  His mouth was heavy-lipped, sensuous, his skin swarthy, splotched and unhealthy. GuUfin!

  The name screamed in the brain of the agent sitting opposite him. Krull felt his hands grow sweaty and recoiled involuntarily, quickly withdrawing from the hateful mind. It was like suddenly returning to consciousness again—he became aware of the agent staring oddly at him. Momentarily he felt scared, but he had learned something: Gullfin had his slimy fingers in a lot of pies. Gullfin—or his master, the Manager.

  "All right," the agent snarled. Suddenly he stopped. He was staring past Krull's shoulder with a look of half fear, half respect. He started to say something but couldn't seem to get the words out.

  "Mr. Krulir

  He turned at the well-modulated voice and looked at an extremely tall thin man with a lean, almost skeletal face, framed by shaggy locks of gray hair. He topped Krull by a good six or eight inches.

  "I'm Peter Merryweather." He struck out a large bony hand, smiling pleasantly. Krull shook it automatically.

  "Let's step into a private office and have a chat." Merry-weather's face was open, honest, clearly devoid of any guile. Almost too forthright! He nodded and followed him into a room marked Albert Skoda, Captain-Inspector of Agents. A short burly man rose at their entrance, his face immediately respectful.

  "Mind if we use your office a moment, Al?"

  "Not a bit, Mr. Merryweather." The agent's deferential tone told him his host was a person of standing. As the agent slipped out the door, Merryweather motioned to a chair and sat down behind the desk.

  "You're probably curious, Mr. Krull." His eyes twinkled. "Gullfin reported your encounter with Agent Cathecart at the BuPub Records. I thought you'd probably show up here so I came over."

  Krull made a mental note of Hardface's name. He asked, "You are . . . ?"

  "An assistant to the Manager, sort of public relations function. At least that's one of my jobs." His lips wrinkled pleasantly. "By Crozener's ghost, work for the Government and they pile the jobs on until you really don't know what you're doing. But I don't think I can complain."

  Krull masked his surprise.

  "I know what you're thinking: What the hell am I doing in the act?"

  "Something like that," Krull admitted.

  "When Gullfin told me about your credentials, I figured Cathecart probably gave you a rough time. Thought I'd better step in and smooth the path."

  "Why?"

  "Public relations. If you've got a job to do, I'm here to help, not hinder. Just let me know how I can be of aid."

  "Sounds good," Krull admitted. "How about . . . Gullfin?"

  "To hell with Gullfin." He continued amiably. "He's playing politics—things Shevach's due to win the election and he's trying to butter himself up for the post of Chief of World Ag
ents." He caught the surprised look on Krull's face and smiled.

  "I serve the Manager, too," he said slowly, "but I try to do a conscientious job. Shevach's not really a bad sort when you get to know him. If he seems hard, it's because he's got a tough job. You can't penalize a man for being ambitious."

  "No—I suppose not."

  "Anyway, the doors are open. If you need anything—or run into any obstacles—just give me a buzz. You can catch me at this number." He tore a sheet off the desk pad, scribbled briefly on it and shoved it across the desk, then rose. Krull pocketed the paper and scrambled to his feet, trying to assess Merryweather's role. His ready admission that the Manager was his master was in his favor, but the tall man was too genial, too ready to help.

  "We'll start in by clearing the way for you to get access to all the records—every damn one." Merryweather promised.

  "Follow me." He led the way to the outer reception desk, gave brief orders to the beetle-browed agent in charge and waved toward the files.

  "They're all yours. Webster here will be glad to help you." He shook hands with him and left. Krull turned to face the scowling agent.

  He quickly found Webster had been right. People seemed to be disappearing by the scores—for the most part, harassed, debt-ridden fathers who just gave up the struggle; to a lesser extent, drunks, the unstable and ill. In the end he wearily closed the file, thinking he would check again when he had more time. Just now the lead on Butterfield seemed too hot to let hang.

  Krull got off the monorail from Tonga surface station and looked curiously around the main station of Benbow Deep. He had never been to a submerged city before, although he had seen them often enough on,TV. He felt momentarily uneasy. For one thing, he could look up through the cell's plastitex ceiling—the monorail station was located in cell T-12—into the ocean. It was a darker shade than the clear bottom waters of Abiang Lagoon but, he thought, the city was built on a sea bottom plateau at the hundred meter level. The long reds and yellows of the spectrum had been filtered out, leaving only the deepened blues. He searched the ceiling carefully until he caught movement. It was true, then, you could see the marine life from the city streets. He had heard that. He recalled that the first subsea city had been made of opaque materials and mass claustrophobia had resulted. Since then transparent materials had been used. Everyone was happier—so the psychmasters claimed—but he wasn't so sure. The idea of three hundred feet of ocean pressing down on him wasn't exactly reassuring.

  He studied his surroundings curiously. The cell had a long rectangular shape beneath its cylindrical roof and narrowed abruptly at either end where it joined adjacent cells. The narrow street running down the center of the cell was lined with businesses on one side—extremely crowded by surface standards—while the monorail station occupied the other.

  In case of disaster, each cell could be isolated by electrically-controlled doors fitted in slots below street level where the cells adjoined. The entire system was monitored at a central station where watchmen scanned the city's warning devices around the clock. If he were asked to describe the general topography of Benbow Deeps, he would liken it to a string of sausages, he decided. The cell was illuminated by soft indirect lighting; the temperature was pleasantly cool and the filtered air clean and fresh. Life under the seas had its benefits as well as dangers. For one, there was perfect control of the environment. Weather, to the dwellers of the deep, was an almost forgotten topic. A cab drew up. "Transport, sir?"

  "Yes, thanks." The rear door slid open and he sank into a deep foam cushion, noting the small vehicle was equipped with a panel which, if desired, could be raised to afford complete privacy.

  "Where to?"

  He gave Butterfield's address and settled back as the vehicle jerked into motion. He watched the passing cells with interest. Each was dedicated to a specialized activity—sea-farm products processing, commercial business, a mining cell where great trains of carriers traveling on sea-bottom rails came through the locks bearing manganese, cobalt and nickel ores from the depths beyond the city. They passed through a clinical cell containing a hospital and small mental ward and, adjacent to it, an educational cell which housed the city's schools at all levels. Most of the buildings were of plastic materials in various pastel shades; a few were ornamented in solid brick, coral block, or synthetic stone or wood. His interest perked up when they reached the recreation cells. One was devoted to swimming and aquatic sports, another to gymnastics and games. A third, constructed of pink plastitex, was illuminated by indirect rose lighting.

  "Pleasure cell," the driver informed him. "Want to stop?"

  "Maybe later." Krull grinned. "Just now I'm a working man."

  They entered the residential cells and he saw the houses were much like any others except for the scale: miniaturization was the rule. The cab abruptly slowed in front of a small plastic house that was distinguishable from the others only by its number. He dropped a bill in the driver's hand, got out without waiting for change, and headed for the door.

  . George Henry Butterfield was prim, slender, with a narrow face, pointed jaw and thin lips. A fringe of gray hair circled a shiny pate and, together with face lines, added up to about fifty years. He looked inquiringly at Krull, his body braced against the partially open door. Krull stated his mission, clearly, everything but his real reason. He finished and waited expectantly.

  "You came all the way from Sydney to ask about my brother?"

  Krull nodded cheerfully. "It's not far." "Why?"

  "Because we need answers," Krull stated calmly.

  Butterfield hesitated. "What do you want to know?"

  "All about him—his life, hobbies, friends, what he did, said, believed, and any letters you might have."

  "I can't see the reason for all that," the face in the door said indignantly. "My brother's dead. It seems ... an unwarranted invasion of privacy." He started to close the door but Krull's foot was in the way.

  "I assure you, it's not." He adopted a conciliatory tone. "Let me explain, Mr. Butterfield. Your brother was well-known, respected, then he vanished—inexplicably. Five years later he was found dead. Don't you think it logical we try to establish the facts concerning his whereabouts during the years he was lost to sight?"

  "Who are you?" Butterfield's face took on a look of resentment. Krull displayed his credentials. The little man's mouth fell open and he managed to say: "Won't you come in, Mr. Krull?" He stepped to one side and the agent entered, trying to conceal a faint smile.

  Butterfield retreated and indicated a soft chair in one comer of the room, then sat facing him.

  "It must be quite important if the Prime Thinker is concerned."

  "Very important," Krull said gravely. "Now Mr. Butter-field . . ."

  Butterfield talked, talked in a barely audible voice with Krull occasionally interrupting with a question. He continually shifted his eyes and his fingers intertwined nervously. He told of his brother's boyhood, school life, friends (he had few)—his love of math, electronics, physics, his flights into fantasy and his dreams, little odds and ends concerning his likes and dislikes. Despite his nervousness and low-pitched voice he made his brother live again, until Krull felt almost a personal relationship with the mysterious professor who had, somehow, tampered with the atom—and died.

  George Henry Butterfield narrated his brother's life up to the moment he had accepted the position on the faculty of the University of Palmerston North—and abruptly stopped.

  "What then?"

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing?"

  "I didn't hear from him again. He never wrote." "Not at all—ever?"

  "After he disappeared, there were a few mquiries from the police. That's all." Butterfield sucked his lip. "But nothing from your brother?"

  "Nothing." He looked a trifle defiant. "The only thing I heard was . . . about his death. They informed me, just a few days ago."

  Krull nodded sympathetically and asked more questions. He drew blanks. As far as his bro
ther was concerned, William Bixby Butterfield had been born in Benbow Deeps, educated, had shunned girls, loved the physical sciences, had taken a job in New Zealand—had vanished. Krull tried a new line of questioning with the same result. No go.

  "It's no use," Butterfield finally said. "I guess I just can't help you, Mr. Krull. I wouldn't keep any secrets— not from the Prime Thinker. I wouldn't do that." He spoke the denial in a burst, twisting his fingers furiously. Deciding there was nothing more to be gained Krull rose, thanked him, and started toward the door; the engineer followed him.

  As he started to leave Butterfield blurted, "This must be awfully important."

  "It is."

  "The Prime Thinker really sent you?"

  "That's right, Mr. Butterfield, and I'm afraid he'll be terribly disappointed."

  "Oh . . ." The little man hesitated as if torn with indecision, then drew his shoulders up sharply and looked at the agent with brave resolution. "Mr. Krull, there is one other thing."

  "Yes ...r

  "William had a secret..."

  "Go on," Krull prompted.

  "He ... he was a hidden esper."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Before he'd taken a dozen steps from Butterfield's door, Krull knew he'd had it. The little man's words had given the investigation an ominous twist. Espersl

  He momentarily clutched at the hope that William Bixby Butterfield only incidentally was an esper, that no real relationship existed between that fact and his toying with the atom. But he knew better—knew it absolutely. He cursed sofdy. He couldn't enter their lonely world without revealing his own talents.

  He took the tube to Tonga and made connections with the Sydney carrier, glad of the few solitary hours the trip afforded. He had to think. He decided on one thing: he'd be prepared. He'd read the esper tapes, the psychmaster studies, learn their organizations—determine his own powers. Up till now he'd hidden his talents, avoided using them. Okay, he'd test them, develop them, and the hell with consequences.

  He reached Sydney and strolled toward the hotel with a pleased feeling. The decision to draw out his talent—use it-was almost a physical release. He peeped several passing pedestrians, catching odd fragments of thought; none were very clear and he wondered if it were because they had been picked out of context.