Jeff Sutton Read online

  He entered the lobby of the hotel, absently peeping, and was startled by a thought of such vivid clarity that he stopped abruptly, staring at a young woman entering the lobby. She clutched the arm of a middle-aged man whose clothing proclaimed him an MIQ. He peeped again, fascinated, then withdrew from her mind and saw her clearly for the first time. She had a serene open face with candid blue eyes, which could be termed either vacuous or innocent. She appeared over-dressed in a pale blue semi-transparent tunic, matching sandals, and elaborate freshly lacquered top-knot hairdo. He watched the couple stroll toward the lift and grinned, deciding he had learned two things: one was about innocent faces; the second was the reason es-pers were feared.

  He had scarcely entered his room when the phone rang —he debated answering it. After a moment he lifted the receiver.

  "Mr. Krull?" He didn't recognize the voice.

  "I have a message for you . . ." The voice paused.

  ^Well. . . P"

  "Are you interested in knowing the whereabouts of William Bixby Butterfield before he died?" Krull was startled. "Who is this?" "Just answer the question." "I am," he snapped.

  "Meet me in front of the Edward Crozener statue in Cro-zener Park at twelve midnight—tonight. And come alone." "Who is this?" Krull demanded.

  "Remember, come alone—if you want the information." The phone clicked in his ear. He looked thoughtfully at the instrument, glanced at the clock, debating if he should call Cranston. He decided against it.

  Krull reached the park with an hour to spare and strolled around its borders once to get his bearings. Crozener's statue was located in a small plaza boxed in by shrubbery and overhanging trees. He walked to the far end of the park and, certain he wasn't observed, stepped into the shrubbery and backtracked toward the plaza keeping in the shadows of the tree. He halted at the border of the clearing, spread the bushes carefully apart and peered out. The square was empty.

  He looked around until he found a tree that afforded a good view and silentiy climbed it, then glanced at his watch —11:15. Plenty of time. Almost immediately he heard low voices. A couple strolled into view, talking and laughing in intimate tones. He peeped them, got a few details and grinned. The next passerby was a lone man who paused to light a pipe. His mind was pleasant, mellow. Krull grew uncomfortable. A tree limb pressed sharply against his stomach and his muscles ached.from the cramped position. He was trying to get more comfortable when an elderly couple airing a dog passed by.

  Midnight.

  Starting to shift his body again, he caught a glimpse of movement in the bushes beyond the square. Illusion? It had been but a flash of black against black. No, there it was again. Someone crouched, waiting, he thought. Smiling tightly, he slipped his gun loose while trying to steady himself, then peeped the shadows—no answering thought came. He tried again, comcentrating on the blackness, and failing to get even the suggestion of imagery. Perhaps telepathy required having the subject in close visual range.

  The shadow ceased moving and he decided the watcher had settled down to wait. After a while a leg began to cramp and he cautiously moved it, aware the pain was spreading up his thigh. Hours seemed to pass. He cursed softly and waited, silendy moving to ease the muscle. At twelve-thirty the black shadow opposite him moved again; a figure stepped to the edge of the square and looked in all directions. Krull strained to see, simultaneously trying to peep him—no results. He was shifting position again when the limb under him cracked. The shadow came to life, leaped to one side and three slugs ripped up through the tree. Krull cursed, fired twice, released his hold and dropped to the ground just as another slug whammed past his ear. He fired twice more; his attacker half-spun and dropped heavily. Shouts came "rom the distance. He ran to the side of the fallen man and flipped the body over.

  Cranston's dead face stared up at him.

  Releasing his hold, he fled, keeping in the shadows until he was several blocks from the park. Sirens screamed in the night and he smiled grimly, thinking Cranston's troubles were over—the roly-poly man with the cheerful voice had smiled his last smile. For him the conspiracy was ended; but, he thought, his own troubles had just started. He entered the hotel through the garage and reached his room unobserved, pausing to peep the interior before entering. Not that he expected to read the mind of any chance intruder—he had failed to read the mind of the shadow that had been Cranston—but he did suspect he could discern the presence of another mind, even though it might come through as a patchwork of formless imagery. He locked the door behind him, conscious that he was breathing hard.

  Cranston's attempt to kill him left him standing at the fork of a road. Either Yargo had ordered his murder—or the conspiracy extended into the Prime Thinker's household. Which? He weighed the possibilities, and he made his decision.

  One a.m.

  He picked up the phone and called the Prime Thinker's secret number.

  Yargo answered on the second ring. That was suspicious— almost as if he had been waiting for the call. Confirmation from Cranston? But Yargo probably worked three-fourths of the way around the clock. No, it wasn't unreasonable for him to be at his desk. He thought about it while making his request—an immediate audience.

  "Is it that important?"

  "It is," Krull said firmly.

  "Where are you now?"

  "My room—at the Edward Crozener."

  "There'll be a car to meet you at the garage in fifteen minutes." The phone clicked; he replaced the receiver in the cradle thoughtfully. He didn't particularly like the idea of being whisked away in the dead of night by Yargo's men, but all depended upon whether he had guessed right about Cranston's loyalties. Then there were three minutes left to go, he checked his gun and headed for the garage. At exactly one-fifteen a white Capricorn rolled down the ramp and stopped. He approached it from the rear, one hand gripping his gun, and stopped, bewildered. The driver was a woman.

  For a moment he thought he had made a mistake and started to retreat when she called after him. "Mr. Krull?"

  He hesitated, cautiously returned to the side of the car. She smiled. "If you'll get in . .

  For an instant he struggled to remember where he had seen her before, but gave up and went around to the opposite side and slipped in beside her. She pushed the car into gear, reached the thoroughfare and turned in the direction of the House of the Prime Thinker.

  She finally broke the awkward silence. "You seem surprised."

  He grinned sheepishly. "To be frank, I wasn't expecting a woman."

  "I was pressed into service. I happened to be with Dad when your call came." "Dad?"

  "I'm Jan Yargo," she exclaimed.

  "Oh, I didn't know." He shifted in his seat until he could see her face in profile. Her eyes were large—blue, he guessed—and her nose was a straight line above a well-formed mouth. Her hair was piled high in the elaborate lacquered hairdo currently the style among HIQ's; it dazzled with jewels. She was more than pretty, he decided, and placed her age in the early to middle twenties. The conversation died down.

  After a while she turned into a lane leading to the House of the Prime Thinker and a sentry waved her through. She parked under a portico and said, "Please follow me."

  She led him upstairs to the library and knocked lightly before entering. Ben Yargo was busy at his desk. He rose and came around to the center of the room, extended his hand and smiled briefly. "Good evening, Krull. Or should I say, good morning?"

  "I'll be saying goodnight," Jan said.

  Krull turned toward her. "Thank you very much, Miss Yargo."

  "I'm glad to have been of help." She smiled at him and withdrew; he turned back to face the Prime Thinker.

  "It is late—I'm sorry," Krull said. He saw that Yargo was wearing an open dressing gown thrown over a pair of tropic shorts, and sandals; his face was drawn and tired, all but the eyes. They were bright, alive and disconcertingly penetrating. He released Krull's hand and indicated a chair opposite his desk.

  Krull sat down and
waited until Yargo was settled before he spoke. "I wouldn't have bothered you at this time if something important hadn't come up."

  "I'm sure of that." (A touch of irony?)

  "Someone tried to murder me tonight." He paused . . . waited. The eyes watching him were unmoving.

  "Well . . . p" Yargo uttered the single word. Krull blinked. For an instant he wondered if he dared peep the mind of the man opposite him and as quickly discarded the idea. Too dangerous. Yargo was too sharp, too alert, would sense the act. Instead he said, "The assassin was your man —Cranston."

  Yargo didn't change expression. "What happened?"

  "I killed him," Krull said. v

  "Good, I'm glad you came through. Anything else?"

  Krull was momentarily shaken. Yargo's calm, in view of trie implication, seemed unnatural. He hesitated, groping for words before he spoke.

  "Yes, there is . . ." The room became so still he heard the ricking of a clock on the opposite wall. "Either Cranston acted under your orders or he was a traitor."

  "I'd already considered the implications from your point of view." Yargo leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk, his eyes searching the agent's face. He spoke quietly. "The conspiracy has reached high places."

  He leaned back and contemplated Krull for a long moment. His face was a mask and when finally he spoke his voice was crisp. "As an agent of the State, I expect you to proceed with the investigation. As far as I'm concerned, nothing has changed. Agents—by the nature of their work—are expected to face intrigue and death."

  Krull flushed, starting to protest when Yargo unexpectedly smiled. "So are Prime Thinkers," he said.

  "I would like your permission to investigate Cranston's connections."

  Yargo shrugged. "If you're convinced it's related to the Butterfield case—yes. I usually don't tell an agent how to do his job. To that extent, I won't dictate your actions, so long as you don't deviate from the original intent of the investigation—to determine whether or not there is an atomic conspiracy—and if there is, the persons involved."

  "I won't deviate," Krull informed him.

  "No, I'm sure you won't." Yargo got up as if to terminate the meeting.

  "One other thing ..."

  Yargo looked expectant.

  "William Bixby Butterfield was an esper."

  "Oh!" He sat down again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The first mutant telepath (esper), a boy named George Gollar, was discovered in Wellington in 2010 A.D., forty years after the Atomic War. It was disclosed that his grandparents had been among the few survivors of Greater London.

  Gollar was declared a freak, a mutant spawned by radiation-altered genes. Soon after, other mutant telepaths were detected. They were few in number, at first. Freaks . . . mutants . . . telepaths. Peepers I In time, the words took on an ominous note. Whispers grew, were fanned into fears and, in the end, open hostility.

  Public demands led to the rigid "Esper Control Laws" of 2036, promulgated by Paul Bertocci (IQ 207), the Eighth Prime Thinker. These required the screening of school children for telepathic taints, the registration of all adult telepaths, and their prohibition from holding any public office. Severe penalties were imposed on "hidden espers," defined as "persons not registered under the laws governing mutants and found to have telepathic traits."

  Despite public unease, the esper problem did not flare into public prominence until the "Sawbo Fang affair."

  The Searchers were established soon after . . .

  Blak Roko's Post-Atomic Earthman

  An alarm bell rang in his brain.

  Krull froze by the door of his room with the key half-inserted in the lock, feeling his heart thump against his chest walls while he tried to discern the cause. The warning in his brain had subsided, but he had the distinct feeling of another presence, as if someone were standing next to him. He looked swiftly along the halls. Empty.

  He deliberately finished turning the key, stepped aside and pushed the door ajar. A shaft of light came from the room. He caught his breath. There was a moment of stark silence followed by a feminine voice.

  "Please come in, Mr. Krull."

  He started involuntarily. The voice was low, pleasant. He tried to peep the room. There was no returning thought; neither was there any hint of danger. To the contrary . . .

  He threw caution to the winds and stepped quickly throught the door. A young woman was sitting in the room's one soft chair by the lamp watching him with bemused eyes. She was slim, dark, with unlacquered black hair and lashes, and a slightly almond cast to her eyes that reminded him of Rea Jon except for a strange wistfulness of expression. He took in her figure with a swift glance: the soft lavender, semi-transparent dress she wore emphasized the lines of her body. Her legs were long, slender and bare, and her simple sandals matched the yellow sash at her waist. He pegged her for a MIQ by her colored dress and simple hairdo.

  "Do I meet with your approval, Mr. KruH?" He reddened and finally found his voice. "Who are you?" "Anna." The single word was uttered with an almost musical quality. "Anna who?" "Just Anna."

  "Well, Miss Anna whoever-you-are, you're in the wrong room."

  "No . . . I'm not."

  "What do you want?" He said roughly. "To help you."

  He thought of the help Cranston had tried to give and smiled grimly. "No thanks."

  The girl arose with a single graceful movement and took a few steps toward him. Her face was appealing, devoid of guile, but the lithe lines of her body, visible through the dress, disconcerted him. He caught the fragrance of a delicate perfume.

  "Are you afraid, Mr. Krull?"

  His lips pulled into a sardonic smile. "Frankly, yes." "Of what?"

  "Of getting murdered."

  "Do I look like a murderer—or should I say murderess?"

  "No—but you might lead me to someone who is."

  "Oh, no." She appeared aghast at the thought. "I don't represent violence. I'm only here to help you—or, rather, take you to someone who can help you." Again he caught the fragrance of perfume and was stirred by the softness of her voice.

  "What kind of help?"

  "Information . . . just information." "From whom?"

  "Mr. . . . Mr. Bowman." She seemed to hesitate before uttering the name.

  "And who is Bowman?"

  "The person who wants to help you."

  He couldn't suppress a grin. "That's a nice circular explanation. Bowman is the guy who wants to help me and the guy who wants to help me is Bowman. You'll have to do better than that . . . Anna."

  "Don't I look trustworthy, Mr. Krull?" There was reproach in her words, just the right amount, he thought. He tried to peep her again while appearing to think. If he had expected a clear thought pattern he was disappointed. He had the momentary sensation of standing in a light and airy garden, cool with soft breezes, fragrant with the scent of flowers. He half-expected to hear the trill of birds but the garden was silent. The pleasant sensation subdy changed; the beginning of imagery came, the jelling of color and form into a geometric partem. A face emerged from the partem, that of an old, old man, pale and drawn, with lively bright eyes set under thinning wisps of snow-white hair. (Pictures instead of pure thought!) Focusing on the details, he caught the pallor of the skin, the thin nets of blue veins traversing the temples, giving the face an almost ethereal quality. There was no discordant line, no harshness—only complete harmony and tranquillity as if the face mirrored a saint's soul. He didn't know how long he held the vision before it began to fade, vanishing into a formless pattern of color—the live brown eyes went last. Next he was looking into a gray field, and became aware he was standing stiff-legged, staring into the lovely face of the girl who called herself Anna. It was expectant.

  "Who is Bowman?" he asked again, seeking time to think. He was scarcely aware of the answer, gripped with the elation of the successful mind probe, the second since peeping the girl in the lobby. (His power was growing!) Anna's thoughts had been so clear and vivid
he had gotten the most minute details of the face in her mind; he had no doubt it was Bowman. He mentally conceded the old man didn't look like a murderer. No, never. He stalled a moment longer.

  "Exactly why does Mr. Bowman want to see me?" She smiled faintly. "To give you information." "You told me that before. What kind?" "About atomic research, Mr. Krull."

  The car zoomed west along the freeway leading from South Sydney. It was a small, two-passenger Tropics-6 with a tan finish and bubble-canopy to allow full vision in all directions. The girl drove silently, swiftly, skirting the end of the harbor and heading toward North Sydney, the major residential area of the city, where, he knew, large new apartment developments constructed of plastics and lightweight block housed the MIQ's, mainly middle class workers. The seat was narrow and Krull occasionally felt the pressure of her thigh but she didn't appear to notice; indeed, she seemed completely oblivious of his presence.

  He tried to piece the puzzle together. To the best of his knowledge only Yargo, the members of the Council of Six, the Manager and, yes, the coroner knew the real secret behind William Bixby Butterfield's death. Now, Mr. Bowman and the girl beside him. That made, not counting himself, eleven people who knew that William Butterfield had died tampering with the atom, for it seemed almost certain Anna and the man called Bowman must know the whole story.

  The girl turned off the wide avenue onto a narrow road and began climbing toward the crest of a hill. Off to one side the lights of the city fell away to the bay, a dark expanse broken by the occasional running lights of ships and smaller craft. The new Sydney Harbor Bridge was a lighted arc against the night, connecting the north and south sides of the harbor. The red and green running lights of cargo copters moved high above the span. He turned. The multicolored lights and flashing neons of South Sydney had been swallowed in a light haze, leaving only a bright hue in the sky. He made mental note of the street names. The car abruptly slowed and swung into the driveway of one of the newer apartments. The girl turned off the engine and lights.