Jeff Sutton Page 6

  "We're here."

  "Wherever that is."

  She didn't answer. He followed her to the door of a ground-level unit. She opened it—the interior was softly lit. He hesitated. She turned, her face only inches from his, and smiled. "Still worried, Mr. Krull?"

  "Puzzled." She laughed lightly and entered the room. He grinned sheepishly and followed, closing the door behind him, wondering what would happen if there were no Mr. Bowman. He followed her over to the fireplace, and for the first time saw the frail figure sitting in a deep chair next to the hearth. It was the man he had seen in her mind.

  "Mr. Bowman, this is Mr. Krull," Anna said.

  "Ah . . . yes, I know." The old man smiled gendy and extended a bloodless hand, cold to Krull's touch. "Anna, get a chair for our guest."

  Krull placed the chair so he could see both Bowman and the door.

  "I'll be in the next room," Anna said. She smiled and left. He watched her go, then turned back; Mr. Bowman was smiling gently.

  "Thank you for coming."

  He debated. "I have some questions to ask," he said final-"Certainly—feel free."

  "You appear to have certain knowledge that could get you into serious trouble." He continued briskly, "I should wam you, I'm an Agent of Police."

  "Yes, Agent Max Krull, Territory of Waimea-Roa, graduate of the Sydney Branch of the World Police Academy, class of 2446 A.D. with an IQ 113 rating. I know all that, Mr. Krull, and the fact you're conducting the Prime Thinker's investigation into circumstances surrounding William Bixby Butterfield's death as result of radiation bums."

  "You know too much, Mr. Bowman. You could be considered dangerous."

  "Nonsense, how can a man of eighty-seven be dangerous?"

  "The knowledge you have is dangerous," Krull corrected. "No—I don't believe so," Bowman said gently. "How do you know of Butterfield's activities?" "That's not important."

  "I consider it important," Krull said stiffly. "Are you a member of the conspiracy?" "Do I look like a conspirator?"

  "Let's start over," he said woodenly. "Why did you bring me here?"

  "To ask you not to try and unmask the conspiracy." "If there is one . . . and if I find it," Krull said acidly. "There is one—and you'll find it." "You sound certain," Krull said. "I am certain."

  He was momentarily nonplussed. The frail man opposite him spoke with absolute conviction. More, he had the audacity to ask him to break his oath. He watched the aged face. "Then you are a conspirator."

  "No." It was a gentle denial.

  "But you speak in their behalf."

  "Yes."

  "With their consent?" "No."

  "Then—why?"

  "Because the objective of the conspiracy is essential."

  "What objective—the destruction of the world?"

  "No, Mr. Krull, the conquest of the solar system, then the stars—the fulfillment of human destiny."

  "Fantastic . . ." He snapped the word out and stopped, leaving the sentence unfinished. "They'll never get the power for that."

  "They have the power," Bowman observed quietly. "Atomic power?" "Yes, of course."

  "That's where Butterfield got burned." "It was unfortunate."

  "You speak as if the conspirators were all ready to hop off," Krull said derisively.

  'Yes, soon," the old man replied imperturbably, "at least on the first exploratory ventures."

  "Fantastic," Krull reiterated.

  "Fantastic?" The ancient eyes contemplated him serenely. "Yes, perhaps in this age of denial of reason, of mental and cultural stagnation. But it wasn't fantastic once. Men were poised, on the verge . . ."

  "And almost destroyed the world," Krull interjected.

  "Not in trying to get to the stars," Bowman reminded. His eyes seemed to look into vast distances and it was a moment before he resumed. "No, we have denied our heritage through fear. The shadow of the Atomic War has never lifted. Now we live only for today, afraid to plan or think of the morrow . . ."

  "You might explain that," Krull said ruffled. "I don't regard Edward Crozener as stupid, yet you propose violation of his first law—the First Law of Mankind."

  "Edward Crozener was a great man," Bowman agreed. "I have studied his life intensively. But he was a man of a certain age, a certain social pattern, dealing with circumstances of his day. I'm sure he didn't intend his law as a perpetual ban, but only as a stopgap precaution until humanity learned to direct its destiny. No, with all due respects to Crozener, I am acting on philosophical motives I am sure he would approve were he here today."

  "What philosophical motives?"

  "Philosophical and ecological," Bowman corrected. "Philosophical because man would be destitute were his future limited to this . . . clod. It would be tantamount to racial death, for man can only survive while he can progress. Stop progress and you stop evolution—and all else dies. The spirit can't survive in a stagnant state, Mr. Krull."

  "I don't see that."

  "You've never really thought about it," Bowman countered,

  "but the seeds of stagnation have already set in. Look about you: over half the world are the drones we smugly call LIQ's. For them there is no tomorrow. But even the MIQ's and HIQ's are stopped, for there is no progress. We drive virtually the same cars, live in virtually the same houses and pursue the same sort of life as the pre-bomb man. In short time, as race history is charted, man would be at the end of his road. Ecologically, Earth is limited in the size population it can support."

  His eyes fastened on Krull and he said softly: "If the saturation limit were reached, either man would perish in a world battle for individual survival or—worse—he would adapt to his environment, with all the limitations it would impose. That would end his upward climb. He'd be just a bigger ant culture."

  "We have the sea-bottoms, surface seas and lands yet untouched," Krull remarked drily.

  "People can worry when the time comes."

  "No, the time is now. We can't afford more lost centuries. That is important, Mr. Krull. There must be a continuity of knowledge."

  |]It's illegal."

  "Mr. Krull, there are people who ... at this moment . . . are preparing for the next step, the stars. The new frontiers aré very close. I'm not a conspirator"—he chuckled— "I'm much too old for that, but I do ask your aid in one respect: don't try to unmask the conspirators."

  "I couldn't consent to that."

  "I know that."

  "You know it?"

  ]Tes."

  "Then why bother to ask—why bring me here?" "Because that's my role, my minor part in destiny, Mr. Krull. I am ... a faint force ... in the causal chain." "You believe that?" "I know it." "You sound certain."

  "I am." The ancient head nodded and the eyes closed, as if he had suddenly fallen asleep. Krull studied the lined features. He hadn't learned a thing. The old man knew . . . knew. He felt the inclination to shake him to life, demand that he speak. All at once a weariness came over him and he got to his feet.

  The girl called Anna drove him back to the hotel. It was late and she drove fast, without speaking, but she didn't appear angry. He maintained silence until she reached his destination, then got out and held the door a moment.

  "Thanks, Anna." He lingered over the name.

  "Thank you, Mr. Krull."

  "Sorry I couldn't go along with Bowman."

  "He didn't expect you to." Again he caught the suggestion of sorrow in her face.

  "So he said." He stepped back almost reluctantly and watched the car thread, into the traffic pattern. When its taillights merged with those of other cars he hailed a cab.

  "Anzaca Press," he snapped, getting in.

  "Right-o." The cab screeched around a comer, mingled with traffic a few blocks and pulled to the curb in front of a squat, three-storied building topped by a gigantic public news screen. Krull dropped a coin in the driver's hand and entered the lobby. The directory said the news room was on the second floor.

  He reached it and looked around. It w
as late, close to midnight, but there was still the stir of life amid endless empty desks. On one wall a huge screen flashed news scenes from other parts of the world while beneath it a machine cranked out radio pictures. The size of the room and number of typewriters and tape recorders strewn around suggested the activity which must prevail during the day.

  He spotted an elderly graying man sitting off to one side with a limp cigar drooping from his lips. His feet were propped on a desk and he was reading a copy of After Dark. He didn't bother to look up at Krull's approach.

  Krall glanced around, found several pieces of copy paper, and sat at an empty desk and began sketching. Anna's face came to life under his pencil but, several times, he caught himself confusing her features with Rea's. He finished, studied the sketch critically, then slimmed the cheeks slightly and added a touch of shadow to the eyes. Anna's face stared back at him.

  Bowman's face was easier to do. The details were vivid in his mind and he translated them to paper easily and quickly. He thinned the eyebrows and added the suggestion of veins to the temples. Satisfied, he approached the elderly man.

  "Are you one of the newsmen?" "You might say so." "Mind if I trouble you a moment?" "You already have."

  "I'm a stranger in Sydney and there's a couple of people I'm trying to locate." Krull tried a smile. "I've always heard a newspaperman knows everyone, so I thought you might be able to help."

  "Maybe." He grunted noncommittally.

  "Ever see that face before?" Krull slid the sketch of Anna across the desk. The tired eyes studied it a moment.

  "No, but I can see your interest. She looks pretty smooth."

  "Right," Krull rejoined. "How about this fellow?" He dropped the sketch of Bowman on the desk. The man's eyes flicked down, then fastened curiously on him.

  "You pick strange friends."

  "Oh . . ." Krull felt elated. "You know him?"

  "Who doesn't?"

  "Who is he?" Krull asked impatiendy.

  "I don't know what your interest is but your friend here" —he tapped Bowman's face with a pencil stub—"is Herman Bok."

  "Bok . . ." Krull stood frozen. The world spun and for an instant the room was deathly still.

  "Herman Bok," the voice was saying, "President of the World Council of Espers."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Krull spent the day trying to piece together bits of information about the world esper organization headed by the frail aged man named Herman Bok, who paraded under the pseudonym of "Mr. Bowman," and who seemed to know more about his job than he did himself. Bok's entrance into the case scared him. Had the old man discovered he was an esper?

  He quickly found himself against a blank wall. Bok was a name, world-known; but he was also a shadow, a man without substance. In desperation he turned to Peter Merry-weather.

  Shevach's assistant had an office on the top floor of the PAB, the Planet Administration Building. It was finished in decorative plastics and adorned with exotic tropic plants and an inch-thick rug. Krull paused to admire a painting on the wall—an original by Surrey depicting the launching of the weather satellite Atea-Rangi—before taking a chair across from Merryweather's expansive desk.

  "Like it?" Merryweather inclined his head toward the painting.

  "Beautiful," Krull said. "I've never seen a SurTey original before."

  "They're not too plentiful," the gaunt man modestly admitted. "Interested in art?" "I like to sketch."

  "I try." Merryweather sighed and leaned back. "Always wanted to be an artist but I can't seem to get past the beginner stage."

  He chuckled. "But I don't think you came to talk about that."

  "No, I came to talk about. . . Herman Bok." Merryweather's expression didn't change. "I take it you can't find out much," he said drily.

  "Practically nothing," Krull admitted cheerfully.

  "That's not surprising. Bok's pretty much of a mystery despite the fact he's the world's number one esper. However, as I said, I'm here to help."

  He flicked a switch and spoke into an intercom. "Chen, get me all the tapes we have on Herman Bok." Cutting the connection, he looked shrewdly at Krull.

  "Must be some case you're on," he observed quietly.

  As it turned out, there wasn't much to go on. The official name of Bok's organization was the World Council of Es-pers. It seemed to be largely a social group tied together through the exchange of tapes, films and letters. There was a world convention once every five years to elect officers. He didn't think it amounted to much: Bok, alias Mr. Bowman, was serving his eighth consecutive term as president. But he did leam one thing: the king esper had a confidential secretary named Anna Malroon who lived at the address where he'd met Bok the previous night. Bok's official residence was called the House of Espers, a mansion sprawled atop a hill in the HIQ section of northwest Sydney. It was the property of the esper organization but, he thought, the old man seemed to have made it a monopoly. There was a lot more, but nothing that really told him anything. As Merryweather remarked—Bok was a shadow.

  He left the hotel at dusk. The street lights were blinking on, yellow in the light ground haze, and the air was heavy with harbor scents. The raucous homs of tugs and the deeper voice of a freighter spoke from the waterfront. He had scarcely left the hotel before he sensed someone fall into step behind him.

  His scalp prickled, a warning flashed in his brain and he started to whirl when a harsh voice gritted, "Keep walking . . . slow. Don't turn or I'll burn you."

  The voice wasn't joking. Krull kept his pace steady, feeling his tensions ebb. This was the kind of action he understood. A man with a gun was real, something that could be tackled—like Cranston. He tried to peep his shadow. No good. He got the fleeting impression of savage brutality, hate, but no coherent thought pattern. He drew near the end of the block just as a black car slid alongside the curb and stopped. "Our cab?" he murmured.

  "Get in," his shadow spat. Krull turned toward the car and someone inside obligingly opened the rear door. He tensed, then relaxed, thinking he didn't have a chance. When he got in a gun jabbed his ribs.

  "Sit back and relax .. . don't try anything funny."

  "Sure, relax," he grunted. The weapon jabbed his ribs again and he winced. His captor climbed in alongside the driver and the car swung into a stream of traffic. Krull studied him. The man had a bullet-shaped head, close-cropped hair, ears pinned close to the skull. He turned and Krull gave a start. Gullfin—the Manager's chief of special agents.

  The flat face with the smashed nose and pig eyes grinned. "So, Yargo's pet got himself snared."

  "Have a good time while you can," Krull said complacently. "You'll play hell trying to hold me."

  "Think so—killer!" Gullfin spat the word in his face. "Not even Yargo can pull you out of this one."

  "That remains to be seen." Krull added, "Who am I supposed to have murdered?"

  "You'll remember when I get the rubber hose working."

  Krull didn't reply. He had little doubt the Manager's chief of special agents was right; Gullfin looked like a sadist. There was no further conversation until the car turned down a ramp and stopped in an underground garage. Gullfin e-merged first, made motions of patting his shoulder holster and rasped:

  "Out."

  A gun prodded Krull's ribs and he obeyed; his companion in the back seat followed, a short heavy man with odd yellow eyes.

  'Take killer boy to the reception room." Gullfin leered at Krull. "Make him comfortable until I get there."

  "Right." Yellow Eyes hefted his weapon. "Straight ahead."

  Krull sighed and started in the direction indicated, thinking he wasn't going to like the next few hours. He contemplated tackling Yellow Eyes but decided against it when he heard the driver following a few steps behind. He was directed down a flight of stairs to a passage ending at a steel-barred door. The driver waited half a dozen paces behind while Yellow Eyes pushed past Krull and opened it, then stepped aside.

  "In," he said briefly.


  "Looks comfortable," Krull murmured. He paused on the threshold and turned. "I suppose you know it's illegal to toss a man in the cage without booking him."

  "I know. Get in there and quit stalling."

  Krull shrugged and entered the cell. It contained a single metal cot, a couple of stools and little else. The door clanged shut behind him and footsteps receded down the hall. He made a few peeps and drew blanks.

  After a while he heard the clatter of feet and the rumble of voices echoing in the stairwell; Gullfin turned into the passageway followed by his companions. True to his word, he carried a short flexible length of hose. He opened the door and entered with Yellow Eyes at his heels while another man remained outside. Gullfin slapped the hose against his thigh, nodding to Yellow Eyes.

  "Stand up, killer." Krull rose from his cot; Yellow Eyes slipped behind him and applied an armlock. "Don't worry, we're not going to beat a confession out of you."

  "We want more than that and we got scientific ways of getting it, huh, Kruper?" So, Yellow Eyes' name was Kru-per. Krull tucked it in his mental file without removing his eyes from Gullfin's flat face.

  "We're real scientific." The agent's small eyes glittered and Krull peeped him. The imagery came with a smashing shock —a picture of himself reefing.

  "All I want is to warm you up first." Gullfin raised his arm and chopped the hose down in a short hard arc that ended against Krull's shoulder.

  Sickening pain shot through his body; he felt nauseated and the sweat began to come.

  "Warm-up," Gullfin said. He shifted slighdy and whipped half a dozen slashing blows back and forth across Krull's arms and ended with a slashing chop against the cheek. Krull staggered and would have fallen were it not for Kruper's hold. His head was spinning.

  Gullfin stepped back. "How did you like that?"

  Krull raised his head and cursed him.

  Gullfin responded with another series of lashes before stepping back, breathing heavily. He nodded. Kruper released his hold and Krull fell to one knee feeling sick. Gullfin laughed, spun around and left the cell with Kruper at his heels. The steel door clanged and their footsteps echoed down the hall.