Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe January 1954.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.
[_Conspiracy seems to be as much a part of our times as it
was in the times of Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot. Hence it finds
frequent reflection in all branches of fiction, including science
fiction. Yet, as in life, something new has been added, the most
gigantic conspiracy of all, the human conspiracy against conspirators.
Which makes for a fine stirring story in this short novel of the
future by Mr. Anderson, one of our best young authors._]
the
sensitive
man
_by ... Poul Anderson_
One man stood between a power-hungry cabal and world
mastery--but a man of unusual talents.
* * * * *
The Mermaid Tavern had been elaborately decorated. Great blocks of
hewn coral for pillars and booths, tarpon and barracuda on the walls,
murals of Neptune and his court--including an outsize animated picture
of a mermaid ballet, quite an eye-catcher. But the broad quartz
windows showed merely a shifting greenish-blue of seawater, and the
only live fish visible were in an aquarium across from the bar.
Pacific Colony lacked the grotesque loveliness of the Florida and Cuba
settlements. Here they were somehow a working city, even in their
recreations.
The sensitive man paused for a moment in the foyer, sweeping the big
circular room with a hurried glance. Less than half the tables were
filled. This was an hour of interregnum, while the twelve to eighteen
hundred shift was still at work and the others had long finished their
more expensive amusements. There would always be a few around, of
course--Dalgetty typed them as he watched.
A party of engineers, probably arguing about the compression strength
of the latest submarine tank to judge from the bored expressions of
the three or four rec girls who had joined them. A biochemist, who
seemed to have forgotten his plankton and seaweed for the time being
and to have focussed his mind on the pretty young clerk with him. A
couple of hard-handed caissoniers, settling down to some serious
drinking.
A maintenance man, a computerman, a tank pilot, a diver, a sea
rancher, a bevy of stenographers, a bunch of very obvious tourists,
more chemists and metallurgists--the sensitive man dismissed them all.
There were others he couldn't classify with any decent probability but
after a second's hesitation he decided to ignore them too. That left
only the group with Thomas Bancroft.
They were sitting in one of the coral grottos, a cave of darkness to
ordinary vision. Dalgetty had to squint to see in and the muted light
of the tavern was a harsh glare when his pupils were so distended.
But, yes--it was Bancroft all right and there was an empty booth
adjoining his.
Dalgetty relaxed his eyes to normal perception. Even in the short
moment of dilation the fluoros had given him a headache. He blocked it
off from consciousness and started across the floor.
A hostess stopped him with a touch on the arm as he was about to enter
the vacant cavern. She was young, an iridescent mantrap in her brief
uniform. With all the money flowing into Pacific Colony they could
afford decorative help here.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "Those are kept for parties. Would you
like a table?"
"I'm a party," he answered, "or can soon become one." He moved aside a
trifle so that none of the Bancroft group should happen to look out
and see him. "If you could arrange some company for me...." He fumbled
out a C-note, wondering just how such things could be done gracefully.
"Why, of course, sir." She took it with a smoothness he envied and
handed him a stunning smile in return. "Just make yourself
comfortable."
Dalgetty stepped into the grotto with a fast movement. This wasn't
going to be simple. The rough red walls closed in on top of him,
forming a space big enough for twenty people or so. A few
strategically placed fluoros gave an eerie undersea light, just enough
to see by--but no one could look in. A heavy curtain could be drawn if
one wanted to be absolutely secluded. Privacy--_uh_-huh!
He sat down at the driftwood table and leaned back against the coral.
Closing his eyes he made an effort of will. His nerves were already
keyed up to such a tautness that it seemed they must break and it took
only seconds to twist his mind along the paths required.
The noise of the tavern rose from a tiny mumble to a clattering surf,
to a huge and saw-edged wave. Voices dinned in his head, shrill and
deep, hard and soft, a senseless stream of talking, jumbled together
into words, words, words. Somebody dropped a glass and it was like a
bomb going off.
Dalgetty winced, straining his ear against the grotto side. Surely
enough of their speech would come to him, even through all that rock!
The noise level was high but the human mind, if trained in
concentration, is an efficient filter. The outside racket receded from
Dalgetty's awareness and slowly he gathered in the trickle of sound.
First man: "--no matter. What can they do?"
Second man: "Complain to the government. Do you want the FBI on our
trail? I don't."
First man: "Take it easy. They haven't yet done so and it's been a
good week now since--"