"Now before you say anything," Newell said, "remember that when you
started on that case you didn't have a thing more concrete to go on than
you have right now--just a half a hunch. Isn't that right? Admit it!"
"M'm."
"Well, isn't it worth a chance? What can we lose?"
"Me, maybe. But...."
The boss said nothing more. He knew that if he let me do the talking,
I'd soon argue myself into it. Which I did.
Five minutes later, I shrugged. "Okay. What, specifically, do you have
in mind?"
"Let's go back to the office," Newell said.
* * * * *
It was just a short walk. Or, I should say, it would have been a short
walk, if we had walked.
But New York was one of the very last cities to convert to the "level"
transportation system. It had been one hell of an engineering feat, but
for Amerpean ingenuity and enterprise nothing is impossible, so the job
had finally been tackled and completed just within the past year. And
the novelty of the ambulator bands on pedestrian levels was still strong
for native New Yorkers.
So instead of leaving the restaurant on the vehicle level, where we
happened to be, and taking an old fashioned sidewalk stroll to the IGN
building, Newell insisted on taking the escalator up to the next level
and then gliding along on an amband.
That's just the sort of person he is.
When we got back up to his office, he asked, "Isn't there some sort of
defense against telenosis? I mean, other than alcohol or insanity?"
I thought for a moment. "Shouldn't be too hard to devise one. All you
need is something to set up interference vibrations on the same band as
the brain waves you're guarding."
"Sounds simple as hell. Could one of our men do it?"
"A telenosis technician at one of the hospitals could do it quicker," I
suggested.
"Without the sanction of C.I.D.? I doubt that."
"That's right," I agreed. "Okay. I'll run down to Technology and see
what we can work out. It may take two or three days--"
"I'll see that it gets top priority. I want you to get back to Palm
Beach as soon as you can."
As I was getting up to leave, Newell said, "Say, by the way, how's that
health cult in Palm Beach--Suns-Rays Incorporated? Anything on that?"
Suns-Rays Incorporated was one of the chief reasons I was taking my
vacation in Palm Beach, Fla., instead of in Sacramento, Calif., my home
town. Carson Newell had heard about this crackpot religious group that
was having a convention in Palm Beach, and he couldn't see why one of
his reporters shouldn't combine business and pleasure.
And maybe that tells you a little more of the sort of person he is.
"It's a complete fraud," I told him. "They worship a glorified sunlamp
and take regular treatments. Same time, they follow a strict diet and
system of exercises--have their own little spot on one of the beaches.
Guaranteed to cure what ails you."
"Who's the head?" Newell asked. "How many are there?"
"About twenty-five or thirty members, I'd say. That's not counting the
few curiosity-seekers, like me. And nobody in particular seems to be in
charge right now. I guess the big boss died, and they're holding this
confab to elect a new one. Supposed to have the elections today, come to
think of it. There's a great big scoop I missed."
"Any real news value in it?"
I shook my head. "Feature story, maybe, but it's pretty run-of-the-mill
stuff, even at that."
"Well, stay with it," Newell said. "Just in case nothing pops on this
telenosis deal. And get that defense mech as soon as possible."
"Do I get a real vacation after this is all over?" I asked, knowing what
the answer would be.
"Scram," Newell replied. "I'm a busy man. Get going!"
* * * * *
Late afternoon of the next day, my defense mechanism was ready. They had
taken a reading of my brain wave with a makeshift electroencaphalograph,
and then a couple of electronics boys had tinkered around until they had
a gadget that would throw out vibrations on exactly my wave-band.
Of course, not having any telenosis equipment, we weren't able to make a
real check of the contraption's effectiveness. I had to take the
technologists' word that it would work.
Frankly, I didn't feel any too well defended as I hopped the five
o'clock stratoliner back to Palm Beach.
The defense mech was enclosed in a black case that looked like a
portable radio or a portable typewriter or a small suitcase. When you
opened the lid, there was a flat surface having only one dial--for
volume. The vibrations had a radius of about three-quarters of a mile.
It was after six when I got back to my hotel. I had Grogan's address,
and he wasn't too far from where I was staying--but Grogan is not the
sort of person on whom you make a business call after business hours.
My confidence in the defense mech hadn't grown, but I knew of another
sure-fire defense, so after dinner I went to the bar to start setting it
up.
But I lugged the thirty-pound portable along, anyway, wishing that it
looked a little more like a briefcase instead of a typewriter or a
radio.
Not that it really mattered, though. I could have carried an open bird
cage with a live and screaming Calypsian _grimp_, odor and all, and
still not have attracted any attention--because it wouldn't have been
any more unusual than some of the guests at the hotel.
For a student of interplanetary biology, this would be a perfect
observation post. There aren't many forms of extraterrestrial life that
can accommodate themselves to Earth's conditions, but there are spots
that go out of their way to provide suitable conditions for anything
that comes along, and this was one of them.
* * * * *
In the two weeks I had been here, I had seen only one Calypsian
dominant, and he didn't happen to have a _grimp_ with him. But there
were a pair of Uranian _galgaque_--squat, gray, midget honeymooners--who
smelled just as bad. They left a few days after I got here.
Then there had been at least half a dozen flimsy, ethereal little
Venusians at one time or another, dragging themselves around and looking
unhappy as hell. None of them stayed more than a few days, and they
spent most of their time in the water.
I noticed one or two hairy, apelike dominants from Jupiter's third moon,
and a few of the snaky, scaly, six-limbed creatures from the second. In
addition, there was a group of Vega VI dominants who were hard to
distinguish from humans if you didn't look closely enough to notice
their complete hairlessness and the absence of neck.
And of course there were the inevitable Martians--giant, big-chested,
spindly-limbed, red-hued parodies of humanity; friendly, good-natured
and alert. But I don't really suppose they should be classed among the
oddities of the place.
As one of my colleagues commented in a national publication not long
ago: "The only place a Martian is a novelty any more is on Mars."
I fully expect the 2080 census to show a Martian population on Earth
more than double that of the home planet. So far, the Martians seem to
be the only extraterrestrials who've really taken root here. And that's
a problem, too.
But how the hell did I get off on that?
[Illustration]
I was finishing my second martini, sitting in a booth with my feet
propped on the seat opposite me and catching snatches of a conversation
between an Earth girl and a Vega VI Romeo at a nearby table. It was
pretty unsavory conversation, and I guess I was shaking my head sternly
when a shadow fell over me.
"Another of the same," I said, looking up--but it wasn't the waiter.
It was an enormous, red-skinned, balloon-chested, white-togaed Martian,
and his little wrinkled face was smiling like I was long-lost Uncle
Eddie whom he hadn't seen for forty years. When he threw open his long,
spindly arms and screeched a loud, "Ahh!" I was beginning to think maybe
I was.
"Mr. Langston!" he shrilled. "How gladly to see you! Where been? We
missing you colossal!" Then he slapped one fragile hand against his
protruding chest, looked up at the ceiling and squeaked: "Clean living
and Suns-Rays Incorporated!" He looked at me again, smiling.
"Huh?" I said. "Oh, yeah. Sure as hell. Clean living and Suns-Rays
etcetera. Damn right. Pull up a chair, Blek, old boy."
* * * * *
As far as I'm concerned, one Martian looks pretty much like another; but
now I recognized this one. There was only one extraterrestrial in the
little screwball health-cult with which I had become rather loosely
acquainted in the past two weeks, and this was him.
I moved my feet and Zan Matl Blekeke sat down, exuding sunshine and
clean living all over the place. We ordered drinks. He was elated as
blazes about something, and I decided I might as well let him tell me
about it--and knowing the typical Martian's haphazard use of the English
language, I regarded the prospect as something of a challenge.
Zan Blekeke started right in telling me about it in his shrill, piping
tones:
"Ah, Mr. Langston, wrong time go. Where been? Should have been meeting.
I derelicted resident. Ha! Expected, yups?"
I replied, "Nups. Let's start over again. Something pretty damn
important?"
He nodded.
"SRI meeting? Yesterday?"
He nodded again, smiling to beat hell.
I thought for a moment, then tried a shot in the dark, illogical as it
was. "You lost your home? Derelicted resident?"
He looked like I'd stepped on his sore corn.