"Right." Faircloth ran a hand through his brown hair and loosened his
tie a trifle. "As soon as the building is cleared from rush hour, I
want the power shut off all over the building. Elevators, lights,
everything. We'll be on the 41st floor, and a squad will be on the
43rd. We'll close in together."
Marino shook his head. "I hope it works. They had him just as tight in
Des Moines last week, and he slid right through." The man's eyes were
worried. "We just don't know what we're fighting. That's the whole
trouble. Even the Psi-Highs are up a tree."
* * * * *
The car gave a lurch and slid to a stop. They stepped out into a shiny
tunnel filled with people emptying out of the huge building above. The
two men waited to board an express surface elevator, and stepped off on
the main concourse of the Condor Building. The last sunset rays made
a dazzling golden display on the banks of heliomirrors, and Faircloth
blinked, shielding his eyes a moment after the softer light below.
Then he glanced at his watch. "Let's coffee up," he said. "We've got a
few minutes."
They slid into an eating booth on the concourse and dropped in coins
for coffee. It was so clumsy, Faircloth thought. Three and a half weeks
since the ship had been spotted down along the Mississippi, and they
were still just learning how clumsy they were. They had even thought
that the visitor, whoever he was, had been killed in landing until the
first Security Team had gotten to the ship. They'd gotten to within
just ten feet of it when it had exploded. And even then they hadn't
realized what they'd found, until the report came from Des Moines, and
they started following up leads. They had followed the alien, true,
from the first farmhouse where he had stopped the night he landed, west
through the farm country to Des Moines, then northeast to the great
Chicago metropolis. But when it came to contacting the creature or
capturing him--Faircloth shook his head. Clumsy just wasn't the right
word.
He glanced at Marino, and then readied across the booth and buzzed for
a newstape. He glanced over the Washington news hurriedly. Another
upheaval in the Liberal Council. The Northern Democrats were trying to
drum up Civil Rights Party and One World Party support for their new
South American Developement program, and they weren't getting to first
base. And there was another vicious attack by Ben Towne on the Hoffman
Center's training program for Psi-Highs. Towne had even named Reuben
Abrams as a leader there, and worked in some high-grade anti-Semitic
innuendo into the association. Paul went tense, searching for Jean's
name. It was not mentioned. He took a deep breath. If that filthy dog
ever dragged her name into public. He finished his coffee, and gave the
repeat button a vicious jab.
Then his eye caught a small item with a Des Moines dateline, well
hidden down at the bottom of the backside of the tape. He read it,
frowning: