"And you brought him in and fed him and then sent him on his way?"
"That's right, that's what I done."
"You're a liar," said Faircloth. He eyed the man coldly. "Try the story
over again. Once more now."
The farmer jolted to his feet, his eyes feverish. "I done just like I
told you. I didn't tell no lie. I heard the dog yelping--"
"And you opened the door and there was a stranger there." Faircloth's
voice was sharp. "Then what happened? Step by step. Minute by minute. I
mean it, mister, I want the truth."
"I--I looked at him--"
"What light did you have?"
"This here same light. Not very much--"
"And what did he say?"
"He said, 'I'm a traveler and I'd like something to eat.'"
"And what did his voice sound like?"
The farmer faltered. "It was funny--like gravel in a tin can. A funny
kind of voice."
"And where was the dog all this time?"
The farmer blanched, "He--he done stayed outside. He saw it was all
right."
"Where's the dog now?"
"I sold him. I mean he ran away. You can't keep a dog forever, Mister."
Faircloth's face was very near the old man's. "The stranger was out on
the porch and you talked to him and let him come in. And then what did
you do?"
"I--he sat down at the table, I think--I--I--"
"You went over to get some food from the stove, didn't you?"
"Yes, yes, that's right."
"And then you saw blood on his pants, didn't you? And you remembered
hearing your dog give a yelp out in the yard, didn't you? The stranger
had blood all over his pants and boots, didn't he?"
The farmer's eyes were wide with fear. He was shaking his head
helplessly. "No--no--"
"And so you picked up your gun and you shot him, didn't you?"
And then the old man's face was in his hands, bending over the table,
crying like a baby--huge, fearful sobs racking his boney shoulders. "He
killed my dog," he choked between sobs. "He killed old Brownie, gave
him a kick that split his head open. He didn't have to do that to poor
old Brownie. I knew he was a bad one when he did that. I shot him. Yes,
I did."
* * * * *
The news broke to the nation that night, and the country went into
a panic unequalled since the days of the Great Cold War. Paul
Faircloth spent an hour on the visiphone from Des Moines talking to
Robert Roberts, going over the whole business from beginning to end.
The Security chief chain-smoked three cigars for the first time in
his life. Finally Roberts put a line through to the Speaker of the
Joint Senatorial Councils. Half an hour later, while Faircloth was
making his way by jet back to Washington, Roberts was in top-secret
conference with the Senate Council Leaders, and then with the President
himself. And then the news broke. It was an official White House News
conference, and it had been dismissed barely three minutes when the
radios and TVs were carrying the casts of the announcement.
Faircloth brought his plane down at Eisenhower Field, and saw the crowd
swarming across the landing strip before he got to the ground. A dozen
flashbulbs popped, and before he could get into the Security limousine
waiting for him, he was in the middle of a tight circle of reporters.
"How long has the Alien been at large, Mr. Faircloth?" one of them
asked.
"Sorry. The chief will have to answer that."
"Is there any doubt that he's telepathic?"
"No doubt whatsoever. I know that from personal experience. It's the
only way he could move freely in the population."
"How was he first detected?"
Paul smiled to himself. "The President gave you that information,
didn't he? A Psi-High citizen spotted him in Des Moines. The Psi-Highs
have been on his trail ever since."
One of the reporters was tugging at his arm. "There's been a lot of
talk about some kind of--well, liason between the Alien invader and the
Psi-Highs in this country."
Paul frowned. "If that were true, would we be working twenty-four
hours a day to trap him? Use your head, man. There've been a lot of
unfortunate rumors, I'm afraid. But I can speak for the Psi-Highs, and
I think Commissioner Roberts will back me up on this--the Alien is
menacing our very civilization. He's struck at one of our most beloved
public servants in an attempt to undermine the government and prepare
our planet for a full scale invasion. There isn't a Psi-High citizen
in the country who will rest until the monster is caught, and until
Councilman Towne has been returned safely to Washington."
"But what about Towne's anti-Psi legislation? He's always hated
Psi-Highs."
"Nonsense. Towne has been a loyal servant of the North American people.
He's fought for what he thought was right, and has exposed himself to
great dangers and personal vilification to do it. If he hasn't fully
understood the Psi-Highs' side of things, that's not a matter for us to
be vindictive about." He looked around the circle soberly. "The fact
remains that he's in the hands of a dangerous enemy, and it's our job
to save him if it can possibly be done." He nodded, and stepped into
the Security limousine. It honked its way through the crowd, and then
dipped down into the government tunnel that led to capitol hill and
Central Washington.
He picked up a paper inside the car, and peered at it eagerly. The
full-color picture of the President's grave face stared out at him in
tri-di, and on either side pictures of Roberts and Towne. It was an old
picture of Towne, a flattering picture. Paul grinned as he read the
story rapidly: