"Seems to be headed in the right direction," Arthmore said, suddenly
dropping the Cockney accent. "This is the route I'd take if I were
headed for Upper Berkeley Mews. He probably hasn't told the driver to
change addresses--maybe he won't."
"The victims never do," Houston said. "He probably is actually headed
toward Number 37 Upper Berkeley Mews."
"Yeah. Nobody's perfect," said Arthmore.
* * * * *
Forty-five minutes of steady progress through the streets of Greater
London brought Sir Lewis Huntley to Upper Berkeley and to the short
dead-end street which constituted the Mews. By the time the dapper
baronet stepped out of the machine and paid his driver, the whole area
was surrounded by and filled with the well-armed, silent, and careful
agents of the Psychodeviant Police.
Number 37 was an old concrete-and-steel structure of the George VI
period, faced with a veneer of red brick. It had obviously been
remodeled at least once to make the facade more modern and more
fashionable; the red-violet anodized aluminum was relatively fresh and
unstained. It wouldn't have taken vast wealth to rent a flat in the
building, but neither would an average income have been quite enough.
Houston looked out of the window of Arthmore's cab and glanced at the
tiers of windows in the building. Presumably, the man they were looking
for was up there--somewhere.
_So you occupy a station in the upper middle-class_, thought Houston. It
checked. Every bit of evidence that came his way seemed to check
perfectly and fit neatly into the hypothesis which he had formed. Soon
it would be time to test that theory--but the time had not yet come.
"Stand by and wait for orders, Houston," said the speaker in Houston's
ear. "We've got men inside the building."
Sir Lewis Huntley opened the sparkling, translucent door of Number 37
Upper Berkeley Mews and went inside.
Arthmore pulled the cab over to the curb a few yards from the entrance
and the two men waited in silence. All around them were other men, some
in private cars, some walking slowly along the street. All of them were
part of the net that had gathered to catch one man.
_Poor fish_, Houston thought wryly.
There was no noise, no excitement. Five minutes after Sir Lewis had
entered the front door, it opened again. A man whom Houston had never
seen before stepped out and gestured with one hand. At the same time,
Houston's speaker said: "They've got him. Hit him with a stun gun when
he tried to get out through the fire exit."
An ambulance which had been waiting at the entrance of the Mews pulled
up in front of Number 37, and a minute or so later a little clot of men
came out bearing a stretcher, which was loaded into the ambulance.
Immediately after them came another man who had a firm, but polite grip
on the arm of Sir Lewis Huntley.
Houston sighed and leaned back in his seat. That was that. It was all
over. Simple. Nothing to it.
Another Controller had been apprehended by the Psychodeviant Police.
Another deviant, already tried and found guilty, was ready to be exiled
from Earth and imprisoned on one of the Penal Asteroids. All in the
day's work.
_There's just one thing I'd like to know_, Houston thought blackly.
_What in the hell's going on?_
* * * * *
In his hotel room near Piccadilly Circus, several hours later, David
Houston sat alone, drink in hand, and put that same question to himself
again.
"What's going on?"
On the face of it, it was simple. On the face of it, the answer was
right in front of him, printed in black and white on the front page of
the evening _Times_.
Houston lifted the paper off the bed and looked at it. The banner line
said: _Controller Captured in Lambeth!_
Beneath that, in smaller type, the headline added: Robert Harris Accused
of Taking Control of Barrister Sir Lewis Huntley.
The column itself told the whole story. Mr. Robert Harris, of No. 37
Upper Berkeley Mews, had, by means of mental control, taken over the
mind of Sir Lewis and compelled him to draw one thousand pounds out of
his bank. While Sir Lewis was returning to Harris with the money, the
United Nations Psychodeviant Police had laid a trap. Sir Lewis, upon
recovering his senses when Harris was rendered unconscious by a stun
gun, had given evidence to the PD Police and to officials at New
Scotland Yard.
Houston looked at the full-color photo of Harris that was printed
alongside the column. Nice-looking chap; late twenties or early
thirties, Houston guessed. Blond-red hair, blue eyes. All-in-all, a
very pleasant, but ordinary sort of man.
There had been evidence that a Controller had been at work in London for
some weeks now. Twelve days before, several men, following an impulse,
had mailed twenty pounds to a "Richard Hempstead," General Delivery,
Waterloo Station. By the time the matter had come to the authorities'
attention, the envelopes had been called for and the Controller had
escaped.
Robert Harris was not the first Controller to be captured, nor, Houston
knew, would he be the last. The first one had shown up more than sixteen
years before, in Dallas, Texas, USA.
Houston grinned as he thought of it. Projective telepathy had only been
a crackpot's idea back then. In spite of the work of many intelligent,
sane men, who had shown that mental powers above and beyond the ordinary
did exist, the average man simply laughed off such nonsense. It was
mysticism; it was magic; it was foolish superstition. It was anything
but true.
But ever since "Blackjack" Donnely had practically taken control of the
whole city of Dallas, the average man had changed his mind. It was still
mysterious; it was still magic; but now the weird machinations of the
supernormal mind were something to be feared.
In the sixteen years that had ensued since the discovery of the abnormal
mental powers of "Blackjack" Donnely, rumors had spread all over the
world. There were supposed to be men who could levitate--fly through the
air at will. Others could walk through walls, and still others could
make themselves invisible. The horrible monsters that were supposed to
be walking the Earth were legion.
* * * * *
Actually, only one type of supernormal psychodeviant had been found--the
telepath, the mindreader who could probe into the mental processes of
others. Worse than that, the telepath could project his own thoughts
into the mind of another, so that the victim supposed that the thoughts
were his own. Actually, it was a high-powered form of hypnotism; the
victim could be made to do anything the projective telepath wanted him
to.
"Blackjack" Donnely had made that clear in his trial in Texas.
Donnely had been a big man--big physically, and important in city
politics. He had also been as arrogant as the Devil himself.
It was the arrogance that had finally tripped up Donnely. He had thought
himself impregnable. Haled into court on charges of misappropriation of
public funds, he had just sat and smirked while several witnesses for
the State admitted that they had aided Donnely, but they claimed he had
"hypnotized" them. Donnely didn't try to interfere with the
evidence--that's where he made his mistake. And that's where his
arrogance tripped him up.
* * * * *
If he'd used telepathic projection to influence the State Attorney or
the witnesses or the judge or the Grand Jury _before_ the trial, he
might never have been discovered as the first of the Controllers. But
that wasn't Donnely's style.
"None of this namby-pamby stuff," he had once been quoted as saying; "if
you got enemies, don't tease 'em--show 'em who's running things.
Blackjack 'em, if you have to."
And that's exactly what "Blackjack" Donnely had done. The trial was a
farce from beginning to end; each witness gave his evidence from the
stand, and then Donnely took control of their minds and made them refute
every bit of it, publicly and tearfully apologizing to the "wonderful
Mr. Donnely" for saying such unkind things about him.
The judge and the jury knew something funny was going on, but they had
no evidence, one way or another. The case, even at that point, might
have ended with an acquittal or a hung jury, but Donnely wasn't through
using his blackjack.
He took over the mind of the foreman of the jury. The foreman claimed
later that the jury had decided that they could reach no decision. Other
jurors claimed that they had decided Donnely was guilty, but that was
probably an _ex post facto_ switch. It didn't matter, anyway; when the
foreman came out, he pronounced Donnely innocent. That should have ended
it.
The other jurors began to protest, but by that time, Donnely had gained
control of the judge's mind. Rapidly, the judge silenced the jurors,
declared Donnely to be free, and then publicly apologized for ever
daring to doubt Mr. Donnely.
The State's Attorney was equally verbose in his apology; he was almost
in tears because of his "deep contrition at having cast aspersions on
the spotless character of so great a man."
Donnely was released.
The next evening, "Blackjack" Donnely was shot down at the front door of
his own home. There were fifteen bullets in his body; three from a .32,
five from a .38, and seven from a .45.
The police investigation was far from thorough; any evidence that may
have turned up somehow got lost. It was labelled as "homicide committed
by person or persons unknown," and it stayed that way.
* * * * *
Donnely was only the first. In the next two years, four more showed up.
Everyone of them, in one way or another, had attempted to gain power or
money by mental projection. Everyone of them was a twisted megalomaniac.
Houston looked again at Harris's picture on the front page of the
_Times_. Here was one Controller who neither looked nor acted like a
megalomaniac. That wouldn't make much difference to the PD Police; as
far as the officials were concerned, the ability to project
telepathically and the taint of delusions of grandeur went hand in hand.
Controllers were power-mad and criminal by definition.
Fear still ruled the emotional reactions against Controllers, in spite
of the protection of the Psychodeviant Police.
But David Houston knew damned good and well that all telepaths were not
necessarily insane.
He should know. He was a Controller, himself.
* * * * *
_Brrrring!_
David Houston tossed the paper on the bed and walked over to the phone.
He cut in the circuit, and waited for the phone's TV screen to show the
face of his caller. But the screen remained blank.
"Who is it?" Houston asked.
"Is this CHAring Cross 7-8161?" It was a woman's voice, soft and
well-modulated.
"No, this is CHElsea 7-8161," Houston said. "You must have dialed C-H-E
instead of C-H-A."
"Oh. I'm very sorry. Excuse me." There was a click, and she hung up.
Houston walked back over to the bed and picked up his paper. He looked
at it, but he didn't read it. It no longer interested him.
So Dorrine was finally in London, eh? He'd recognized her voice
instantly; even years of training couldn't smother the midwestern
American of Chicago completely beneath the precise British of the
well-educated English girl.
The signal had been agreed upon, just in case his phone was tapped. Even
the Psychodeviant Police could be suspected of harboring a
Controller--although Houston didn't think it too likely. Nevertheless,
he wasn't one to take too many chances.
He glanced at his watch. He had an hour yet. He'd wait five minutes
before he phoned headquarters.
* * * * *
He sat down in his chair again and forced himself to relax, smoke a
cigarette, and read the paper--the sports section. Perusing the records
of the season's cricket matches kept his mind off that picture on the
front page. At least, he hoped they would. Let's see, now--Benton was
being rated as the finest googly bowler on the Staffordshire Club ...
Everything went fine until he came across a reference to a John Harris,
a top-flight batsman for Hambledon; that reminded him of Robert Harris.
Houston threw down the paper in disgust and walked over to the phone.
The number was TROwbridge 5-4321, but no one ever bothered to remember
it. Simply dial 8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1, and every time a voice at the other end
would answer--
"Hamilton speaking."
"Houston here; will I be needed in the next hour or so?"
"Mmmm. Just a second; I'll check the roster. No; your evidence won't be
needed personally. You've filed an affidavit. No, I don't think--wait a
minute! Yes, there's a return here for you; reservation on the six A.M.
jet to New York. Your job here is done, Houston, so you can take the
rest of the evening off and relax. Going anywhere in particular?"
"I thought I'd get a bite to eat and take in a movie, maybe, but if I'm
due out at six, I'll forego the cinematic diversion. When's the trial?"
"It's scheduled for eleven-thirty this evening. Going to come?"
Houston shook his head. "Not if I'm not needed to give evidence. Those
Controllers always give me the creeps."
"They do everybody," said Hamilton. "Well, you caught him; there's no
need for you to stick around for the windup. Have a good time."
"Thanks," said Houston shortly, and hung up.
_The windup_, Houston thought. _Sure. That's all it will be. A
Controller's trial is a farce. Knock him out with a stun gun and then
pump him full of comatol. How can he defend himself if he's unconscious
all through the trial?_
Houston knew what the average man's answer to that would be: "If a
Controller were allowed to remain conscious, he'd take over the judge's
mind and get himself freed."
Houston said an obscene word under his breath, jammed his hat on his
head, put on his coat, and left his apartment.
* * * * *
With the coming of darkness, the heavy fog had become still denser. The
yellow beams of the sodium vapor lamps were simply golden spots hanging
in an all-enveloping blackness. Walking the street was a process of
moving from one little golden island of light to another, crossing seas
of blankness between. The monochromatic yellow shone on the human faces
that passed beneath the lamps, robbing them of all color, giving them a
dead, grayish appearance beneath the yellow itself.
David Houston walked purposefully along the pavement, his hand jammed
deep in his overcoat pockets. One hand held the control box for the
little earpiece he wore. He kept moving the band selector, listening for
any sign that the Psychodeviant Police were suspicious of a Controller
in their midst.
If they were following him, of course, they would use a different
scrambler circuit than the one which was plugged into his own unit, but
he would be able to hear the gabble of voices, even if he couldn't
understand what they were saying.
So far, there hadn't been a sound; if he was being followed, his tailers
weren't using the personal intercom units.
He didn't try to elude anyone who might be following. That, in itself,
would be a giveaway. Let them watch, if they _were_ watching. They
wouldn't see anything but a man going to get himself a bit of dinner.
The _Charles II Inn_, on Regent Street, near Piccadilly Circus, was a
haven of brightness in an otherwise Stygian London. It was one of those
"old-fashioned" places--Restoration style of decoration, carried out in
modern plastics. The oak panelling looked authentic enough, but it was
just a little too glossy to be real.
Houston pushed open the door, stepped inside, removed his hat and coat
and shook the dampness from them. As he handed them to the checker, he
looked casually around. Dorrine was nowhere in sight, but he hadn't
expected her to be. There would be no point in their meeting physically;
it might even be downright dangerous.
The headwaiter, clad in the long waistcoat and full trunk-hose of the
late Seventeenth Century, bowed punctiliously.
"You're alone, sir?"
"Alone, yes," Houston said. "I'll just be wanting a light supper and a
drink or two."
"This way, sir."
Houston followed the man to a small table in the rear of the huge dining
room. It was set for two, but the other place was quickly cleared away.
Houston ordered an Irish-and-soda from a waiter who was only slightly
less elaborately dressed than the headwaiter, and then settled himself
down to wait. If he knew Dorrine, she would be on time to the minute.
She came while the waiter was setting the drink on Houston's table. She
stepped in through the door, her unmistakable hair glowing a rich red in
the illumination of the pseudo-candlelight.
She didn't bother to look around; she knew he would be there.
After a single glance, Houston averted his eyes from her and looked back
at his drink.
And in that same instant, their minds touched.
_Dave, darling! I knew you'd be early!_
_Dorrine!_
And then their minds meshed for an instant.
_I_--_(we)_--_you_--LOVE--_you_--(each other)--me!--us!
* * * * *
Houston looked complacently at his drink while the headwaiter led
Dorrine to a table on the far side of the room. She sat down gracefully,
smiled at the waiter, and ordered a cocktail. Then she took a magazine
from her handbag and began--presumably--to read.
Her thought came: _Who is this Richard Harris? He's not one of our
Group._
Houston sipped at his drink. _No. An unknown, like the others. I wonder
if he's even a telepath._
_What?_ Her thought carried astonishment. _Why, Dave--he'd_ have _to be!
How else could he have controlled this Sir Lewis--whatsisname--Huntley?_
_Well--I've got a funny idea_, Houston replied. _Look at it this way: So
far as we know, there are two Groups of telepaths. There's our own
Group. All we want is to be left alone. We don't read a Normal's mind
unless we have to, and we don't try to control one unless our lives are
threatened. We stay under cover, out of everyone's way._
_Then there are the megalomaniacs. They try, presumably, to gain wealth
and power by controlling Normals. And they get caught with monotonous
regularity. Right?_
The girl caught an odd note in that thought. _What do you mean,
"monotonous regularity"?_ she asked.
_I mean_, Houston thought savagely, _why is it they're all so bloody
stupid? Look at this Harris guy; he is supposed to have taken over Sir
Lewis's mind in order to get a thousand pounds. So what did he have Sir
Lewis do? Parade all around the city to pick up a PD Police net, and
then give his address to a cabman in a loud voice and lead the whole
net right to Harris! How stupid can a man get?_
_It does look pretty silly_, Dorrine agreed. _Have you got an
explanation?_
_Several_, Houston told her. _And I don't know which one is correct._
_Let's have them_, the girl thought.
* * * * *
Houston gave them to her. None of them, he knew, was completely
satisfactory, but they all made more sense that the theory that Harris
had done what the PD Police claimed he'd done.
Theory Number One: The real megalomaniac Controller had taken over Sir
Lewis's mind and made him draw out the thousand pounds and head west on
Leadenhall Street. Somehow, the Controller had found out that Sir Lewis
was being followed, and had steered him away from the original
destination, heading him toward the innocent Robert Harris. That implied
that the Controller had been within a few dozen yards of the net men
that afternoon. A Controller can't control a mind directly from a
distance, although orders can be implanted which will cause a man to
carry out a plan of action, even though he may be miles from the
Controller. But in order to change those plans, the Controller would
have to be within projection range.
Theory Two: Robert Harris actually was a megalomaniac Controller; with a
long record of success behind him, who had finally grown careless.
At that point, Dorrine interjected a thought: _Isn't it possible that he
wanted to be caught?_
Houston mulled it over for a minute. _A guilt-punishment reaction? He
wanted to be punished for his crimes? I suppose that might account for
part of it, yes. But if he'd been so successful, what did he do with all
his money?_