"So," Donegan said, "we've got to convince Fredericks' friends--the
unbalanced fringe--that we are supermen, that we have no limits, that
no matter what they try against us they're bound to fail."
"Nice trick," he said sourly.
"Very nice," Donegan said. "And what's more, it works. Nobody except
an out-and-out psychotic commits a crime when he hasn't got a hope of
success. And these people aren't psychotics; most criminals aren't.
Show them they can't get away with a thing--show them we're
infallible, all-knowing, all-powerful supermen--and they'll be scared
off trying anything."
"But killing Fredericks would do that just as well--" he began.
Donegan shook his head. "Now, hold on," he said. "You're getting all
worked up about this. It's your first time with this stakeout
business, that's all. But you can't kill him. You can't kill except
when really necessary. You know that."
"All right. But if he's going to kill me--"
"That doesn't make it necessary, not this time," Donegan said. "This
vengeance syndrome doesn't last forever, you know. Block it, and
you're through with it. And think how much more effective it is,
letting Fredericks go back alive to tell the tale."
"Think how much more effective it would be," he said, "if Fredericks
managed to get me."
"He won't," Donegan said.
"But without weapons--"
"No Psi Operative carries weapons," Donegan said. "We don't need them.
We're supermen ... remember?"
He twisted his face with a smile. "Easy for you to talk about it," he
said. "But I'm going to have to go out and face it--"
"We've all faced it," Donegan said. "When I was an Operative I went
through it, too. It's part of the job."
"But--"
"And I'm not going to tell you how to do the job," Donegan went on
firmly. "Either you know that by now, or you don't belong here."
He got up to leave, slowly. "It's a fine way to find out," he said
mournfully.
Donegan rose, too. "Good luck," he said. And meant it, too.
That was the chief for you, he thought. Send you out into God knows
what with no weapons, no instructions, lots of help planted for the
man who wanted to kill you--and then wish you good luck at the end of
it.
Sometimes he wondered why he didn't go in for some nice, peaceful job
of work--like rocket testing, for instance.
* * * * *
Fredericks, downstairs, was deciding to do things the subtle way. The
man upstairs--Jones, Brady or whatever his name was--deserved what he
was going to get. Psi powers were all very well, but there were
defenses against them. Briefly he thought of the man who'd sold him
the special equipment, and wondered why more criminals didn't know the
equipment existed. It worked; he was sure of that. Fredericks knew
enough of general psi theory to know when somebody was handing him a
snow job. And the equipment was no snow job.
A force shield, that was the basic thing. A shield with no points of
entrance for anything larger than air molecules. Sight and sound could
get through, because the shield was constructed to allow selected
vibrations and frequencies. But no psi force could crack the shield.
Fredericks has sat through a long explanation. Psi wasn't a physical
force; it was more like the application of a mental "set," in the
mathematical sense, to the existing order. But it could be detected by
specially built instruments--and a shield could be set up behind which
no detection was possible. It wasn't accurate to say that a psi force
was blocked by the shield; no construct can block that which has no
real physical existence. It was, more simply, that the shield created
a framework inside of which the universe existed in the absence of
psi.
That wasn't very clear, either, Fredericks thought; but mathematics
was the only adequate language for talking about psi, anyhow. It had
been the theory of sets that had led to the first ideas of structure
and rationality within the field, and the math had gotten
progressively more complex ever since.
Psi couldn't get through the shield, at any rate; that was quite
certain. And very little else could get in, or out. There was only one
point of exit. Unholstering his gun and aiming it automatically keyed
the shield to allow passage of a bullet, and the point of exit was
controlled by the gun's aiming. It was efficient and simple to handle.
But Fredericks wasn't depending on the shield alone. There was a
binder field, too--a field which linked him to the surrounding area,
quite tightly. That took care of the chance that the Psi Operative
would try to pick him up, force shield and all, and throw him out a
window or through the roof. With the binder field in operation, no psi
force could move him an inch.
A plug gas mask, too, inserted into the nostrils. The shield plus the
mask's pack held two hours' worth of air--just in case the Psi
Operative tried to throw poisonous molecules through the force
shield, or deprive him of oxygen.
And then there was the blindfold. Such a simple thing, and so
effective.
* * * * *
Upstairs, the Psi Operative caught the sequence of thoughts. Did the
FBI have to do such a thorough job, he wondered bitterly. The
equipment, he knew, would do everything Fredericks thought it would
do. It was important that Fredericks go up against the Operative
thinking he was completely protected--in that way his final defeat
would be most effective. He'd have guarded against every possible
failure--so, when he failed, there would be nothing to explain it.
Except the "fact" that the Psi Operatives were supermen.
He gritted his teeth. It would be nice, he reflected, to be a real
superman. But any talent has its limits. And, even allowing for that,
only Donegan and a very few others could handle the full theoretical
potentials of their talents. In theory, a telekineticist could move
any object with his mind that he could move with his hands. That was a
rough rule of thumb, but it worked. The larger objects were barred by
sheer mass; no matter what kind of force you're using, there's a limit
to how much of it you can apply.
The smaller objects--molecules, electrons, photons--simply took
practice and training. First the object had to be visualized, and the
general structure memorized. Then the power had to be controlled
carefully enough so that you moved just what you wanted to move and
not, for instance, shift the Empire State Building while trying to
lift a molecule out of its topmast.
It was possible, in theory, to create full sensory hallucinations by
juggling electron streams and molecules within the brain. But
memorizing the entire structure of the brain was a lifelong task,
since you also had to allow for individual variation, and that meant
working with "tracking" molecules inside each brain before any work
began. Most Operatives stuck to one area--usually, as most effective,
sight or sound.
He was a sight man. He could create any visual hallucination, as long
as the subject was within a twenty-five-foot range. Beyond that,
control of the fantastically small electrons and photons simply became
too diffused.
But Fredericks had a shield. And in case the shield didn't work, he
was coming with a blindfold.
The Psi Operative had no weapons, no reinforcements, no chance to
run--nothing except his psi talent, which Fredericks had defenses
against, and his brains.
But there had to be a way out.
Didn't there?
* * * * *
The desk clerk looked young and comparatively innocent. Fredericks
ambled over, taking his time about it. The clerk looked up and smiled
distantly. "Yes, sir?"
"You've got a man registered here," Fredericks said, in crisp,
official tones. "He gave the name of John P. Jones--"
The clerk was consulting a card file. "Yes, sir," he said brightly.
"Room 1014."
"He's at work on an FBI matter," Fredericks said. "Naturally, this is
private and confidential--"
"Naturally," the clerk said in a subdued tone. "But I--"
"I'm assigned to work with him," Fredericks said. "You understand."
"Of course, sir," the clerk said, trying to look as if he did.
Fredericks took a deep breath. "I know he's here, but I don't know his
room number," he said. "Some red-tape mixup."
"He's in 1014," the clerk said hopefully.
Fredericks shook his head. "Not that," he said. "The real room number.
Look, I've got to get to him immediately--"
"Of course, sir," the clerk said. "Identification, sir?"
Fredericks grinned and fished in pockets. Naturally, he didn't come up
with a thing, FBI identification was infra-red tested, totally
unmistakable and unavailable to non-Operatives under any circumstances
whatever. "Got it here some place," he muttered.
The clerk nodded. "Of course, sir," he said. "No need to waste time. I
understand."