I crossed the dining room by sheer feel and instinct and managed to get
to the hallway without making any racket. At this point I stopped and
asked myself what the heck I thought I was trying to do. I had to admit
that I had no plan in definite form. I was just prowling the joint to
see what information I might be able to pick up.
Down the hall I found a library. I'd been told that you tell what kind
of people folks are by inspecting their library, and so I conned the
book titles by running my head along a row of books.
The books in the library indicated to me that this was a family of some
size with rather broad tastes. There was everything from science fiction
to Shakespeare, everything from philosophy to adventure. A short row of
kid's books. A bible. Encyclopedia Brittanica (Published in Chicago), in
fifty-four volumes, but there were no places that were worn that might
give me an idea as to any special interest.
The living room was also blank of any evidence of anything out or the
ordinary. I turned away and stood in the hallway, blocked by indecision.
I was a fool, I kept telling myself, because I did not have any
experience in casing a joint, and what I knew had been studied out of
old-time detective tales. Even if the inhabitants of the place were to
let me go at it in broad daylight, I'm not too sure that I'd do a good
job of finding something of interest except for sheer luck.
But on the other hand, I'd gotten nowhere by dodging and ducking. I was
in no mood to run quivering in fear. I was more inclined to emit a
bellow just to see what would happen next.
So instead of sneaking quietly away, I found the stairs and started to
go up very slowly.
It occurred to me at about the third step that I must be right. Anybody
with any sense wouldn't keep anything dangerous in their downstairs
library. It would be too much like a safe-cracker storing his nitro in
the liquor cabinet or the murderer who hangs his weapon over the
mantelpiece.
Yet everybody kept some sort of records, or had things in their homes
that were not shown to visiting firemen. And if it weren't on the second
floor, then it might be in the cellar. If I weren't caught first, I'd
prowl the whole damned place, inch by inch--avoiding if possible those
rooms in which people slept.
The fifth step squeaked ever so faintly, but it sounded like someone
pulling a spike out of a packing case made of green wood. I froze, half
aching for some perceptive range so that I could dig any sign of danger,
and half remembering that if it weren't for the dead area, I'd not be
this far. I'd have been frightened to try it in a clear zone.
Eventually I went on up, and as my head came above the level of the
floor, everything became psi-clear once more.
Here was as neat a bit of home planning as I have ever seen. Just below
the level of the second floor, their dead area faded out, so that the
top floor was clean, bright, and clear as day. I paused, startled at it,
and spent a few moments digging outside. The dead area billowed above
the rooftop out of my range; from what little I could survey of the dark
psi area, it must have been shaped sort of like an angel-food cake,
except that the central hole did not go all the way down. Only to the
first-floor level. It was a wonderful set-up for a home; privacy was
granted on the first floor and from the road and all the surrounding
territory, but on the second floor there was plenty of pleasant
esperclear space for the close-knit family and friends. Their dead area
was shaped in the ideal form for any ideal home.
Then I stopped complimenting the architect and went on about my
business, because there, directly in front of my nose, I could dig the
familiar impression of a medical office.
I went the rest of the way up the stairs and into the medical office.
There was no mistake. The usual cabinets full of instruments, a
laboratory examination table, shelves of little bottles, and along one
wall was a library of medical books. All it needed was a sign on the
door: 'S. P. Macklin, MSch' to make it standard.
At the end of the library was a set of looseleaf notebooks, and I pulled
the more recent of them out and held it up to my face. I did not dare
snap on a light, so I had to go it esper.
Even in the clear area, this told me very little. Esper is not like
eyesight, any more than you can hear printed words or perhaps carry on a
conversation by watching the wiggly green line on an oscilloscope. I
wished it was. Instead, esper gives you a grasp of materials and shapes
and things in position with regard to other things. It is sort of like
seeing something simultaneously from all sides, if you can imagine such
a sensation. So instead of being able to esper-read the journal, I had
to take it letter by letter by digging the shape of the ink on the page
with respect to the paper and the other letters, and since the guy's
handwriting was atrocious, I could get no more than if the thing were
written in Latin. If it had been typewritten, or with a stylized hand,
it would have been far less difficult; or if it had been any of my
damned business I could have dug it easily. But as it was----
"Looking for something, Mr. Cornell?" asked a cool voice that dripped
with acid sarcasm. At the same instant, the lights went on.
I whirled, clutched at my hip pocket, and dropped to my knees at the
same time. The sights of my .375 centered in the middle of a
silk-covered midriff.
She stood there indolently, disdainful of the cannon that was aimed at
her. She was not armed; I'd have caught the esper warning of danger if
she'd come at me with a weapon of some sort, even though I was
preoccupied with the bookful of evidence.
I stood up and faced her and let my esper run lightly over her body. She
was another Mekstrom, which did not surprise me a bit.
"I seem to have found what I was looking for," I said.