"Well, that's good. Now, how do you feel this morning?"
"Quite well, thank you, sir."
"Well, then, we can talk about that little affair in the locker room,
can't we? Your memory is clear on it by now, isn't it?"
Don nodded.
"Well, that's fine. Now, suppose you give us the whole story. Don't
leave out a thing. Then, we'll see what we can do for you."
Don smiled thinly, then flicked out a finger.
"I think that paper on your desk, sir, is the report I wrote last
night. It's complete as it stands."
* * * * *
Masterson broke in, frowning. "We don't mean that thing," he said
coldly. "What we want is a true, complete account of what actually
happened."
Don faced him, his face tightening a little.
"Dr. Rayson has just that, sir," he said. "On his desk. I wrote it. I
signed it."
Rayson raised a hand slightly.
"Just a moment," he said reprovingly. "There's no need for excitement
or anger here. We're simply looking for a full, correct account." He
cleared his throat. "Perhaps it would be well for me to make things
clearer to you. Then, you'll recognize the problem." He looked down at
the paper on the desk.
"You see, Donald," he continued, "we have already talked to a number of
other students about this. And we have a complete account of the
incident in so far as it concerned Petoen Waern." He smiled
indulgently.
"What we are now concerned about is your own well-being. We need to
know something of what happened to you after you were alone with the
Waern boy." He spread his hands, then held them out, palms up.
"As to the actual physical action, that's quite simple. You see, there
were a number of witnesses to the affair, and most of them have come
forward." He rubbed his hands together, then laid them on the desk.
"So, we know precisely what happened that far.
"And we have a pretty good idea of what happened to you later, of
course. This sort of thing has happened before. But by this time, you
should have had time to recover to a great extent. At least, you should
remember things much more clearly than you did when you wrote this
report last night." He touched the paper with a smile.
"And with a little prompting and information, you should be able to
fully recover your memory."
The smile became sympathetic. "Of course, I can understand your present
confusion and your complete disbelief in your change of orientation.
And I know it's quite an effort for a young man to admit he's been ...
well ... shall we say influenced? But believe me, it's no disgrace.
It's happened to quite a few others before you." He nodded
thoughtfully.
"In fact, we are beginning to believe this Petoen Waern, like his
uncle, is something of an adept at this sort of thing."
Don looked at him steadily.
"Do I act as though I were in a trance, sir?"
"Oh no. No, of course not. This sort of thing doesn't result in such a
manifestation. This is something much more subtle than mere, gross
hypnotism." Rayson smiled.
"However, you've had all night to partially recover. And these things
seldom are fully effective for more than a few hours--unless the
operator can get to his victim again, to fully fix the impression he
has created."
Rayson placed the palms of his hands together. "No, by this time, one
would expect your memories to be somewhat confused. So we can apply
therapeutic methods." He nodded.
"Now go ahead. Try running through the whole story. Perhaps we can get
a clue as to his methods. And if you have any ill effects remaining, I
think they can be quite easily eliminated. Now, suppose you start with
the time immediately after young Waern's attack on the Kelton boy."
* * * * *
Don shook his head wearily. "There was no such attack," he said. "It
was the other way around. A large sized chap who later gave his name to
me as Gerry Kelton, slapped a smaller fellow named Waern. At the time,
two other fellows were holding Waern's arms. Rather tightly, too."
Masterson interrupted, shaking his head disgustedly. "We've got plenty
of statements from witnesses. That isn't the way they read. Now how
about it?"
"You mean the two Keltons and VanSickle?"
"No." Masterson was definite. "No. I don't mean them. There were
several students around the doorway into that locker room during that
entire show. We got stories from most of them." He waved a hand
decisively.
"Now suppose you start using your head. Get busy and give us the thing
the way it really happened. Then, we'll see what to do about you."
Don shook his head. "The locker room and the hall were empty for at
least a full minute before those three came in," he said. "If you go
over the people that signed those statements, you'll probably find that
they were somewhere else at the time." He grinned.
"And from what I hear, this might give you an idea as to the membership
of the Hunters, too."
"Hunters!" Masterson looked completely disgusted. "We've checked out a
hundred crazy rumors about that alleged gang. Nothing there."
"Maybe so." Don looked at him critically. "But Jack Bordelle certainly
sounded convinced last night. And how about Pete Waern? Didn't he tell
you his side of this thing?"
"Ah yes, Waern." Dr. Rayson chuckled. "I believe these 'Hunters' are an
invention of his uncle's. No, that young man didn't come in. His father
is too smart for that. We won't see that young man again, unless we can
have him brought in for this bit of work he did on you."
Don turned his head to stare across the desk.
Rayson smiled knowingly. "Oh, yes. Jasu Waern called early this
morning. He said he was withdrawing Petoen from school. Said he planned
to send him to a private school where he wouldn't be subject to
indignities." He chuckled again.
"Jasu Waern is altogether too smart a man to let us question that
youngster of his if he can prevent it." He looked searchingly at Don.
"You know," he added musingly, "I'm beginning to wonder about you,
though. This might be serious. Possibly this Waern boy was more
thorough than we thought possible. Possibly permanent damage could have
been done." He got to his feet.
"Suppose you go over to that couch there and lie down. We'll try a
little therapy, and see what we can do for you."
Michaels looked at him indignantly.
"I'm getting a little tired of all these tales about mental influence
by the Khlorisanu. They're pure myth and I know it. I've lived all my
life among these people. Believe me, if there were any such thing, my
father or I would have come across it before now. And we'd know about
it."
"You are then, ah, presenting yourself as an authority on
parapsychology, perhaps?" Rayson pursed his lips. "This is a great
accomplishment for one so young."
"I'm not an authority on anything." Don shook his head. "All I know is
that I'd find it out right away if anyone tried anything like that on
me. No one has--at least no Khlorisana has."
Rayson shook his head reprovingly. "Now, you say you have lived all
your life among these people? Perhaps, then, you have been under----"
* * * * *
"Just a minute!" Masterson broke in sharply. "What's this about Jack
Bordelle? He's your relief, isn't he, Michaels?"
"That's right." Don shrugged, then repeated his conversation with
Bordelle. He smiled wryly as he finished.
"I'll have to admit," he added, "I did walk over and spend a few
seconds checking the incinerator, at that. But ... oh, well." He waved
at the paper on Rayson's desk.
"And you didn't put that in your report?"
"No, sir. I didn't think there was any place for it there."
"Why not?"
"It wasn't material to the case in hand, sir. There was no evidence in
Jack's comments. He made no threats or offers. And as far as I could
tell, he was merely a disinterested person concerned in my welfare.
Even though he seemed to believe what he was saying, it's pure
hearsay."
"Hearsay!" Masterson snorted. "Pure invention." He leaned forward.
"Look," he said sharply, "we've been pretty patient with you. We've
given you the benefit of every doubt we could think of. And we're
getting to the time-wasting stage." He waved a hand sharply across in
front of his body.
"Now, I'd like to get some truth out of you. You've told us a little
truth already. I believe you when you say you weren't subjected to any
mental influence. I think the influence was very material indeed--in
nice, purple ink--and it seems to have been pretty effective. How much
was it?"
"How much?" Don frowned. "I wish you'd make yourself clear on that.
What are you trying to say?"
"Just what you think I said," snapped Masterson. "How much did that
youngster offer you to write up that incident the way you did? And have
you the cash in hand yet?"
Don looked at the man carefully, noting the details of his appearance.
Finally, he shook his head.
"Mr. Masterson," he said slowly, "up to now, I've always thought you
were a good instructor and a fine advisor. I've sat in your classes,
and I even developed a lot of respect for you. All at once, you've
shown me how wrong I could be." He held up a hand.
"Be quiet," he said sharply, "both of you. And listen carefully. I want
to make myself fully understood. I want to drive one thought into your
stupid heads. You're in the wrong part of the galaxy for such remarks
as that one you just made." He touched the corner of his mouth, then
looked at his fingers.
"You see, this is at the edge of the Morek. There are Moreku here, in
this school. And some day, you might talk to one of them." He smiled
thinly.
"I am the only son of a border rancher, Mr. Masterson. We have a few
thousand square kilos up in the Morek area, in the hills. And I have
worked and played with mountain tribesmen all my life." He drew a long
breath.
"Had a few fights with some of them, too. And some of their customs and
a lot of their moral values rubbed off on me, I guess, though I've
never been adopted into any clan.
"You just made a remark that is the absolute last word in insults up in
the Morek. Nothing you could do or say could be worse. And there are,
as I said, others from that area right here, in this school. Real clan
members." He laughed shortly.
"Mister, what you said was, 'you sell yourself.'" He reached up to his
lapel, twisting at the bronze button.
"If you should say that to a tribesman, your life would be over. Right
then, unless you were very quick. And if you should be quick enough, or
lucky enough, to kill the man you insulted, his clan brothers would
take it up. It would be either you--or the whole tribe." He stood up.
"I'm not a tribesman. I don't carry the sling, and I'm of galactic
ancestry, so I don't have a compulsion toward blood vengeance. But I
don't accept that insult. I shall go back to the Morek today and place
you out of my mind." He paused.
"No, I won't kill you. I'll simply warn you so you'll have no excuse
for such idiocy again." He smiled.
[Illustration]
"You know, Mr. Masterson, I don't know how much they pay you by the
year to sit around here, but I doubt that it's as much as I pay my
beaters for a week end of hunting. So obviously, even if I were for
sale, the man who could afford the tab could pick you up with his small
change." He paused thoughtfully.
"Come to think of it, if your annual pay is more than my beaters get,
I'll have to raise their wages. They do their job--intelligently."
He turned, then swung back for an instant. The bronze button had come
out of his lapel. He tossed it on Masterson's desk.
"Here," he said. "A present for you. I can't stand the smell of it."
* * * * *
Dully, the two men sat, watching the closed door. At long last, Rayson
turned his head with obvious effort, to stare at Masterson, who
recovered a few milliseconds more slowly.
But Masterson's recovery was the more violent of the two. He stared
blankly at Rayson for an instant, then sprang to his feet.
"Why that young...! I'll turn him every way but loose."
He sprang around his desk and took a stride toward the door.
"No, no." Rayson raised a hand warningly. "This is no way to handle
such a matter." He smiled gently.
"After all, this young man succeeded in immobilizing both of us for a
considerable time. In the first place, I doubt you'd be able to catch
him. In the second, do you think he would stand still while you mauled
him by yourself?"
Masterson turned around, frowning. "He caught me unprepared," he
snarled. "He can't do that to me again. Not while I'm ready for him."
"No? I think he could. Any time, any place, and under almost any
conditions. And I have much more experience in these matters than you,
my friend. This is a very dangerous young man, and he requires special
handling. Sit down and let us consider this young man."
Masterson growled impatiently, but returned to his desk. He sat down,
glowering at his companion.
"Suppose you tell me what you're talking about," he demanded.
Rayson looked down at his hands, which rested on the desk.
"We have been talking about mental influence, I believe. In fact, we
mentioned this very matter to our young friend. This is correct?"
"Sure we did. So?"
"And our young man was quite positive that he could never be so
controlled and that any effort to do so would be immediately apparent
to him. This is also correct, I believe?"
"That's about the way of it, yes. What are you driving at?"
Rayson sighed. "Let me remind you of something, then. You are, of
course; of the Ministerial Investigative Force, just as I am. But our
specialties are different. Your dealings are with the teaching and
preparation of youth for useful citizenship, and with the prevention of
certain gross misbehavior. Thus, you deal with those more obvious and
material deviations from the socially acceptable and have little
experience with the more dangerous and even less acceptable deviations
with which I must concern myself." He smiled faintly.
"Your handling of this young man just now would indicate a quite
complete lack of understanding of the specialty I have prepared myself
for. And even if there were no other reasons, it would serve to point
up the reason for our difference in relative rank. You must admit you
got something less than desirable results." He cleared his throat and
looked disapprovingly at Masterson.
"Of course, you are familiar with stories of mental influence. And I
have no doubt that you have had some experience with this type of
thing, even though it is not in your direct line of work."
Masterson shook his head. "Sorry," he admitted. "This is the first time
anyone's ever pulled anything like that on me."
Rayson inclined his head slowly. "So," he said softly. "Your lack of
caution and discretion is more understandable, then. You have been
quite fortunate, I should say. Of course, extreme individualism is far
from common now, and persons who combine extreme individualism with
high empathic power are rare, but they do appear. And they are
dangerous in the highest degree." He spread his hands.
"A fully developed person of this type could do almost as he pleased
and there would be no one who would be able to deny him or even check
his course. You can see what I mean, surely?"
* * * * *
Masterson stared contemplatively into space. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I
think I get the idea. A person like that could demand almost anything
from almost anyone--and get it. But how would you go about it to
restrain one of those people?"
"It can lead to difficulties." Rayson smiled reminiscently. "I can
remember cases where----" He frowned.
"But no matter. We seldom allow them to reach high development. Very
often, they betray themselves in little ways and we discover them quite
early. We are then able to take care of them before they can do serious
harm. Some, even, we are able to ... ah ... reorient, so that they
become normal, useful subjects of the realm. But sometimes ... well, we
have to call upon the Guard and get heavy weapons. Complete elimination
becomes necessary." He frowned.
"And sometimes, like our young friend, they gain considerable power
which they manage to conceal, and only betray themselves when under
stress. Then, they become dangerous in the extreme. And there is no
really legal way in which they can be handled, since they haven't yet
committed any overt act of violence." He shook his head.
"No, this young man will require quite special handling. He will have
to be carefully watched, and will probably get to the stage where
complete elimination is demanded. I shall set the process in motion
immediately." He reached for the telephone on his desk.
Masterson looked at him thoughtfully.
"You say these people are pretty rare, and really dangerous?"
"Yes. To both questions, definitely yes."
"Well, then, I should think that anyone who managed to organize and
direct the elimination of one of them would be likely to get quite a
bit of credit. Might even lead to a good promotion."
Rayson took his hand from the telephone.
"This is true," he admitted. "You are thinking of----?"
Masterson nodded. "Why don't we pick up a few people and run this
operation ourselves?" he asked.
Rayson shook his head. "The idea is excellent," he agreed. "But I
really see no reason for a joint effort." He got to his feet.
"After all, you must admit the total implication of this matter was my
discovery. I had to explain it to you. And thus, I can see no reason
for making a full partnership of the matter." He raised a hand.
"Of course, you will receive credit in the matter," he added quickly,
"and you might even find yourself advanced. But I shall have to insist
on taking the final steps and directing the operation personally." He
smiled coldly.
"I can consult with certain of my colleagues and get the necessary
support. And when I have left, you may get in touch with your superiors
and report the matter, telling them that action is being initiated.
This way, we will both receive our due credit." He paused.
"Oh, yes," he added, "and you might interview this young Kelton again,
with his companions. Thus, you will gather evidence for use in
justifying my operations."
Masterson looked at him unhappily. "Well ... all right," he agreed
reluctantly. "Rank has its privileges, I suppose. And I guess in this
case, that includes the collection of more rank. Suppose I'd better
take what I can get."
"To be sure." Rayson smiled at him benignly. "This way, you are sure of
profiting. Otherwise, you might run into disaster." He rose and strode
toward the door.
"You may get those boys in for interview as soon as I leave," he said.
"From them, you can get sufficient evidence of these powers of your
young friend. Ah ... and I would suggest that you use a little more
discretion with them than you showed with this young Michaels of ours.
You were a trifle--shall we say, crude?" He coughed.
"Then you may call in and advise Headquarters that evidence has been
gathered and action is being taken in this case of Donald Michaels."
He turned and went out the door.
Masterson watched as the door closed, then reached into the back of a
desk drawer. He took out a small box with a number of switches mounted
on its top. For a moment, he examined the object, then he got to his
feet and went to the window.
He stood, looking out of the window for a few moments, nodded, and let
his fingers play among the switches. Finally, he nodded in satisfaction
and went back to his desk.
He looked contemplatively at the telephone for a moment, then picked it
up and started flipping at the dial.
* * * * *
The sports flier dropped free for the last few feet, bounced, tilted,
and finally righted itself. It was not a very good landing.
Don snapped the switch off and sat for a moment, looking out at the
long, low house. Then he let himself out of the flier and walked across
the courtyard and through the door.
The front room was empty. He looked over at the wide glass panels that
formed one side of the room. A small, dark man came from between the
bushes of the inner garden. He slid a panel aside and looked
expressionlessly at Don for a moment. Then he slowly allowed his head
to drop.
"Master Donald," he said. He raised his head, looking at Don with
brilliant yellow eyes. "Your father did not expect you until two days."
"I know, Dowro. But I came home early. I want to talk to him."
"It is well." The man motioned toward a curtained arch. "He is below."
"Thanks, Dowro. I'll find him." Don swept the curtains aside and
turned, to open a heavy door.
As he started down the steep flight of stairs, a sharp crack came from
the basement. He grinned. With this kind of weather, the range would be
busy.
Kent Michaels stood on the plastic flooring, a rifle at his shoulder.
The front sight weaved almost imperceptibly, then steadied. He seemed
completely unaware of his son's presence.
Suddenly, a spurt of smoke came from the muzzle of the rifle. There was
another sharp crack and the muzzle swept upward then dropped, to become
steady again.
At last, the shooter took the weapon from his shoulder and opened the
action. He looked around.
"Oh, Don," he said. "Didn't expect you for a couple of days. There's no
holiday down there right now, is there?"