Jeff's voice was tense, his eyes fixed on the girl's face in desperate
eagerness. "Look, you've got to help me. I know he's here. I must find
him. I saw him this afternoon. Remember when the guards brought me in
here? I saw him on the stairs. I chased him and lost him, but he's
here. He's hiding, running away from me. I've got to find him, somehow.
Please, Blackie, you can help me."
Her eyes were wide on his face. "What do you want with him? Why are you
after him? I don't want to get mixed up in anything--"
"No, no, it won't mix you up. Look, I want to kill him. Short and
sweet, nothing more--just kill him. I want to send one bullet into his
brain, watch his face splatter out, watch his skull break open. That's
all I want, just one bullet--"
Jeff's voice was low, the words wrenched from his throat, and the
hatred in his eyes was poisonous as it washed over the girl's face. "He
haunts me, for years he's haunted me." Jeff's voice dropped, the words
breaking the stillness of the room in a hoarse, terrible cadence. "He
killed my father. This Conroe--he butchered my father like an animal,
shot him down in cold blood. It was horrible, ruthless. Conroe was the
assassin. He killed my father without a thought of mercy in his mind.
And I loved my father, I loved him with all the love I had." He stared
at the girl. "I'll kill the man that killed my father if I have to die
myself in the killing."
"And that man is here?"
"That man is here. I've hunted him for years. This was his last resort,
his final desperate gamble for escape. He had nowhere else to turn.
I've got the outside tied up so that he doesn't dare to leave. Now
I've got to track him down in here. I've got to find him and kill him,
before I'm caught, before I'm tested and classified. I've got to move
fast and I need help. I need help so much."
The girl leaned toward him, her eyes dark as she stared at him. "The
dice," she said softly. "I've been playing it cozy. I still could--if
you'll let me."
His eyes widened. "Anything you say," he said. "We'll play it cozy
together. But I've got to have floor plans of the place, information on
how to avoid the guards. I've got to know where their records are kept,
their lists and rosters and working plans."
"Then it's a deal?"
His eyes caught hers, and for an instant he saw something behind the
mask she wore, something of the fear that lay back there, something of
a little child who fought against impossible odds to find a toehold in
the world. Then the barrier was back up, and her eyes were blank and
revealed nothing.
Jeff held out his hand, touched her palm lightly and clenched her
fingers. "It's a deal," he said.
* * * * *
The trip down the corridor was a nightmare. Jeff's mind was still
reeling from the incredible discovery of the dice, the sudden,
unbelievable awareness that he and Blackie had been silently and
fiercely battling each other for control, fighting with a fury that had
somehow shattered the very warp of probability in the room where they
had been. How could he have had a part in something like this? He had
never had reason to suspect he might carry such a power, yet here was
evidence he could not disregard. And how could it fit into the question
of Paul Conroe, and the mysterious recruit to the Mercy Men who had
just been tested?
A thought struck Jeff, quite suddenly. It came with such impact that
he stopped cold in his tracks. It was so simple, so impossible, yet
no more impossible than the things he had already seen with his own
eyes. Because the incredible record of escapes that Conroe carried,
the impossible regularity with which Conroe had managed to avoid
capture, time after time, seemed too much to accept as coincidence. And
if Conroe were indeed carrying latent extra-sensory powers, he could
continue to slip from trap after trap--_unless Jeff could oppose those
powers with powers of his own_.
Jeff cursed in his teeth. How could he tell? He had no evidence that
Conroe carried any extra-sensory power whatsoever, and surely there was
little enough to indicate that he had any more than most latent powers.
There were so many, many possibilities, and so little concrete evidence
to go on.
And if Conroe had such powers, why had he been so startled to meet Jeff
on the stairs? Why the look of fear and disbelief that had streaked
across his face? Jeff glanced at his watch, saw the minute hand move
to eleven-thirty. He would have to hurry, for the guards would be down
the escalator in a few moments. And these thoughts of his could lead
to nowhere. Conroe had been jolted to see Jeff. It must have been a
horrible shock for him to realize that the Hunter had followed him,
even into this death trap, to know that the Hunter would have the
outside so well guarded that he, the Hunted, could never get out. Now
Conroe would be forced to gamble against being caught and assigned to
work as a Mercy Man. Yes, it must have been a horrible jolt for Conroe,
driving one last, searing bolt of fear into his already desperate mind.
And what would he have tried to do?
A thousand ideas flooded Jeff's mind. He was waiting for testing.
Perhaps Conroe, somehow, had been tested already? Could Jeff succeed
in stalling Schiml, especially if the rumors spinning down the dark
corridors were true? There was no sure way of telling. All Jeff could
do was to search the file rooms Blackie had directed him to.
He stopped at the entrance to the escalator, pored over the floor
plan Blackie had sketched for him. He spotted the escalator, oriented
himself on the plan. The filing rooms were two flights below. If he
could reach them without being stopped.... He moved silently onto the
down shaft, his eyes moving constantly for a sight of a gray-garbed
prowler.
At the foot of the escalator he stopped short. Three men in white
were pushing a gurney along the corridor. Jeff glanced quickly at the
twitching form under the blankets. Then he looked away hurriedly. One
of the men dropped behind and waved at him sharply as he stepped off
the stairs. The man still wore the operating mask hanging from his
neck, and his hair was tightly enclosed in the green-knit operating cap.
The doctor tipped a thumb over his shoulder and pointed down the
corridor. "You coming to fix the pump?"
Jeff blinked rapidly. "That's right," he croaked. "Did--did Jerry come
with the tools yet?"
"Nobody came in yet. We just finished. Been in there since three this
afternoon, and the damned pump went kerflooey right in the middle.
Had to aspirate the poor joe by hand, and if you think _that's_ not a
job--" The doctor wiped sweat from his forehead. "Better get it fixed
tonight. We've got another one going in at eight in the morning and
we've got to have the pump."
Jeff nodded, and started down the hall, his heart thudding madly
against his ribs. He reached the open door to one of the operating
rooms. Slipping quickly into the small dressing-room annex, he snatched
one of the gowns and caps from the wall.
If they were still operating this late, it was a heaven-sent chance.
No guard would bother him if he were wearing the white of a doctor or
the green of a surgeon. He struggled into the clumsy gowning, tying it
quickly behind his back, and slipped the cap over his head. Finally he
found a mask, snapped it up under his ears as he had seen it worn by
the doctors in the corridors.
In a moment he was back on the escalator, descending to the next floor.
At the foot of the stairs, he started quickly down the corridor Blackie
had indicated, glancing at each door as he passed. The first two had
lights under them, indicating that these apparently were operating
rooms still in use. Finally he stopped before a large, heavy door, with
a simple sign painted on the wooden panel: COMPUTOR TECHNICIANS
ONLY. He tried the door, found it locked. Quickly he glanced up
and down the corridor, doubled a hard fist and drove it through the
panel with a crunch. Then he fumbled inside for the lock.
In an instant he was inside. The torn hole in the panel glared at
him. He threw the door wide open and snapped on the overhead lights,
throwing the room into bright fluorescent light. Then he drew the
pale-green gown closer about him and moved across the room to the huge
file panel that faced him.
It was not his first experience with the huge punched-card files which
had become so necessary in organizations where the numbers and volumes
of records made human operatives too slow or clumsy. Quickly Jeff moved
to the master-control panel, searched for the section and coding system
for Research: Subject Personnel.
First he would try the simple coding for Conroe's name, on the
chance that Conroe had come in using his own name. Jeff rechecked
the coding, punched the buttons which would relay through the cards
alphabetically; then he waited as the machinery whirred briefly. A
panel lighted near the bottom of the control board, spelling the two
words: NO INFORMATION.
Jeff's fingers sped over the coding board again, as he started coding
in a description. He coded in height, weight, eye color, hair color,
bone contour, lip formation--every other descriptive category he could
think of. Then again he punched the "Search" button.
This time several dozen cards fell down. He picked them up from the
yield-slot and slowly leafed through them, glancing both at the small
photograph attached to each card and at the small "date of admission"
code symbol at the top of each card. Again he found nothing. Disgusted,
he tried the same system again, this time adding two limiting coding
symbols: Subject Personnel and Recent Admission. And again the cards
were negative. Not a single one could possibly have been connected with
Paul Conroe.
Jeff sat down at the desk facing the panel and he searched his mind
for another pathway of identification. Suddenly a thought occurred to
him. He searched through his pocket for a picture wallet, drew out
the small, ID-size photo of Conroe that he carried for identification
purposes.
Searching the panel, he finally found the slot he was looking for: the
small, photoelectronic chamber for recording picture identification.
He slipped the photo into the slot, punched the "Search" button, and
waited again, his whole body tense.
The machine buzzed for a long moment. Then a single card dropped into
the slot. Eagerly Jeff snatched it up, stared down at the attached
photograph which almost perfectly matched the photo from his pocket.
Near the top of the card was a small typewritten notation: _Conroe,
Paul A._, INFORMATION RESTRICTED. ALL FILE NOTATIONS RECORDED IN
HOFFMAN CENTER CENTRAL ARCHIVES.
Below this notation was a list of dates. Jeff read them, staring
in disbelief, then read them again. Incredible, those dates--dates
of admission to the Hoffman Center and dates of release. It was
impossible that Conroe could have been here at the times the dates
indicated: ten years ago, when the Hoffman Center was hardly opened;
five years ago, during the very time when Jeff had been tracking him
down. Yet the dates were there, in black and white, cold, impersonal,
indisputable. And below the dates was a final notation, inked in by
hand: CENTRAL ARCHIVES CLASSIFICATION: ESP RESEARCH.
Swiftly Jeff stuffed the card into his shirt. He refiled the other
cards with trembling fingers, his heart pounding a frightful tattoo in
his forehead. Incredible, yet he knew, somehow, that it fit into the
picture, that it was a key to the picture. He turned, started for the
door, and stopped dead.
"Schiml!" he breathed.
The figure lounged against the door, green cap askew on his head, mask
still dangling about his neck. There was a smile on his face as he
leaned back, regarding Jeff in amusement. Nonchalantly, he tossed a
pair of dice into the air, and caught them, still smiling. "Let's go,
Jeff," said Dr. Schiml. "We've got some tests to run."
"You--you mean, in the morning," Jeff stammered, hardly believing his
ears.
The smile broadened on the doctor's lips, and he gave the dice another
toss and dropped them in his pocket. "Not in the morning, Jeff," he
said softly. "Now."