"No, sir. They were just a bunch of little kids. Grade school kids.
They were out with costumes on and everything, playing trick-or-treat."
"Did they go near the schoolyard at all?"
"No, sir. Except for one of them. You see, I was supposed to keep
people away, tell them to go around the other way. And these kids came
along. I told them to go around the other way, but they said they had
to get to the subway."
"The subway?" echoed Stevenson.
"Yes, sir. They said they were out too late anyway and it was a long
way to go to get home."
The man named Marshall said, "You said one of them _did_ go down by the
schoolyard?"
"Yes, sir. I told them all to go around the other way and the one kid
said, 'Hey, they're fighting,' or something like that, and he ran down
the street. I tried to stop him. But he got away from me."
"And then what happened?" asked Stevenson.
"Then I saw the fuzz--the police coming. I ran down to warn everybody.
And all the guys were jumping around throwing their coats away."
"And the little boy?"
"I didn't see him at all any more. Except after the police came. I saw
him go running around the corner."
"What did this boy look like?" Stevenson asked.
"Gee, I don't know, sir."
"You don't know?"
"No, sir. He was in his Hallowe'en costume."
The four men looked at one another. "A costume," said the one named
Roberts, the reporter. "My God, a _costume_."
"Yes, sir," said Judy. "It was all black and gold. Tight black pants
and a yellow shirt and a black cape and a funny kind of mask that
covered his face, black and gold. And a kind of cap like maybe a skull
cap on his head, black, only it was knit. Like the sailors wear in the
Merchant Marine."
"Black and gold," said Roberts. He seemed awed by something.
"So you can't identify this boy at all," said Stevenson forlornly.
"One of the other kids called him Eddie," she said, suddenly
remembering.
They spent fifteen minutes more with her, going over the same ground
again and again, but she just didn't have any more to tell them. And
finally they let her go.
* * * * *
Mr. Featherhall and Miss English were distant but courteous. It was,
after all, banking hours. On the other hand, these four men were police
and FBI, on official business.
"It _has_ been a rather long time," Featherhall objected gently. "Well
over four months."
"It seemed to me," said Miss English, "that the police took the names
of all the people who'd been here at the time of the robbery."
"There may have been other people present," suggested Marshall, "who
left before the confusion was over. There are any number of people in
this world who like to avoid being involved in things like this."
"I can certainly appreciate their position," said Miss English,
reminiscently touching her fingertips to her head.
"Miss English was very brave," Featherhall told the policemen. "She
created the diversion that spoiled their plans."
"Yes, we know," said Marshall. "We've heard about what you did, Miss
English."
"To tell you the truth," she said primly, "I was most concerned about
the boy. To be exposed to something like that at his tender--"
"Boy?" interrupted Stevenson rudely. "Did you say _boy_?"
"Why, yes," said Miss English. "There was a little boy in here at the
time, with his mother. Didn't you know?"
"No, we didn't," said Marshall. "Could you describe this boy?"
"Well, he was--well, not more than ten years old, if that. And
he--well, it has been a long time, as Mr. Featherhall said. He was just
a child, a normal average child."
"Not exactly average," said Stevenson cryptically.
"You said he was in here with his mother," said Marshall.
"That's right. I've seen her in here a number of times."
"Yes, of course," said Marshall.
"Has she been here since the robbery?" asked Stevenson.
"Yes, I believe she has."
"So that you would recognize her if you saw her again."
"Yes, I would. I'm sure I would. She almost always comes in with the
boy. Or, no, she doesn't, not any more. Not since school started. But
she did all summer."
"She comes in often, then."
"I believe so," said Miss English. "Fairly often."
Marshall produced a small card, which he handed to Miss English. "The
next time she comes in," he said, "we'd appreciate it if you'd call us
at that number. Ask for me, Mr. Marshall."
"I will," said Miss English. "I surely will."
* * * * *
The four of them sat talking in Marshall's office.
Tom Roberts had his shoes off, his feet on the windowsill, his spine
curved into the chair and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his
mouth. He had one eye closed and was sighting between his socked feet
at the building across the way.
"The thing that bothers me," he said, the cigarette waggling in his
mouth, "is just that I'm sure as I can be that I'll never get to
write a word of this story. You gimlet-eyed types will clamp down on
this kid, and that'll be the end of it. Security, by George. National
defense. I wonder whatever happened to freedom of the press."
"The press overworked it," Marshall told him.
"The thing is," said Lang, "whatever weapon or machine this boy is
using, it's something that the government knows absolutely nothing
about. We've sent up a report on the effects of this thing, whatever
it is, and there's been the damnedest complete survey of current
government research projects you can imagine. There is nothing at all
like it even on the drawing boards."
"Whatever the boy is using," said Marshall, "and wherever he got it
from, it isn't a part of the government's arsenal of weapons."
"Which it _has_ to be," Lang added. "Can you imagine a weapon that
selectively increases or decreases the temperature of any specific
object or any specific _part_ of an object? From a _distance_? I
wouldn't like to be sitting on a stockpile of hydrogen warheads with
somebody aiming that weapon at me. He simply presses the 'hot' button,
and blooey!"
"You see a jet bomber coming," said Marshall. "You point the weapon,
press the 'cold' button, and flame-out. That pilot bought the farm."
"What _I'd_ like to know," said Lang, "is where he got his hands on
this thing in the first place. Not only is there no machine or weapon
we know of which can do this sort of thing, but our tame experts assure
us that no such machine or weapon is possible."
"Great," said Stevenson. "We're looking for a ten-year-old kid armed
with a weapon that no adult in the country could even imagine as
possible."
The phone rang at that point, and for a second no one moved. They all
sat and looked at the jangling phone. Then Marshall and Lang moved
simultaneously, but it was Marshall who answered. "Marshall here."
The others watched him, heard him say, "Yes, Miss English. Right." And
reach forward on the desk for pad and pencil. "Right, got it. You're
sure that's the one? Right. Thank you very much."
Marshall cradled the phone, and looked at the others. "The woman came
in. Her name is Mrs. Albert J. Clayhorn, and she lives on Newkirk
Avenue. Miss English said the number would be near East 17th."
"Five blocks from the bank," said Stevenson.
"And about eighty blocks from Higgins' house," said Roberts. "That's
why it took him so long to go to work that time. He saw what was
happening on television, grabbed his weapon and his trusty bike and
went riding out to Canarsie. The Scorpion rides again!"
Marshall looked at his watch. "It's only a little after one," he said.
"We can talk to the mother before the boy comes home."
"Right," said Stevenson, getting to his feet.
V
Mrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn was a short, roundish, pleasant-faced woman
in a flower-pattern apron. She looked at the identification Marshall
showed her, and smiled uncertainly. "FBI? I don't under--Well, come
in."
"Thank you."
The living room was neat and airy. The four men settled themselves.
Marshall, uncomfortably, was the spokesman. "I'm going to have to
explain this, Mrs. Clayhorn," he said, "and frankly, it isn't going
to be easy. You see--" He cleared his throat and tried again. "Well,
here's the situation. Someone in New York has a rather strange machine
of some sort--well, it's sort of a heat machine, I suppose you could
say--and we've traced it, through its use, to, uh--well, to your son."
"To Eddie?" Mrs. Clayhorn was looking very blank. "Eddie?"
"I take it," said Marshall, instead of answering, "that your son hasn't
told you about this machine."
"Well, no. Well, of course not. I mean, he's just a little boy. I
mean, how could he have any sort of machine? What is it, a blowtorch,
something like that?"
"Not exactly," said Marshall. "Could you tell me, Mrs. Clayhorn, what
your husband does for a living?"
"Well, he runs a grocery store. The Bohack's up on Flatbush Avenue."
"I see."
Lang took over the questioning. "Are there any other persons living
here, Mrs. Clayhorn? Any boarders?"
"No, there's only the three of us."
"Well, is Eddie interested in anything of a, well, a scientific nature?
In school, perhaps?"
"Oh, Lord, no. He hasn't had any real science subjects yet. He's only
in the fifth grade. His best subject is history, but that's because he
likes to read, and history is all reading. He got that from me, I read
all the time."
"He doesn't have one of these junior chemistry sets, then, or anything
like that?"
"No, not at all. He just isn't interested. We even got him an Erector
set last Christmas, and he played with it for a day or two and then
gave it up completely and went back to reading."
"The thing is," said Stevenson, with ill-concealed desperation, "he
does have this machine."
"Are you sure it's Eddie?"
"Yes, mam, we're sure."
"Mrs. Clayhorn," said Marshall, "the boy does have this machine. The
government is very interested in it, and--"
"Well, I don't see how a ten-year-old boy--but if you say so, then I
suppose it's so. Of course, he'll be home from school at three-thirty.
You could ask _him_, if you want."
* * * * *
"We'd rather not, just yet," said Marshall. "We think it might not be
the best idea. As you say, Eddie is very interested in reading. He's
been using this machine, and, uh, well, he's been making a big secret
out of it, like the characters in comic books. We wouldn't want to
spoil that secret for him, at least not until we actually have the
machine in our own possession."
"I see," said Mrs. Clayhorn doubtfully.
"Mam," said Stevenson, "we don't have any sort of search warrant. But
we would like to take a look in Eddie's room, with your permission."
"Well, if you really think it's important--"
"It is," said Marshall.
"Then, I suppose it's all right. It's the door on the right, at the end
of the hall."
The three men, feeling large and cumbersome, searched the boy's room.
It was a boy's room, nothing less and nothing more. The closet floor
and shelves were stacked with comic books, there were baseball trading
cards in the top bureau drawer, there were pennants on the walls. There
was no heat machine, nor any hint of a heat machine.
"I just don't know," said Marshall at last.
"Unless he carries it all the time," said Lang.
"Sure," said Stevenson. "That's why he had it with him in the bank that
day."
"Maybe," said Marshall. "I just don't know. You know, I don't really
believe there _is_ a machine."
"Of course there is," said Stevenson. "We've seen what it can do."
"Oh, I'm not denying the boy caused those things. But I just have the
completely insane conviction that there isn't any machine." Marshall
shrugged. "Ah, well, never mind. Let's go back and soothe the mother."
They soothed her, which took some doing, not because she was at all
worried, but because she was so curious she could hardly sit still. But
Marshall, by looking very stern and official, and by speaking in round
long-syllabled sentences, finally convinced her that the welfare of the
nation was absolutely dependent upon her not mentioning anything at all
about this visit to Eddie, under any circumstances.
"We'll be back to talk to the boy in a day or two," Marshall told her.
"In the meantime, we'd prefer him not to be forewarned."
"If you say so," she said, frowning.
* * * * *
The school principal, a gray battleship named Miss Evita Dexter, was
irate. The idea that pornographic materials were being sold in _her_
schoolyard was absurd. It was ridiculous. It was unheard-of.
Stevenson assured her that, adjectives notwithstanding, it was
happening. And they were going to have a shakedown of the student body
whether Miss Dexter liked it or not. Detective-Sergeant Stevenson and
his associates, Marshall and Lang, were going to go through the student
body with a fine tooth comb.
Neither Marshall nor Lang had mentioned the fact that they were from
the FBI.
The search began at nine forty-five in the morning, and ended at ten
past twelve.
On the persons of three eighth-grade boys, they found pornographic
photos.
On the person of Eddie Clayhorn, they found absolutely nothing....
Abner Streitman Long was a government expert. He was more or less a
government expert in the ready reserve, since he had never once been
called upon to use his expertise for the government.
Not until now.
Abner Streitman Long was Resident Professor of Psychology at Mandar
University. He was also one of the world's foremost and best-known
experimenters in the area of parapsychology, also called Extra-Sensory
Perception, also called psionics.
The government, as a matter of principle, didn't believe in psionics.
But the government, also as a matter of principle, kept a psionics
expert handy, just in case.
The "just in case" had maybe happened.
Professor Long sat in Marshall's office and listened stolidly to the
problem. The expert was a tall, barrel-chested man with a fantastic
shock of white hair exploding out in all directions from his head.
His nose was bulbous, his jaw out-thrust, his eyes deepset, his ears
hairy, his hands huge and his feet huger. He looked like a dressed-up
lumberjack, of the old school.
He listened, and they talked, and every once in a while he nodded, and
said, "Huh." His voice was, predictably, basso profundo.
* * * * *
Then they were finished, and Professor Long summed it all up. "He
changes the temperature of objects. Yes?"
"Yes," said Marshall.
"You looked for a machine. Yes?"
"Yes, and we didn't find it."
"And your thermodynamics people said no such machine could exist
anyway, yes?"
"That's right."
"Then why did you look for it?"
"Because," said Marshall desperately, "we'd seen it in action. That is,
we'd seen the result of its use."
"Yes," said the professor. He sucked on his lower lip and abstractedly
watched his thumbs twiddle. "Pyrotic," he announced at last.
"I beg your pardon?" asked Marshall.
"Pyrotic," repeated the professor. "Yes? Yes. Pyrotic. Do you know what
that is?"
"No," said Marshall.
"Good," said the professor. "Neither do I. But I have a theory. There
are more theories than there are phenomena. That always happens.
But listen to this theory. The mind reaches into the object on the
molecular level, and adjusts the molecules, _so_. The temperature
changes. Do you see?"
"Not exactly," said Marshall doubtfully.
"Neither do I. Never mind. I know lots of theories, none of them make
any sense. But they all try to explain."
"If you say so," said Marshall.
"Yes. I say so. _Now._ As a psychologist, I will tell you something
else. This boy has made this a secret, yes? The Scorpion, he calls
himself, and, like his heroes of the comic books, he uses his power for
good. Shazam, yes? Captain Marvel."
"Yes," said Stevenson, nodding emphatically.
"Now, what happens if you go to this boy and tell him, 'We know you are
the Scorpion? Your secret is out.' What happens then?"
"I don't know," said Marshall.
"Think," suggested Professor Long. "Batman, let us say, or Superman.
Quite apart from fighting crime, what is the major task confronting
these heroes? That of maintaining the secrecy of their identity, yes?"
The four men nodded.
"Now," said Professor Long, "to the mind of a ten-year-old boy, what
is the implication? The implication is this: If the secret of the
identity is lost the power of the hero is also lost. This is the clear
implication. Yes?"
"You mean this boy wouldn't be able to do it any more if we went and
talked to him?" asked Lang.
"I don't say that," cautioned the professor. "I do say this: He will
_believe_ that he has lost the power. And this belief may be sufficient
to destroy the power. Yes?"
"In other words," said Marshall, "you're saying that we can't ask this
boy how he manages his stunt, because if we do then he probably won't
be able to manage it any more."
* * * * *
"A distinct possibility," said the professor. "But only a temporary
possibility. The drama of the Scorpion will not, I imagine, survive
puberty."
"But will the _ability_ survive puberty?"
"No one can know. No one can even guess."
"Now, here's the thing," said Marshall. "Not downgrading your theories
at all, Professor, they are nevertheless still only theories. Frankly,
given my choice between an impossible machine and a boy with the power
to _think_ things hot and cold, I'll give the impossible machine the
edge. At this point, accepting the idea of the machine, our next move
is simple. We go ask the boy to give it to us. From what you say, we
can't even do that."
"My best advice," said the professor, "would be to keep the boy under
careful surveillance for the next three or four years. Gradually get to
know him, carefully work out a long-range program involving his reading
habits, the attitudes of his teachers and parents, the sort of external
stimuli to which he is--"
"Fellas," said Roberts suddenly. "Oh, fellas."
They turned to look at him. He was in his favorite pose, shoes off,
feet up on the windowsill. He was now pointing at the window. "Do you
fellas see what I see?" he asked them.
They saw. The window was frosting. It was a rainy, humid mid-November
day, and moisture was condensing on the window pane. It was condensing,
and then it was freezing.
It didn't take long. No more than a minute passed from the time Roberts
noticed the thing beginning until the time it was complete. And then
they watched various specific sections of the window defrost again.
It was a very strange looking window. It was covered with frost, but
there were lines of bare window, as though the frost had been scraped
away. The lines formed letters, and the letters formed words, and the
words were: