Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (60 page)

“Now, now, no lies!” he ordered.

At that point she gave up and he heard her say weakly to somebody else, “He knows you’re here and insists on speaking to you.”

There sounded a deep grunt that somehow conveyed disgust. Harper’s screen suddenly cleared and showed a beefy face scowling at him.

Before the other could speak Harper said, “When I can’t see a thing in my own office I know somebody doesn’t want me to look. I also know Moira’s been told to keep me on as long as she can while this call is being traced. Well, you’re wasting your time for which suffering taxpayers are paying, of whom I am one. You pack up and get busy on the local sinners. Tell Riley I love him despite all his faults.”

The face scowled more deeply. “Now see here, Harper—”

“Listen to me for once,” continued Harper impatiently. “It may help persuade you that you’re doing no good warming my blotter if I tell you I’m calling from Washington and that I’m making for F.B.I. headquarters to give myself up.” Incredulity expressed itself on the distant features. “You mean that?”

“Check with the F.B.I. in about fifteen minutes’ time. They’ll tell you they’ve got me. And don’t celebrate by pawing Moira around. She draws her pay from me, not from you!”

He pronged the phone and walked out, joined the crowds on the sidewalk. He had covered two blocks when a tall, dark-haired, neatly dressed young man threw him a brief but penetrating glance in passing, did a swift double-take, continued a few yards beyond then turned and followed.

Harper strolled steadily on, smiling to himself as he filched data out of the shadower’s mind. Robert Slade, thirty-two, F.B.I. agent, obsessed by the notion that Harper bore a very close resemblance to Harper. The encounter was purely accidental but the boy intended to stick to the opportunity until he was sure enough to make a pinch.

Turning down a side street, Harper covered three more blocks, became a mite uncertain of his whereabouts. He was not very familiar with Washington. He stopped on a corner, lit a cigarette, gazed furtively over cupped hands, found Slade studiously examining a window full of panes-in-the-neck.

Ambling back he touched Slades elbow, said, “Pardon me. I’m looking for F.B.I. headquarters. Can you direct me?”

It shook Slade more than if he’d suddenly stuck a gun in his belly.

“Why . . . er . . . yes, of course.” His clear gray eyes betrayed uncertainty about his suspicions. His mind was saying,
“Hell of a coincidence!”

“You’re Robert Slade, aren’t you?” inquired Harper, pleasantly conversational.

The other rocked back. “I am. You have the advantage of me, though. I don’t recall knowing you.”

“Would it do you any good to make an arrest?”

“What d’you mean?”

“I’m seeking your H.Q. You can show me the way. If you would like to call it a pinch it’s all right with me. I’m Wade Harper.”

Slade took in a deep breath. “You’re not kidding?”

“Why should I? Don’t I look like Harper?”

“You sure do. And maybe you’re fed up being mistaken for him. If so, there’s little we can do about it.”

“That can soon be settled. You have my prints on file.” He felt under an arm. “Here’s my gun. Don’t let the comparison boys in the ballistics department lose it—I hope to get it back someday.”

“Thanks.” Openly baffled, Slade shoved it into a pocket, pointed down the street. "This way."

They moved along side by side. Slade made no suggestion of using his handcuffs, neither was he particularly wary. Harper’s attitude had created within him a condition of chronic skepticism; he was inclined to think this capture would gain him no kudos because the captive was too self-possessed to be other than innocent.

Reaching the big building they went inside. Slade showed Harper into a small room, said, “Wait there a minute,” and departed. The exit and the open street were within easy reach. There was no obstacle to an escape other than that provided by a hard-looking character on duty at the door.

Taking his ease in a pneumatic chair Harper amused himself tracking Slade’s mind. The agent went along a short corridor, entered an office, spoke to somebody there.

“I’ve just picked up Wade Harper. He’s in room number four. ”

“By himself”

“Yes.
”

“Are you cracked? He can make a dive and—”

“He was on his way here when I found him,
" interjected Slade, honestly refusing the credit for the grab.
“He
wanted
to come.
”

“Holy smoke! There’s something mighty funny about this.
” A pause, then,
“Bring him in here.
”

Harper got up, walked along the passage, arrived at the door just as Slade opened it to come and get him. For the third successive time Slade was taken aback. He stood aside, silent and puzzled, while Harper marched boldly in, took a seat and gazed at the lean-faced man behind the desk. The latter returned his gaze and gave himself away without knowing it. William Pritchard, thirty-nine, area supervisor.

“Morning, Mr. Pritchard,” said Harper with the cheerful air of one who has not a worry in the world.

Pritchard blinked, marshaled his wits, said, “There’s a call out for you. You’re wanted for the murder of Jocelyn Whittingham.”

“Yes, I know. I read the papers.”

“Somebody’s blundered,
" thought Pritchard, impressed by this coolness.
“He’s got an alibi.
" Clearing his throat, he asked, “Well, do you wish to say anything about it?

“Plenty—but not to you.”

“Why not to me?”

“No personal reason, I assure you. I’d like to talk to Sam Stevens.”

“Go see where he is,” Pritchard ordered after a little hesitation, deciding that one interlocutor was as good as another.

Slade went away, came back, informed, “Stevens is in Seattle.”

The phone called shrilly, Pritchard picked it off his desk, said, “Yes? How did you know? Oh, he told you himself, did he? No, he wasn’t fooling. He’s here all right. He’s in front of me right now.” He racked the phone, stared hard at Harper. “You can’t see Stevens. He isn’t available.”

“A pity. He could have got me somebody high up. I want to talk as high as I can get.”

“Why?”

“I refuse to say.”

Frowning disapproval, Pritchard leaned forward. “Did you or did you not shoot this Whittingham girl?”

“Yes, I did.”

“All right. Are you willing to sign a confession to that effect?”

“No.”

“You admit shooting her but you refuse to sign a confession?”

That's right.

“Care to offer a reason?” Pritchard invited, studying him carefully.

“I’ve a good reason. I didn’t kill her.”

“But she’s dead. She’s as dead as mutton. Didn’t you know that?”

Harper made two waves of a hand in manner suggesting that this was a minor point of little consequence.

“So you shot her but didn’t kill her?” Pritchard persisted. “You put a dozen steel beads through her skull but somehow refrained from committing homicide?”

“Correct.”

That did it. Pritchard’s and Slade’s minds worked in perfect accord, weighed the evidence, reached a simultaneous verdict: not guilty of murder by reason of insanity.

Sighing deeply, Harper said, “Sam Stevens is the only boy I know in this outfit. He made a check on my plant once, about two years ago. He entered it on some sort of national security list which you people keep on file. He gave me a gun permit and a bunch of bureaucratic instructions chief of which says I’m federal property the moment war breaks out. I become confiscated lock, stock and barrel.”

“So?” prompted Pritchard, seeing no point in this.

“The Whittingham business has to do more or less with the same issue, namely, national security. Therefore I can talk only to somebody who’ll know what I’m talking about.”

“That would be Jameson,
" promptly whispered Pritchard’s thoughts.

“Such as Jameson,” Harper added.

They reacted as though he had uttered a holy name in the unholy precincts of a cheap saloon.

“Or whoever is
his
boss,” said Harper, for good measure.

With a touch of severity, Pritchard demanded, “You just said that Stevens is the only member of the F.B.I. known to you. So how do you know of Jameson? Come to that, how did you know
my
name?”

“He knew mine too,” put in Slade, openly itching for a plausible explanation.

“That’s a problem I’ll solve only in the presence of somebody way up top,” said Harper. He smiled at Pritchard and inquired, “How’s your body?”

“Eh?”

Out of the other’s bafflement Harper extracted a clear and detailed picture of the body, said in helpful tones, “You have a fish-shaped birthmark on the inside of your left thigh.”

“That’s enough for me!” Pritchard stood up, badly worried. He said to Slade, “You keep an eye on this Houdini while I go see what Jameson says.” He departed hurriedly.

Harper asked Slade, “May I have a sheet of paper, please?”

Extracting one from a drawer in the desk Slade slipped it across. He watched Harper take out a fountain-pen and prepare to write. The confession after all, he thought. Definitely a nut who’d refuse a thing one moment and give it the next. Strange how even an intelligent man could go so completely off his rocker. An hereditary weakness, perhaps.

Ignoring these uncomplimentary ideas which assailed him as clearly as if they’d been shouted aloud, Harper waited a few moments then began to write. He scribbled with great rapidity, finished a short time before Pritchard’s return.

“He won’t see you,” announced Pritchard with a that-is-that air.

“I know.” Harper gave him the paper.

Glancing over it, Pritchard popped his eyes, ran out full tilt. Slade stared after him, turning a questioning gaze upon Harper.

“That was a complete and accurate transcript of their conversation,” Harper informed. “Want to lay any bets against him seeing me now?”

“No,” said Slade, developing the willies. “I don’t care to throw away good money.”

Jameson proved to be a middle-aged bull of a man with a thick mop of curly gray hair. His eyes were blue and cold, his manner that of one long accustomed to the exercising of authority. Sitting erect in his chair he kept one strong forefinger firmly planted on the sheet of paper lying on the desk before him. He wasted no time in getting down to business.

“How did you do it?”

“Easily enough. I took aim, fired and down she slid.”

“I’m not asking about that.” The finger tapped impatiently. “I am referring to this.”

“Oh, the eavesdropping.” Harper pretended to gain an understanding that he had not lost in the first place. “I did it in the same way the enemy might be able to do it any time he wants to know what we're up to.”

“You may go,” Jameson said to Pritchard. “I’ll call you when I want you.” He waited until the door had closed, fixed full attention on the other. “Are you categorically asserting that agents of other powers are able to read our minds at will?”

“No.”

“Then why make such a suggestion?”

“I’m merely putting over the theory that what one can do another can do,” said Harper. “It’s a notion I’ve nursed for years. So far I’ve been unable to find any evidence in support.”

“Obviously you are talking about something
you
can do. What can you do?”

“That,” said Harper, pointing to the paper.

Jameson was no fool. He had got the idea at the start but found considerable difficulty in absorbing it. The manifest explanation was proving indigestible. He tried again to cope with it, failed, decided to put the issue fairly and squarely.

“It would take a telepath to play these sort of tricks.”

“Nothing else but,” agreed Harper.

“Whoever heard of one?” asked Jameson, baffling his own incredulity.

Harper merely shrugged.

Switching his little intercom board, Jameson spoke into its mike. “Is Miss Keyes there? Put her on. Miss Keyes, I want you to type a column of twenty-eight-digit numbers chosen at random. Bring it to me immediately you have finished.” He switched off, gave Harper a challenging look, poked the paper toward him and said, “See what you can do with that.”

“Now I’ve got to search through the general mess for somebody concocting meaningless numbers,” Harper complained. “I may miss the first one or two while I’m feeling around.”

“Never mind. Do the best you can. If you get only a quarter of them it will convince me that the age of miracles has not passed.”

Harper wrote down eighteen of them plus the last two digits of the nineteenth. Taking the paper without comment, Jameson waited for Miss Keyes. She arrived shortly, gave him her list, departed with no visible surprise. If she’d been ordered to wear her machine’s dust-cover as a hat she would have done it without question. Jameson compared the two columns.

Finally he said, “This is worse than a bomb in the Pentagon. Nothing is private property any more.”

“I know.”

“How did it happen?”

“Can a man with a hare-lip tell you how it happened? All I know is that I was born that way. For a few years I assumed that everyone else was precisely like myself. Being a child it took quite a time to learn that it was not so, to learn that I was a one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind, to learn that I could be feared and that the feared are hated.”

“There must be a reason for it,” said Jameson.

“Does it matter?”

“It matters a hell of a lot. You are a freak created by some very special arrangement of circumstances. If we could detail those circumstances fully and completely we could estimate the likelihood of them being duplicated elsewhere. That in turn would give us a fair idea of whether there are any more like you and, if so, who’s got them.”

Harper said quietly and soberly, “I don’t think that matters a damn either. Not any more.”

“Why doesn’t it?”

“Because I made mental contact with Jocelyn Whittingham and she promptly called me an insulting name. So I shot her.”

“You considered that adequate motive for murder?” prompted Jameson.