Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (65 page)

Conway turned attention to Harper. “The police out there feel hamstrung because they’re under strict orders to abandon everything in favor of the hunt for missing pilots. Yet one investigation may be part of the other and I don’t want it to be temporarily ignored if there is a connection. On the other hand, I’d rather not countermand orders unless such a connection exists. What is your opinion?”

“If Venusians did it to shut the old fellow’s trap, they arrived too late. He saw their photos and set the fireworks going before they could stop him. But
they 
wouldn’t know that.”

“You think they did it and therefore this is not a coincidence?”

“No,” said Harper carefully. “Jameson has given his viewpoint and I’m trying to consider its opposite. I’m telling you that if those three are aware of the identity of the girl they converted, her death will give them the shakes. Two and two make four on any planet. They’ll add up the news, make it the correct total, decide she’d been found out somehow, God knows how.”

“And so—?”

“They know a nation-wide hunt will be after them unless they can cover up. Even that will do no more than delay matters, but delay is all they need. If they can postpone capture long enough it will come too late. Many people spotted them in that Thunderbug but only two saw them actually with the girl, took a close look at them at the time. Those were Alderson and the oldster. The former is too dead to study pictures. It would help them some to have the latter in the same condition. That’s how they’d look at it. The basic requirements of survival can be seen by any type of mind no matter where it’s from.”

“Then why were they so slow to get at him?” commented Conway. “They dealt with him three to four hours behind time.”

“I killed that girl and came here as fast as I could go and have been hanging around all day. The news didn’t break until some time after I’d left. If when they saw the news they had to rush back as far, or perhaps farther, they must have moved as swiftly as they dared. It takes time to cover territory even in these days.”

“I suppose so.” Doubtfully, Conway shifted gaze to Benfield. “Have you any ideas?”

“Yes, General. I think it best to pursue this matter in the principle of overlooking nothing.”

“That’s the boy,” approved Harper. “With all the troops and police littering this country we should be able to spare a couple of dozen to chase a possibility. The grave loss of manpower won’t make us topple any quicker.”

Conway did not approve the humor, which smacked to him of unwarranted sarcasm. But it served its purpose of stinging him into immediate action. He handled the phone with the air of being fed up holding it, made his call.

“Williams, about that filling station murder. I want it looked into. Make it quick and thorough. Yes, orders are suspended with respect to this case only. It may be linked with the search. If so, one of the wanted men has been in that area today. Call me and report directly you make progress.” He ended, gave a challenging look at the others. “That settles that. There’s little more we can do until we make our first capture—and it’s to be hoped we get him alive.”

“It’s also to be hoped that one will lead to the others,” put in Benfield.

“And it’s further to be hoped that some time before Christmas somebody will make up their mind about accepting or rejecting my offer to dangle on the hook,” said Harper.

“Your first job is to check the Whittingham family,” Conway shot back. “After that we’ll consider what to do with you next.”

“Then let’s go.” Harper waved a familiar good-bye to General Conway, performing it in the manner of a rookie too raw to know better. Conway involuntarily bristled at him, a fact he found most pleasing.

“There’s no sense in going out of your way to irritate the old boy,” reproved Jameson when they had exited and reached the car. “He has troubles enough.”

“I was reasserting the freedom of the individual at the moment when it’s likeliest to become disputed,” snapped Harper. “And furthermore, a cat may look at a king. That holds good though the heavens fall.”

Jameson did not choose to argue the point.

Back at headquarters Jameson said, “The sooner you get out there and do your stuff, the better. We’ll send you by plane or copter. Sit down and wait—I’ll find out what can be done.”

“You can restore my good character while you’re at it,” Harper suggested. “Cancel that call for me. I don’t like it even if it is being ignored. Priority of pilot-search won’t prevent some sharp-eyed cuss grabbing me if he notices me right under his nose.”

“We'll tend to that eventually. Meanwhile I’ll send a couple of agents with you, to be on the safe side.”

“Think I can’t look after myself?”

“It’s Conway’s order.”

“Oh, all right.” As the other went through the door, Harper called, “And I want my gun back. It’s my property, isn’t it?”

Jameson returned in two minutes, tossed him the weapon and a large brown envelope. “Study that while I get things moving—all planes are busy and you’ll have to use a copter.” He departed again.

Tucking the gun under his left arm, Harper extracted the envelope’s flap, slid out three full-plate glossy photographs. Each had a typed slip of data attached to its back. He examined them closely.

The first was of William Gould, twenty-eight, test-pilot-in-chief, a frank-faced, blond-haired, husky individual who weighed one-eighty pounds and had a halfmoon scar on the left brow. The thinner, dark-haired face smiling from the second picture was that of Cory McDonald, twenty-four, test-pilot and computer, a wiry type of one-fifty-five pounds, no identifying marks on body. Picture number three showed the thoughtful, serious features of Earl James Langley, twenty-seven, test-pilot and astronavigator, dark-haired, one-sixty-two pounds, small mole on right thigh, white scars on both kneecaps.

“Gould, McDonald and Langley,” recited Harper to himself as he shuffled the photos to and fro and memorized the faces. “Gould, McDonald and Langley. Three good boys who went away full of hope and came back full of hell. God rest their souls!”

He felt vengeful as he looked at them. Didn’t seem right that humanity’s outward growth should be paid for by such as these. The salt of the earth thrown away for Earth’s sake. And the payment they had made was not in full. They had given their lives. When their own kind found them and destroyed them they would also have given their bodies. Payment would then be complete.

Not for one moment did he doubt that should he come face to face with one of these three he would shoot him down like a rabid dog, as unhesitatingly as he had shot Jocelyn Whittingham. It was easier for him than for others to perform such cold-blooded execution; mentally he could
see
the terrible emptiness of the human shell and the thing squirming within.

Three fine young men.

Three rotten apples.

“Damn!" he said loudly. “Damn!”

“What are you cussing over?” inquired Jameson, coming through the door. “Somebody’s sons—and what’s been done to them.”

“Don’t bother your head about them. We’ve a bigger worry, namely, that of what they’re doing to others.”

“I know. But it’s in my nature to deplore the deplorable.” He returned the photographs to the envelope, handed it over. “If I can have copies will you see they’re put in my car? They’re too large to fold into my pocket.”

“We’re printing thousands of smaller ones, wallet-size. You’ll get a set in due course.” Jameson gazed expectantly toward the door. Two men entered. They were young, lean, well-dressed, had an air of quiet competence. Jameson introduced them. “Meet Dan Morris and Bill Rausch. Try getting away from them.”

“These are the escort?”

“Yes.”

“Hope I won’t bore you, boys,” said Harper. “Are we ready to go?”

“Right away,” Jameson informed. “An army copter is on the roof.” Accompanied by the two silent agents, Harper rode an elevator to its limit, gained the waiting machine, which proved to be a big thirty-seater with port and starboard rotors.

Engines whined into the high note, rotors spun into circles of light. The copter made one small bounce then soared rapidly. At five thousand feet the tail jet spurted flame and sped them westward.

Three and a half hours later they landed in the ornate grounds of a state isolation hospital. An agent met them as they stepped to ground, identified himself as Vern Pritchard.

“You’re holding the Whittinghams here?” Harper asked.

“Yes. There are five in the family. They swallowed our story of possible contagion and came without protest. They fear they may be incubating something and can hardly wait to find out.”

“None of them have tried to escape?”

“No,” said Pritchard.

“Or communicate with somebody at a distance?”

“No.”

“Whereabouts are they?”

Pritchard pointed. “In that annex over there.”

Gazing meditatively at the place indicated, which was about four hundred yards away, Harper said after a while, “They’re okay. You can let them go.”

Incredulity came into Pritchard’s features as he protested, “But you haven’t
seen
them!”

“I don’t need to.”

“Well, my orders are to be governed entirely by what you say. I take it that you do know what you’re saying?”

“I do. I say they’re clean. You can release them.”

“All right.” Hopelessly baffled, Pritchard covered himself against a possible blunder by saying to his fellow agents, “You two are witnesses to this.”

They signified agreement, followed Harper back into the copter as Pritchard walked toward the annex. The copter rose, started the return trip.

“Thank the Lord not everyone knows what’s wrong with me,” remarked Harper, thereby stimulating companion minds into revealing channels.

Mental reactions showed that they didn’t know either. Jameson had told them no more than was strictly necessary. The powers-that-be were trying to hide two menaces from the public, not just one.

Authority was trying to conceal a human pryer as well as an inhuman enslaver. The idea was to use the former to destroy the latter—and then decide the fate of the former.

Moira stood like one paralyzed when he marched surlily into the office, planted himself behind his desk and commenced rummaging through delayed correspondence.

After a while he glanced up and growled, “Well, what’s eating you? Have I turned into a purple opprobrium around here?”

“No, Mr. Harper.” She sat down weakly, still looking at him wide-eyed. Her ears were perked for sound of oncoming sirens while she wondered how to duck the resulting fracas.

“Don’t let your mouth hang open that way. It makes you resemble a half-starved carp. Where’s the Pest Control progress-report? They’re bellyaching already.”

She flew to a cabinet, jerked open a drawer, riffled its cards, extracted one and gave it to him. Her mind was whirly with the belief that she was alone with public enemy number one and somebody ought to do something about it.

“Mr. Riley has been around several times,” she informed, making it sound like a warning and hoping he’d take the hint. “He said he’d call again today.”

“He would, the big ugly bum.” He studied the card, his expression sour. “Umph! When I say six weeks I mean six weeks and not six days. Dear sirs, in reply to your query of yesterday’s date—”

Grabbing her pencil, she scribbled with frantic haste. He spouted another forty words, knew she was making a hopeless mess of her script. He ceased dictating, spoke with a judicious mixture of sorrow and severity.

“See here, Lanky, I am not a convicted criminal. During my absence I have disemboweled none save the few hundred who deserved it. I am not wanted by cops, wardens, army recruiters or the Christian ministry. I am loved only as I have been loved since days of yore. Now pull yourself together and apply your mind to the job. Dear sirs, in reply to your query—”

This time she managed to take it down without error. She slipped paper into her machine, adjusted it, paused expectantly as heavy footsteps approached the office door.

“Here he is,” announced Harper, with mock tenseness. “Dive under the desk when the shooting starts.”

Moira sat frozen, one finger poised over a key. She dared not look round lest what she saw proved him to be deadly serious. She listened for the faint rustle of clothes indicating that he was drawing his gun.

Next moment Riley bashed open the door in his usual elephantine manner, took the usual two steps to reach the desk. If his scowl had forced his eyebrows an inch lower they’d have served as a mustache. He splayed both hands on the desk while he leaned across it to stare into the other’s eyes. Behind him, Moira felt faint with relief, gave the key a tentative tap.

“Now,” said Riley hoarsely, “you’re going to tell me what the flaming hell is happening right and left. Why are you wanted for murder one moment and not wanted the next? Why do they list you at top one day and remove you from the bottom another day? Why can’t they make up their minds whether you’re a hirsute hoodlum or not?”

“Life is just a bowl of cherries. I—”

“Shut up! I haven’t finished yet. Why has the F.B.I. emigrated wholesale into this area and calmly confiscated my four best squads? Why have they staked this crummy joint from the roof, the cellars, across the street, up the street, down the street, at both ends of the street and in half a dozen adjoining streets? Why—”

“Why do you turn Moira into a nervous wreck the minute my back is turned?” Harper demanded.

“Me?” Riley fumed a bit. “I never touched her. I’m not that kind. I’m married and happy at it. If she told you I touched her she’s a liar. I don’t believe she did tell you. You’re inventing things in effort to change the subject. But it won’t work, see? Why—”

“You looked at her and
thought
things,” asserted Harper.

Riley crimsoned and bawled, “All right. I get it. You refuse to talk. You know I can’t make you talk. And you’re enjoying the situation. It gratifies your simian ego.” He let his voice drop a couple of decibels, went on, “Would your lord-ship grant me the favor of one question? Just one little question, eh?”