Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (67 page)

When he listened he took pot luck, accepted what was being offered whether informative or not, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred it was stuff not worthy of a moment’s attention. But when he probed he got what he wanted by nudging the other mind into thinking of it. So far as ordinary human beings were concerned it made not the slightest difference which method he adopted because they were blissfully unconscious of both.

With a Venusian mind it wasn’t the same; that had been his first lesson learned when he contacted the entity owning the Whittingham girl. In some subtle way the Venusians differed. He could listen to one, radio-fashion, without it realizing that it was being overheard. But if, radar-like, he prodded one to compel release of a wanted datum, it felt the prod and took immediate alarm.

Telepathic power had its limitations. None knew that better than he did. Even with normal humans it became frequently necessary to conceal probing under a cloak of speech, to hold conversations spiced with leading questions that would stimulate desired responses. The alternative was to pick up a useless mess of stuff cerebrated at the others’ whims.

To deal with a Venusian mind was not as easy. It became doubly difficult when squatting in the middle of an ambush. He could listen in the hope that the prey would betray its own coming but had to be extremely careful about administering a mental jab. To probe too early might result in the other’s escape with the news that one or more minds could detect things hidden from a million eyes. To probe too late might bring about a last minute struggle and the death of something they wanted to catch alive.

Right now he was slowly and rhythmically rocking the chair and straining its hind legs which gave forth protesting squeaks. Over the last few days he had not listened continuously. It was impossible to do that and give attention to other matters. Besides, there was no need to do so. It was sufficient for his mind to make a two-seconds sweep around the neighborhood every couple of minutes, much like a lighthouse beam circling across dark and stormy seas.

He rocked and made his umpteen hundredth or thousandth sweep, ceased punishing the chair, sat erect. Moira glanced at him expectantly, saw that his attention was not on her, resumed her sorting. He listened again to something far away, maybe a thousand yards or more, half-hidden in the general hubbub. It drew nearer, slowly but steadily, at a rate corresponding with walking pace. It was an inhuman mind gaggling like an angry gander.

“Norris!” he yelled.

Moira gave a jerk, dropped a bunch of papers, scrabbled for them on the floor.

The door whisked open and the agent looked in. “What’s the matter?”

“I think this is it.”

“You mean—?”

“It’s coming on two feet. No car. On the sidewalk taking a stroll.”

“Stay where you are!” ordered Norris. He bolted from sight.

Going to the window, Harper looked on to the road ten feet below. He opened the casement, leaned out to get a better view. That this made him an excellent target did not worry him in the least; there was no point in them coming after him except to learn his technique—and secrets cannot be extracted from the dead.

If there was one pedestrian in sight there must have been a thousand. The mind he sought had to be among that cluster on the left-hand side of the road between four and five hundred yards to the north. His directional sense assured him of that much but it could not detach one individual from a distant bunch of nondescripts.

Still leaning out and watching, he waited for the weird mind to draw closer. Three hundred yards, two hundred, one fifty. By now he had narrowed the possibility down to three people; a smart housewife tripping along perkily; a plump and prosperous-looking business man in his early forties; a lanky, lantern-jawed individual who slunk along close to the wall.

Behind him, Norris reappeared and said, “All set. Now can you—?”

Ignoring him, Harper made a vicious mental stab along the receiving-line. The result came back in a split second: intense shock, wild alarm, frantic desire to escape and bear warning elsewhere.

The housewife kept going without faltering or changing pace. The lanky slinker maintained gait and manner. The plump man stopped in his tracks, glared wildly around, swung on one heel and hurried back whence he had come. He moved at a rapid walk, about as fast as he could go without attracting unwelcome attention.

Harper jumped out the window. He heard a gasp from Norris, an exclamation from Moira before he landed heavily. His gun was already in his right fist as he regained balance and plunged forward in the wake of the escapee.

Something in the expressions of passers-by told the quarry that things had begun to happen behind him and now was the time to hustle. He did not bother to look backward for confirmation. Lifting arms to sides he broke into a headlong run. For one of his portly build he showed a remarkable turn of speed.

A bewildered clerk carrying a large box danced in front of the charging Harper who snarled, “Out of my way, Stupid!” then brushed him aside and pounded on. Back of him someone was shouting indistinguishable words in authoritative tones. On the corner six hundred yards ahead someone else blew a shrill whistle. A police car siren started wailing. Two agents stepped out of a doorway ahead of the fugitive, weapons in hands, and bawled an order to halt. Two more came racing down the opposite side of the road.

The plump man wasn’t finished yet. Taking as little notice of the guns as one would of peashooters, he dived through the main door of an office building. Harper went in five seconds later, red-faced and breathing hard. Two agents followed close upon his heels. A car squealed into the curb, unloaded four more.

One of a bank of self-operated elevators was going up fast, taking the fugitive with it. Stopping at its folding gate, Harper scowled upward, watched the other’s feet disappear from sight. One pair of agents raced up nearby stairs. Two more jumped into an adjoining elevator and boosted it skyward.

Putting the muzzle of his weapon to the gate’s lock, Harper fired, busted it, hauled the gate open and halted the elevator at third floor level. He had hoped to get the quarry stuck between floors but the apparatus proved to be of automatic leveling type and responded to sudden loss of power by letting its box sink into adjustment.

Listening to the minds above he detected the fugitive’s break-out on the third floor, the nearness to him of the agents on the stairs, and knew what was going to happen before he could prevent it.

He galloped up the stairs with sweat beading his brow. He had covered the first flight and half the second, taking steps three at a time, when overhead there sounded a terrific blast, a tinkle of falling glass, a brief pause followed by a hammering burst of explosions. His speed upped itself another twenty per cent while his lungs heaved.

While taking the turn from second to third he heard the yowl of an alien spark becoming extinguished in a useless body, also the wild, despairing cry of something more human on its way out. He slowed, mounting the remaining stairs at normal pace, sadly knowing that he was too late.

The third floor corridor was a shambles. Three agents stood in a little group looking over the scene. One was holding a heavy riot-gun still warm in the muzzle. Another was mopping blood that dripped steadily from his left ear. The third was gazing gloomily at the body of a fourth sprawled near the top of the stairs, crimson splotches on chest and face.

Ten yards from the elevator lay the corpse of the plump man. He was not a pleasant sight. The riot-gun had tried to cut him in half and nearly succeeded. Glass from two broken doors and shattered ceiling lights lay in glittering shards along with flakes of paint and fragments of plaster. One or two scared faces began peeking furtively from doorways farther along. The plump man showed them his ample backside and lay content to bleed.

The man with the dripping ear bent over the agent supine by the stairs, slid a hand under his vest, felt around and rasped, “He’s dead.” He stood up, patted a crimson-spotted handkerchief to the side of his head. “If he hadn’t beaten me to the top he mightn’t have got it. And if I hadn’t been four steps lower I’d have got it all over and right through.”

“We soared past him in that other box,” explained the one with the riot-gun to Harper. “When he stopped so suddenly we overshot him and had to back down. It was just then that he got out and tossed an egg at the other pair. A splinter went right through the floor and between my feet. We jerked open the gate, saw him running down there and gave him a burst before he could throw any more.”

A horde came charging up the stairs, Norris and Rausch in the lead. Loud murmurings came from the street far below. Harper realized that he was still gripping his gun, tucked it away.

Norris glanced around, thinned his lips, examined the agent lying by the stairs. “He looks gone to me. Rush him down to the ambulance, just in case.” He turned to the others. “What happened?”

They told him, finishing, “Fat lot of chance we had of taking him alive.”

One of the onlookers opened a penknife, picked at the wall, dug out a ragged piece of metal. He studied it closely and said, “Army grenade by the looks of it.” He gave the fragment to Norris. “What do you think?”

“Yes, you may be right. We’ll have to start checking the armories. Frisk him and let’s see what else he’s got.”

They made thorough search of the plump man’s clothes. No more weapons, not even a vest-pocket gun. The grenade was all he had carried in the way of lethal objects. He had an expensive watch, a diamond stickpin and a well-filled wallet. His clothes were of top quality and his hand-made shoes had cost him plenty. It was pretty obvious that instead of walking down the street he could well have afforded to come along in a private copter and dump himself on Harper’s roof.

They laid him flat on his back, revealing a double-chinned and amiable face closely shaven and well cared for. Even now his features wore the expression of one who would not harm a fly—unless it tried to make off with the stickpin. His hands were clean and soft with pink, almond-shaped nails expertly manicured.

Apart from the watch, pin, wallet and two fine linen handkerchiefs he hadn’t another thing in his pockets. That was singular: not a driving permit, business card or identity card; no pen, cigarette case, lighter or bunch of keys. His clothes were devoid of a tailor’s label; his shoes bore no maker’s mark other than that indicating the size. There wasn’t a thing by means of which he could be identified quickly.

“More delay,” remarked Norris, with bitterness. “It’s going to use up valuable time finding out who he is.” Again he pawed through the wallet and still found nothing but money, of which there was a sizeable wad. “We must nail him down before we can start the job of tracing all his contacts. He must have been in touch sometime and somewhere—otherwise he wouldn’t have run off the rails.” He became momentarily hopeful. “I don’t suppose
you
can tell us anything about him?”

“Sorry,” said Harper, genuinely regretful. It was beyond his power to dig data out of a dead brain. Although he had not had a chance to put it to the test he suspected that a probe might not have forced self-identification from the plump man’s living brain. A Venusian involuntarily identifies himself as a Venusian and not as the entity he has usurped. That was the cause of all the trouble, the reason why one exceptional man could recognize them.

“We’ll have to do the best we can and do it quickly, too.” Norris handed the wallet to an agent. “Make a list of those numbers and have them circulated to the banks fifty miles around. See if anyone has them recorded as paid out and, if so, to whom.”

Rausch had opened the watch and examined its insides. He snapped it shut, gave it to another of his men. “This ought to tell us something. It’s one of those new-fangled jobs drawing power from variations in barometric pressure. There shouldn’t be a million of them around considering what they cost. Find the local distributor. He’ll have the movement number on his books and be able to say where it went. Follow it through until you learn who bought it.”

The agent took the watch, hastened downstairs.

Studying the stickpin, Rausch said to Norris, “It’s a poorer bet but we’ll have to take it.” He beckoned another agent. “Show it to the leading jewelers. Phone us at once if you trace a sale.”

“If his prints are on record we’ll know him in a few hours’ time,” commented Norris, inwardly doubting that they were recorded. “We’ll roll a copy and let Washington have a look. Let’s hope they’ve got him on their files. Somebody had better tote those shoes around town. Any good shoeshop should be able to tell us who makes jobs like those.”

“May I see them?” asked Harper. He took them, turned them over and over, doubled them toe to heel and felt their softness and pliability. He handed them back. “Made to measure for him.”

Norris nodded, let go a yell of, “Where’s the cameraman?”

That worthy appeared, his apparatus dangling from one shoulder. He glanced at the corpse with the professional air of one who had yet to see a stiff with a new shape, size, expression or attitude.

“Tidy his pan and make him look sweet,” Norris ordered. “I want a good head and shoulders stereo study to put through the pane. Some gawker might recognize him mooning out of the screen. Give me the pic just as soon as you can have it ready.” He turned to Harper. “That’s all we can do for the moment. We'll escort you back to your office.”

Harper rubbed his chin, looked hesitant, said, “I’m so overawed by surrounding talent that I’m reluctant to offer a suggestion.”

“Let’s have it,” urged Norris.

“You don’t mind me amateuring right under your nose?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, then,” said Harper, “how many grown men go round without even a solitary key in their pockets?”

“That’s right. He hasn’t a key of any sort. I think he stripped himself of anything he thought likely to give us a lead but he made a sloppy job of it. Or maybe he knew that if anything happened to him it would be enough for him to cause a little delay.”