Three to Conquer

9. Three Rotten Apples

The general was like a chess-player trying to decide whether checkmate could be ensured by sacrificing his queen. To his military mind, telepaths were expendable—providing the supply of them was endless. Unfortunately, they were neither shells nor guns; they could not be manufactured to order. So far as could be determined, he had one, and only one, telepathic weapon in his armory. If that one went, there’d be no more.

Conway was still stewing it over, when again his phone called for attention. He took it meditatively, listened, abruptly came to full attention.

“Who?” When did this happen? Yes, yes, you’d better.” He cradled it, scowled forward.

“Something wrong?” asked Harper.

“You know what’s wrong; you must have heard the details being recorded in my mind.”

“I wasn’t listening. I was full of my own thoughts. I can’t make noises at myself and at the same time take note of other people’s cerebral trumpetings.”

“One of the witnesses is dead; the old man at the filling station.”

“Murdered?”

“Yes. It happened a couple of hours ago, but they found him only within the last fifteen minutes. Whoever did it has a good headstart.” Conway cocked an inquiring eye at Jameson. “I don’t know what to think of it. You’ve far more experience in such matters; do you suppose this may be mere coincidence?”

“How was he killed?” Jameson asked.

“They discovered him lying by his pumps, his skull crushed by a single blow from a heavy. instrument. They say it looks as if he filled somebody’s tank, and was struck down when he tried to collect.”

“Any evidence of robbery? Had his pockets been emptied or the cash register cleaned out?”

“No.”

“H’m!” That doesn’t prove that robbery wasn’t the motive,” Jameson opined. “The culprits may have been scared off before they could complete the job. Or maybe they were joyriders who slugged him for a free tank of gas, overdid it, and made it murder.”

Conway turned his 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 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 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, and 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. If they can postpone capture long enough, it will come too late. Many people spotted them in that Thunderbug, but only two saw them with the girl, and 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.”

“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 his gaze to Benfield. “Have you any ideas?”

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

“That’s the boy,” approved Harper. “With all the troops and police Uttering 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 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, sometime before Christmas, somebody will make up his 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 goodbye 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.

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 restore my good character while you’re at it,” Harper suggested. “Cancel that dragnet for me. I don’t like it, even if it is being ignored. Priority of pilot-search won’t prevent some sharp-eyed cuss from 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 half-moon 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.

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, with an air of quiet competence. Jameson introduced them. “Meet Dan Norris 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, and proceeded to the waiting machine.

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 the ground, identified himself as Vera 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.”

“Where are they?”

Pritchard pointed. “In the 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 his companions’ 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-to-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.