Three to Conquer

5. Not of the World

The police must have moved fast, and skillfully. Harper had covered a mere three hundred miles before he was advertised on the air and in the newspapers. He was having supper in a cheap hashery when he got an evening paper carrying the news. WANTED FOR MURDER, it said. There followed a fairly accurate description of himself and of his car, complete with tag number; he cursed under his breath as he read it. There were twenty customers in the place, most of them long-distance truckers. Half of them had read, or were reading, the same sheet. Some were unaware of his existence; the others glanced at him casually. He knew their lack of suspicion with absolute certainty, and that was about the only advantage he possessed.

Outside, in plain view, stood the car. Its numbers seemed to swell and grow enormous, even as he looked at them. Three big men in denims lumbered past its rear end, without giving it so much as a second look, got into an adjacent machine and pulled away. His luck might hold out like that for some time, but it just couldn’t last forever.

He could leave the car where it was and help himself to another. When you’re wanted for murder, theft can’t make it worse. But the number of a stolen car would be broadcast in short time, leaving him no better off than before. Moreover, right now, the law did not know where he was heading. A car-swap would give away the direction of his escape and get every hick deputy on the lookout for him ahead. Also, it would reveal that he had crossed state lines to evade arrest—a federal offense that might bring in the F.B.I.

The F.B.I, needed bringing in; of that he was more than positive. He was in the most peculiar position of wanting to get to the F.B.I, before they could get to him.

The means by which the law had tagged him as the culprit could be guessed quite easily. Ledsom’s knowledge that he was visiting the girl; her brother’s description of the caller at the door, and the sallow man’s evidence about the lounger at the bus stop. Above all, the missiles in the body which were like bullets from no other gun.

Stewing it over, Harper could not help wondering whether Ledsom now felt certain that he knew who had killed Alderson.

What he liked least about this sudden howl for a man named Harper was not that it boosted the official hunt for him, but that it might start an unofficial search. The forces of law and order should not be the only ones to take deep interest in the fact that he had killed Miss Jocelyn Whittingham. Certain others, undoubtedly, would be after him—those three fellows in the Thunderbug, for instance.

Swallowing the rest of his coffee, he got out of the place as quickly as he could, prudently, then drove at top speed into a dark, moonless night. He had more than five hundred miles yet to go.

At four-forty in the morning, with the pale halo of dawn beginning to show in the east, someone either read his plates or chased him on general principles.

Harper could not hear a siren, nor pick up following thoughts. He was too far ahead and too preoccupied with driving. He shoved the pedal down to the floorboards and let the machine leap ahead. If the pursuers were police, as their spotlight suggested, that alone would be enough to convince them that they were onto something worth running down.

With his needle trembling at over ninety, he tore through a crossroads, along a main artery darkened still more by large trees on both sides. The trees whizzed past like huge ghosts, arms out, transfixed by this night-time pursuit.

There was no traffic other than his own car and the one behind. Far ahead, and slightly to his right, he could see the sky-glow from street lights of a sizable city; he wondered whether he could make it that distance and, if so, what he’d do when he got there.

He rocked around another bend and momentarily lost the lights in the mirror, which by now were less than a mile to the rear. His own beams swung briefly across the end of a track through thick timber. He swung into it so suddenly and recklessly that, for a second or two, he feared an overturn.

Switching off all lights, he ploughed another fifty yards into complete blackness, meanwhile praying that he would not hit an invisible tree or dive into a hidden ditch. Twigs crackled and snapped under rolling wheels but luck remained with him. He braked, dropped a window, watched and listened.

The siren could be heard now—a prowl car, sure enough; by this time, it was on top of the bend. Headlights slewed across the night as it came round, and the next moment it thundered past, wailing as it went. Its passing was far too swift to enable Harper to see how many were inside, or to pick up a random thought.

He sat in darkness until he could see faint, diminished beams racing up a slope four miles away. Then he reversed, got back onto the road, and made off in the way he had come. Reaching the crossroads over which he had recently blundered, he turned to the right and continued along this new route.

Without further incident, he reached Washington late in the morning, planted the car in a park on the outskirts and took a bus into the city. There he found a phone and called his office.

Either the office visiscreen was out of order, or had been switched off; his own’ screen remained blank, and Moira’s response was equally blank.

“Harper plant. Can I help you?”

“Only God can help me,” he said. “This is your boss.”

She let out a distinct gasp.

“What’s so soul-shaking about that?” he demanded. “You’ve spoken to me many times before.”

“Yes, Mr. Harper. Of course, Mr. Harper.” she sought desperately for words. “I didn’t expect you just yet.”

“Tsk!” He grinned wolfishly at the dead screen. “Why not? I told you I’d call, didn’t I?”

“Certainly, Mr. Harper, but—”

“But what?”

She hadn’t the vaguest idea what. She was tongue-tied, and in a tangle.

“You’ve been reading the papers,” he observed grimly. “But no matter. Has anything turned up?”

“Turned. up?”

“Look, Moira, pay no attention to those fat-butted dicks sitting on my desk. Listen to me: has anything come along in the mail that requires my personal handling?”

“N-n-no, Mr. Harper.”

“Any complications I’m needed to clear up?”

“N-n-no.”

“All right. Put one of those guys on the phone.”

She got into a worse tangle. “I don’t understand, Mr. Harper. There isn’t—”

“Now, now, no lies!” he ordered.

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

He heard 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 that 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 time for which suffering taxpayers are paying; better 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. “I’m calling from Washington, and 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, walked out and 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; the man 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, was obsessed by the notion that Harper bore a very close resemblance to Wade 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 and became a mite uncertain of his whereabouts. He was not very familiar with Washington. He stopped on a comer, lit a cigarette, gazed furtively over cupped hands and found Slade studiously examining a shop window.

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

It shook Slade more than if Harper had stuck a gun in his belly.

“Why… er… yes, of course.” 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—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 and pointed down the street. “This way.”

They moved along, side by side. Slade made no suggestion of using his handcuffs, nor was he particularly wary. Harper’s attitude had put him into a state of skepticism; he was inclined to think that this capture would gain him no credit, 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?”

“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, and arrived at the door just as Slade opened it. 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, marshalled his wits and 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.

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

The phone rang 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 have 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 his hand in a manner suggesting that this was a minor point.

“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 reached a simultaneous verdict: not guilty of murder by reason of insanity.

Sighing deeply, Harper said, “Sam Stevens is the only one 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, the 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 unholy precincts.

“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.

“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, detailed picture, and 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 the desk, Slade slipped it across. He watched Harper take out a 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.

Ignoring these uncomplimentary ideas, Harper waited a few moments, then began to write. He scribbled with great rapidity, finishing 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 and 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.

“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, whenever 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, then fixed his full attention on Harper. “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 proposing 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 grasped the idea at the start, but still found considerable difficulty in absorbing it. The manifest explanation was proving indigestible.

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

“Nothing else but,” agreed Harper.

“Who ever heard of one?”

Harper merely shrugged.

Switching on 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 and departed with no visible surprise. 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 harelip 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—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.

“In view of the name, yes!”

“What did she call you?”

“A Terrestrial bastard.”