Three to Conquer

6. Unheralded Return

For a full two minutes Jameson sat there like one paralyzed. His thoughts milled mildly around, and he was momentarily oblivious of the fact that Harper could read them as easily as if they were in neon lights.

Then he asked, "Are you sure of that?"

"The only person in the world who can be positive about someone else's mind is a telepath," assured Harper. "I'll tell you something else: I shot her because I knew I couldn't kill her. It was a physical impossibility."

"How d'you make.that out?"

"No living man could harm Jocelyn Whittingham — because she was already dead."

"Now see here, we have a detailed police report—"

"I killed something else," said Harper. "I killed the thing that had already slaughtered her."

Jameson promptly went into another whirl. He had a cool, incisive mind used to dealing with highly complicated problems, but essentially normal ones. This was the first time within his considerable experience that he had been slapped in the face by a sample of the supernormal.

One thing surprised the observing Harper — namely, that much of the other's confusion stemmed from the fact that he lacked certain information he could reasonably be expected to possess. High up in the bureaucratic hierarchy Jameson might be; but evidently he was not high enough. All the same, he had enough pull to take the matter further and get some action.

Harper said, "You've got the bald account from police sources. It isn't enough. I'd like to give you my side of the story."

"Go ahead," invited Jameson, glad to concentrate on something that might clear up the muddle.

Commencing with his pick-up of the dying Alderson's broadcast, Harper took it through to the end.

Then he said, "No ordinary human being is ever aware of his mind being read. He gains no sense of physical contact that might serve to warn him; he remains completely unconscious of being pried into. I have been absorbing your thoughts the entire time we've been here together; your senses have not registered the probe in any way whatever, have they?"

"No," Jameson admitted.

"And if I had not told you that I'm a telepath, and satisfied you as to the truth of it, you'd have found no cause to suspect that your mind is wide open to me, would you?"

"No."

"Well," went on Harper reminiscently, "the instant I touched the mind inside Jocelyn Whittingham, it felt the contact; that mind knew whence it came, took wild alarm, and hated me with a most appalling ferocity. In the same instant I detected all its reactions and recognized it as non-human. The contact did not last a fiftieth of a second, but it was enough. I knew it as nothing born of woman, as surely as your own eyes can tell you that a rattlesnake is not a mewling babe."

"If it wasn't human," inquired Jameson, with much skepticism, "what was it?"

"That I don't know."

"Of what shape or form?"

"The shape and form of the Whittingham girl. It had to be that; it was using her body."

Disbelief suddenly swamped Jameson's brain. "I will concede that you are either a genuine telepath, or the practitioner of some new and superb trick that makes you look like one. But that doesn't mean I have to swallow this murder story. What your defense boils down to is that you shot a corpse animated by God knows what. No jury on earth will give such an incredible-plea a moment's consideration."

"I'll never face a jury," Harper told him.

"I think you will — unless you drop dead beforehand. The law must take its course."

"For the first time in my naughty life I'm above the law," said Harper, impressively confident. "What's more, the law itself is going to say so."

"How do you reach that remarkable conclusion?"

"The law isn't interested only in the death of Jocelyn Whittingham. It is even more concerned about the slaying of Trooper Alderson, he having been a police officer. And you can't pin that one on me, because I didn't do it."

"Then who did?" Jameson challenged.

"A-a-ah!" Harper eyed him meaningfully. "Now you're getting right down to the heart of the matter. Who killed Aider-son — and why?"

"Well?"

"Three men in a Thunderbug. Three men who, in all probability, resented Alderson's intrusion at a critical moment, when the Whittingham girl was being taken over."

"Taken over?"

"Don't stare at me like that. How do' I know precisely what happened — something did happen to produce the result I discovered."

Jameson looked baffled.

"Three men," continued Harper, giving it emphasis. "In green suits, matching green ties, gray shirts and collars. Three men wearing uniforms with which nobody is familiar. Why haven't those uniforms been recognized?"

"Because they were not uniforms at all," Jameson hazarded. "They merely looked that way, having a sort of official cut, let us say."

"Or because they were uniforms that nobody knows about," suggested Harper, "because the government has said nothing to anybody."

"What the devil are you getting at?"

"We're pulling the Moon to pieces, and nobody thinks anything of it. It's been going on long enough to have become commonplace. We're so sophisticated about such matters that we've lost the capacity for surprise."

"I'm aware of all this, since I live in the present," said Jameson, a trifle impatiently. "What of it?"

"Has anyone cooked up notions of exploiting Venus or Mars? Have you sent anyone there to take a look and, if so, when was it? Are they due back by now? Were they three men in green uniforms with gray shirts?"

"My God!" ejaculated Jameson.

"Three men went somewhere, got more than they bargained for and involuntarily brought it back to spread around. That's my theory. Try it for size."

"If I approach the proper quarter with such a fantasy, they'll think I'm cracked."

"I know why you fear that; I can read your mind, remember? First, you personally know of no space-expedition, have heard not the slightest hint of one. Secondly, you cannot credit my diagnosis. Right?"

"Fat lot of use denying it."

"Then look at it this way: I know that, for a fragmentary moment, I touched a genuinely alien mind in possession of a human body. That entity could not have solidified out of sheer nothingness. It must have arrived in some concealed manner. Somebody must have brought it. The only possible suspects are those three men."

"Go on," encouraged Jameson.

"We. have not the vaguest notion how long those three have been gallivanting around. Maybe for a week, maybe for a year." He fixed his listener with an accusative stare. "Therefore, the Whittingham girl may not have been the first. That trio may have given the treatment to a hundred, and maybe busily tending to a hundred more while we're sitting here making useless noises. If we wait long enough, they'll enslave half the world before we wake up."

Jameson fidgeted, and glanced hesitantly at the phone.

"Brockman of Special Services," said Harper. "He's the guy you've got in mind right now." He made an urgent gesture. "All "right, get through to him. What is there to lose? Perhaps he'll tell you what he wouldn't dream of telling me. Ask him if an expedition is out in space, and when it's due back."

"Ten to one he'll ignore the question and want to know why I'm asking," Jameson protested. "I can hardly offer him your notions, and secondhand at that."

"He'll jump on you only if there's no such expedition," Harper asserted. "But if there is one, and it's top secret, your query will make him hotfoot over to find how the news got out. Try him, and let's hear what he says."

Doubtfully, Jameson picked up the phone, said in resigned tones, "Get me Special Services Department, Mr. Brockman."

When the call went through, Jameson spoke in the reluctant manner of one compelled to announce the arrest of Snow White and all the seven dwarfs.

"We're onto something peculiar here. I won't take up your time with the full details. It would help considerably if you can tell me whether a new space-venture has been made in secret." He listened a bit, while his expression gradually went flat. "Yes, it's highly important that we should know one way or the other. Will you? Thanks a lot!" He planted the phone.

"He doesn't know?" said Harper.

"Correct."

"Should he know?"

"I assumed that he would;' I could be wrong. The more highly confidential a piece of knowledge, the fewer entrusted with it — and the further we'll have to seek for an answer, if there is a satisfactory answer." Taking a large blue handkerchief from his breast pocket, Jameson mopped his brow, although he was not perspiring. "Brockman will call back as soon as he can make it."

"It would save valuable time to ring the White House and ask the President. Don't tell me he won't know what's going on.

Jameson was shocked. "Look, let me handle this in my own way, will you?"

"Sure. But the longer we take over this, the sooner you may start handling things in some unearthly way." Harper registered a sour grin. "Not having my gun, I'd then be forced to strangle you with my own hands — if I could do so without you taking me over."

"Shut up!" ordered Jameson, looking slightly sick. He scowled at the telephone, which promptly jangled. He snatched it up, said, "Well?" and let half a dozen expressions run over his face. Then he racked the phone, came to his feet and said, "They want us over there immediately."

"And we know why, don't we?"

Offering no response, Jameson led the way down and got into a car. They rolled ten blocks, went up to the twentieth floor of a glass and concrete building and entered an office in which waited four serious men.

These four glanced briefly at Harper without recognizing him, despite all the recent publicity. Apparently, they seldom got around to reading the newspapers, or watching the video.

The oldest of the quartet, a lean-faced individual with sharp eyes and fine white hair, snapped at Jameson, "What's all this about a space-expedition? Where did you pick up such a story?"

Jameson indicated his companion. "This is Wade Harper. State police have him tagged as a murderer. He came to us an hour or so ago. My query arose from his story."

Four pairs of eyes shifted to Harper. "What story?"

These men were edgy, and Harper could see it. He could also see why they had the willies: they were deeply concerned about reserved data becoming public property. And he could see, too, that, for the moment, Jameson had forgotten his special aptitude.

Addressing the white-haired man, Harper filched his name and said, "Mr. King, I know for a fact that eighteen months ago we sent a ship to Venus, the nearest planet. That ship was the result of twenty years of governmental experimentation. It bore a crew of three hand-picked men. Its return has two alternative dates. If the crew found conditions unbearable, the ship should have been back last November. If conditions permit them to exist, and indulge a little exploration, they're due in mid-June, about five weeks hence. The fact that they are not known to have returned is officially considered encouraging. The government awaits their arrival before giving the news to the world."

King heard all this with a facial impassivity that he fondly imagined concealed his boiling thoughts. He asked with forced calmness, And how did you obtain this information?"

It was too much for Jameson, who had listened with amazement to the recital and had been awakened by it. "This man is telepathic, Mr. King. He has proved it to my satisfaction; he has picked the facts out of your mind."

"Indeed?" King was openly skeptical. "Then how do you account for the nature of your call to Brockman twenty minutes ago?"

"I suspected it then," Harper chipped in. "But now I know." He studied King levelly, and added, "At the moment, you're thinking that if the world is to be afflicted with such creatures as telepaths, it might be a good thing to put them out of harm's way, and fast."

"You know too much," said King. "No government could function with any degree of security with people like you hanging around."

"I've been hanging around enough years to make me wish they were fewer. We haven't had a bloody revolution yet."

"But we have a suspected murderer dragged into a government office by a departmental director of the F.B.I.," said King. "It is certainly a new and previously unheard-of practice. I hope they had the forethought to search you for concealed weapons."

By Harper's side, Jameson reddened and interjected, "Pardon me, Mr. King, but there is far more to this issue than the aspect that seems to irritate you."

"Such as what?"

"The ship is back," Harper put in.

All four jerked, as though stabbed with needles.

King demanded, "When did it return? Where did it land?"

"I don't know."

"Then how do you know it is back?"

"He found a trace of the crew," informed Jameson. "Or that's how it looks."

Harper contradicted carefully, "No, I don't think I did; I think the crew is dead."

"So the crew died and you haven't the faintest notion of where their ship is planted?" inquired King. "Nevertheless you know that the ship has returned?"

"I do."

"It made the trip all on its own? A unique spatial convulsion flung it thirty million miles or more across the void, and dumped it somewhere unknown to all and unsuspected by anyone but you?"

"Your sarcasm is pointless, doesn't help any, and furthermore it gives me a pain in the seat," snapped Harper, becoming tough. "The ship was brought here by a bunch of Venusians. How d'you like that, eh?"

King didn't like it at all. His mind unhesitatingly rejected the bald statement, started sorting out a dozen objections.

The bespectacled man on his right took advantage of the pause to chip in.

"Piloting a space-ship is not an easy matter."

"No, Mr. Smedly, I guess it isn't."

"It's highly technical; it requires a great deal of know-how."

"That," said Harper, "is precisely the hell of it."

"What do you mean?"

"Anyone who can hijack a ship and run it forthwith, without any tuition, can take over anything else we've got with as little trouble." He gave them a few seconds to stew the point, then added for good measure, "Bit by bit, piece by piece, until they have everything and we have nothing — not even our souls."

"That idea is detestable," said King, beginning to feel cold.

"It should be," agreed Harper. "And further, you'd do well to abandon this latest notion you're concocting."

"What notion?"

"That I'm the agent of a scheming gang across the ocean who are trying to pull a fast one. All that feuding is over, as from today. They're in the same mess along with the rest of humanity; they're going to become just as scared as I am right now."

"I doubt it. They'll be equally suspicious; they'll blame us for trying to disturb the world with a better and bigger bogey."

"It won't matter a cuss who blames whom when we're no longer human. Come to that, we won't be capable of apportioning blame."

King argued stubbornly, "It seems to me that you're taking a devil of a lot for granted on the basis of very little evidence. That evidence may be real enough to you. To us, it comes secondhand. Even if we accept you as a genuine telepath, I can conceive no logical reason for supposing that a telepath is impervious to delusions. Do you seriously expect us to alert the entire defenses of this country on the strength of an unproved story?"

"No, I don't," admitted Harper. "I'm not that daft."

"Then, what do you expect of us?"

"First, I wanted official confirmation of my suspicion that a ship really has been sent somewhere beyond the Moon. That is why I came all the way here, and avoided being picked up by local police who know too little and bark too much. Somehow or other I had to learn about that ship."

"Secondly?"

"I now expect action, within reasonable limits. If it produces the proof you require, I expect further action on a national scale."

"It is far easier to talk about getting proof than to go out and dig it up. If it exists, why didn't you find it yourself and bring it with you? Surely your own common sense should tell you that the wilder a story, the more proof it requires to make convincing?"

"I know," said Harper. And I reckon I could have got enough to make you leap out of your shirt if only I'd possessed an item hidden in your top-secret files."

"To what are you referring?"

"The photographs of those three spacemen." He eyed King and his confreres with the sorrowful reproof of one surprised by their inability to perceive the obvious. "We have a witness who got a good, close look at two of those three, and made careful note of them. Show him your pictures. If he says they're the boys, that settles it. The balloon goes up next minute."

Jameson waggled his eyebrows and put in, "Yes, that is the logical move. It should decide the matter one way or the other. We can do better than that, too. We can remove any element of doubt."

"How?" inquired King.

"A dozen, twenty, or forty people may have noticed that Thunderbug and the three men with it. I can put agents on the job of tracing that back-track and finding the witnesses. If all of them say the same thing, namely, that those three men are your missing pilots—" He let it die out, thereby making it sound highly sinister.

"To enable you to do that," King pointed out, "we would have to get those photographs released from secret files and provide you with a large number of copies."

"Of course."

"But that means the general dissemination of reserved data."

Harper emitted a loud groan, rubbed his jaw, and recited the — names of the twelve apostles.

Staring at him distastefully, King said, "I'll see what the appropriate department decides."

"While you're at it," Harper suggested, "you can persuade some other appropriate department to seize the body of Jocelyn Whittingham, and subject it to an expert autopsy. I don't know whether that will tell us anything, but it might. The bet is worth taking, anyway."

"I'll see what they decide," repeated King. He went out with visible unwillingness. The remaining three fidgeted.