Psychic Killer: 8/?
by Nan Smith
Chapter Twelve
Mark Linley watched his partner and the other two psychics leave the room. As the door closed behind them, Alan's voice said in his mind, "Good luck, buddy."
"Good luck, Mark!" Lyn's soft, mental contralto chimed in and Wanda echoed it. Mark nudged them back an acknowledgement and surveyed the members of the conference steering committee before him, from Admiral Weaver on down. The people shifted restlessly; Mark was aware of the rising level of anxiety in the room, but the source was from several persons for a variety of reasons. Their quarry was unlikely to lower his shields with Jim Francois in the room. They couldn't know that the man's shields were up, probably from habit, Mark thought. Psychics of the Underground were trained from the beginning to keep their shields up even in their sleep, when in uncertain territory, to guard against detection.
Mark turned to the Admiral.
"Sir, I've got some things to check out," he said, in a low voice. "If you need me for anything, I'm wearing a communicator."
"Of course, Colonel Linley." Weaver's expression was as unrevealing as Mark's. Linley turned and walked to the door, aware of many eyes on him as he made his exit.
Alan, of course, would really have to leave the island temporarily by sled, in case anyone checked up on him. The sled would skim out of sight, circle around, and dock on the opposite side of the island. The process would take about an hour. For that time he would be on his own against their elusive quarry.
Well, why not take the opportunity to do a few of his own investigations? The members of the conference would be busy for some time to come, so he had a little of it to kill before he began his psychic snooping on their minds. Perhaps now that he could actually use his psychic powers, he could learn a few things on his own instead of getting his information second hand, as he had until now.
A psychic, he thought again, almost in wonder. He was a functioning psychic. It was still new enough that he found the thought amazing. Not bad, for a kid who had been the leader of a street gang.
He'd been a slum kid, orphaned before the age of ten, who had risen to the leadership of the Black Saberclaws in the filthiest section of Scaifen, the capital city of the planet. Shallock was tropical, warmer even than New Hawaii. Jilectans preferred such planets, having little tolerance for cold weather, and the humans there lived in the depths of squalor. In his youth, Mark had simply assumed that such conditions were normal in the lives of all humans, everywhere. Still, he'd wanted more, and had joined the Viceregal Patrol shortly before his sixteenth birthday. Once there, a new world had opened up to him, and he'd taken full advantage of it. He'd risen rapidly through the ranks and at twenty-five had become the youngest man ever promoted to the rank of Strike Commander of a Jilectan battlecruiser. He'd reveled in his success. And then, a year later, he had met the fugitive psychic, Alan Westover, and that had been the beginning of a life that he couldn't have imagined at the time. He'd thrown his hard-won rank back in the faces of his former masters to save the life of a teenage boy and had never regretted it.
He'd come a long way since then, and done things that he couldn't have dreamed of at the time. In a way, though, all those experiences had prepared him for the role he filled now.
He grinned at nothing. Being Alan's psychic power pack was something he would never want to give up for anything, but he had to admit that being a real, honest-to-God psychic had its appeal, too, even on a temporary basis. It was his opportunity to throw off his blindfold and really see for a time -- to be as his psychic inheritance had intended, if not for the vital lack of the psychic control factor. His previous experiences as a functioning psychic, once out of necessity and twice for marathon training sessions, had given him a deeper understanding of Alan's view of life and of his difficulties than any non-psychic, be he ever so closely involved with psychics, could ever have. Ever since those episodes, some of Alan's more exasperating traits had become perfectly understandable to him.
He paused at the door of Meeks' old room. The man had been moved, since Osgood's death, to the room next door to the one belonging to Alan and Lyn, so there was little chance he would be interrupted. Might as well check this one out, he reflected. It was really too bad he wasn't a psychometrist like Alan, but it couldn't be helped. He'd just have to make observation and deduction as much of a substitute as he could.
The room was, naturally, locked, but that was no barrier to a telekinetic. He unlocked it almost absently and went in.
The room was as they had left it the last time. He prowled about, sweeping the area with his clairvoyant ability. Nothing. After about ten minutes, he turned in growing disappointment to the door that opened on Osgood's room.
The latch on Meeks' door was still broken, but the one on Osgood's side was locked. He unlocked it automatically and went in.
Everything was as they had left it. Mark crossed the room and once more rifled through the top dresser drawer, not really knowing what he expected to find. The swimming trunks were certainly gone. He closed the drawer and considered, his thoughts skittering around in his brain like fireflies. No one *should* have been able to get into this room. They had locked both doors when they'd left this morning, but someone must have gotten in, somehow. The swim trunks were gone, and they hadn't walked away by themselves. So the door had been opened -- yet no one, according to Wanda, had used a key on either lock, and the door between the two rooms had been locked on Osgood's side.
Mark went to the window and looked out.
Six floors up, sheer wall. An aircar could have brought someone up to it, but the window was locked as well, and the alarm was functioning. If the window had been forced, the entry had occurred without the faintest sign of it on the fastening.
Mark straightened up, rubbing a thumb across his jaw, a habit he'd picked up years ago. Short of a burglar with incredibly advanced equipment, only one method of entry remained: Alan's and his own. The door could only have been opened by a telekinetic. They had to be dealing with a psychic.
That cut down the suspects considerably. Mark considered the situation coldly. There were only four known psychics, besides himself, here at the hotel: Alan, Lyn, Colonel Blake and Jim Francois. And Jim was the only one without an alibi during the vital time.
But, that didn't make sense. Jim had been the first target. Was it possible that Jim had burned himself on the shoulder in order to distract attention from himself for the subsequent murder? A wound made at that close a range would have caused considerably more damage, unless Jim had had a confederate ...
No, he decided, jumping to conclusions wouldn't get him anywhere. Too many loose ends. Okay then, Wanda? She had no alibi for the attack on Jim, or Osgood's murder, but she'd been with them when the attack with the overloaded blaster had taken place.
Any other possibilities? Well, they suspected that Brittany's sister, Kelly, was a psychic, and she worked at the Trade Winds Hotel. But, what could be a possible connection?
Not enough information yet to make any assumptions. Alan had said that they weren't dealing with a psychic; he'd been almost positive, which was why they hadn't considered the possibility before. Alan was rarely wrong, but all the evidence pointed at a psychic. Could their quarry have concealed the ability behind selective shielding with such skill that even Linley's phenomenally powerful partner could make such an error? If he could, it was a first. Still, it was a possibility he couldn't ignore. Maybe, he thought, this was what Alan had meant by pointing out to him that sometimes too much information could be a disadvantage. It led one to rule out possibilities that perhaps should not have been ruled out. All right, then, he would act as if it were true for the present, until evidence arose to disprove it.
An idea was hovering just below the surface of his consciousness, crowded out by all the other, overlapping thoughts. He grasped for it but it slipped away as he did so. He tried for several seconds to retrieve the thought, then gave it up. It would surface on its own, in good time, if he let it be. Anyway, there was a definite chance that they were dealing with a psychic. That raised a whole new set of dangerous possibilities.
Mark left Osgood's room, locked the door behind him and returned to the conference room.
The committee members were still in vigorous discussion. Linley couldn't imagine what they could possibly be discussing that could take so long or so much talk. As he peeked through the small window, he saw Quade speaking animatedly to Terrence with much hand gesticulation. Meeks sat beside them, expressionless, his face in repose. He had scooted his chair closer to Quade, no doubt to better hear the black man's speech. Finnar, beside him, appeared to be staring into space, almost pointedly ignoring the man. Linley wondered briefly if some quarrel had sprung up between the Arcturian and Meeks, as the pseudo-reptiles of Ceregon were almost universally courteous to Terrans.
Admiral Weaver, nearest the door, looked frankly bored. He glanced up, saw Mark looking through the window, rose and came toward him. Mark stepped back, out of the privacy screen as Weaver emerged. The guard by the door saluted sharply. Weaver said something to him that Mark couldn't hear, and stepped out of the screened area as well. He rolled his eyes up expressively and sighed.
"I hate committees," he commented. "How people can talk so much about nothing is something I've never understood."
Linley found himself grinning in complete sympathy. "I know what you mean, sir. If it's okay to ask, how'd you get yourself roped in on this one?"
Weaver raised an eyebrow at him, then grinned, sheepishly. "My own fault, actually," he admitted. "I'm due to start my vacation right after the conference and I wanted to spend it here on New Hawaii."
Mark laughed. "I guess you're paying for the trip a different way, huh?"
Weaver chuckled. "Afraid so. Still, I've never been to the Maui before. Once you and your colleagues solve this thing, I'll finally be able to relax. Anna's already bought out half the souvenir shops on the island and mailed them to every relative we've got. She even got a photo of me in a grass skirt, posing with a hula girl." He grinned. "I made her promise to keep that one in our own photo files, but you should have seen the face of the guy behind the counter when we hauled a small mountain of packages into the hotel post office."
Linley could imagine. "I take it that was before this business started."
"Earlier that day, actually. I guess the relatives are going to have to wait for their knick-knacks until Wanda opens the island to tourists again." Weaver jammed his fists into his pockets; a gesture of exasperation. "Damn, what a situation, Linley! First that business on Riskell and now this! I'm beginning to think the whole planet's jinxed."
"What business was that?" Mark managed, with effort, to keep the sharpness out of his voice. One of those hunches psychics got, he wondered, or was it the Riskell connection? After all, everyone on the conference steering committee, with the exception of the Weavers, Osgood and Meeks, was from Riskell.
Weaver hitched his shoulders. "We put out a general warning to our people on Riskell. We've had four incidents involving the apparent betrayal of psychic families on the planet in less than a week. They were all well-established and had lived there for at least ten years, but they were suddenly discovered. All but one family -- a man and his wife -- escaped. The one exception managed to trigger their car's emergency destruct system. They weren't caught, but we lost two psychics. Our operatives on the planet suspect an informer."
"Hmm." Linley's mind was working rapidly. "Did the other families have any ideas?"
Weaver shrugged. "Nothing much. The Ching family picked up an APB on themselves during their escape. Colonel Ching reported that they were described as possible Terran psychics. No mention of any connection to the Underground. Whoever our informer is, if he exists, he can't know a lot."
"Yeah." Mark's thought processes had just made a standing broad jump. Two attempted murders of psychics; possibly a third, if the attempt on him in Lyn's room had actually been meant for her.
Yet, there was a contradiction. Osgood had been neither from Riskell, nor a psychic, yet he had been murdered, apparently with considerable efficiency. Murder might not even have been suspected if not for the business of the body temperature. According to Wanda, if someone on the floor below hadn't reported a leak, the maid would not have gone in to check when she did and by the time the body was found, it would have been the same temperature as the water of the tub.
Yet, the murderer had botched three other attempts made at, apparently, considerable risk to himself.
And with that, the thought he had been struggling to grasp surfaced gently and effortlessly, and yet with the effect of a searchlight in a dark room. A possibility had become a certainty in his mind, and for the first time since the beginning of this investigation, he knew that he was on the right track. A large piece of the puzzle had dropped neatly into place.
Weaver was watching him and, in spite of the famous Linley poker face, appeared to see something for he spoke suddenly.
"You've discovered something, haven't you, Colonel?
Mark grinned faintly. "I might have just figured something out, sir, but I don't want to talk about it yet -- not until I know a little more. Look sir, I need to have a word with Colonel Francois."
Weaver surveyed him for a long minute, then nodded abruptly. "Certainly, Colonel Linley. I'll send him out to you, myself. Just a moment."
He turned and re-entered the conference room. A moment later, Jim Francois came out. He stepped out of the privacy zone.
"You wanted to see me, Mark?"
"Yeah." Linley hesitated, then plunged ahead. "Two things. I'm gonna be conductin' some interviews. I don't want you anywhere around while I'm doing that, okay? It's real important."
Francois looked bewildered. "Okay, Mark. But *why*?"
"Can't tell you that. Just do it. The second is just as important. I want you to stay in the company of two other people at all times. Your life might depend on it."
"Can't you tell me more than that?" Francois protested.
"If I knew more, I would. I got good reasons for both of those orders. See to it that you follow them."
Jim eyed him suspiciously. "I'm not so sure of that. I think you know more than you're letting on."
Mark shook his head. "Let's say I'm workin' a hunch -- a pretty good hunch, but there's no proof, at least yet. Just some -- well, let's say there's no other way I can see it. Remember what I said. It's important. Now, I've got a few things to do, right away."
He turned and went briskly down the corridor toward the lifts, aware of Jim's eyes on his back all the way to the intersection.
The lift arrived within a minute, and he boarded, aware that his heart was thumping hard in his chest, in spite of his outwardly cool demeanor. The conversation with Admiral Weaver meant something important -- of that, he was certain. Something the man had said was nagging at him. Linley had learned never to disregard the workings of his subconscious mind, and it had pinpointed something; he was sure of that.
Without questioning the impulse, he instructed the lift to take him to the first floor, not totally certain of what he intended to do once he got there. When he arrived, he exited into the lobby, looking around. There was something here that he had come to see. All he had to do was figure out what it was.
To his left was the entrance to the Molokai, to his right a corridor branched off the lobby, with a sign that directed him to the manager's office and, among other things, the mailroom. Linley could have sworn he heard an audible click as his eyes focussed on the sign. Weaver had mentioned that his wife had mailed souvenirs to their Terran relatives, he recalled, and suddenly he knew why he was here.
One of the mysteries surrounding Osgood's death was the inexplicable disappearance of his pajamas, robe and slippers. Meeks had reported that when he had last seen his employer, the man had been fully dressed and surely Osgood had not exited the hotel in his nightgear. So, where had the items gone? Why had the murderer disposed of them? The safest thing to do would have been to return them -- unless there was a good reason not to, something that would be a dead giveaway, to use a bad pun, that Osgood's death was not an accident.
And, whoever their man was, the chances were good that he hadn't risked being noticed by carrying the stuff out of the hotel, or dumped it where it might be found by searchers.
Again, Linley stared at the sign. Could it really be so simple? The sheer simplicity spoke volumes about their killer, if this was indeed the solution. He strode toward the mailroom, opening his shields wide.
The room was typical of post offices everywhere in the Confederation: a small, impersonal room with counters for transacting business, small computer terminals on the little writing surfaces, and a bulletin board with the latest computer generated images of wanted criminals posted on it. He picked out his own and Alan's posters automatically amid the clutter.
He stood before a terminal, his clairvoyant power scanning. It would be a package, not large, or particularly heavy. Back behind the shelves there were a surprising number that fitted the description. Mark wasted no time looking at their exteriors, but simply used his internal sight to look at the contents.
And sure enough, there it was.
It was a small, brown, paper-wrapped package, probably massing no more than a kilo and a half all told. The contents were wrapped tightly in what appeared to be at least two layers of plastic sheeting. Mark examined them with his clairvoyant power and became rapidly certain that he knew why they had been concealed instead of returned. But, to provide proof that Osgood's death had not been simply an accident in the hot tub, he must obtain the items, and that posed something of a problem. The package was simply too large for him to teleport.
"Hey, mister! You okay?"
The voice jerked him back to the outside world. It belonged to the postal clerk; a young, dark-haired man standing behind the counter, regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. The emotions leaped out at him. Linley reached past the shielding emotions to the thoughts behind them and almost laughed.
"Yeah, I'm okay." He flashed the boy a disarming grin. "I was tryin' to remember a guy's new address. I'm gonna hafta go check it." He made a face. "I think I left the unprintable thing sittin' on my dresser." He turned toward the door, then glanced back. "Oh, and kid ..."
"What?"
"The mail room don't seem like such a good place for makin' out with a girl. I'd take her up to one o' the empty rooms, if I was you." He flicked the astonished clerk a wink and exited quickly to avoid questions.
Now, to business. He scanned the hallway and his eyes lit on a men's room perhaps three meters down the way from the mailroom door. Mark sauntered into the lavatory.
A man was washing his hands at a sink, but, other than that, there appeared to be no one else present. He waited until the fellow dried his hands and left, then casually locked the door behind him. If anyone wanted to use the room for the next few minutes, that was just too bad. He had something more important to do.
Quickly, he oriented himself and walked to the wall nearest to the mailroom. This was as close as he could get to it, unobserved. Now, to try what he had in mind. If it didn't work, he might have to wait until Alan got back, but it couldn't hurt to make the attempt.
Mark closed his eyes and extended his clairvoyant feelers, focusing in on the contents of the package. Very slowly, the picture formed in his mind and he strove to strengthen it. The blurry, wavering image cleared gradually until it was as vivid as he could make it. Now, he "felt" its mass with his mental fingers. No, it was definitely too heavy. He couldn't possibly teleport the whole thing away by himself. Think, Mark! What would Alan do in this situation? He certainly wouldn't just give up!
Then, the solution hit him. If he couldn't teleport it all at once, how about in pieces?
He clenched his jaw and reached with his psychic power through the nothingness of otherspace. A slipper appeared on the floor beside him.
Linley let out his breath and allowed himself a small feeling of pride. Worley had been right after all. If he had been born a psychic, he *would* have been a whopping good one! After all, these powers were his, the ones heredity had bequeathed to him. Science had merely supplied him with the means to use them, but he couldn't have done it if they hadn't been there in the first place.
He reached again. Another slipper appeared, then the pajama shirt. White silk, he noted in the corner of his mind. Osgood definitely had never stooped to anything less than the very best -- not that it had done him any good. The pajama bottoms came next and then the robe. They were followed by the plastic wrapper and last, by the unopened box, itself.
He paused to figuratively catch his breath and wrinkled his nose. The mystery of the missing nightgear was certainly solved, now. Whew! Osgood must have been scared out of his wits when he died -- understandably, Mark thought. An effort had obviously been made to clean the fine, Oriental silk, without much success -- so then, the murderer must have stuck it in the plastic bag and tried to get rid of it.
Someone rapped sharply on the lavatory door.
Linley ignored it, considering. On the other side of the men's room, in the opposite direction from the mailroom, if he remembered correctly, was a supply closet, which would give him more privacy than the bathroom.
Again, came a knock, more urgently this time. Once more he ignored it, turning his clairvoyant power on the closet. It was a harder job, as he had never been even peripherally in the closet, but after several minutes of effort, the image of the place was indistinctly pictured in his mind's eye. Piece by piece, he sent the items there.
Again, he had to pause to rest, oblivious to the sharp, impatient rapping on the door. Teleportation was hard work, no matter how easy his partner made it look. He wished for a fleeting instant that Alan were here, but at the same time, he had to admit to a sneaking ambition to prove that he could be as competent a psychic as his partner and not holler for help at the first sign of difficulty. Then, with every appearance of unstudied casualness, he unlocked the lavatory door and made his exit.
Six men, two in business suits and the others in the uniforms of hotel employees, were gathered at the door. One, a big, burly fellow, glared at him.
"Took you long enough, buddy!"
Mark met his eyes with an expression of wide-eyed innocence. "Sorry, pal, you can't go in. Door's not workin'." Mentally, he reached out and flipped the lock. The burly individual reached out to tug on the door and then swore as the panel failed to move. Quietly, Mark opened the door to the supply closet and entered. Not one of the men noticed.
It was pitch black in the storage closet, but he made no move to turn on the lights, letting clairvoyance guide his steps as he had seen Alan do many times before. Now came the tricky part but he thought he could manage it.
With meticulous precision, Linley transferred the plastic bag via teleportation back inside the package. That accomplished, he moved each item, with finicky delicacy, into the bag. As the last item materialized inside the package, he let out the breath that he hadn't even realized that he was holding. The evidence was back in one piece, untouched by human hands.
And at that moment, a prickle ran over his scalp and he felt all the hair on his neck rise from the roots. It was almost as if something ghostly and insubstantial had touched him softly on the shoulder. A mental touch, so light that he wasn't even sure he hadn't imagined it. Instantly, his shields snapped shut.
*Had* he imagined it? He waited several moments in pitch darkness, listening to the sound of blood pounding in his ears. Then, with infinite care, he thinned his mental barrier and peered cautiously out.
Nothing stirred within his range of perception. With extreme caution, he lowered his shielding further, alert for any sign of a psychic mind.
Nothing. No slightest trace. *Had* there really been anything at all? Could there be another psychic around, watching his movements, or had he imagined the whole thing?
No, he hadn't imagined it. Another psychic had been aware of his mental activities moments ago, might possibly be watching him now. His best move was to remove the incriminating evidence as fast as possible.
Quickly, he scanned the area, still alert for that other mind. A bag of some sort, full of discarded bottles, lay on the floor to his left. He upended it, dumping the contents, and thrust the package inside.
The bottles rolled about on the floor and he kicked them absently aside. How was he going to walk through the hall carrying this thing without being noticed?
The answer presented itself almost immediately. A grey, janitor's coverall hung from a hook on one wall. He unhesitatingly appropriated it and pulled it on over his clothing, cursing softly at the length of the legs. His own pants showed below them, and he bent to roll them up, revealing the stylish purple socks, given to him by Julia. He made a face at the capriciousness of the fate, which had decreed that he wear them today.
Oh well, probably no one would notice. He picked up the bag and opened the door.
Several persons were passing in the hallway as he stepped from the closet, but on one paid him any attention, in spite of the socks. He headed briskly toward the manager's office.
A dark-haired woman glanced up from a computer screen as he opened the door marked "Manager". "Yes, sir. May I help you?"
A quick scan of her emotions told him she didn't recognize him, was not, in fact, aware of the Terran Underground's connection with her boss.
"I have to see Mr. Pahaui," he told her, letting the door swing shut behind him. No one that he knew had been visible when he had traversed the hallway. Perhaps he'd made it without the psychic realizing what he'd done.
"Mr. Pahaui is busy just now," the woman told him, with a prim, little smile. "Perhaps I can help you." She glanced oddly at his socks.
"I don't think so," Mark said, impatiently. A quick, clairvoyant look told him that Pahaui was indeed in his office, listening to a weather report from the Maui's local broadcasting station. "My name is Langley. I need to see Mr. Pahaui right away. It's important."
Suspicion flickered in the woman's mind. "What is it about, please?"
"It's private. And important. I need to speak to him, now."
"I'm afraid Mr. Pahaui can't be disturbed. If you'd care to wait --"
Mark said, loudly and clearly, "I want to know what the hell he was doin' with my wife, last night!"
The woman's eyes grew big. "Just a minute, sir!" she stammered, and spoke to the videophone on her desk. "Um, Mr. Pahaui, there's a Mr. Langley out here. He wants to see you -- about his wife, sir!"
Pahaui's voice replied instantly. "Did you say Langley? Send him in right away, Miss Visi!"
A few seconds later, Mark was ushered rather hurriedly, into the manager's office.
Pahaui rose as Mark entered the room, his expression never changing at the sight of his large visitor in a janitorial uniform and carrying a burlap bag. As the door closed behind Linley, he spoke.
"Can I help, sir?"
"Yeah." Mark felt suddenly short of breath, as if he had been running. "Keep your shields up tight, for starters. I need a transport tube, quick. I've got something important here that the cops want."
"There's one right here." The manager touched a button and a panel slid aside, revealing the opening of a transport tube.
"Thanks. Don't let anybody in here for a couple of minutes, and guard the door."
Pahaui didn't argue. "Miss Visi," he said clearly, into the desk videophone, "Mr. Langley and I are not to be disturbed."
"Yes, sir," the woman responded, quickly.
Pahaui opened a drawer and slipped a little ladies'-sized blaster from it into his pocket. Linley snatched a stylus from the desktop and a pad of paper, which he used to scribble an explanatory note to Lieutenant Greene, then signaled for the transport service. He waited tensely, counting the seconds.
Time seemed to stretch interminably. He waited, shields half-raised, his mind alert for any sign of the unknown psychic's presence. What in blazes was taking so long? He glanced at his chronometer. It had been barely twenty seconds since he'd signaled, although it seemed much longer.
He sensed it coming, somehow. A great, black wave, rushing toward him at the speed of light. His shields snapped up without conscious thought as the blow struck.
The impact literally staggered him. The room dimmed out and sparks jumped out of the blackness at him. As his surroundings swam back into focus, Linley found himself leaning back against Pahaui's desk, and almost as if in a dream, he heard the soft hiss and thunk of the arriving transport tube.
Man! A psychic who fought with psychic energy! He had heard of such things; the Jils were supposed to have a few psychics who could accomplish such a feat, and there were undoubtedly Terran psychics who could match them. He'd read the theory behind it, too, but up until now, he had never encountered the genuine article. Come to think of it, except for a few wild rumors, he didn't know any psychics who had. In any case, the theory was now confirmed. If he hadn't gotten his shields up, he would now be dead. That attack had been meant to kill.
But, he'd raised his shields in time. The psychic blow had not connected solidly enough.
A little unsteady, still, he drew the tube from the receptacle, opened it, thrust the bag, containing the nightgear inside, along with the hastily scribbled note, cramming the material in tightly, and punched the code for the police department. In less than a full five seconds, the tube was on its way. Hopefully, the fast action would confuse the watching clairvoyant. Some were easier to do that to than others. At any rate, it was out of the watcher's reach, for now.
With hands that weren't entirely steady, he began to unseal the janitor's outfit. Pahaui glanced at him, questioningly. "All clear, sir?"
"I wouldn't say that, exactly." Linley cleared his throat as he stepped out of the coverall. "Look, Pahaui, I took a big risk, bringin' that stuff here. The guy we're lookin' for -- he might be a psychic. Keep your shields up tight until we've caught him. He's scared, an' he's dangerous."
"Great." The man glanced uneasily at the door. "Can't you tell me any more?"
Linley rolled down his pantlegs, covering the ubiquitous purple socks. "I don't *know* much more -- not yet, anyway. If it's any comfort, I'm probably in a lot more danger than you are."
"That's not a lot of comfort, sir," Pahaui said. "If you need any help, yell. I'll be sure Security is ready to respond on a second's notice."
Mark went to the door. "Thanks. Things are breaking fast. With luck, we'll have this thing under control, soon. Just watch your back; got it?"
"Got it, sir."
Linley went out, his shields up, tight.
Their quarry was getting desperate, he thought, and would be looking for the offending psychic. A frightened quarry was doubly dangerous, and rightly so, considering what Linley had learned in those two, fortunately brief, contacts. Man! Being a psychic might have its advantages, but it brought its own problems, too. The contact with the other psychic mind had been peripheral, in a way. There had been no telepathic touch. He hadn't been able to identify it, but in another way that might be a good thing, because if he hadn't been able to identify the other psychic, it was extremely unlikely that the other psychic had recognized him as a specific individual. He'd better not have, Mark told himself, dryly.
With a deep breath, he forced down the instinctive nervousness. Their killer was a psychic, but so was *he*, and a good one. It was the other guy who should look out, this time. All the same, he wished Alan, Lyn and Wanda would hurry. It would be nice to have some psychic backup against an enemy of this caliber, especially considering the nature of the dangerous knowledge he now carried.
The committee meeting was breaking up when he arrived on the sixth floor. He waited by the lift as people passed him on the way to their various destinations, scrutinizing each individual closely.
Jim Francois passed him without a word, but gave him an odd look -- to which Linley did not respond. Michael Weaver and his wife boarded a lift. Mark, his shields down, now, although he was ready to slam them up at the first hint of the other mind, could hear their conversation, clearly.
"Linley knows something he isn't telling us, Anna. I'm sure of it."
"Well, if he does, don't let on to anyone else," Anna responded, tartly. "Keep that long nose of yours out of his business. He knows what he's doing."
Linley pulled his attention from the Weavers and turned at the sound of a light footstep. Henry Meeks rounded the corner, a slight scowl on his face. Alan had said the man was a natural shielder. Mark checked with as light a touch as he could muster. The shields appeared to be solid and impenetrable. He could sense nothing of the thoughts behind them. He fell into step beside the man.
"How're you doin', Mr. Meeks?"
The man pressed a slender hand to his forehead. "Pretty well. I've a mild headache. I guess the strain is getting to me."
He did look a bit pale, Linley noted. There was a flock of freckles across the bridge of his nose and a trace of sunburn showed up clearly against the pallor of his skin. The tip of his nose was peeling.
"Musta been a shock, your boss getting killed an' all," Linley remarked.
"Quite," Meeks returned, grimacing. "I've worked with him for nearly two years. He was -- somewhat difficult at times; not always the most congenial of employers, but we got along. His father is going to be terribly distressed about this. I certainly hope his heart --" He let the sentence trail off.
"I guess you know Senator Osgood pretty well," Linley ventured.
"Not well, but I've met him occasionally; a very charming man. I feel for him and his wife. A dreadful accident."
"Yeah," Mark agreed. "You think it was an accident, then?"
Meeks stared at him. "Can there be any doubt, Colonel Linley? It certainly must have been an accident. Why should anyone wish to kill him? He barely knew Colonel Francois."
"Still, it was a hell of a coincidence that he died here, where there's been a couple of attempted murders, already."
They had arrived at Meeks' room. The man fumbled in his pocket for the door key, drew it out and dropped it. He bent, with a wordless sound of annoyance and retrieved it, left-handed.
"I don't feel that there's a connection," he said, thoughtfully, "however, I am not a professional investigator. If you think the events are connected -- well, I'll certainly help you in any way possible, sir. In any case, I hope you and General Westover will apprehend this madman, quickly. No one feels safe while he is at large."
"I don't blame you," Mark said. "He tried to kill me, too, remember. But, why do you think he's a madman?"
"Considering what he's done, I shouldn't think there would be any doubt," Meeks said, caustically. "And I, for one, will breathe easier when he is apprehended." He pressed two fingers to his forehead. "Pardon me, Colonel, I'm not myself. This has all been a dreadful shock."
"I suppose it has," Linley agreed, sympathetically. "Tell me, Henry -- we haven't had much of a chance to get acquainted -- what did you think when you found out about Terran Military Intelligence's connection to the Terran Underground? The Underground has had a lot of bad publicity, after all."
"Well --" Meeks appeared to consider. "I was certainly surprised, but after I thought it over, I realized what a wonderful idea it was. Only then, of course, someone tried to kill Colonel Francois, and --" He shrugged. "I must say, I've never been near such dreadful goings-on in my life. I'm not certain a life of such intrigue is for me, but I suppose there's no backing out now. I'll try to be worthy of the trust placed in me, in spite of the loss of my employer." He opened the door. "Perhaps, if I lie down for half an hour I shall feel more like eating. Thank you for your company, sir."
"Think nothin' of it," Mark said. He watched pensively as Meeks entered his room and closed the door behind him. He wished that Alan would hurry. His partner's psychometric talent was exactly what he needed now, and lacked.
Mark turned slowly away, retracing his steps down the corridor to his own room. He would call Alan, he decided. His partner was back on the island -- he'd been aware of his arrival minutes before, but Alan's mind had seemed distracted; as a matter of fact, his psychic partner still seemed to have his attention elsewhere.
He allowed the door to slide shut and reached out carefully with his telepathic sense, scanning for psychic minds, nearby.
There was one, but it was kilometers from the hotel, and apparently unaware of his intrusion -- an untrained psychic, apparently. Nowhere could he sense that dangerous presence that had tried to kill him, half an hour before.
Then, so suddenly that he gasped, he heard another telepathic call -- loud, clear and terrified. Somewhere, someone was in bad trouble; that was for sure.
**********
(tbc)
