The Stuff of Dreams: 5/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
11
Alan Westover and Andrei Wolenski entered the Reynold's Rent-a-Car office nearest the L.A. Spaceport. They were guessing, of course, but it seemed to Alan a good bet that the car they had rented the day before had come from there. Alan had chosen Wolenski for his companion for several reasons. The former Strike Commander of the "Guardian" was a tall man, but his features, although not unpleasant, were nondescript enough that he did not attract attention. Conversely, Alan's two power packs were notably striking in appearance and always attracted attention, being tall, blond, handsome and, at the moment, both sporting black eyes and other assorted facial lacerations. Griffen, although less striking than either Mark or Kevin, was still a very handsome man with dark, chiseled Amerindian features. People tended to remember him. He also had rented the car, yesterday. As for Lyn, nobody would believe that she was anything but a teenage kid -- certainly not the police detective that she would be claiming to be. Wolenski, therefore, had been Alan's only choice. The ex-patrolman wore a dark, slightly rumpled business suit, cut in the style of the day, and a small, dapper mustache adorned his upper lip. He looked the part, Alan thought admiringly. A bored, harassed policeman on a dull job.
For himself, Alan wore a straight wig, the same color as his own curly hair, and brown contacts. His own dark business suit was also rather rumpled and showed evidence of a coffee stain on one of the sleeves.
The man behind the desk glanced up as they entered. "Yes? May I help you?"
Wolenski presented his credentials, supplied by Major Cross, identifying him as a police detective.
"Lieutenant Jefferson, L.A. Police. We're here concerning the aircar that crashed into the police station, this morning."
The young man frowned in puzzlement. "I don't understand. The police already contacted us about the car."
Wolenski harrumphed. "That wasn't quite what I meant, Mr. --"
"Selwyn. Phillip Selwyn. I'm the assistant manager of this office."
"Of course." Wolenski cleared his throat again. "We're not with that section. Narcotics Division."
Selwyn sat up straight. "Narcotics?"
Narcotics Division, of course, included any and all contraband drugs, not merely the small number actually classified as true narcotics.
"Yes," Wolenski confirmed in a businesslike way. "There appears to be some irregularity about the aircar. We're wondering if you can supply us with the names of the two persons that rented the car before Captain Griffeth."
The assistant manager hesitated. "It's really against company regulations --"
Alan leaned forward confidentially. "We realize that, Mr. Selwyn. This is strictly off the record, as we're in the middle of a very touchy investigation involving some very important political figures. A quantity of a ... a contraband substance was discovered in the wreck of the aircar. Captain Griffeth, the man who rented the aircar yesterday, has already been investigated and cleared of any connection with the substance, so we must find out who the driver before him was. We believe it may be the vital piece of information in a very sensitive case ... need I say more? Your cooperation would be appreciated by the department -- unofficially, of course."
Selwyn dithered a moment. "I'll do anything I can, naturally ... but it's really against company regulations. Let me call Mr. White, our manager. I'm sure he can help."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Selwyn," Alan said, feeling pleased. All the time since they had entered the room, he had been listening with his own special ears, his empathic sense scanning Selwyn's emotional output like radar. Until Wolenski identified them as narcotics officers, the emotions were clear, but once their identities had been supposedly established, the emanations had changed. Apprehension was paramount in the man's emotional output. Quickly, he extended a light telepathic probe.
Philip Selwyn was an easy read. Alan's probe met almost no resistance worthy of the name and within seconds he was picking up the information that he needed.
About two hours after the aircar in question was rented to "Captain Griffeth", the employee who had delivered the car began acting very strangely. He shouted several rather incoherent threats and obscenities and then leaped into an aircar, threatening to fly it through the manager's plate glass window. Fortunately, he'd been unable to activate the antigrav control, and instead been forced to be contented with plowing the car through the ornamental flower beds, sideswiping four other vehicles during his meandering progress around the lot, and ended up by driving the car into a ditch. When pulled from the car by a pair of mechanics, he had babbled happily and incoherently until the med techs had arrived to take him to the hospital.
That hadn't been all, either. Early morning of the same day had seen another, more disturbing incident. One of the mechanics that serviced the cars had succeeded in ramming a vehicle that he was in the process of testing through the door of McFeegle's Burger Haven, two blocks down. Mr. McFeegle was threatening to sue, as of yesterday. In the interests of protecting themselves from bad publicity, Reynold's Rent-a-Car had hushed the matter up as much as possible, but both employees had been suspended for suspicion of drug use on the job.
The information, of course, tended to confirm Kevin's deduction about their aircar, as if, Alan thought, it needed any more proof. The mechanic must have serviced the car that morning and encountered the dream dust. It all fit. However, it was also usable in convincing the manager that the police might know more than they were saying.
Here he came and, if Alan was any judge, he was angry. Mr. White was a broadly built man of medium height, with a balding head and ruddy cheeks. His thick brows were drawn together and a deep line was etched between his brows. Swiftly, Alan extended a probe.
Mr. White was angry, all right, and with good reason. He'd had a trying couple of days and the last thing he wanted right now was to bandy words with a couple of enigmatic police detectives. Secretly, Alan sympathized with him, but he couldn't allow his feelings to interfere with their mission.
"How do you do, Mr. White," Wolenski said. "I'm Lieutenant Jefferson, L.A. Police, and this is Lieutenant Waverly."
"Yes, yes." White's voice held barely concealed impatience. "What is it?"
Wolenski proceeded to explain the problem and, as he did so, Alan watched Mr. White's emanations change from anger to worry, and a sense of vast irritation at the unfairness of the whole situation. Visions of lawsuits and police investigations crept into his thoughts, along with the possibility of the loss of his managerial position.
"It's actually against regulations," he began.
Now, Alan knew, was the time to offer him his out.
"Well, Mr. White, we can, of course, obtain the records through a court order, but we'd rather not. If at all possible, we'd like to conduct this investigation with as little publicity as possible. It's entirely likely that -- with your cooperation, of course -- your name, and that of your company need not be mentioned at all. Now, we have information to the effect that two of your employees experienced what appeared to be drug trips yesterday --"
Selwyn glanced quickly at Mr. White. The manager's expression was utterly grim.
Alan continued without pause. "The symptoms of the trips are consistent with the drug in question."
White opened his mouth. Alan hurried on before he could speak.
"We aren't interested in your employees, Mr. White. They're in the clear. The drug in question was on the controls of the aircar. Captain Griffeth reported similar symptoms. Now, may we see those records? It is absolutely essential that we move quickly, while the people we're after are off guard."
"Selwyn, make the officers a copy of the record they want." White waved a hand vaguely at his assistant, turned and vanished into his office.
Selwyn stared after him, apparently nonplused at his sudden change of attitude. Alan wasn't. The manager's thoughts were quite clear to him. He had suspended two employees for an accident totally beyond their control, and one of his aircars had been boobytrapped with some unknown but dangerous drug. At least one of his customers had been caught in the trap, and a local merchant was threatening to sue him. His position was not promising, but if he cooperated with the police they would most likely keep quiet about this. Now, if he could patch things up with his two employees, settle out of court with McFeegle, and do whatever was necessary to pacify Captain Griffeth when and if his lawyer called, perhaps he could pull himself out of this mess.
Five minutes later, Alan and Wolenski were leaving the office of Reynold's Rent-a-Car, the all-important record in their hands.
**********
11
Alan and Wolenski climbed back into their aircar -- borrowed from Dr. Melbourne for the day -- and Wolenski flicked Alan a respectful salute. "Man, Colonel, sir, what a cop you'd have been! You knew just what to say to get him to cooperate!"
Alan made a face at him. Wolenski grinned, shutting the passenger door, and touched the car's communicator. "Hello out there."
Linley's heavy Shallockian accent answered at once. "Got it?"
"Got it," Wolenski confirmed. "We'll be there in twenty minutes."
"Roger," Linley's voice said. "That was fast."
Alan started the car's engine and they soared upward. Wolenski was still speaking. "Fast isn't the word. Now I know why our lords and masters get so frustrated with you two. They're not used to dealing with equal competition. He did a great job."
"Natch," Mark said, as though he hadn't expected anying else -- which, of course, he didn't.
Wolenski switched off the communicator and leaned back in the seat, examining the little silver disk. "You know, I've been thinking. You'd have made a terrific cop, like I said, but if you'd decided to be a safecracker, or a con man --"
"Mark's mentioned that quite a few times."
"I'll bet. I wonder how many Terran psychics are wandering around the Sector using their talents for criminal purposes."
"All of them," Alan said. "Just being a Terran psychic is illegal, remember? But you're right, of course. Mark and I have run into a few here and there. We're not degenerates like the propaganda says, but we're not all pure-hearted heroes, either. Psychics are just as human as any other Terran. Unfortunately, right now the criminal ones give the rest of us a bad name and it's always pointed out as an example of our criminal tendencies by the Jils."
"Nobody with any sense swallows that stuff," Wolenski said. He chuckled. "Although I must admit that I called you plenty of names after that business on Toomelli's Moon."
"I'm not surprised," Alan said. "I would have, myself."
At the station, twenty minutes later, the computer disk that held the information they sought was slipped into the station's computer terminal. Like most Underground stations, the terminal installed by the ingenious technicians of the Terran Underground was undetectably tied into the computer network that handled the work of the government of the Terran Confederation and, with the right access codes -- also dutifully and regularly supplied to the CO of every station -- they could access any information they needed, insert bits of data as necessary, and carry out their business undetected by the legitimate concerns conducting the business of governing ten solar systems and some few colonies among the stars.
Major Cross spoke into his terminal's microphone. "Computer on. Joe, display the records of the last three people that hired this car."
The computer's voice replied, a light pleasant baritone. "Of course, Waldorf. And good day to you."
"Thank you, Joe." Cross glanced toward a screen that had lighted up. The first signature and thumbnail-sized photo was Ronald Griffen, the one previous to him was a middle-aged man, whose signature proclaimed him to be one Raymond C. Cranston, address listed as New York City. The third was a woman, probably well into her second century, whose signature identified her as Clara Baum of Anaheim.
Cross spoke again. "Joe. Access Code 113XV922. Scan the signature, thumbprint and photo of Raymond C. Cranston. Identify any other name."
"Working," Joe replied. "Identified. Subject is Nelson Raymond Cramer, Attorney-at-Law."
"Address?"
"Last known address is 119 Richardson, Apartment 14C, Pasadena, California."
"Business office?" Cross inquired.
The computer told him. Cross grinned. "Thanks, Joe. Give us a printout on him, please."
There was the chatter of a printer and a strip of paper appeared beneath the screen. When it stopped, Cross tore it off. "Thanks a lot, Joe. Good day."
"Good day, Waldorf," the computer replied, pleasantly. The screen went off.
Alan took the printout and examined it. "Interesting history," he commented. "Looks like the police don't think much of him."
"They don't, do they?" Cross agreed, reading over his shoulder. "Connected with drugs, bribery, gambling -- but no convictions."
"I know the sort," Mark said, also studying the printout. "Always runs close to the line but never quite gets caught steppin' over it. Looks like we might be doin' Terra a favor, nailin' this bird."
Alan hitched his shoulders uncomfortably, the sensation of foreboding running over his scalp again, stronger this time.
"I think we should hurry," he said abruptly. "I'm getting a bad feeling about this -- almost as if we're working under a time limit."
Mark nodded. "If you say we should hurry, we better move," he said. "Let's head for Cramer's office."
The aircar was crowded this time, the four ex-patrolmen taking up a good deal of the room in the little vehicle, but none of them wanted to stay behind. Alan registered their destination with the city traffic computer -- something that they had not dared to do when going to the Underground station -- and sat back as the car rose smoothly into the sky.
The trip to Pasadena required less than half an hour. The aircar dropped into the uncontrolled lower traffic lane and the light flashed red on the board, signaling Alan to take manual control. He did so and settled the aircar onto the rooftop parking lot of a downtown office building.
"That was fast." Mark opened his door and got out, followed by Bronson and Griffen. Alan, Wolenski and Lyn exited from the front seat. They took an elevator from the roof to the 10th floor, which, according to Joe the computer, was the location of Cramer's office.
They found themselves in a plushly carpeted hallway. Alan led the way quietly to Suite 1072B and pushed the door open.
A young, smartly dressed woman seated behind the receptionist's desk looked up as they entered, setting a magazine on the desktop. "May I help you gentlemen?" Her gaze flicked from one to another of the party and Alan sensed surprise at the oddly assorted group.
"Yes, Miss, I believe you can," Alan told her. "We're here to see Mr. Cramer."
The woman's gaze rested on him. "Do you have an appointment?" she inquired. "Mr. Cramer is busy taking a deposition at the moment and he sees no one without an appointment. If you like, I can schedule you for next Tuesday --" Her hand crept toward a button on the desk. An alarm. Alan identified it easily from her thoughts. She was suspicious of them. They were either the cops or just possibly members of a group that bore Mr. Cramer no good will. In either case, he must be warned.
Alan reached out with his mind, holding the connection open as the receptionist pressed the button twice in quick succession.
"He'll see us," he told her quietly. His own inner alarm bells were ringing. There was far more to the business of last night than it appeared on the surface. "Mark."
Linley's blaster materialized in his hand. "Be quiet, honey," he said, "an' you won't be hurt. Open the door."
The woman stared at him sullenly. "I can't. It's locked."
Lyn stepped silently forward, rested her hand on the door for an instant. There was a pause and then a faint click.
"It's open," she said.
Mark gestured with the blaster. "Okay, baby. March."
The receptionist moved reluctantly toward the door. It slid open before them.
Nelson Raymond Cramer, Attorney-at-Law, was indeed busy, but he was not taking a deposition. As they entered his office, the young woman -- possibly his secretary, possibly not -- shrieked and scrambled behind the office sofa. The attorney started up with a surprised oath, grabbing for his pants that lay on the floor beside him. Alan felt himself go scarlet and saw Lyn blush, but the four patrolmen never turned a hair. Mark waved his blaster at the receptionist. "Siddown an' keep quiet, baby. You too, Miss." He motioned the other woman from behind the sofa. "Siddown."
Flushed and indignant, Cramer's companion edged to the sofa, clutching her clothing somewhat ineffectively in front of her. Bronson rolled an appreciative eye in her direction but made no comment, other than to draw his blaster, covering the attorney. Griffen and Wolenski had also drawn their blasters. Lyn turned and pushed the button to close the door behind them.
Alan was silent for several seconds and then spoke to the second woman. "Get dressed, Miss, but don't try anything or you'll be waking up with a headache. You too, Mr. Cramer."
As the two complied with more haste than finesse, Alan surveyed his quarry. The attorney fastened his trousers, jamming his shirttail inside, his face red. "Who *are* you?" he demanded. "What do you want?"
Griffen stepped toward him, his blaster pointed in the general direction of the man's nose. "We have a few questions," he said with deceptive mildness. "How well you answer them may determine how healthy you stay."
Cramer shrugged, regaining a little self-confidence with his clothing. "What do you want to know?"
Griffen smiled thinly. "We want to know how the Ceregon dream dust got on the controls of an aircar hired from Reynold's Rent-a-Car, yesterday."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Cramer said, flatly.
Griffen smiled, not at all pleasantly. "You were the last driver of that car, Mr. Cramer, using the name of Raymond C. Cranston. There's no possibility of a mistake."
"I don't know anything about it," Cramer reiterated. "Ceregon dream dust is a contraband drug. No reputable attorney --"
Griffen cut him off. "Colonel."
Alan moved around to stand behind Cramer. The lawyer twisted his head, peering around at him. "What are you going to do? Who are you people?"
"My name," Alan said softly, "is Alan Westover."
The receptionist yipped slightly and was silent. Alan's name was known to just about every Terran in the Sector, as well it might be.
Cramer didn't speak but the other woman glanced at him frantically. "Ray, for God's sake, tell him what he wants to know! Are you trying to get us killed? It won't do any good to lie if that's Alan Westover!"
"Shut up!" the attorney snapped.
"Are you certain you don't want to take her advice, Mr. Cramer?" Alan inquired gently. "There was dream dust on the controls of that aircar. We know that for certain. You drove the car last. What were you doing with the dream dust?"
Cramer shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't waste time, Colonel," Linley said. "Read him."
"All right." Alan placed two fingers lightly on the attorney's temple and extended a telepathic probe.
He drew in his breath sharply. The sensation was very familiar. Shielding! The man had shielding!
"What is it?" Wolenski asked.
"He's shielded!" Alan said, still scarcely believing it.
"Natural?" Kevin asked.
"No," Alan said, after several seconds. "I'm sure it isn't. He's been trained."
"Could he have taught himself?" Wolenski asked, dubiously.
"Not likely," Griffen was watching the man narrowly. "Shall we take over, Colonel Westover?"
"Not yet." Mark was also watching Cramer, his mouth tight. "Can you go through his shieldin'?"
Alan glanced at him. "Maybe."
Mark shoved the blaster into his belt and went around to Alan, where he stood behind Cramer. He placed a hand on Alan's shoulder. Bronson joined him an instant later, placing a hand on Alan's other shoulder. Cramer twisted his head, trying to see what was happening. "What are you doing? Who --"
"The name is Linley," Mark said, showing his teeth in a mirthless smile. "Strike Commander Linley. This is Subcommander Bronson. You'd better hope he can go through your shieldin', mister, 'cause if he can't it's our turn. One way or another, you're gonna tell us what we wanna know."
Alan closed his eyes and concentrated on Cramer's shielding. The man's mental defenses were excellent. No ordinary psychic could possibly have pierced them.
But Alan's psychic abilities were not ordinary, especially with the power of both his psychic power packs to help him. Cramer's defenses withstood him for less than a full minute. The attorney's eyes widened as he felt Alan's probe overwhelm his shields.
"No!" he croaked. "They said you couldn't! They said nobody could --"
"Shut up!" Mark snapped, a touch of malicious pride in his tone. "You ain't dealin' with just any garden variety psychic, mister. This is *Alan Westover*!"
The whole story was a frightening one. Alan concentrated on picking up the important facts from the attorney's mind. At last he relaxed, removing his hand and staring at Cramer with real hatred.
"What is it, sir?" Griffen asked. In any other circumstances Alan would have been amused at the way his companions carefully addressed him by his rank in the presence of outsiders, but this situation robbed the situation of its humor.
"Mr. Cramer was contacted several months ago by a man calling himself Wilson," he said slowly. "We know him, Mark. It was our old friend, Wendlemere."
"Who's Wendlemere?" Lyn asked.
"Jil operative we met once on Luna," Mark said briefly. "So our pal here is workin' for the Jils?"
"Yes," Alan said. "Wilson sounded him out and they finally came to terms. Wilson hired Mr. Cramer -- for a very large sum of money -- to do a job for him, one third to be paid in advance, two thirds upon completion. To avoid accidentally being read by a Terran psychic -- which, as we know, has scuttled more than one of their schemes -- they taught him to shield."
Cramer shifted restlessly and Mark jabbed him in the ribs with the nose of his blaster, none too gently. Cramer became still.
"The Jils have discovered," Alan said slowly, "that Ceregon dream dust affects Terran psychics more drastically than non-psychics. They're experimenting on Los Angeles. If the experiment works, they'll extend it elsewhere -- with nothing to connect the disaster with them."
"Naturally," Wolenski said. "What's going to happen?"
"It involves," Alan said, "placing a large quantity of dream dust in the L.A. water system. Enough to kill every psychic in the city, and kill or cripple an awful lot of non-psychics. That, apparently, doesn't bother them a bit."
"O' course not," Linley said. "What's a bunch o' little animals like us to them?"
"Mr. Cramer, here," Alan continued, "hired somebody to do the job for him -- one thousand credits in advance and a thousand on completion. He didn't tell him what the chemical was, though. Mr. Cramer is planning on leaving the city very shortly."
"Or so he thinks," Wolenski said shortly.
Cramer drew a deep breath. "This whole foolish story is a figment of your imagination."
"Shut up," Griffen said absently.
"I *won't* shut up. You're casting aspersions on my character and I have a right to speak!"
"Shuttup!" Kevin barked.
"You're outlaws yourselves," Cramer continued. "What law enforcement official is going o take the word of a Terran *psychic* --" He made the word an epithet -- "Over mine?"
Linley stepped around in front of him, grabbed the lawyer by the collar and lifted him easily from the floor. "Look, you stinkin' trenchcrawler," he said, "I ain't real worried about what the cops think or don't think about you. You're kinda small potatoes after Lanthzor ..."
"Mark," Alan said, "don't bother."
"Huh?"
"Think about it a minute," Alan continued. "Remember when they engineered the assassination attempt on Chancellor Wong? They don't want anyone around that can connect them with the business -- certainly not someone like *him*." He flicked his fingers disdainfully at Cramer. "He's just a flunky -- but one who could implicate them, and that's inconvenient. They don't keep inconvenient people around."
Linley had begun to grin, not at all nicely. He let go of Cramer, who fell to the carpet with a thud, and dusted his hands against the seat of his pants. "You're right. The Jils'll take care o' him without us gettin' our hands dirty. But we gotta do somethin' about this business. Disregardin' all the people gettin' hurt, you can bet they'll rig some sorta evidence t'be sure we get the blame. We better move."
The receptionist was staring at Cramer in horror. "Is what he said true, Ray? Has that stuff been added to the water here?"
Cramer didn't answer. The woman went white. "How could you do something like that?" she shrilled. "And you didn't even tell Vicky or me!"
Mark glanced at the two women. "You two gals better make yourselves scarce in case we don't make it in time. Let's go, folks."
Cramer rose slowly to his feet. He was frowning, appearing to think.
"Wait, Colonel Westover," he began. "Maybe we can work something out. I ... I don't want to die. I can tell you who I hired and when it's going to --"
"Don't bother," Alan told him, coolly. "I already picked it out of your mind."
"Well, perhaps I can be of use in another way," Cramer tried. Obviously, he had reconsidered his position in relation to the Jilectans, Alan thought. Apparently their discussion of his probable fate had hit home. "After all, you're outlaws. Perhaps if your organization gives me protection -- everyone knows the Terran Underground has protected people from the Jilectans in the past --"
Bronson cut him off. "We don't make deals with your sort, mister. We don't wantcha. Why don'tcha ask the cops for protection?" He strode to the door, opening it courteously for Alan. "After you, sir."
They left the office at a run, heading for their aircar. As they piled into the vehicle, Griffen said, "We never did find out how the stuff got on the aircar's controls."
"Oh, that." Alan started the engine. "That's almost a side issue." The aircar lifted smoothly, turning north. "Mr. Cramer has contacts in the drug business. He couldn't resist siphoning off a little to sell for a big profit. Do you have any idea how much that stuff brings in? I couldn't believe it. Anyway, he must have gotten some of it on the gloves he was using -- at least, that's what he thinks. I read it in his mind. He used the rental car to drive to meet his contact, and he used the gloves to prevent being exposed to the stuff -- and also to avoid leaving prints in inconvenient places, like the package. His own car is too flashy, you see, and he didn't want to attract attention." Alan made a face. "I figured we didn't need somebody like him in the Underground. A few criminals, sure, but not his sort. I hate drug dealers."
"Goes double for me," Linley said. "Where are we goin' now?"
"After Cramer's confederate. He should be home right now. He works the afternoon shift at the water processing plant. That's where they add the chemicals, and --"
"We know what it is," Griffen said. "Step on it!"
**********
tbc
