For anyone who happens across this story and has questions about the background, go here and read the introduction: http://www.lcficmbs.com/ubb/ultimatebb.php?ubb=get_topic;f=4;t=000002
Copyright statement: This is an original work by the two authors. Any resemblance to any person, living, dead or fictional, is unintentional and coincidental. The writers retain all rights to this work, and the copyright may not be infringed.
This is a story in the Terran Underground series.
Two Giants For David
By Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Copyright 1980
1
Mark Linley settled the aircar gently into a large, crowded parking lot and turned to look at the young man beside him. Alan Westover met his gaze and smiled reassuringly. "I'll be fine. Don't worry, okay?"
Linley scowled. "I *am* worried, dammit! I still think Kaley shoulda sent somebody else. You shouldn't be walkin' around in public like this -- not so soon after the business with Valthzor. It's barely been seven months, and you know they renewed all the wanted posters right afterwards."
"It'll be fine," Alan repeated.
"Yeah, well I'm worryin'!" Mark repeated unnecessarily. "If some guy with credit signs in his eyes spots you --"
"I'm just going into a doctor's office," Alan said. "I'll be scanning all the time and if I pick up even a hint of suspicion, I'll leave right away. That's a promise."
Linley swore again, this time under his breath. "I'm gonna talk to Kaley when we get back. There ain't no reason --"
"Kaley knows what he's doing," Alan said. "We've got a man in there who may be a psychic, and he probably doesn't know he is. If that's so, he's got no reason to want to leave his present law-abiding position and join an outlaw organization, and automatically make himself a criminal. It's going to take someone with a little push to convince him that the danger is real. Somebody else -- even another psychic -- might not be believed, but anybody who even suspects psychic ability in himself will believe me. I've got the reputation to back me up."
"So do I," Mark said. "Look, why don't you be the backup and let me go do the dirty work?"
Alan sighed. "We've already hashed this out. What if he isn't really a psychic? What if he's just a very good doctor with a lot of insight, who just happened to make a few lucky guesses? Besides, I'm already all disguised." He adjusted his smooth, auburn wig carefully. "How do I look, by the way?"
Linley frowned at him and then gave a reluctant grin. "You look good. I ain't sure even I'd recognize you, if you want the truth. That nose is awful. It ruins your sweet baby face completely."
Alan laughed. "Good."
Mark slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Make it snappy, okay? I ain't gonna feel comfortable until you're back."
"I'll do my best." Alan took a deep breath and opened the door. Taking another breath to control a slight feeling of nervousness, he headed across the snowy parking lot toward a cluster of modern office buildings that was his goal.
The medical office he sought was on the first floor and he entered unobtrusively. The room was crowded with people and he sighed, realizing that a long wait was ahead of him. Mark would be worrying, but there was no help for it. The job had to be done or an innocent and valuable man would soon die at the hands of the Jilectans.
He crossed to the receptionist's window on the wall and smiled pleasantly at the young woman seated behind the glass. She was tapping keys on a computer but paused, glancing at him indifferently. "Yes?"
"I'm Westly Andrews, ma'am. I have a two-thirty appointment with Dr. Mishamoto."
Her attention had returned to her computer screen. "First visit?"
"Yes."
"There'll be a short wait. Please fill out this form." She pushed a printed sheet of paper through a slit at the bottom of the window.
"Thank you." Alan took it and turned around, searching for an available seat. There was only one, located at the end of a long, synthetic leather couch, already occupied by three very buxom women. One of them hunched herself over with a grunt as he approached.
"Thank you, ma'am." Alan smiled at her as he seated himself. "Kind of crowded, isn't it?"
"It's always crowded," she answered, rather grumpily. "I started coming to Dr. Mishamoto before he got so famous. Now I'm not sure I like it. I never had to wait before."
"I guess that's the price of fame," Alan said. "Maybe you should get another doctor."
"I might," the woman said, rather shortly.
Alan laid the form on the side table and groped in his pocket for writing equipment. The woman watched openly as he began to write. Alan felt his neck prickle and tried to ignore her.
"Back pain!" Her voice was loud, and several people glanced toward them. "A youngster like *you* -- *back* pain? I never had a pain in my whole body until I hit seventy!"
"I was in an accident," Alan said, uneasily.
She harrumphed. "Sports, no doubt." Her voice carried over the entire room and once again several people glanced toward them. "I always said young people do themselves more harm than good, joggling their bodies around like that. Now my husband, Edgar, he *never* took any sports and he's fit as a fiddle! On our honeymoon, he took me to Yosemite and we hiked all day and half the night --"
Alan returned to his form, wishing that she would lose interest in him. Other people were still watching and he sensed mixed emotions of amusement, embarrassment and annoyance. Well, at least they were looking at her and not at him.
She had returned to complaining about the doctor, now. "...But, as for this waiting, I'm beginning to think it'd be better to go to another doctor, like you say, young man." She peered at the form. "Westly! What kind of name is that? Who tagged that one on you?"
The woman on her other side nudged her. "Clara, hush up! People are looking!"
"Let 'em look! *I* don't care! *Westly*! Sounds like some rich guy's name or something! Who would name their kid something that stupid?"
"Westly Andrews?"
It was the woman behind the desk and Alan glanced up. "Yes?"
"The doctor will see you now."
"Oh." Alan got to his feet, the half-completed form in his hand, feeling the resentful gaze of the other patients at the obvious favoritism shown. He passed through the sliding doors and handed it to the receptionist. "I didn't have time to finish it. I'm sorry."
"Everything the doctor needs is here," she said. "You can complete it later." She smiled charmingly at him in a complete reversal of her previous attitude and Alan sensed curiosity and the need to please this patient, who was, obviously, someone of importance. "Step right through there. "Dr, Mishamoto's nurse will show you the examining room."
Alan obeyed, and a young woman in a blue pantsuit smiled at him in a professional manner. "Mr. Westly? This way, please."
He followed her down a short hallway, feeling uneasy. There was no reason the doctor should have called him ahead of the others, but then, Dr. Mishamoto was a psychic. Alan knew that already -- had detected the psychic aura immediately upon entering the office. Probably, he told himself, the doctor had sensed something strange about his new patient and was simply curious. At least, he hoped that was all it was.
He found himself in a small examining room and the nurse took his vital signs and then handed him a gown. "Please get undressed, Mr. Andrews," she told him. "The doctor will be here in a few minutes."
Alan slowly removed his shirt and boots, at the same time extending a psychic probe toward the waiting room, corridor and inner offices. There were many minds in the immediate vicinity but they were blurred with distance. It was, of course, possible that the Jilectans had gotten wind of the Underground's interest in young, enterprising Dr. Mishamoto and had decided to set a trap for the outlaws but he didn't sense any danger -- not yet, anyway. He touched the communicator on his wrist. "Mark?"
Linley's voice responded immediately. "Yeah?"
"I'm in the examining room. All okay, so far."
"That was fast," Mark's voice said. "Didja get taken in ahead of the others?"
"Yes, I did, but I think it's okay. I think the doctor just sensed something funny and wants to check me out. Probably thinks I'm a reporter, or something, and'll try and boot me out. He's a psychic all right." The doctor's mind was approaching. "Here he comes. Bye."
There was a pause and Alan waited, feeling the doctor's presence directly on the other side of the door. Then the panel slid open and Dr. Tono Mishamoto entered.
He was a very short, surprisingly young man, his dark, straight hair and Asian features proclaiming his Eastern ancestry. He picked up the form from the table, glanced at it and threw it down again. Dark enigmatic eyes regarded Alan appraisingly. "Westly Andrews?"
Alan nodded. "Yes sir."
"I'm Dr. Mishamoto." Another long glance from those dark eyes. "You're having back pain, Westly?"
Alan stood up. "Doctor, I have to talk to you."
A finely shaped eyebrow crawled up. "You're not sick, Mr. Andrews, and your back isn't hurting." It was a flat statement, leaving no room for doubt. "Why do you really want to see me?"
Alan took a deep breath and reached up to remove his artificial nose. "My name isn't Westly." He pulled off the wig and tossed it to the examining table. "Look at me closely. Do I look familiar?"
The doctor's eyes narrowed for a moment and then widened suddenly. His jaw dropped. "You can't be!"
"I'm Alan Westover, Doctor." Alan picked up his clothes and began to pull them back on. "I have to talk to you."
"But...but, what the devil are you doing *here*?" The man's concern, he realized at once, was genuine. "What if someone recognizes you? You've got to get out of here, right now!"
Alan pulled on his boots and straightened up. "It's terribly important that you listen to me. I appreciate your concern, but it's *you* that's in danger."
"Me? What are you talking about?"
Alan hesitated. Breaking the news to a psychic was always difficult. There were usually a few moments of flat denial, followed by shock and often, after that, panic as the realization hit home. Maybe he could make it a little easier on Mishamoto, if he handled it right.
"Why did you call me ahead of the rest of your other patients?"
The man shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I had a hunch that there was something strange about you. Why?"
"Your hunch was right, wasn't it? You often have hunches that turn out to be right, don't you, like that business in the newsstrip last week -- the little boy with the tumor. You saved his life."
Mishamoto was staring at him. "What are you saying?"
Alan lowered his voice and spoke very gently. "You're a psychic, Dr. Mishamoto."
Mishamoto stared at him blankly. "What did you say?"
"I said you're a psychic."
The color drained from the doctor's face. "You're crazy!"
Alan shook his head. "I'm a psychic, too and I can sense the psychic energy in you."
Mishamoto took a step back, shaking his head. "It's not true!"
"I'm afraid it is, sir," Alan said. "I'm sorry."
The doctor looked away. "There must be a mistake. I've never done anything that extraordinary -- except this latest thing and that could have just been luck that I spotted it--"
"Doctor." Alan took a step forward. "I'm trained to detect psychics. You are one, and after this publicity, the Jilectans know it too. The Patrol is already on its way. It happened to me two years ago. I know."
Mishamoto put a hand over his eyes. "I can't be," he muttered.
A prickle of uneasiness crawled over Alan's scalp. Here it came -- a warning. Quickly, he touched his communicator. "Mark?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm getting a warning. How do things look out there?"
"They look fine, kid, but if you're gettin' a warnin' it's time to move. Get the hell outta there."
"Be there in a minute." Alan turned back to Mishamoto. "Come with me, Doctor. We're out of time."
The man stared at him, his face very pale. "You're sure I'm a psychic?"
Alan nodded emphatically. "Yes, I am, and we have to hurry. The Patrol isn't far behind me. Come with me, now!"
"But I can't just walk out of here. I have patients waiting --"
The warning was getting stronger. "They're coming. I can feel it. We have to go *now*!"
Mishamoto hesitated, biting his lip. "Do you think the danger's that immediate?"
There was a tiny shock from Alan's chronometer and he lifted it to his lips. "Yes?"
"Here they come! Get outta there!"
Alan grabbed the doctor's wrist. "They're here! Come on!"
"Who?"
"The Patrol's here to collect you! Quick! Is there a back exit?"
"Uh --" All at once the man appeared to master himself. "Yes -- this way." He opened the door, revealing a wild-eyed nurse.
"Doctor!" she cried, her voice squeaking hysterically, "the Viceregal Patrol is here!"
They ran past her out the door and down the hallway in the opposite direction from which Alan had entered. The nurse screamed something else but Alan was no longer listening. Never pausing in his flight, he lifted his wrist communicator. "Meet us around back, Mark. Hurry."
"Gotcha," Mark's voice said.
Behind them, Alan heard the clatter of boots and another scream. Someone shouted at them to halt in the name of the Jilectan Viceroy and a stunbolt hummed past. They dodged right through a deserted room, littered with coffee cups and the door on the opposite side opened, revealing the snow-covered grounds behind the building. Approaching rapidly was the aircar in which Alan and his partner had arrived. Mark was on his way.
Alan ran toward him, stumbling a little in the ankle-deep snow. Behind them, patrolmen poured from the building and another stunbolt hummed.
It brushed him and he felt the electrical tingle jar his nerves. His knees gave and for a moment the bright sunlight blurred out. Vaguely, he was aware of the crack of a blaster right in front of him and hands on his arms, dragging him forward. Far away, somebody screamed.
"Get him inside!" It was Mark's voice and hands grasped him by the wrists. Dimly, he realized the aircar was in front of him and heard Mark's voice shouting. Then another stunbolt hummed and the electrical tingling jolted through him. The world went black.
**********
Someone was calling him and every word sent stabbing pains through his head. He groaned, trying to turn his face away.
"Mr. Westover! Mr. Westover! Wake up! They're after us! What shall I do?" Even through his misery, Alan sensed the frantic urgency in the voice. "Mr. Westover, please, help me!"
With a Herculean effort, Alan managed to raise his eyelids. He was in the aircar, and slowly the realization dawned on him that he had been hit with a stunbolt. His skull throbbed unbearably and nausea caught at him. He began to retch.
"Please, can't you do that later? I need help!"
Somewhere, there was the sound of blasters and their craft rocked sharply. Alan managed to raise his head and reached over, clumsily activating the weapons computer. Once again nausea washed over him and he fought to control it. With awkward fingers, he pressed the com and willed his voice to speak.
"This is Little Boy Blue calling. I need assistance!"
"Acknowledged, Little Boy Blue."
Alan glanced back, realizing for the first time that Mark wasn't with them. His heart gave a lunge of panic. "Where's Mark?"
"Your friend? They got him."
Alan caught his breath. "Is he dead?"
"No -- captured. He was putting you in and I was already inside. They hit you both with a stunbeam. I managed to drag you in but he was just too big. I had to go or we'd all have been taken." Mishamoto glanced back at the pursuing aircar and then at Alan. "I'm sorry. Who was he?"
"My partner," Alan said. "Mark Linley."
"Oh my God!" Mishamoto sucked in his breath as a blast from the other aircar caught them a glancing blow. Their own vehicle returned the fire and the other craft wobbled sharply.
"You got him!" Mishamoto gasped. "Holy Mike!--this thing has firepower!"
Their pursuer was falling back. Alan spoke into the com again. "Got him, Bill. Can you cover me? I have the doctor with me."
"Yessir." The response was prompt and another aircar appeared on the scanner, flying low.
"Man!" the doctor whispered.
Alan didn't reply. Illogical anger at Mishamoto boiled through him. If the man had not delayed, none of this would have happened. And what right had he to save Alan and leave Mark at the mercy of the Patrol?
He forced the instinctive feelings back. There was no point in blaming the doctor. He had reacted as most psychics did upon discovery of their abilities and, considering his size, there was no way he could have dragged both Mark and Alan into the aircar. Mishamoto was only a few centimeters taller than Alan and probably weighed less.
The doctor looked miserably at Alan. "I'm sorry. It was my fault. I should have come when you first told me. It was stupid to delay."
Alan swallowed. "You didn't know," he said. "Don't blame yourself."
"You and your friend saved my life," Mishamoto said. His voice was hoarse. "What will they do to him?"
"Interrogation," Alan said. "And then execution on public video."
"With mandatory viewing for all Terrans, no doubt." Mishamoto's voice was level. "Is there anything we can do?"
"I'll get him free," Alan said.
The doctor was silent for a moment. "If there's anything I can do to help --"
"Thanks." Alan glanced back. Their escort craft was right behind them and the outskirts of Boston were straight ahead. As he merged with the stream of traffic, he breathed a faint sigh of relief. They had made it. There was no way any tracers from an orbiting ship could track them in the maze of Boston's buildings and the masses of aircar traffic. He would take the doctor to the Underground station and then go after Mark. The organization would provide him help, and together they would free Mark before he could be taken offworld.
But first he must find out where Mark was being held. He leaned forward, switching on the radio. Perhaps the newscasts would tell him.
"...This special report. Strike Commander Mark Linley, the killer of Lord Ganthzar, has been apprehended in a suburb about thirty miles north of Philadelphia." The announcer's voice, Alan thought, sounded less than elated. "In twelve hours, Linley will be transported to Corala where he will be publicly executed for his crimes against the Jilectan Autonomy. Linley was tried and convicted in absentia two years ago for the murder of Lord Ganthzar, who was second cousin to His Grace, Duke Halthzor. The execution will be broadcast on all video stations and is mandatory viewing for all Terrans by order of His Highness, Lord Lanthzor, Viceroy of the Rovalli Sector --"
Alan could listen no more. He switched off the radio. He couldn't let his partner go through the agony of a public execution. Ahead loomed the buildings of downtown Boston. They were almost at the station, and very soon he would have help.
Two minutes later, he settled the aircar into a parking lot and cut the engines. Mishamoto looked around, biting his lip. "Where are we?"
"At the Underground station. Hurry."
Mishamoto obeyed, climbing quickly from the car. He followed Alan across the parking lot toward a doorway in one wall of the dingy building and followed Alan through. They went quickly up a narrow flight of steps and Alan opened the unpowered door at the top.
As he did so, a flash of warning went through him. He jerked aside, evading the grasp of the man who had been waiting for him, and shouted a warning to the doctor. Mishamoto also shouted something and there was the sharp sound of fist striking bone. Someone grunted in pain and a blaster clattered to the floor. A hand grabbed Alan by the arm but he twisted away, yanking the weapon from his belt. He fired at the man beside him and the figure dropped. Alan spun, realizing with a jolt of astonishment that the men fighting him were members of the Underground.
Impossible! No Underground member would turn against him! Why did they suddenly think him the enemy?
He didn't have time to figure it out. Powerful arms grabbed him from behind, pinning his hands to his sides. Alan kicked backwards. "George!" he shouted. "What are you doing? It's me -- Alan!"
Someone caught his arm and brought it sideways. He heard the doctor shout his name and more scuffling sounds. Then came the prick of a needle on his skin -- and the world faded out for the second time in an hour.
**********
tbc
