Two Giants For David--2/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
2
Mark Linley opened his eyes. His head hurt unbearably and his stomach heaved. Stunbolt aftermath -- he recognized the symptoms. A hand grasped his shoulder, jostling him, sending fresh stabs of pain through his aching head.
"He's comin' around." The voice was distorted through the ringing in his ears. Mark lay still, trying painfully to piece together what had happened. Alan had been hit and he had leaped from the car to help. The doctor had scrambled into the car and reached back to pull Alan in, and there had been the tingle of a stunbolt.
Slowly, the realization dawned on him that his hands were secured behind him with restrainers and that he was slumped uncomfortably in the seat of a moving aircar. He was a prisoner of the Viceregal Patrol.
"Wake up, Linley," a voice said. The hand jostled him again and he began to retch.
"Gimmie a bag, Summers!" a voice barked.
There was hurried movement as the article was obtained. Mark couldn't wait and the man beside him swore, jerking away and aiming a cuff at him. The man on his other side grabbed the bag and held it for him as Mark busily lost his lunch.
The spasms ceased at last, leaving him shaking. The man who had held the bag wiped his mouth roughly and then dumped the container out the window. Mark slumped back in the seat, closing his eyes. What had happened to Alan?
The patrolmen were speaking and he listened, hoping to pick up the information, but his captors weren't discussing his partner. They were worrying.
"We got another blip, sir -- to the east, this time. They're looking for us. You'd better hurry."
"Comin'," a voice responded.
*Alan!* Mark voiced his partner's name desperately in his mind. *Kid, are you okay?*
Nothing. Of course not. Linley was not a psychic and although he and Alan were linked, the link only functioned consciously if Alan was in danger. But that thought itself was comforting. If he were a prisoner of the Patrol, the link would now be in action.
At least, he hoped so. It was possible, of course, that the Patrol had him drugged.
He couldn't stand it anymore. Mark glanced at the patrolman who had held the bag for him. "Where's my partner?"
The man glanced at him and away, not answering. The patrolman on his other side grinned. "Bein' interrogated," he said, with obvious relish.
Mark's heart lunged and then steadied as logic reasserted itself. If Alan were really under interrogation, the link would be functioning. The man was lying.
"Here comes our escort, sir," the driver interjected.
Another voice spoke, this time from the com. "Positive identity now on Linley's confederate. It was Westover, all right."
The man beside the driver gave utterance to a four-letter word. "Halthzor's gonna spit lightnin' bolts."
Mark relaxed slightly. He had been right. Alan must have escaped.
"We'll get him," the man beside Linley said. "Don'tcha worry about it."
Mark ignored him. Alan was safe and that was all that mattered right now. Let Patrolman Murphy say what he liked.
Murphy jabbed him sharply in the ribs with his elbow and Mark couldn't restrain a grunt of pain. "He's bound t'try'n save your rotten skin, Linley. Then we'll get him."
Mark kept his face expressionless. Murphy was right, however. Alan was sure to try.
Murphy jabbed him again. "Getting' a little worried, ain'tcha?"
The officer in the front passenger seat glanced back. "Knock it off, Murphy."
"Yessir." Murphy sat back, grinning at Mark. They flew on in silence.
**********
Alan opened his eyes. He was lying on a narrow cot in a small back room of the Boston Underground station. Sunlight filtered through the lacy curtains at the window and around him were the familiar furnishings. He and Mark had slept here the night before.
The thought brought him sharply back to the present and he tried to sit up, discovering as he did so that his arms and legs were secured to the cot by means of heavy, cloth straps. He was a prisoner.
His eyes felt strange. Alan blinked, turning his head as he sensed another presence in the room. Phil Connors, the commanding officer of the Underground station in Dublin, was seated beside him.
Alan stared at the man, wondering for a moment if he was dreaming. "Phil!"
"Hello, Alan." Connors' voice was subdued. "How do you feel?"
"I feel fine. Let me go. Why am I tied down?"
Connors cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Sorry, kid."
"Have I been sick? What's going on? Let me up!"
"I can't," Phil said. "Sorry."
"But why not? What's going on?" Alan glanced frantically around, seeing the form of George Woods beside the door.
"Kaley's given orders to restrain you. You are not to go after Mark."
Comprehension dawned, accompanied instantly by anger. Alan Westover, the Underground's most valuable psychic, would be protected at all costs -- even to the sacrifice of his partner.
Phil was watching him, looking slightly worried. "Take it easy. Kaley's got people on it."
Alan ignored him, concentrating instead on the strap binding his right wrist. It jerked abruptly free and the turned his telekinetic power on the one on his left wrist. It, too, jerked free.
George Woods was beside him at once and the man's big hands came down on his, pinning them as Phil refastened the straps. Alan struggled a moment and then became motionless, every muscle in his body still straining for action. It was useless to fight. Although he was well built for his height, he was small. All psychics were small. The traits seemed to go together and, generally, the smaller the individual was the more powerful his psychic abilities were. Physically, Alan knew he was no match for either Woods or Connors. He lay unresisting as the two men made him a prisoner once more.
"I'm sorry," Phil said as he fastened the second strap.
Alan stared at him, a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach. "Don't keep me from helping my partner, Phil," he said levelly. "It's a very dangerous thing to do. You know that."
"I'm sorry, kid," Phil said unhappily. "Kaley told me --"
"Kaley isn't a psychic."
"But he's in command. I can't let you go."
Alan's gaze didn't waver. "Don't do this," he said quietly. "I'm warning you. Don't do it. You have no idea what you're starting."
"Kid..." Phil cleared his throat and resumed. "I've got to keep you here. It may seem heartless to you right now but it makes sense. Don't you see?"
"No," Alan said.
"Didn't you hear the broadcasts?"
Alan nodded.
"Then you must also know why they got it on the air so quickly."
"Of course I do," Alan said. "They're trying to lure me in. I'm not a fool. I'll be careful."
"Kaley thinks you're too worried about Mark to be make objective judgements. He also knows you won't remain here voluntarily. That's why you're tied down. The Patrol will be expecting you, watching for you -- but you're not going to show up."
"Let me go, Phil," Alan repeated, his voice level. "Don't try to keep me here."
"I can't, kid. I'm sorry."
"You're doing a foolish thing," Alan said. "Mark's my partner and he's in trouble. I have to go help him."
"No," Phil said. "I'm sorry."
Alan closed his lips together and looked away. Connors cleared his throat uneasily. "Alan --"
"Go away," Alan said.
Phil got to his feet. "I'm sorry, kid."
Alan turned his head to look at the man, the feeling within him now blossoming into sheer hatred. "Don't *ever* call me that again! It's Major Westover to you, *Captain*!"
Phil bit his lip. "All right, Major. I won't tell you not to try to escape because I know you will. But you'll be watched at all times and if you try anything, I'll have to drug you."
Alan was silent. Phil went to the door. "I'm awfully sorry, sir," he said.
Alan stared at the ceiling.
"Tell Woods if you need anything. Are you hungry or thirsty? I can have something brought in --"
"Get out of here!" Alan blazed. "Leave me alone!"
Phil went out and Alan lay still, rigid with anger. How dare they try to stop him? Mark, a prisoner, going to torture and death, and here he lay, unable to help. Well, they couldn't keep him a prisoner forever and, by the stars, if Mark died, they were going to pay! Every one of them would pay -- including Kaley!
Slowly, he fought back the anger. He had to get control of himself and think logically. Mark was depending on him and Alan knew beyond doubt now that he could expect no help from Phil. That was why Kaley had sent for him. Many Underground members would have been tempted to disobey orders and release him. Alan and Mark were well liked, admired and almost idolized by their fellows, but Phil could be trusted and Kaley knew it.
"Private Woods," he said.
"Yes, sir?"
"What's the time?"
Woods glanced at his chronometer. "1640, sir."
Alan did quick calculations in his head. It was nearly two hours since he had arrived at the station with Dr. Mishamoto. He had ten more hours before the Patrol ship blasted off for Corala. Time enough, if he could only get loose.
"Woods," he said.
"Yes, sir?"
"Where is Major Linley being held?"
The man hesitated. "I'm not supposed to discuss him with you, sir."
Alan subdued the anger that rose in his throat. He had to keep calm and communicate with the man. "Private Woods, I'm warning you. What's happened today has changed my whole perspective on the Terran Underground. I'm a prisoner right now and I can't help myself, but, by God, I won't always be a prisoner! If Mark dies, you, Captain Connors and Kaley, too, had better start saying your prayers. There'll be no place that's safe for you. I guarantee you that."
Woods had gone pale. "Are you saying you'll kill us?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying, Private. Now, answer my question!"
"He's at the Terran Space Corps Headquarters, sir. In New York."
New York, Alan thought. Not all that far, if he could just get loose.
"Major," Woods said.
Alan didn't look at him. "What?"
"I don't like this any more than Captain Connors does, but what else can we do? We have our orders."
Alan turned his head to meet the young man's eyes across the room. "If I were in your position, Private, I would release the psychic and allow him to try to free his partner. And I would assist him in any way possible."
Woods shifted uneasily. "You'd disobey the orders of a General?"
"In this case," Alan said grimly, "yes."
Woods looked away. "I'm sorry, sir."
"Everybody's sorry," Alan said. "You have an older brother, Private. He's a psychic. What would you do, if he were in Mark's position and you were in mine?"
Woods wouldn't look at him. "I'm not to discuss this with you, sir. Captain Connors warned me you'd try to talk me into letting you go."
"Do you realize how useless this is?" Alan asked. "If my partner dies, how do you think I'm going to feel about the Underground? If you think I'll work for it after that, you're fooling yourself. And I promise you, if Mark dies, so will everyone involved in this -- from Kaley on down."
Woods didn't reply and Alan turned his face away. He mustn't do anything impulsive or they would drug him and Mark would be dead. But somehow he *must* get free.
The door slid open and Dr. Tono Mishamoto entered. Another guard followed him in and stood with his back to the door. The doctor approached and came to a stop beside Alan's cot.
"Hello, Major Westover."
"Doctor." Alan was staring up at the man. Phil had made his mistake.
Mishamoto seated himself beside the cot. "I wanted to say again how sorry I am, Major. It was all my fault. I should have come when you first told me. If I hadn't delayed --"
"I don't blame you, Doctor." Alan was scarcely listening to the words, and all his resentment against the little man had vanished. Mishamoto was here to help him and was trying very hard to tell him something -- something that he dared not voice aloud with the guards in the room. Alan reached telepathically for the other man's mind. The doctor had no shielding and his thoughts were clear and sharp before Alan's probe. Instantly, he understood.
Mishamoto was unaware that his thoughts had been read and was still trying desperately to put the idea across in words. "I feel very guilty about all of this, Major, and I'd like very much to help you --"
"You already have, Doctor," Alan said. "Thank you."
Comprehension came into the doctor's eyes and the corners of his mouth twitched. "You're very welcome, Major."
"Call me Alan," Alan said. "All my friends do."
Mishamoto started to say something else and Alan reached telekinetically for the strap that bound his right hand. It came quietly free and an instant later the one on his left wrist followed suit. Alan sat up, reaching out with the same motion to remove the stylus from the doctor's shirt pocket. Woods and the guard who had followed Mishamoto in both leaped forward.
Alan gulped a breath of air and held it as he compressed the tiny knob on the end of the stylus. There was a faint hiss as the tiny device released knockout gas under high pressure, straight into the faces of the guards.
The men staggered and fell. Dr. Mishamoto came to his feet, yanking at the straps on Alan's ankles. They came loose easily and Alan rolled to his feet, sprinting for the window.
His lungs were bursting as he tugged at the control. For an instant it jammed and he yanked at it desperately. The doctor slumped quietly forward across the cot.
Then the window slid open and the cold, crisp air of a winter's day wafted into the room. Alan leaned out, breathing deeply.
It was a long way down -- much too far too jump. Besides, people were passing in the street and he might attract attention. If someone called the police, Phil would have a lot of trouble explaining -- not that Alan cared about Phil or the guards at the moment, but there was still Dr. Mishamoto to consider.
He took another breath, held it, and turned back into the room. The doctor was sprawled across the cot and Alan took a moment to arrange him comfortably, then pulled a blanket from the cot over him. He glanced at the crumpled figures of the guards and turned to the window again, gulping another lungful of fresh air. He stepped over Woods, not even vouchsafing the man a glance. If he caught pneumonia in the icy draft from the window it was no more than he deserved.
Alan pushed the switch that opened the door to the outer room.
The panel slid quietly aside. Phil Connors, seated at a desk a few feet away, came to his feet, his right hand darting for the blaster at his belt.
It leaped from beneath his fingers and shot through the air to smack solidly into Alan's hands. Phil froze, jerking his arms over his head. Alan fired.
The weapon cracked and Phil spun sideways to sprawl on the floor beside his desk. He stared at Alan in horror. "No, don't --!"
For a moment Alan paused, the weapon centered on Phil Connors' nose, bitter thoughts racing through his mind. Then he flipped the weapon to stun and fired again.
A few seconds later he left the room, blaster held at the ready. There were still two people unaccounted for. He headed down the steps on silent feet, alert for anyone who might appear unexpectedly on the scene.
He reached the ground floor. Someone was approaching. Alan paused at the foot of the stairs and waited as a side door opened and a man entered the room. He saw Alan and froze in complete shock. Alan fired.
The stunbolt hummed and the man dropped. Alan bent over him, searching his pockets.
He found the keys at once and stood up, surveying the scene. It would be about ten minutes before this guy and Connors woke up. The two guards and Dr. Mishamoto would take a little longer, since they had been gassed instead of stunned. He hoped grimly that Phil's arm would be good and painful for several days.
Well, it would be better if no one came in before someone was awake to answer questions. Quickly, he reversed the sign on the door to state that the office was closed, opened the outer door and went out, closing it behind him. With meticulous care, he envisioned the inner locking mechanism. The locking bolt clicked firmly into place. Then he turned and ran down the steps.
The car was where he had left it. Alan raced across the parking lot and yanked the door open. He started to get into the driver's seat and paused.
Two other vehicles were parked on either side of him. They would be after him as soon as Connors and the other man awoke. Alan turned to the car on the left and concentrated.
A small, essential part of the engine came loose. Quickly, he did the same to the other one. The damage could be repaired easily but it would take them a while to find it. Time enough for him to lose himself in the flow of rush hour traffic.
Alan leaped into the car and activated it. The craft soared upward and merged into the mainstream of traffic, heading toward New York.
**********
tbc
