Two Giants For David -- 4/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
4
Phil Connors groaned. He was lying on a soft surface and his arm ached unbearably. Slowly and painfully, memory returned. Alan Westover had escaped through some as yet unknown means, but Connors strongly suspected young Dr. Mishamoto had had a part in the calamity. Connors had allowed the doctor to enter the room, presumably to express his thanks and regrets to his rescuer, but Phil, wise in the ways of psychics, had sent an extra security guard along in case Alan and Mishamoto together managed to get the jump on Woods. The next thing he had known, Alan was emerging from the room, free from his bonds and unhindered. He had disarmed Phil with emotionless efficiency and fired the weapon, wounding Phil in the shoulder. For just a moment, Alan had stood there with the blaster aimed at him, and Phil had read his death in the boy's eyes. Then, there had been the hum of a stunbolt and Phil remembered nothing more.
"Captain Connors?"
Phil groaned again and opened his eyes. The face of his secretary, Patrick Snow, was looking down at him.
"Are you all right, sir? How do you feel?"
"My arm --"
"Blaster burn, sir. Just superficial, but Dr. Mishamoto says it'll be painful for a few days."
"I want to see him." Connors groaned again. "Damn him! How long have I --"
"About an hour, sir." Snow's eyes searched Connors' face anxiously. "Who shot you? Was it Major Westover?"
"Yeah." Connors groaned again. "An hour? Holy space! He'll be there by now! We have to get someone after him!"
Connors' secretary looked worried. "*Who*, sir? We'll need a psychic tracer."
"Get Don Vandenberg."
"I already tried, sir. When he found out what had happened, he became very angry." Snow looked very uncomfortable. "He swore at me."
"Don swore at you? What for?"
"I'm not sure. He seemed very upset. Apparently it concerned General Kaley's orders, and the attempt to restrain Major Westover." Pat cleared his throat. "When I pressed the matter, he suggested I do something quite indecent and anatomically impossible."
Phil frowned. "Is he still here?"
"Yes sir."
"Send him in."
"But sir, I don't think --"
"Get him!"
"Yes sir."
Pat went to the door and out. As he exited, Dr. Mishamoto entered, accompanied by two security guards. Phil surveyed the young man balefully.
"Did you help Major Westover to escape?" he inquired harshly.
Mishamoto came over to Phil. "How's the arm feeling, Captain?" he asked.
Phil ignored the question. "*Did* you?"
Mishamoto met his eyes squarely. "Yes, I did."
"Do you understand what you've done?"
"Yes, Captain, I do."
"If that boy is apprehended, the Underground will lose a valuable member. Is that the gift you wanted to give the organization that saved your life, Doctor?"
Mishamoto opened his mouth, but Phil cut him off. "You should have kept your hands out of matters you don't understand, Doctor." He looked at the security guards. "Confine him. Don't let him out of your sight."
"Yes sir." George Woods' voice was expressionless. Dr. Mishamoto lifted his chin.
"You're wrong, Connors!" he snapped unexpectedly. "You and your General are both wrong! Your organization didn't save my life, but Major Westover and Major Linley did! When Linley was taken, Major Westover came here, expecting you to help him. Instead, you attacked and confined him, while the person he cared most about was being dragged off to a very unpleasant death. I don't know much about the Underground yet, but if this is the way you treat your valuable members, I'm not at all sure I want to join you. I'd rather try to make it on my own."
"You don't know what you're saying!" Phil snapped furiously. "It isn't easy to make it on your own, with the Jils looking for you. If you tried --"
"I won't work for someone I can't trust," Mishamoto interrupted, "and somehow, I don't think Major Westover will, either!"
The door opened and Pat cautiously stuck his head in. "Don's here, sir, and his partner's with him."
"Send them in," Phil said. "George, get him out of here, and remember what I said. Don't let him out of your sight!"
George led the doctor from the room and Phil sat up on the couch, biting back a groan. Don and Lana Vandenberg entered.
They were man and wife, as so many psychic Teams were, and the man was short, the woman shorter still. Phil looked into two sets of hostile eyes and swallowed uneasily.
"Lieutenants," he began, "I need a psychic Team to follow Major Westover. He's gone to Space Corps Headquarters in New York, where Major Linley is being held prisoner. You're to find Westover and bring him back."
Don said a four-letter word. Connors stared at him. "You'll watch your language in the presence of a superior officer, Lieutenant!"
The word was repeated. Don glared at him and then spit deliberately on the floor. "Listen, *Captain*," he snapped, "I'm not gonna try'n stop Major Westover from helpin' his partner. If you want him back, *you* go after him! We'll collect your corpse afterwards!"
"Don!" Phil stared at the young man, aghast. "What's come over you?"
Don Vandenberg had been born and raised on Shallock and, as a result, his vocabulary included some of the ripest speech known in the Sector. He favored Phil with a short, unkind phrase, describing his origins and turned toward the exit. "Come on, Lana."
"I haven't dismissed you, Lieutenant!" Connors made it to his feet, gripping the back of the chair for support.
"Go to hell." Don reached for the control to open the door.
"Lieutenant Vandenberg, you are under arrest! Pat, take him out of here and confine him. Keep him separate from that damned doctor!"
"Yes sir," Pat said.
Don spun back, took two long steps forward and seized Connors by the collar. It was astonishing at the strength contained in the little man's compact frame. "Listen, you trenchcrawler!" he snapped, "You just get down off your high horse for a minute an' look at what you're doin'! You're damned lucky to be alive! If I'd been Alan, I'da killed you!"
Connors choked at the grasp on his collar, and Pat seized the little man, dragging him back. "Don, are you crazy?"
Don swung at him, catching the secretary a light clip on the jaw. The door swished open and two more security men charged in. They dragged the two men apart and one of them clamped the psychic into an arm hold. Don ceased to struggle, but glared at Phil.
Connors sat down rather heavily on the couch. "Take him away."
They turned toward the door. Lana Vandenberg hadn't moved during the whole episode and still stood motionless in the center of the room, watching Phil expressionlessly.
"You know, Captain," she said suddenly, "that you've made a big mistake."
Phil ran his hand through his hair. "I think you'd better go too, Lana."
She ignored him. "Nobody keeps a psychic from helping his partner, Captain. You did a stupid thing, even if you were obeying orders. Any psychic you pull in here is going to react the same way when he discovers why you want him. Don't expect any help from the psychics."
"You're dismissed, Lieutenant!"
She turned without another word and followed the guards from the room. Phil rubbed his neck with his good hand. What had come over all the psychics suddenly? They were behaving like enemies toward the organization that offered them protection.
Phil got slowly to his feet, favoring his injured shoulder, and headed for the outer office. George Woods met him at the door.
"The doctor's confined and under guard, sir."
"Good." Connors allowed his subordinate to assist him to a chair. "Call Neil Beaumont -- have him report here at once."
George looked dubious. "Another psychic, sir?"
"Neil's a level-headed guy. Hurry."
George disappeared, and a moment later Patrick Snow re-entered the room, looking unhappy.
"This is an awful mess, sir," he said. "Don went quietly but he wouldn't even speak to me. And Lana insisted on staying with him."
Connors nodded wearily. "I figured she would. Man! I've never had anyone turn on me like that."
"I still can't believe Alan shot you, sir."
Connors rubbed his shoulder. "I can. Man, I've never seen the kid look like that before. I thought for a second he was going to --" Phil stopped, remembering the moment when Alan had appeared in the door and the feeling of the blaster twisting from his hand. There had been hatred in the psychic's face.
Above the door, a small screen came to life, showing the entrance to the stairway. A man in the latter part of his first century entered, looked directly into the camera lens and lifted a hand. A moment later the office door opened and Neil Beaumont entered. He was a short man, but actually fairly large for a psychic. Dark, thick hair was combed immaculately back from his forehead and he wore a spotless business suit and overcoat against the inclement weather. "Captain Connors?"
Phil nodded. "Captain Beaumont. I understand you work in a department store near here. I hope it wasn't too hard to get away."
"Not at all," Beaumont said. His voice was warm and friendly. "It was almost closing time, anyway. I take it I've been summoned concerning what happened to Major Linley."
"Yes," Phil said. "Please sit down and I'll brief you."
Beaumont obeyed. "What's the news on Linley?" he asked. "I presume Major Westover's gone after him?"
"Against the General's orders," Connors said. "I received orders from General Kaley to prevent Alan from attempting a rescue at all costs. The General is afraid for the boy's safety --" He paused, seeing Beaumont's expression change. "Is something wrong?"
Beaumont stood up. "You tried to keep Major Westover from helping his psychic partner? Captain, are you crazy?" Beaumont's voice was no longer either warm or friendly.
Connors stared at the man, a sinking sensation in his stomach. "Captain Beaumont, I received the orders directly from the General, himself. Don't you see, I only did what I had to?"
Beaumont was shaking his head. "M'Gawd! What a damn fool stunt! Doesn't Kaley understand his psychics better than that?" He paused, his mouth grim. "I suppose it was young Alan who gave you that burn on your shoulder?"
"Yes," Phil said. "And if it had been you, you would have killed me. Right?"
Beaumont looked away. "I take it you've been speaking with another psychic concerning this?"
"Don Vandenberg. I tried to get him to go, but he refused and became quite abusive. I was forced to place him under arrest." Phil hesitated. "I suppose you also refuse to go."
"You mean to capture and return the Major to your custody?" Beaumont said. "Certainly."
Connors looked down at the desk. "I must have done something quite unforgivable when I restrained Alan. I was only obeying orders and yet everyone acts as if it were my fault. I don't quite understand why."
Beaumont leaned forward, placing his hands on Phil's desk. "Captain Connors, I need to explain something to you right now, before you get in any deeper than you already are. A psychic partnership is a unique sort of tie. It's closer than any other relationship that exists. The two psychics function almost as one. Mentally, one actually becomes part of the other. Now do you understand what happened in the case of Westover and Linley? They *are* psychic partners, even though only one of them is a psychic. Their link is extremely strong. Westover *must* try to save Linley, because if Linley dies, Westover will lose a vital part of himself. This isn't just a pretty theory, Captain Connors. It's something that you have to understand in your gut. If Linley dies, so will a portion of Alan Westover." His voice fell. "I saw a psychic lose a partner once. It isn't something you ever want to see."
Phil stared across the desk at the man and, for the first time, some of the enormity of what he had done began to hit home. He had tried to force Alan to lie passive while his psychic partner was tortured and executed. A knot tightened in his stomach.
"Oh man!" he muttered. "What have I done?"
"Major Westover's going to be very angry," Beaumont said soberly. "To be frank, Captain, I'm surprised he didn't kill you on the spot, and I doubt very much that he'll ever return to the Underground, even if he does manage to free Linley. Kaley's defeated his own purpose. In trying to protect Major Westover, he's almost certainly lost him, and if Linley dies...." Beaumont paused, his mouth hard.
"What?"
"I don't know," Beaumont said slowly. "I don't know Major Westover that well. Is he an empath?"
Phil nodded.
"Then he *may* not try to kill you," Beaumont said slowly. "I really can't be sure."
"Kill me? You really think he would?"
"I would if I were him," Beaumont said bluntly. "But I'm not an empath."
"Oh hell!" Phil stared morosely at the desk. "What am I going to do?"
Beaumont cleared his throat. "I suggest, Captain, that you release Don Vandenberg immediately and send him with me to try to assist Major Westover to free his partner. It may not do much good at this point, but it certainly can't do any harm."
Phil looked up at the other man. "Kaley'll court martial me if he finds out."
"I think that's better than being dead," Beaumont answered slowly. "Besides, Kaley has a lot of psychics on Lavirra and, if you want my opinion, very few of them are going to react favorably to what he did. Kaley may find himself with a full-scale revolt on his hands. To be honest, I think this incident is going to send shock waves through the entire organization. The psychics are going to be very angry when they find out -- and they *will* find out, make no mistake about it. I only hope the damage isn't irreparable."
"Oh, hell," Phil repeated. He rubbed his injured shoulder, thinking. "All right, Captain Beaumont, as a psychic, I'm sure you know best in this case. I'm a little out of my depth, I'm afraid." He spoke into the intercom on his desk. "Pat, release Lieutenant Vandenberg at once and bring him to my office."
"Yes sir," came Pat's surprised reply. "What about Lana, sir?"
"Send them both in."
"Yes sir."
There was a pause. Neil Beaumont didn't speak and Phil had the distinct impression that in spite of his reasoned explanation and calm manner, the other man was tamping down anger. At last the door opened and the two psychics entered, followed by Pat Snow. Don and Lana saw Captain Beaumont and came to quick attention, although neither saluted, since none of them were in uniform. Neither looked at Phil.
"Hello, Don, Lana." Beaumont nodded pleasantly to them. "Please sit down."
Now Don looked at Phil with unconcealed hostility. "What's *he* want?"
"Lieutenant --" Phil cleared his throat and forced himself to speak. "I want to apologize for what occurred earlier. I didn't understand the situation, but Captain Beaumont has since explained it to me and I realize I've made a grave error."
"Damn right you have!" Don snapped.
Lana put her hand on her husband's shoulder and Don subsided. Phil felt the heat spreading up his neck and into his face. Captain Beaumont turned to the young man. "Don, I understand how you feel, but Captain Connors is trying to repair his error. I suggest that we give him our cooperation."
"How?" A little of the hostility had departed from Don's tone. Phil cleared his throat again.
"I'm deeply sorry, Lieutenant," Phil said. "There's really no excuse I can make, except that I was obeying orders from a superior officer. I didn't fully understand the situation, but I do now and I ask your pardon -- and Lana's as well." He glanced briefly at Don's wife. She returned his gaze without expression. "If you'll go, I'm going to send you to Space Corps Headquarters to try to assist Major Westover any way you can." He glanced at his chronometer. "It may be too late for such measures. The 'Juggernaut' leaves in just over seven hours, but we can only try." He rubbed a hand across his face and turned to his secretary. "Prepare I.D.s for them on the double. I'll send a hyperspace message to Kaley."
Snow nodded briefly. "Yes sir."
**********
Alan was struggling unsuccessfully to contact Mark again when he heard the door slide open. Instantly the blaster was in his hand.
"It's me." Deena slipped into the seat beside him, a bundle of clothing in her hands. "Here."
He picked up the jacket and examined the insignia. "I'm an ensign?"
She dropped the hat, shirt and slacks on the seat. "Go ahead and start dressing while I brief you." She smiled at him, her pretty face glowing with excitement and pleasure.
Ordinarily, Alan would have been embarrassed by her presence but now he scarcely noticed as he unsealed his shirt and picked up the brown Space Corps tunic. "I didn't expect you back so soon."
"It helps to know the ropes." She set a leather wallet and I.D. plate on the dashboard. "Here's your slacks, Jerry."
"My name's Jerry?"
"Yep. Ensign Jerry Thompkins. You're a brand new grad and you just arrived this afternoon, fresh out of the Academy and wet behind the ears."
Alan smiled, struggling into the slacks. "What does Jerry look like?"
"Sort of like you, actually." Deena surveyed him critically. "I met him today, right after he arrived, and I had him in mind when I went to get you an identity. The real Jerry Thompkins is a little taller than you are, and not half as cute, but if you avoid any of the new grads that came with him, I think you'll do okay. Your first assignment is the 'Patton'-- the Engineering section, and you're bunked in cabin 43-Z, on the second deck. You have a bunkmate -- I couldn't help that. Here's your billfold." She picked it up from the dashboard and handed it to him.
Alan stuffed it into his back pocket and slid into the jacket, and then placed the narrow cap on his head in the correct position. "What happened to him?"
"Poor boy never knew what hit him." Deena said. "He'll be waking up after while, confused and very chagrined."
"What did you do with him?"
"Stuck him in a laundry bag and stored it behind some gear in one of those moldy storage closets in back of the barracks. No one's been there for years as far as I can tell. The place is coated with dust, and it will be at least morning before he can get the attention of anyone passing by to let him out -- after he gets himself untied, which will take a while by itself."
"You're sure he didn't see you?"
"I'm sure." She reached forward and tucked a stray curl beneath his wig. "Better get rid of the mustache, though. Jerry doesn't have one. Besides, it looks ridiculous on you and the brass frowns on them. You don't want to attract attention."
Alan removed the mustache. Deena looked him over approvingly. "You look good. Don't worry. I'd never recognize you in that getup. By the way, what happened to your eyes? I remember 'em as such a gorgeous green."
"Contact lenses."
"Oh, yeah -- of course. Are you ready?"
Alan nodded. "But we can't go in together."
"Huh? Why not?"
"Because when the real Jerry Thompkins is found and reports what happened, I don't want the computer log to report that you came in with him tonight. If I do manage to get Mark out, anybody who has anything to do with his escape will be brought up before the Jils for a mind probe. I don't want them to connect you with it. As a matter of fact, it would be better if you stay here, in the car, for at least an hour before you go back, so no one will even think there might be any connection between you and Jerry." He glanced at her hands. "And keep your gloves on. On the off chance that they find this car before the Underground does, I don't want you leaving any prints."
"Oh." She glanced at her hands. "You're right. I never thought of that." She smiled a little. "I guess I'm a little new at this stuff -- especially when it comes to dealing with the Jils. Do you know, I've never even seen one?"
"Try to keep it that way. They're nothing special -- but they think they are, and they don't like Terrans a bit."
"I'll do that. You'd better hurry. Your business won't wait."
Alan smiled and took her hands. "Thanks. I don't know how to say it."
She returned the smile. "Skip it. Little secret between us. You and Mark are the unofficial heroes of the Academy. You should have heard the cheers when it came over the news that you'd potted a Jil and talked a Strike Commander into deserting. I wasn't sure they had the right Alan Westover, at first, but now I am." She kissed him on the cheek. "Get going. We're all pulling for you. Save your big pal, but for heaven's sake, don't get caught!"
"I won't if I can help it." He opened the door and stepped out. "Bye, Deena. Stay safe."
He turned and went briskly toward the base, blending with the groups of other spacers going in the same direction. The gate loomed up ahead of him and he took a deep breath, removed his I.D. from the billfold and slipped it into the computer slot. There was a crisp, businesslike click and the energy barrier faded. Alan entered Terran Space Corps Headquarters.
The bulk of the Patrol battlecruiser rose over the roofs of the official buildings. Before anything else, he must disable that ship and cut short the interrogation. But first he had to find something....
He strode briskly across the compound, scanning the darkness in search of the maintenance garage. The base was quieter than it would be during the day, but there were still a respectable number of people moving around the area. A Viceregal patrolman went by, not glancing at him.
The maintenance garage was located in a section not far from the landing field, and at the moment it was closed. Glancing at his chronometer, he realized with surprise that it was nearly 2200. Overhead, a half moon shone mistily down from a partly overcast sky. Alan headed for the maintenance garage, feeling a tingle of anticipation course over him. Another patrolman passed, and Alan saw the man turn and look at him. Drat! No doubt the men had been instructed to watch for anyone who appeared noticeably short.
Alan headed for the building, the back of his neck prickling. The man was following him. He could sense it.
"Hold it, you!"
Alan stopped, keeping his hands carefully within sight. The patrolman was approaching, one hand on his weapon. "I wanna see your I.D."
Alan carefully drew the billfold from his back pocket, removed the card and handed it over. He smiled bashfully. "This is the fourth time I've been stopped, sir. I'm not Alan Westover. Honest."
The patrolman frowned at the photo, glancing at Alan. "This is a bad picture," he remarked.
"Yeah," Alan agreed, sweating. "I'm awful in front of a camera. I get nervous."
The guard was still studying the picture. Slowly, he took a folded paper from his pocket and opened it. Alan recognized it as one of his own "wanted" posters, his smiling face plastered across the sheet. He extended a probe into the man's thoughts. If he even began to suspect something, Alan would act.
But he didn't. The man was tired, cold, disgusted, and badly in need of a cigarette. Alan probed further, discovering that he had run out earlier and been unable to purchase more. In addition, his sarge had chewed him out not twenty minutes ago for having muddy boots, after he had tramped for hours through ankle-deep snow. Alan sensed anger, resentment and irritation toward the offending sergeant.
Jerry Thompkins was a smoker. Alan had discovered the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, immediately after donning the uniform. Now he took it out, removed a cigarette and pretended to search in vain for his lighter. "Do you have a light, sir?"
The patrolman stuffed the poster back in his pocket and produced a lighter. The need for a cigarette intensified. Alan started to return the box to his pocket and then pretended to recall his manners. "I'm sorry, sir. Would you like one?"
The man accepted instantly, as Alan had known he would. "Thanks, kid. You're a lifesaver. I been dyin' for a smoke since dinner."
"Oh. Couldn't you get any at the Exchange?"
"They were closed, an' the damn machine was busted."
"Oh. Well here, take a couple." Alan extended the box again. "You might as well. I'm trying to cut down, anyway."
Again the man accepted and Alan sensed gratitude and benevolence toward the young, charming spacer who had been stopped for a routine security check. "Thanks a lot, kid. You can go now." He returned Alan's I.D. and sauntered back up the walk. Alan continued on toward the maintenance shed.
He paused in the shadow, leaning against the wall of the building, and concentrated. All was still in the dimness of the building, although far across the quad, people were still moving around near Administration. Much farther away, an occasional lone figure could be seen on the landing field, dwarfed by the big ships that sat in their assigned spots.
A dim figure was approaching from the left. Alan didn't move, and the tall, shadowy form strolled past. A patrolman -- another security guard on his rounds.
When the man's footsteps had faded, Alan began to skirt the building, searching for a side entrance. He located it halfway toward the rear and paused, reaching for the lock with a telekinetic finger. It moved easily and the panel slid open. Alan entered, shining his handlight before him.
The place was very dark. He flashed his light over the walls, searching for a supply closet. He located one at last and opened the door. What he needed was a maintenance coverall, and they seemed to be in short supply.
He found one in the second closet he entered, crumpled on the floor behind a shelf of tools. Apparently the item had been missed by the cleanup crew and Alan slipped it on, hitching up the waist. It was too large, of course, the crotch hanging halfway to his knees, but he'd expected that and in the darkness no one should notice. He tightened the belt and rolled up the legs half a dozen times. Now, he needed to find some tools.
There was a locked cupboard against the wall. He concentrated a moment, found nothing, and went on, turning his attention to a rack of shelves on the opposite wall.
The image of a small, metal tool case materialized in his mind's eye, and, although it did not contain tools, it would do to hide his blaster. Alan crossed to the shelf and removed the case. The lock was simple and it took only a little effort before it clicked open. He dumped the girlie magazines on the floor and put the blaster in their place. Then, with another deep breath, he went quietly from the building, locking the door behind him.
The compound seemed terribly well lighted suddenly. Alan strode confidently around the building, something Mark had once told him running over and over in his mind. "Don't let 'em see you ain't sure of yourself, kid. Pretend like you own the place, an' people will think you do...."
A female spacer passed and Alan heard her laugh but, other than that, no one paid any attention to him. He headed toward the landing field and the black, ominous silhouette of the patrol battlecruiser sitting on the pad closest to the populated part of the base.
Again, he felt the flicker of pain through his contact with Mark -- pain that was now centered in his left arm. The sensation ended abruptly. Alan moved forward, trying not to hurry, anger burning in him. They would pay for what they were doing to his partner -- every one of them from the Strike Commander on down.
A patrolman passed him, glancing at him perfunctorily. Alan nodded at him, hardly noticing him. The man lost interest. He strode confidently into the shadow of the huge ship, swinging his case and whistling softly between his teeth.
A patrolman came down the boarding ramp and passed, not even glancing at him. The access hatch to the repulsers was located on the armored underbelly of the ship. Alan positioned himself directly beneath it, still whistling softly, and set the case on the ground. Another patrolman came down the ramp and paused at its foot. He glanced at Alan, who stood in the glow of the ship's landing lights, clearly visible to all observers.
"What's goin on?" he inquired.
"Just a routine check." Alan didn't glance up. "No problem."
The man nodded and went on, his form fading quickly into the darkness.
Alan glanced up at the repulser hatch and concentrated briefly. The mechanism formed easily in his mind and he reached out a telekinetic finger. The hatch slid aside. Still moving casually, Alan opened the metal case and removed the blaster. He pushed the power control into the final slot. It clicked into the setting for emergency overload and, with a casual motion, he tossed it inside the hatch and reached up, pressing the control that closed the panel.
"Hey!" The shout came from above. "What th' hell are you doin'?"
Alan ran. A figure charged down the ramp toward him, cursing and yelling for assistance.
A tremendous explosion ripped the air and the shock wave hurled him flat. He rolled nimbly to his feet again and ran headlong across the dark landing field, unsealing the maintenance coverall as he did so. Buildings loomed up before him and he dodged between two of them, leaving a crumpled jumpsuit on the ground behind him. Across the compound came yells and the blare of an alarm. A siren wailed.
Alan ducked between two more buildings. Behind him, he heard the drum of feet and a voice shouting something. He came up against a pair of heavy, swinging doors, bolted from the inside. His telekinetic power reached out and the lock clicked. The doors swung inward and he slithered between them, closing and locking the entrance behind him.
He found himself in a gymnasium, dimly lighted and empty. Pieces of athletic equipment lay all around. Alan saw a trapeze, parallel bars, a trampoline and a punching bag. A climbing rope dangled a few feet away.
There were handholds on the wall, and he went up them like a monkey, reaching the metal rafters overhead in seconds. He lay flat atop one of them, trying to breathe quietly.
Someone was at the entrance to the building. A blaster cracked, and the door sagged inward. The tall, black-clad form of a patrolman entered, flashing a handlight around.
**********
tbc
