The Pirate Prince: A Slight Deception-- 2/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Chapter 3
“We're there," Mark said.
Alan opened his eyes. He hadn't been asleep, and had been aware of it when they had come out oh hyperspace, as well as when the ship had touched down in the New Brunswick spaceport. He was feeling better — far better than he had upon their departure from Lavirra some seventy hours ago.
He accepted a glass of juice from Linley and sipped carefully. "Thanks."
Mark didn't answer. "Ready to go?"
"Sure." Alan straightened his clothing and ran a hand through his unruly dark hair. "Do I look okay?”
Mark silently handed him a comb. "Back in a minute."
They passed through customs and collected their luggage from the massive conveyance at the exit to the spaceport. Mark and Kevin were now identified as Van and Ron Mackey.
Alan was their camping partner, David Anderson. They were here from Shallock for the purpose of mountain climbing and a vacation among Bellian's scenic wilderness. Alan grimaced. He hoped no one would notice the condition he was in. At the moment he couldn't have climbed a mountain had his life depended on it.
A car was waiting for them as they came out of the building. The door slid open and a man peered out. "Ron?" he called.
Mark glanced toward him. "Yeah?"
"I hardly recognized you with that tan. Get in. I've been waiting twenty-five minutes."
It was the correct code. Mark nodded amiably and strode over to the car. Major Tom Steed of the Terran Underground was a tall, dark haired, lanky man in his fifties. He scrambled from the vehicle and helped load their luggage in the trunk. Alan climbed into the rear seat and Mark got in beside him. Kevin jumped into the front beside the Major, and a moment later the car lifted from the loading and passenger pickup zone.
Major Steed punched coordinates into the comp. The automatic control took over, and the machine maneuvered skillfully into the main lanes of air traffic. Steed turned in the seat to look at Alan and Mark.
"How do you do, Colonels? I'm Major Steed — Tom Steed." He glanced at Kevin. “I hope I got that right. You are Captain Bronson, aren't you?"
"Yep," Bronson said. "You can call me Kevin, an' that's m'big brother, Mark."
Major Steed smiled. "A pleasure to meet you, Colonel Linley — and you, too, Colonel Westover. I always hoped I would someday — although I could have wished for the meeting to occur under less serious circumstances." He frowned. "This situation can't go on much longer. Another child vanished yesterday — a six year old boy, who apparently disappeared from his own back yard. His mother died two weeks ago — apparent suicide." He sighed. "His father was out, and a teen aged girl was supposed to be watching the children. The girl claims she went inside to check on the baby, who was asleep, and when she looked out again, the boy was gone. She heard nothing."
"You've checked it out, I suppose?" Kevin said.
"Yes. The boy's name was Brian Chelsey. His mother, Tina, died two weeks ago when she drove her car, apparently by design, into Lake Vincent, six kilometers from here. A suicide note, in her handwriting, arrived in the mail the next day. The father, James Chelsey, is not a psychic, but the baby, eight months old, is."
Alan leaned forward in his seat. "Did you talk to the family?"
"We spoke, to the father," said Steed tiredly. "He believed us — in fact, he knew his wife was a psychic. She'd told him, herself. We have agents in the house now — psychics, posing as relatives, hoping to catch anyone who makes a try for the little girl." Steed shook his head sadly. "So far no luck. And we have to be careful. If whoever is doing this realizes we're after them, they're bound to bolt and set up shop elsewhere. Then we'd have to start all over again."
"Pretty ruthless bunch," Kevin said grimly.
"For sure, Captain. Makes me sick to think of what's happening to these kids. I have kids of my own." He stopped.
"How many?" Kevin asked.
"Five. Three of 'em are psychics."
"Oh?" Bronson surveyed the Major’s tall, lanky form. "I take it your wife --"
"Cathy," Steed said. "Yes, she’s a psychic — and she's scared to death. We've, been taking the kids to and from school, and keeping them indoors at all times. We're afraid to let them out of our sight."
"Don't blame you," Mark said soberly.
The car took them into another lane marked "Lakeside Skystream". Lakeside was a small suburb of New Brunswick, and also the location of one of Bellian's five Underground stations.
"Did you get a tracer on the boy?" Mark asked.
"Yes, of course. Paul Clement — he’s the best on the planet. You'll probably meet him before you leave. He tracked the kid to a deserted area to the west of here. Then the trail vanished." Major Steed sighed. "It’s beginning to be a familiar pattern. The kids are apparently taken offworld as quickly as possible after their abduction. Interesting though."
“What?” Linley asked.
"The boy was probably still alive when he was taken from the planet — at least, Paul was pretty sure he was. Paul’s an excellent clairvoyant, and I trust his judgment implicitly. The father gave us one of the youngster's favorite toys for tracing." Tom Steed turned and handed Alan a small model of a Terran Lightcruiser. "Paul did a little scanning, and he says he’s still suspecting the boy’s alive — although the distance is too great for him to be certain. He says he couldn't even begin to try tracing."
Alan took the toy between his hands, and stared at it, concentrating. Very unobtrusively Mark placed a hand on his shoulder, lending him power.
Instantly he became aware of the vibrations of energy and movement. The little boy was still alive, all right, but as Steed had already stated, the distance was too great to even attempt tracing.
“Well, kid?” Bronson said.
“He’s still alive, for sure, but like Paul said, he's too far away to trace."
Steed nodded. "I'll tell his father. Might help some, anyway, knowing you're the one who said it. But look, why the devil ... pardon me, sir, would they kill the psychic mother and keep the child alive?"
"Are you sure they killed the mother?" asked Linley. "Was her body found?"
Steed nodded.
"I think I know why," Alan said.
“Why?"
"They're looking for someone who can read the Arcturians for them. Adults vanishing would be too obvious, but not kids. Kids vanish every day. Lots of them run away, or are kidnapped."
Steed was nodding. "It makes sense. Wasn't that what happened with your little sister, Colonel Westover?"
"Yes," Alan said. "They'd kept her a prisoner for years, experimenting on her. Then they found out she could read Arcturians. They've been looking ever since for another psychic with the same ability. Kids are easier to control than adults, and they're less obvious, as I mentioned before. It looks like the Jils are getting serious about it, now. They’ve organized their efforts here in New Brunswick. If they don't succeed here, they'll start somewhere else."
Steed shook his head. "What percentage of Terran psychics can read Arcturians?"
"Not very many," Alan said.
"Less'n one percent," Mark said. "Quit bein' modest, kid." He turned to Steed. "We got more'n two thousand psychics at the Lavirra base now, but outta all those, only three that I know about who can read Arcturians — Alan, his sis, Janice, and Eric Vogelman."
“Well," the Major said slowly, "they're going to find one eventually. They've already been looking for nearly three weeks — if the disappearances of the kids coincide with the beginning of the search. They have to be careful, of course."
"Yeah," Mark said grimly. "Well, their luck just ran out. We're gonna get these trenchcrawlers if it's the last thing we do."
"I hope so," Alan said. "I may not be able to spot the guy, either, if Major Steed's best psychics have already failed."
Linley reached forward to clap the man on the shoulder. "Relax, Tom. Alan'll get him. By the way, you don't hafta be s'formal. Kev already told you — m'name’s Mark."
The Major gave him a strained smile. "All right, Mark. I sure can't tell you how glad I am that you're here. These last few weeks have been hell."
“We’ll get him," Kevin said. "An' when we do, we'll cut him into little bits an' send him to Halthzor — with postage due."
The comp beeped, signaling Steed to take manual control. The Major did so, guiding them across two lanes of traffic to settle before a large, rambling white house, set back from the street, and surrounded by tall, leafless trees.
Alan got out, shivering in the cold blast of wind which greeted him. Mark gave him a shove. "Get inside, kid. We'll get the bags."
Alan started to protest, then decided against it. He was tired, and his ears were ringing thinly. Turning, he hurried toward the house, his head bowed into the icy wind.
The door opened as he approached, and a diminutive blonde woman appeared, ushering him inside. Warm air touched his face, and the delicious odor of baking bread pervaded air.
"Colonel Westover?" The woman was surveying him questioningly.
"Yes." He smiled. "You're Major Steed's wife, I assume?"
"Yes sir! Major Catherine Steed.” She had come to attention, saluting smartly. Alan returned the salute, then held out his hand. She hesitated a moment, then took it. "My goodness! You're cold! Come on into the family room. There's a fire in there, and I'll get you something hot to drink. Elaine!"
A slender blonde girl, about fifteen years old appeared from the hallway. "Yes, Mom? Oh!" She also came to attention, saluting. Alan returned the salute.
"Hello, Elaine. You can call me Alan." The girl was several centimeters taller than he, and not a psychic.
"Oh." She smiled a little nervously. "Hello, Alan. You look like you aren't feeling too well."
"I have the flu — or did. I'm almost over it." Alan glanced around as the door opened with a howl of wind and Mark, Kevin, and Major Steed entered, carrying their luggage. Steed set down the bags in the entranceway and closed the door firmly behind him.
”Whew! What weather! Bet we have snow by tomorrow. Hi, Ellie, honey." He ruffled his daughter's hair affectionately, then put an arm around his wife. "Hello, dear. Think you could find us something hot to drink? Mark here tells me that Colonel Westover's just recovering from the flu. I'm sure he'd appreciate some of your hot cider."
"Yes, dear." Cathy spoke to her daughter. "Elaine, please take our guests' coats."
The girl obeyed, her gaze straying to Alan again. Two more children appeared, clattering down a carpeted stairway. They were identical twin boys, no more than seven, Alan thought, sandy haired and blue eyed, like their mother, and both of them were psychics.
“My boys," Steed said "Dwight and Dennis. Slow down, kids."
The children obeyed, descending the stairs more slowly, if not more quietly. They stared at the newcomers, mouths open. Cathy Steed appeared from the kitchen. "The cider's heating. Boys, go and play. Dinner will be ready soon."
One of the boys started for the door.
"Dennis," Steed said quietly.
The boy stopped, then turned, shoulders slumped. "Aw, dad! We haven't been out all day. We’ll stay close by."
"Into the playroom, Dennis," Cathy said softly.
The two boys turned and shuffled disconsolately down the hallway. Steed gestured to his visitors. "This way, please."
They entered a large, comfortably furnished room. A real fire crackled cheerfully in a massive fireplace, which was imbedded in one wall. Alan sank into a chair with a sigh. His back was aching, and the ringing in his ears was growing more pronounced. He must be running a fever again.
Cathy appeared a moment later, a tray in her hands. Alan took a mug of the cider and sipped gratefully. The hot liquid felt wonderful on his throat. "Thanks a lot."
Steed also seated himself and picked up a mug. Cathy settled on the rug before the fireplace, and Alan glanced around guiltily, realizing he, Mark, Kevin and Steed had taken all the available seats. "Here, Mrs. Steed, you can have this chair." He started to get up.
"Sit down, Colonel," advised Steed. "Cathy prefers the floor — always has — at least since I've known her."
Alan glanced at the woman. "Are you sure, Ma'am?"
She smiled. "Of course I'm sure, Colonel. Relax and drink your cider."
Alan settled back, sipping from the mug. Another presence was behind the drapes across the room — a child from the feel of her mind, and a psychic.
Cathy Steed glanced toward the drapes. "Go play with your brothers, Annie. They're in the playroom."
"Aw, momma, do I have to?" The girl appeared through the drapes, her pert face interested. She was, Alan estimated, about five on six.
"Don't argue with your mother, Annie,” Steed said.
“Okay, Daddy." The little girl sidled up to Mark, smiling. "I know who you are!" she stated in a whisper. "You're Strike Commander Linley!"
Mark grinned at her. "That's right, sweetie."
"I’m Anabelle." The girl stopped before his chair. "But everybody calls me Annie. Gosh, you're handsome!"
“Annie!" Steed said sharply.
“Okay, daddy." With another enchanting smile, the child skipped from the room, dark curls bouncing. Mark grinned after her.
“That one’s gonna give you trouble in about ten years."
"I know." Steed sighed. "She's already got half the little boys in her kindergarten class in love with her."
Mark chuckled. “One of your psychics?"
“Yes."
Kevin took a long drink from his mug. "Mm! Good stuff! Y'know, I been thinkin', the Jils ain’t gonna be able to keep this business up much longer. Word's bound t'get out."
Major Steed nodded. "We know that, of course. Most likely they'll simply change location and place their man in another spot where he can do his dirty work for awhile until people begin to get upset again. Then he can move on. And if they find a psychic child who can read Arcturians, it won't make any difference. The Jils'll keep it up, as long as they can get away with it. The more kids they can find with the ability, the merrier, from their point of view, anyway."
"You're right," Mark said.
"People are already getting upset," Mrs. Steed said from her seat on the rug. "And rumors are beginning to circulate about the testing these kids have been getting, and that maybe the Jils are behind it. There've been two bomb threats made to the local Department of Education in just this last week. The last time we sent one of our men into the building, they had metal detectors set up, and security guards at the entrance, checking everyone out. You won't be able to carry any weapons with you."
Kevin whistled. "That's bad. We're gonna hafta get this guy before they decide to move him."
A shrill beeping sounded from the kitchen, silenced an instant later. Another girl, this one perhaps twelve or thirteen, stuck her head into the room. "Dinner's ready, mom."
"Thank you, Leslie." Cathy Steed stood up.
"Come and eat," Steed said, also rising. "Then we'll get your I.D.s made. Tomorrow's Monday, and you can head for the office in the morning. It opens at nine."
"Right," Mark said. "What about disguises?"
"The artists will be here later. You won't know yourselves after Gracie finishes with you."
Mark grimaced, but made no comment as they followed Cathy into the dining room.
Chapter 4
The aircar containing Alan, Kevin and Mark, maneuvered its way skillfully through the rush hour traffic of New Brunswick. Bits of snow flicked through the air around them, and wind buffeted the little vehicle. Bronson took manual control a few minutes later and settled the craft gently into the street half a block from the Education Building. Alan glanced at Kevin. "We'll call you if we need you, Kev. Did you bring something to read?"
"Sure did." Kevin raised an eyebrow at him. "Nice mag Mark brought me from Shallock last month. Ain't had time to appreciate it fully yet." He flashed the centerfold at Alan. “Now’s my chance.”
Alan felt himself go pink. "He brought me one, too."
“He did, huh?" Kevin’s grin broadened. "Don't worry, kid. I won't get so involved I won't hear if you yell."
They had decided the night before that it would be too conspicuous for Kevin and Mark to both accompany Alan into the building. Alan should be able to detect any shielding with just Mark to draw power from, but if he needed help, Kevin could be summoned easily. Alan knew from sad experience that he could not continue to tap power from both his power packs for any extended length of time without risking permanent damage to his psychic abilities. Mark, his stronger power pack, would remain with him during the search, and if Kevin was needed, he would be summoned.
They climbed from the car and headed for the building, coats and hoods drawn tightly around them. Alan glanced up at his large partner and grinned appreciatively. Mark's hair, eyebrows and lashes had been dyed a dark brown, and he wore dark contact lenses. A long, slightly puckered scar had been applied to one cheek, giving his features a sharp, rough appearance.
"They did a good job on you, he remarked. "You look great."
"So do you.” Mark grinned down at him. "Still look about sixteen, though.”
Alan had also acquired a new face beneath the skilled hands of the makeup artist. His nose had apparently become flatter, his mouth smaller, his face thinner. He now had brown eyes with thick, arching brows, and his curly, dark hair had been straightened through the application of a thick, clear, lotion. It would not wear off, the artist had assured him, unless he washed his hair several times.
They approached the main entrance of the building and mounted the broad, white steps. Mark pressed a button and the door slid open. They found themselves confronted by a security guard clad in a blue uniform.
“May I ask your business?" he inquired.
Mark and Alan produced the forgeries prepared by Major Steed. The guard examined them. "Lakeside Weekly?"
"Reporters," Mark told him. "We're doin’ a story on the schoolwork provided to our young people today. Is it up t'par with the rest o’ the Sector, an' all. A lot o' parents around here are interested in that sorta thing."
The guard radiated boredom. "Walk through the scanner, please."
They complied, and the machine passed them without comment. Another guard stopped them. "I'm sorry, sirs, but I don't know you, and I must ask that you empty your pockets before going any farther."
Alan and Mark did. The guard patted their clothing briefly. "Okay. That'll do it."
They proceeded across a lobby and up to an information desk. A clerk glanced up. “May I help you?"
Mark showed the man his I.D. "Reporters, Lakeside Weekly. We're doin’ a story on the New Brunswick Educational System. Can you help us?"
The clerk pressed a button, spoke briefly into an intercom, then turned back. "You'll need to see our administrator, Mr. Hoover. His office is on the third level."
Alan had been busy with his probe. The clerk's mind was wide open, broadcasting his thoughts easily to the psychic. The man was coming down with a cold, and had a vicious headache, which had been aggravated that morning by his aircar failing to start. He was definitely not the Jil plant.
They turned toward the lifts, and Mark glanced toward him. Alan shook his head. "Let's go see Mr. Hoover."
“Why not? Even administrators fall off the wagon sometimes."
The lift proceeded to the third level and they disembarked. Half a dozen employees boarded behind them. Mark grimaced. "Looks like we got our work cut out for us, kid. There’s the administrator's office."
Mr. Hoover was a tall, thin man, well into his second century. He listened with poorly concealed impatience to Mark's rambling explanation of the article they intended to write, while Alan carefully scanned his mind. Nothing but annoyance, intermixed with worry over his wife's drinking problem. Alan withdrew the probe, feeling a little ashamed at his prying into other people's affairs.
Mr. Hoover turned them over to his secretary with instructions to show the gentlemen around and answer their questions. The secretary turned out to be a tall, blonde, rather pretty girl, who smiled, introducing herself as Tammy Scholl. She led them down a carpeted hallway and into another room.
"This is the computer where the art and music tests are processed," she told them.
Alan was already extending his probe. The girl was harder to read than the clerk downstairs had been, but he had little problem. He encountered admiration for Mark’s looks and charm, a shoe that was pinching her, plus the background need to call home and check on her little girl. Jennie had had a fever this morning ....
Alan extended his probe deeper, reaching farther into her mind, and groping for any trace of shielding. He encountered deeper fears, anticipation and worry over things far in the future, anger toward her ex-husband, who was late with his child support payment again, but nothing else. Skillfully he withdrew the probe, mind returning to the present. Mark was flirting with their guide, and she, in turn, was pink, but returning his remarks with skill. A young man entered the room. He was wearing the uniform of a messenger boy. Probably, thought Alan, the Jils wouldn't put their man in a very important spot. Most likely he was an employee in one of the lesser departments — one that could be moved, to another location easily, and without causing comment.
He extended his probe toward the messenger. The man had a headache, brought on by an argument with his wife this morning. Alan extended the probe deeper, encountered nothing of interest, and withdrew.
“You’re very quiet, Mr. Anderson."
Alan looked up into Tammy's interested eyes. "I usually let Ron do the talking, Mrs. Scholl. He’s better at it than I am."
“Oh. Well, where would you like to go next?"
“Aptitude testin'?" Mark suggested.
“All right." The girl led them down another hallway and into a large room, containing half a dozen people, seated at various desks or working over machines. Alan scanned quickly and received a shock.
There was a psychic in the room. Rapidly he scanned again, locating the man at once. He was seated at a desk, stylus in hand, and hadn't glanced up as they entered. Alan concentrated.
The psychic's mind appeared wide open and completely untrained. Would the Jilectans have employed a psychic to do their dirty work? They never had before, but the possibility certainly existed. Many psychics were selective shielders, and would be ideal for such a position as this.
Tammy was introducing them to another man. "This is Pete Milhouse, Mr. Anderson — Mr. Mackey."
Mark had out his stylus. "An' what is your particular job, Mr. Milhouse?"
Alan decided he could probe the psychic in a moment. He mustn't miss anybody, and the psychic was really no more suspect than anyone else around here. He extended his probe toward Milhouse.
Pete was an unmarried man, who lived alone in an apartment south of here. He was enjoying his single life, and had a date tonight with a pliant young woman. Alan scanned the mind quickly, found no trace of shielding, and withdrew.
Tammy was moving on, introducing another man, then a woman, who were working over a computer. Alan probed them, without result.
The psychic still hadn't glanced up. Alan saw the girl look quickly at him, then go by his desk to speak to another employee. Alan concentrated.
The man had noticed them and his surface emotions were mild surprise at Mark's accent, then deeper surprise as a lie was detected. This Mr. Mackey was not a reporter, even though said he was…"
The psychic's face came up, eyes fixing on Mark. Alan swallowed and deepened his probe. Keith Leighton wasn't really much interested in the proceedings. He was too upset over what had happened recently. Alan sensed anger, sadness and deep hurt. Keith's wife had left him for another man a little over two weeks ago, abandoning their two young daughters at the same time.
There was no trace of shielding, but, Alan supposed, the thoughts he was picking up could be part of selective shielding to throw any Undergrounders off the track. Casually he reached over, placing a hand on Mark's arm, Linley took the hint at once, moving closer to him and addressing the psychic. "Hi there, I'm Ron Mackey. We haven't been introduced, I don't think."
“Keith Leighton."
“An’ what's your job here, Keith?"
The man glanced up. "I'm a programmer," he said shortly.
Tammy touched Mark's shoulder. "Come on, Mr. Mackey."
Alan nodded imperceptibly at Mark. Together they accompanied Tammy from the room.
They entered another, smaller office, but with more employees. Alan began patiently to scan one after another. It took a long time, and his head was aching when he finally finished. They entered another office, then a printing room, then a lounge, where people were smoking and drinking coffee. After what seemed like a million probes later their patient guide informed them that she had a lunch date, then a secretary's conference afterwards. Alan thanked her for her help, assuring her that they would do fine on their own. They were, after all, almost finished.
Mark waited until she had gone, then drew Alan into a corner of the lounge. "You look shot, kid. Feelin' pretty washed out?"
"Yes." Alan sank onto a small, vinyl sofa and sighed, glancing at his chronometer. "1300. Gosh, Mark, what'll we do if we don't find him? We can't just come back tomorrow. And maybe we’re on the wrong track, anyway."
"I don't think so, kid, and neither do you."
“No," Alan sighed. "The office closes in three hours, though. We've been at this a long time, and --"
"Look, kid, let's go get some grub."
“Okay. Maybe there'll be somebody in the coffee shop we haven't met yet."
"Sure. Take it easy, though. I don't wantcha knockin' yourself out."
"Okay, Mark."
They headed for the coffee shop at a slow walk. Alan sighed. "I found a psychic.”
"You did? Who?"
“Keith Leighton — the little guy with black hair in the aptitude office."
“Oh yeah. I wondered why you were so interested in him." Mark paused. "Any sign of --”
“No. I did a real careful check. He's untrained, but quite powerful. We'll have to have someone check up on him. His wife left him a couple of weeks ago."
Mark's eyebrows went up. "That so?"
“Yes. He has children, too, and one of them's school age."
"Terrific. We'll tell Steed as soon as we get back."
After lunch they searched desperately, going from room to room while Alan probed mind after mind — uselessly. He began to sense puzzlement from the employees at these two persistent reporters. He was in the midst of probing another secretary when a voice spoke behind them.
"Are you still here?"
It was the psychic, Keith Leighton.
"Yeah, we are," Mark said. "We wanna do a good job on this story. The public’s been after us about it for ages, an’ s'long as we're here, we might as well do it right. How about you ... Mr. Leighton, isn't it?"
“Yes." The man’s expression was anything but hospitable.
"You said you were a programmer. What department?"
"History."
“What section of history — Terran or --"
Alan placed a hand on his friend's arm. "Uh ... Ron, why don't we go outside to talk. Miss Evanston is trying to work."
They stepped out into the hallway. The emanations of suspicion and hostility from Leighton were rapidly growing more pronounced. "Who are you?" he demanded suddenly. "What are you doing here?"
"Uh --" Linley's shields went up. “We’re reporters, o’ course.”
"No you're not." It was a flat statement, leaving no room for doubt.
Mark scowled at him. "Now look, Mister --"
"Just a minute, Mark." Alan moved a step closer to the man. "Mr. Leighton, I guess I'd better explain something to you."
"Kid --" Mark began warningly.
"He needs to know, Mark, and he's not going to blow the whistle on us once he realizes why we're here."
Linley fell silent. Keith Leighton was looking from Alan to Mark, and his voice fell. "Is someone being investigated? Are you Undercover police, or something?" He drew in his breath sharply. "The bomb threats last week! Is that it?"
"Not exactly," Alan said. He drew the man into a small alcove next to a drinking fountain. "You see, Mr. Leighton, we are Undercover police of a sort, and we have reason to believe that the children who've been disappearing recently are psychics, and are being identified as psychics by tests put out by this office."
Leighton stared at him, face white. "Psychics!"
“Yes."
The man took a step back. "You’re not police! You’re from the Underground!"
Alan hesitated, then realized there was no use denying it any longer. "Yes, we are. It's the Jils who are collecting these kids. They’ve planted a man in this building somewhere who's altering the tests to single out psychic kids. Then the Jils quietly dispose of the psychic parent, and send their flunkies in to collect the children.
"But --" Leighton swallowed hard. "But ... who would do a thing like that?"
"A lot of people would," Alan told him gently. "There are people everywhere who’ll do almost anything for money. Of course, it makes it easier if the person talks himself into believing that psychics -- even psychic children -- are all inborn criminals like the Jils say."
Leighton looked sick.
“Maybe you can help us," Alan continued. "Is there anyone, who works here that you’re suspicious of — someone, say, that you don't like, although you aren't sure why?"
Leighton's eyes narrowed. "What are you trying to say?"
Alan lowered his voice to a mere thread of sound. "You're a psychic, Mr. Leighton."
Leighton stared at him blankly.
"It's true."
Leighton shook his head. "No. You're crazy!"
“No he ain't," Linley said.
“But ... " Keith Leighton looked ready to faint. Mark caught his arm.
"Easy. Maybe you better siddown."
“No ... I'm all right." Leighton took a deep breath. "I can't be. You must be mistaken, Mr. Anderson." He leaned back against the wall.
“He’s just tryin' t'warn you, Keith," Mark said, sounding a little impatient. "You're in danger, an' so are your kids. We ain't found the guy who's doin' this stuff to the tests, an’ maybe we ain't gonna find him. We got reason t'believe that these tests've been goin' out for quite awhile, so your kids might already've been identified as psychics."
"My kids!"
“One of them, anyway," Alan told him softly. "Little Greta. The other isn't in school yet, of course."
“But ... they're psychics, too?"
"Very likely," Alan said. "Since your wife was apparently identified as a psychic, that meant your kids had a double chance of getting the psychic gene. Psychic tendencies run in families, you know."
“My wife! What do you know --" He stopped.
“I know she disappeared two weeks ago and left you a letter about leaving you for another man," Alan said gently. "It wasn't true, of course. The Jils've found out about Greta, probably, and checked up on her mother. They found a psychic, and took her." He paused, meeting Keith's round, astonished eyes squarely. "It happens a lot, Mr. Leighton. Psychics often marry psychics. They become partners, although they aren't aware of it."
Leighton swallowed hard. "How did you know ... about Carol.”
"Because I'm a psychic, too. I read your mind. We were trying to find the Jil plant.”
"Oh." Leighton looked dazed, but his mental emanations indicated that he was accepting what he had been told as the truth. "What about Carol, then. Would she ... still be alive?"
Alan hesitated, but Mark came to his rescue. "Maybe, Keith, but not likely."
Leighton nodded, looking stunned and sick. "Is there any way to find out?"
“We can try," Alan said. “We'll notify our people and have them check."
Leighton nodded, then buried his face in his hands, beginning to sob.
A security guard was coming toward them. “What's going on here? Are these men bothering you, Mr. Leighton?"
Keith Leighton shook his head. "No."
"Are you sure? They've, been bothering a lot of people today. You aren't the only one."
“No. I'm fine." Leighton turned and almost ran into a small restroom across the corridor.
The guard looked at them with disfavor. "I think you'd better be going."
"We are." Alan gave the man an apologetic smile. "Let us go speak to Mr. Leighton first, though — and tell him we're sorry. We didn't mean to upset him."
The guard blocked his way. "I think you better go now. Mr. Leighton's had some rather unhappy family problems lately. I don't want you bothering him anymore."
“But -- " Alan stopped. "All Right. Come on, Ron."
They started slowly toward the lift, aware of the guard’s eyes watching them Mark glanced back. "Kid, what about --"
"I'm calling him now," said Alan quietly. "He hears me."
Behind them the restroom door opened and Leighton emerged. "Wait ... please!"
They paused, waiting as the man ran past the staring guard. He came up with them, panting a little. "Do you mind if I go with you?"
He looked better, Alan noticed. There was color in his cheeks again, and the front of his dark hair was wet, as though he had splashed his face with water. Linley gave him a slight smile. "Sure. We was hopin' you'd ask."
Leighton accompanied them into the lift. "Uh ... are you leaving now?"
"Yeah, I guesso," Mark said. "Alan’s checked out just about everybody, but we gotta look up the ones who was absent today, too. It could be one o' them."
"I’ll get you their names," said Leighton. "It'll only take a minute." He turned and headed for his office at a run. The security guard was still watching them, his expression puzzled.
Linley looked at his partner. "Well, kid?"
"He believes us," Alan said.
Mark nodded. "That's the nice thing about psychics. They usually believe you if you’re telling the truth. 'Course, if you’re lyin' they'll catch you on that, too." He glanced toward the security guard. "Here comes our friend."
The guard strode up, looking annoyed. "I told you two to get going."
“We’re waitin' for Mr. Leighton," Mark informed him coolly. "He’s invited us t'dinner."
"Likely story." The guard glowered at them. "Now get going, or I'll call for help and have you evicted."
Leighton appeared from his office, a coat draped over one arm. He came rapidly toward them. "I got what you need. Oh, hi, Ed. What's the problem?”
"Look, Mr. Leighton, I've had a few complaints about these guys, and if they're bothering you --"
Leighton smiled at the man. "It's okay, Ed, Thanks for your concern." He spoke to Alan and Mark. "I'm ready."
They entered the lift. Mark chuckled. "Boy, is that poor guy ever confused!”
“Ed takes his job very seriously," Keith said. "He's not a bad guy." He handed Alan a computer readout. "Here's all the absentees today. I know most of them, and I don't see how they could possibly be the Jil plant. They're all real good people."
"Even good people can succumb to temptation," Alan said.
"Yeah, I suppose. Look at the number of government people and such who've been caught in underhanded dealings."
"Look at us!" Mark said, half-seriously. "Once the salt o' the earth, an’ now members of a degenerate, criminal organization."
Leighton smiled faintly. "And it looks like I'm about to join you, doesn't it."
Alan was studying the paper. "Anyone on here that you're not sure about, Keith?"
The lift came to a halt and they disembarked. Keith glanced at the paper. "Well, I don't know that Corey DeWitt guy at all. He must be new. It says he works in computer repair and maintenance, too, so I guess he'd have access to the comps."
"Sounds like a good prospect," said Mark. "We'll go check him out."
They crossed the lobby toward the metal detectors.
"You know, Mr. Anderson," Keith said suddenly, "I've been thinking about what you said before."
"What?"
"About there being somebody who works here who I don't like — somebody I'm suspicious of, although I'm not sure why --"
“Yes?"
“Well, there is one guy, and you wouldn’t have checked him out yet, because he doesn't come on until everyone else goes home. He's a custodian."
Alan stopped. "Go on."
"Well ... " Leighton looked hesitant. "His name's Lester something. I'm not sure of the surname. I don't like him, and I'm not sure why. He bothers me — rubs me the wrong way — you know?"
"I know. When does he come to work, and what entrance?"
"The back entrance." Keith glanced at his chronometer. "He should be arriving any minute."
Alan glanced quickly at Mark. "It'd be best if we can check him out before he goes into the building. Keith, can you show me the way?"
“Sure."
"Mark, signal Kevin to head for the maintenance door — back of the building, Keith?"
"Yes. You have someone outside waiting for you?"
"Yeah. Look, kid, we’ll signal him once we're there, okay? It might look suspicious in here."
“Okay," Alan said. A tingle of anticipation went over him. They were on the right track at last, he was sure of it.
Keith led them across the lobby to the lift again, which bore them down to the basement. They exited into a cool, damp, littered room, dimly lighted from cells embedded in the ceiling. Again Leighton led them across to a large, metal door. Two maintenance men passed him, nodding a greeting.
The cold wind hit them as they emerged from the building. Rain, mixed with sleet was pattering down. There were stairs before them, and people were passing, moving across a parking lot, capes clasped around them. Two little boys went by, stamping their feet in half frozen puddles, apparently unaware of the inclement weather.
They stood under a flimsy canopy, the sleet misting into their faces. Mark pressed a stud on his chronometer. "Kev," he said quietly.
"Yeah?" The reply was immediate.
"Come around to the rear of the building. We're at the service and maintenance entrance."
"Comin’."
Three men clad as custodians were coming up the stairs. Alan glanced quickly at Keith, but the man shook his head. A woman followed the men and entered behind them. Alan compressed his lips, looking after them, he really should check everybody out --
"Here comes Kev," Mark said. He went down the steps and lifted a hand toward the approaching aircar.
Another man ran across the lot toward them and went past Mark, his head bowed into the wind. Keith moved convulsively against Alan. "That's Lester!" he whispered.
Alan took a quick step forward, extending his probe. "Uh ... excuse me, sir."
"Yeah?"
His thoughts on the surface seemed normal — the musings of a man heading for his job. Another dull day at work — and this hellish weather ....
Then he sensed it! There was a wall behind the outer emotions and thoughts — an almost imperceptible wall. Alan had sensed its like before only once. There was a member of the Underground who had a mind like this — selective shielding — rare in a non-psychic. But Sven Thoroski had been trained until his control was perfect. Not even Alan could detect it.
This man’s training had not been so thorough. Perhaps he was simply not such a good selective shielder as Thoroski, or perhaps the Jils had thought they had done a good enough job to fool most Terran psychics. Well, perhaps most -- but not Alan.
"What do you want?" Lester inquired.
Mark had turned and was coming up the steps toward him. Alan's power increased as Linley drew near. Alan tried to deepen his probe, telling himself that they still didn't know. He'd have to see the man's thoughts before he could be certain.
"Hey!" The custodian sounded annoyed, and Alan sensed faint apprehension. The shielding tightened.
"Uh ... do you have the time?" Alan managed. Mark had arrived beside him.
The custodian glanced at his chronometer. "It's 1536, and I'm late for work." He turned toward the door again and strode forward. Abandoning caution, Alan pushed his probe beyond that invisible barrier.
Surprise met him, and the man jerked convulsively away, but Alan had seen all he needed to see. Leaping forward, he caught Lester by his loose coat. "It's him!"
A fist struck him hard on the side of the head. He saw stars and staggered sideways, going to one knee. There was a clatter of feet and a shout of rage.
"Are you all right, boy?"
Alan lifted his face and saw a woman bending over him. He shook his head and felt her helping him up. "I saw him hit you. Are you okay?"
"Yes." He looked around, but Mark, Leighton and the fugitive had vanished. "Where did he go?"
"Around the building," the woman told him. "Keith and that big guy went after him."
"Thanks." Alan ran down the steps, still feeling a little unsteady.
He went around the building, down an alley, and across a parking lot. He could sense Mark and the unshielded psychic mind of Leighton ahead of him, and still moving. More buildings loomed before him, and he ran between two of them, still scanning.
It was at that moment he heard the call.
Alan's mind was wide open and receptive — had been for some time due to his probes on the employees. The call reached him clearly — a cry — a scream of terror. It was the frightened, telepathic voice of a young, unshielded psychic, pleading for help.
There was no ignoring such a summons. Automatically Alan tried to answer, at the same time scanning for the direction of the call. It was coming from his right and a little to his rear. Well, his friends would just have to manage alone for a few minutes.
Alan dashed frantically toward the cry, splashing carelessly through puddles. *Coming!* he shouted in his mind. *I'm coming!*
Seconds later the call was cut off, and Alan sensed faintly through his tenuous link with the other's mind, the tingle of a stunbolt. But clearly, now, he could sense the psychic's aura, ahead of him, and a little to the right. It was beginning to move slightly, too. Another kidnapping was in progress.
He pounded frantically across a side street and plunged left into a vacant lot. The thought occurred to him that he should signal Mark and Kevin, and, as he ran, he pressed a small stud on the chronometer which transmitted the emergency signal.
Ahead he saw his quarry. A police vehicle was parked beside a large, untended bush, and a man was striding toward it, a small, limp form slung over one shoulder. Another man stood beside the vehicle, ushering his companion inside. Both men were clad as police officers, but Alan knew instantly that they were nothing of the sort.
"Hey!" Alan sprinted forward, wishing now, with all his might, for a blaster, or a stunner — any kind of weapon. If he could just get close enough to the men, he might be able to disarm one of them.
The man carrying the little girl jerked around, and the other also turned, blaster in hand. The weapon centered on Alan.
Alan stopped, "Hey! What the devil are you doing? Leave the girl alone!"
The man holding the girl spoke to his companion in a low, urgent voice, and started to enter the vehicle. Alan took a step forward. Somehow he must delay them until Mark and Kevin could arrive! "Are you crazy?" he demanded indignantly. "Put her down! I’ll report you for this! How dare you stun a child? I want your badge numbers!"
Behind him was the hum of another aircar. For an instant Alan thought it might be Mark, but a second later he knew it wasn't. The sudden flash of danger made him duck sideways just as the stunbolt hummed.
He was caught by the edge of the beam and fell with a splash into the half frozen mud. A voice spoke somewhere far away, and a dark figure loomed over him. There was another hum, then the numbing tingle of a second stunbolt. Darkness descended.
**********
tbc
