"Yes, sir. Now, I'm ready to go all out on Ben Reich and Monarch to get that
evidence for Old Man Mose. I want to ask you a straight question. Are you
willing to go all out too?"
Crabbe, who resented and hated all Espers, turned purple and shot up from the
ebony chair behind the ebony desk in his ebony-and-silver office. "What the hell
is that supposed to mean, Powell?"
"Don't sound for undercurrents, sir. I'm merely asking if you're tied to Reich
and Monarch in any way. Will you be embarrassed when the heat's on? Will it be
possible for Reich to come to you and get our rockets cooled?"
"No, it will not, damn you."
"Sir:" Wynken shot at Powell. "On December 4th last, Commissioner Crabbe
discussed the Monolith Case with you. Extract follows:
POWELL:
There's a tricky financial angle to this business, Commissioner. Monarch may
hold us up with a Demurrer.
CRABBE:
Reich's given me his word he won't; and I can always depend on Ben Reich. He
backed me for County Attorney.
End quote."
"Right, Wynk. I thought there was something in Crabbe's file." Powell switched
his tactics and glared at Crabbe. "What the devil are you trying to hand me?
What about your campaign for County D.A.? Reich backed you for that, didn't he?"
"He did."
"And I'm supposed to believe he hasn't continued supporting you?"
"Damn you, Powell---Yes, you are. He backed me then. He has not supported me
since."
"Then I have the beacon on the Reich murder?"
"Why do you insist that Ben Reich killed that man? It's ridiculous. You've got
no proof. Your own admission."
Powell continued to glare at Crabbe.
"He didn't kill him. Ben Reich wouldn't kill anybody. He's a fine man who---"
"Do I have your beacon on this murder?"
"All right, Powell. You do."
"But with strong reservations. Make a note, boys. He's scared to death of Reich.
Make another note. So am I."
To his staff, Powell said: "Now look---You all know what a cold-blooded monster
Old Man Mose is. Always screaming for facts---facts---evidence---unassailable
proof. We'll have to produce evidence to convince that damned machine he ought
to prosecute. To do that we're going to pull the Rough & Smooth on Reich. You
know the method. We'll assign a clumsy operative and a slick one to every
subject. The cluck won't know the smoothie is on the job. Neither will the
subject. After he's shaken the Rough Tail he'll imagine he's clear. That makes
it a cinch for the slicker. And that's what we're going to do to Reich."
"Check," said Beck.
"Go through every department. Pull out a hundred low-grade cops. Put 'em in
plainclothes and assign 'em to the Reich case. Go up to Lab and get hold of
every crackpot tracer-robot that's been submitted in the last ten years. Put all
the gadgets to work on the Reich case. Make this whole package a Rough tail...
the kind he won't have any trouble shaking, but the kind he'll have to work to
shake."
"Any specific areas?" Beck inquired.
"Why were they playing `Sardine'? Who suggested the game? The Beaumont's
secretaries went on record that Reich couldn't be peeped because he had a song
kicking around in his skull. What song? Who wrote it? Where'd Reich hear it? Lab
says, the guards were blasted with some kind of Visual Purple Ionizer. Check all
research on that sort of thing. What killed D'Courtney? Let's have lots of
weapon research. Backtrack on Reich's relations with D'Courtney. We know they
were commercial rivals. Were they deadly enemies? Was it a profitable murder? A
terrified murder? What and how much does Reich stand to win by D'Courtney's
death?"
"Jesus!" Beck exclaimed. "All this Rough? We'll louse the case, Linc."
"Maybe. I don't think so. Reich's a successful man. He's had a string of
victories that's made him cocky. I think he'll bite. He'll imagine he's
outsmarting us every time he outmaneuvers one of our decoys. Keep him thinking
that. We're going to run into some brutal public relations. The news'll tear us
apart. But play along with it. Rave. Rant. Make outraged statements. We're all
going to be blundering, outwitted cops... and while Reich's eating himself fat
on that diet---"
"You'll be eating Reich," Beck grinned. "What about the girl?"
"She's the one exception to the Rough Routine. We level with her. I want a
description and photo sent to every police officer in the country within one
hour. On the bottom of the stat we announce that the man who locates her will
automatically be jumped five grades."
"Sir: Regulations forbid elevation of more than three ranks at any time." Thus
spake Nod.
"To hell with Regulations," Powell snapped. "Five grades to the man who finds
Barbara D'Courtney. I've got to get that girl."
In Monarch Tower, Ben Reich shoved every piezo crystal off his desk into the
startled hands of his secretaries.
"Get the hell out of here and take all this slok with you," he growled. "From
now on the office coasts without me. Understand? Don't bother me."
"Mr. Reich, we'd understood you were contemplating taking over the D'Courtney
interests now that Craye D'Courtney's dead. If you---"
"I'm taking care of that right now. That's why I don't want to be bothered. Now
beat it. Jet!"
He horded the terrified squad toward the door, pushed them out, slammed the door
and locked it. He went to the phone, punched BD-12,232 and waited impatiently.
After too long a time, the image of Jerry Church appeared against a background
of pawnshop debris.
"You?" Church snarled and reached for the cut-off.
"Me. On business. Still interested in reinstatement?"
Church stared. "What about it?"
"You've made yourself a deal. I'm starting action on your reinstatement at once.
And I can do it, Jerry. I own the league of Esper Patriots. But I want a lot in
return."
"For God's sake, Ben. Anything. Just ask me."
"That's what I want."
"Anything?"
"And everything. Unlimited service. You know the price I'm paying. Are you
selling?"
"I'm selling, Ben. Yes."
"And I want Keno Quizzard too."
"You can't want him, Ben. He isn't safe. Nobody gets anything from Quizzard."
"Set up a meeting. Same old place. Same time. This is like it used to be, eh,
Jerry? Only this time it's going to have a happy ending."
The usual line was assembled in the anteroom of the Esper Guild Institute when
Lincoln Powell entered. The hopeful hundreds, all ages, all sexes, all classes,
each dreaming that he had the magic quality that could make life the fulfillment
of fantasy, unaware of the heavy responsibility that quality entailed. The
naivete of those dreams always made Powell smile. Read minds and make a killing
on the market... (Guild Law forbade speculation or gambling by peepers) Read
minds and know the answers to all exam questions... (That was a schoolboy,
unaware that Esper Proctors were hired by Examination Boards to prevent that
kind of peeper-cheating) Read minds and know what people really think of me...
Read minds and know which girls are willing... Read minds and be like a King...
At the desk, the receptionist wearily broadcast on the widest TP band: If you
can hear me, please go through the door on the left marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. If
you can hear me, please go through the door on the left marked EMPLOYEES ONLY...
To an assured young socialite, with a checkbook in her hand, she was saying:
"No, Madame. The Guild does not charge for training and instruction, your offer
is worthless. Please go home, Madame. We can do nothing for you."
Deaf to the basic test of the Guild, the woman turned away angrily, to be
succeeded by the schoolboy.
If you can hear me, please go through the door on the left...
A young Negro suddenly detached himself from the line, glanced uncertainly at
the receptionist, and then walked to the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. He opened
it and entered. Powell was excited. Latent Espers turned up infrequently. He'd
been fortunate to arrive at this moment.
He nodded to the receptionist and followed the Latent through the door. Inside,
two of the Guild staff were enthusiastically shaking the surprised man's hand
and patting him on the back. Powell joined them for a moment and added his
congratulations. It was always a happy day for the Guild when they unearthed
another Esper.
Powell walked down the corridor toward the president's suite. He passed a
kindergarten where thirty children and ten adults were mixing speech and thought
in a frightful patternless mish-mash. Their instructor was patiently
broadcasting: "Think, class. Think. Words are not necessary. Think. Remember to
break the speech reflex. Repeat the first rule after me..."
And the class chanted: "Eliminate the Larynx."
Powell winced and moved on. The wall opposite the kindergarten was covered by a
gold plaque on which was engraved the sacred words of the Esper Pledge:
I will look upon him who shall have taught me this Art as one of my parents.
I will share my substance with him, and I will supply his necessities if he
be in need. I will regard his offspring even as my own brethren and I will
teach them this Art by precept, by lecture, and by every mode of teaching;
and I will teach this Art to all others. The regimen I adopt shall be for
the benefit of mankind according to my ability and judgment, and not for
hurt or wrong. I will give no deadly thought to any, though it be asked of
me.
Whatsoever mind I enter, there will I go for the benefit of man, refraining
from all wrong-doing and corruption. Whatsoever thoughts I see or hear in
the mind of man which ought not to be made known, I will keep silence
thereon, counting such things to be as sacred secrets.
In the lecture hall, a class of 3rds was earnestly weaving simple basket
patterns while they discussed current events. There was one little overdue 2nd,
a twelve-year-old, who was adding zig-zag ad libs to the dull discussion and
peaking every zig with a spoken word. The words rhymed and were barbed comments
on the speakers. It was amusing and amazingly precocious.
Powell found the president's suite in an uproar. All the office doors were open,
and clerks and secretaries were scurrying. Old T'sung H'sai, the president, a
portly mandarin with shaven skull and benign features, stood in the center of
his office and raged. He was so angry he was shouting, and the shock of the
articulated words made his staff shake.
"I don't care what the scoundrels call themselves," T'sung H'sai roared.
"They're a gang of selfish, self-seeking reactionaries. Talk to me about purity
of the race, will they? Talk to me about aristocracy, will they? I'll talk to
them. I'll fill their ears. Miss Prinn! Miss Pr-i-nnnnn!"
Miss Prinn crept into T'sung's office, horrified at the prospect of oral
dictation.
"Take a letter to these devils. To the League of Esper Patriots. Gentlemen...
Good morning, Powell. Haven't seen you in eons... How's Dishonest Abe? The
organized campaign of your clique to cut down Guild Taxation and appropriations
for the education of Espers and the dissemination of Esper training to mankind
is conceived in a spirit of treachery and fascism. Paragraph..."
T'sung wrenched himself from his diatribe and winked profoundly at Powell. "And
have you found the peeper of your dreams yet?"
"Not yet, sir."
"Confound you, Powell. Get married!" T'sung bellowed. "I don't want to be stuck
with this job forever. Paragraph, Miss Prinn: You speak of the hardships of
taxation, of preserving the aristocracy of Espers, of the unsuitability of the
average man for Esper training... What do you want, Powell?"
"I want to use the grapevine, sir."
"Well don't bother me. Speak to my #2 girl. Paragraph, Miss Prinn: Why don't you
come out into the open? You parasites want Esper powers reserved for an
exclusive class so you can turn the rest of the world into a host for your
blood-sucking! You leeches want to---"
Powell tactfully closed the door and turned to T'sung's second secretary, who
was quaking in a corner.
"Are you really scared?"
Image of an eye winking.
Image of a question mark quaking.
"When Papa T'sung blows his top we like him to think we're petrified. Makes him
happier. He hates to be reminded that he's a Santa Claus."
"Well, I'm Santa Claus too. Here's something for your stocking." Powell dropped
the official police description and portrait of Barbara D'Courtney on the
secretary's desk.
"What a beautiful girl," she exclaimed.
"I want this sent out on the grapevine. Marked urgent. A reward goes with it.
Pass the word that the peeper who locates Barbara D'Courtney for me will have