The demolished man (21 page)

ALL WORSHIPERS. NO LOUD TALKING OR LAUGHTER... PLEASE!" A click, and another

gargoyle began in another language. Powell burst out laughing.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," a girl said behind him.

Without turning, Powell replied: "I'm sorry. `No Loud Talking or Laughter.' But

don't you think this is the most ludicrous---" Then the pattern of her psyche

hit him and he spun around. He was face to face with Duffy Wyg&.

"Well, Duffy!" he said.

Her frown changed to a look of perplexity, then to a quick smile. "Mr. Powell,"

she exclaimed. "The boy-sleuth. You still owe me a dance."

"I owe you an apology," Powell said.

"Delighted. Can't have enough of them. What's this one for?"

"Underestimating you."

"The story of my life." She linked arms and drew him along the path. "Tell me

how reason has finally prevailed. You took another look at me, and---?"

"I realized you're the cleverest person Ben Reich has working for him."

"I am clever. I did do some work for Ben... but your compliment seems to have

deep brooding undertones. Is there something?"

"The tail we had on Hassop."

"Just a little more accent on the down-beat, please."

"You took out our tail, Duffy. Congratulations."

"Ah-ha! Hassop is your pet horse. A childhood accident robbed him of a horse's

crowning glory. You substituted an artificial one which---"

"Clever-up, Duffy. That isn't going to travel far."

"Then, boy-wonder, will you ream your tubes?"

Her pert face looked up at him, half serious, half amused. "What in hell are you

talking about?"

"I'll spell it out. We had a tail on Hassop. A tail is a shadow, a spy, a secret

agent assigned to the duty of following and watching a suspect..."

"Contents noted. What's a Hassop?"

"A man who works for Ben Reich. His Code Chief."

"And what did I do to your spy?"

"Following instructions from Ben Reich, you captivated the man, enravished him,

turned him into a derelict from duty, kept him at a piano all day, day after

day, and---"

"Wait a minute!" Duffy spoke sharply. "I know that one. The little bem. Let's

square this off. He was a cop?"

"Now Duffy, if---"

"I asked a question."

"He was a cop."

"Following this Hassop?"

"Yes."

"Hassop... Bleached man? Dusty hair? Dusty blue eyes?"

Powell nodded.

"The louse," Duffy muttered. "The low-down louse!" She turned on Powell

furiously. "And you think I'm the kind that does his dirty work, do you! Why,

you --- you peeper! You listen to me, Powell. Reich asked me to do him a favor.

Said there was a man up here working on an interesting musical code. Wanted me

to check him. How the hell was I supposed to know be was your goon? How was I

supposed to know your goon was masquerading as a musician?"

Powell stared at her. "Are you claiming that Reich tricked you?"

"What else?" She glared back. "Go ahead and peep me. If Reich wasn't in the

Reservation you could peep that double-crossing ---"

"Hold it!" Powell interrupted sharply. He slipped past her conscious barrier and

peeped her precisely and comprehensively for ten seconds. Then he turned and

began to run.

"Hey!" Duffy yelled. "What's the verdict?"

"Medal of Honor," Powell called over his shoulder. "I'll pin it on as soon as I

bring a man back alive."

"I don't want a man. I want you."

"That's your trouble, Duffy. You want anybody."

"Whooooo?"

"Any-y-bod-y."

"NO LOUD TALKING OR LAUGHTER... PLEASE!"

Powell found his police sergeant in the Spaceland Globe Theater where a

magnificent Esper actress stirred thousands with her moving

performances---performances that owed as much to her telepathic sensitivity to

audience response as to her exquisite command of stage technique. The cop,

immune to the star's appeal, was gloomily inspecting the house, face by face.

Powell took his arm and led him out.

"He's in the Reservation," Powell told him. "Took Hassop with him. Took Hassop's

luggage too. Perfect alibi. He was shaken up by the crash and he needs a rest.

Also company. He's eight hours ahead of us."

"The Reservation, huh?" the sergeant pondered. "Twenty-five hundred square miles

of more damned animals, geography, and weather than you ever see is three

lives."

"What's the odds Hassop has a fatal accident, if he hasn't had one already?"

"No takers at any price."

"If we want to get Hassop out we'll have to grab a Helio and do some fast

hunting."

"Uh-uh. No mechanical transportation allowed in the Reservation."

"This is an emergency. Old Man Mose has got to have Hassop!"

"Go let that damn machine argue with the Spaceland Board. You could get special

permission in maybe three four weeks."

"By which time Hassop'd be dead and buried. What about Radar or Sonar? We could

work out Hassop's pattern and ---"

"Uh-uh. No mechanical devices outside of cameras allowed in the Reservation."

"What the hell plays with that Reservation?"

"Hundred per cent guaranteed pure nature for the eager beavers. You go in at

your own risk. Element of danger adds spice to your trip. Get the picture? You

battle the elements. You battle the wild animals. You feel primitive and

refreshed again. That's what the ads say."

"What do they do in there? Rub sticks together?"

"Sure. You hike on your own feet. You carry your own food. You take one

Defensive Barrier Screen with you so's the bears don't eat you. If you want a

fire you got to build it. If you want to hunt animals, you got to make your own

weapons. If you want to catch fish, likewise. You versus nature. And they make

you sign a release in case nature wins."

"Then how are we going to find Hassop?"

"Sign a release and go hike for him."

"The two of us? Cover twenty-five hundred square miles of geography? How many

squadmen can you spare?"

"Maybe ten."

"Adding up to two hundred and fifty square miles per cop. Impossible."

"Maybe you could persuade the Spaceland Board --- No. Even if you could, we

wouldn't be able to get the Board together under a week. Wait a minute! Could

you get 'em together by peeping 'em? Send out urgent messages or something? How

do you peepers work that anyway?"

"We can only pick you up. We can't transmit to anybody except another peeper, so

--- Hey! Ho! That's an idea!"

"What's an idea?"

"Is a human being a mechanical device?"

"Nope."

"Is he a civilized invention?"

"Not lately."

"Then I'm going to do some fast co-opting and take my own Radar into the

Reservation."

Which is why a sudden craving for nature overtook a prominent lawyer in the

midst of delicate contractual negotiations in one of Spaceland's luxurious

conference rooms. The same craving also came upon the secretary of a famous

author, a judge of domestic relations, a job analyst screening applicants for

the United Hotel Association, an industrial designer, an efficiency engineer,

the Chairman of Amalgamated Union's Grievance Committee, Titan's Superintendent

of Cybernetics, a Secretary of Political Psychology, two Cabinet members, five

Parliamentary Leaders, and scores of other Esper clients of Spaceland at work

and at play.

They filed through the Reservation Gate in a unified mood of holiday festivity

and assorted gear. Those that had gotten word on the grapevine early enough were

in sturdy camping clothes. Others were not; and the astonished gate guards,

checking and inspecting for illicit baggage, saw one lunatic in full diplomatic

regalia march through with a pack on his back. But all the nature-lovers carried

detailed maps of the Reservation carefully zoned into sectors.

Moving swiftly, they spread out and beat forward across the miniature continent

of weather and geography. The TP Band crackled as comments and information swept

up and down the line of living radar in which Powell occupied the central

position.

"Hey. No fair, I've got a mountain dead ahead."

"Snowing here. Full b-b-blizzard."

"Swamps and (ugh!) mosquitoes in my sector."

"Hold it. Party ahead, Linc. Sector 21."

"Shoot a picture."

"Here it is..."

"Sorry. No sale."

"Party ahead, Linc. Sector 9."

"Let's have the picture."

"Here it comes..."

"Nope. No sale."

"Party ahead, Linc. Sector 17."

"Shoot a picture."

"Hey! It's a goddam bear!"

"Don't run! Negotiate!"

"Party ahead, Linc. Sector 12."

"Shoot a picture."

"Here it comes..."

"No sale."

"AAAAAAA-choo!"

"That the blizzard?"

"No. I'm a cloud-burst."

"Party ahead, Linc. Sector 41."

"Shoot a picture."

"Here it is."

"Not them."

"How do you climb a palm tree?"

"You shinny up."

"Not up. Down."

"How'd you get up, your honor?"

"I don't know. A moose helped me."

"Party ahead, Linc. Sector 37."

"Let's have the picture."

"Here it comes."

"No sale."

"Party ahead, Linc. Sector 60."

"Go ahead."

"Here's the picture..."

"Pass 'em by."

"How long do we have to keep on travelling?"

"They're at least eight hours ahead."

"No. Correction, peepers. They've got eight hours start but they may not be

eight hours ahead."

"Spell that out, will you, Linc."

"Reich may not have trekked straight ahead. He may have circled around to a

favorite spot close to the gate."

"Favorite for what?"

"For murder."

"Excuse me. How does one persuade a cat not to devour one?"

"Use Political Psychology."

"Use your Barrier screen, Mr. Secretary."

"Party ahead, Linc. Sector 1."

"Shoot a picture, Mr. Superintendent."

"Here it is."

"Pass 'em by, sir. That's Reich and Hassop."

"WHAT!"

"Don't make a fuss. Don't make anybody suspicious. Just pass 'em by. When you're

out of sight, circle around to Sector 2. Everybody head back for the Gate and go

home. All my thanks. From here on I'll take it alone."

"Leave us in on the kill, Linc."

"No. This needs finesse. I don't want Reich to know I'm abducting Hassop. It's

all got to look logical and natural and unimpeachable. It's a swindle."

"And you're the thief to do it."

"Who stole the weather, Powell?"

The departing peepers were propelled by a hot blush.

This particular square mile of Reservation was jungle, humid, swampy, overgrown.

As darkness fell, Powell slowly wormed his way toward the glimmering camp fire

Reich had built in a clearing alongside a small lake. The water was infested

with hippo, crocodile, and swambat. The trees and terrain swarmed with life. The

entire junglette was a savage tribute to the brilliance of Reservation

ecologists who could assemble and balance nature on the point of a pin. And in

tribute to that nature, Reich's Defensive Barrier Screen was in full operation.

Powell could hear mosquitoes whine as they batted against the outer rim of the

barrier, and there was an intermittent hail of larger insects caroming off the

invisible wall. Powell could not risk operating his own. The screens hummed

slightly and Reich had keen ears. He inched forward and peeped.

Hassop was at ease, relaxed, just a little beglamoured by the idea of intimacy

with his puissant chief, just a little intoxicated by the knowledge that his

film cannister contained Ben Reich's fate. Reich, working feverishly on a crude,

powerful bow, was planning the accident that would eliminate Hassop. It was that

bow and the sheaf of fire-tipped arrows alongside Reich that had eaten up the

eight hours start on Powell. You can't kill a man in a hunting accident unless

you go hunting.

Powell lifted to his knees and crawled forward, his senses pinpointed on Reich's

perception. He froze again as ALARM clanged in Reich's head. Reich leaped to his

feet, bow ready, a featherless arrow at half-cock, and peered intently into the

darkness.

"What is it, Ben?" Hassop murmured.

"I don't know. Something."

"Hell. You've got your Barrier, haven't you?"

"I keep forgetting." Reich sank back and built up the fire; but he was not

forgetting the Barrier. The wary instinct of the killer was warning him,

vaguely, persistently... And Powell could only marvel at the intricate survival

mechanism of the human mind. He peeped Reich again. Reich was mechanically

resorting to the tune-block he associated with crisis: Tenser, said the Tensor,

Tenser, said the Tensor. Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun.

Behind that there was turmoil; a mounting resolution to kill quickly... kill

savagely... destroy now and arrange the evidence later...

As Reich reached for the bow, his eyes carefully averted from Hassop, his mind

intent on the throbbing heart that was his target, Powell drove forward

urgently. Before he had moved ten feet, ALARM tripped again in Reich's mind and

the big man was on his feet once more. This time he whipped a burning branch

from the fire and hurled the flare toward the blackness where Powell was