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Their combined thought-force hit him like athunderbolt.]
THE PENAL CLUSTER
By IVAR JORGENSEN
_Tomorrow's technocracy will produce more and more things for better living. It will produce other things, also; among them, criminals too despicable to live on this earth. Too abominable to breathe our free air._
The clipped British voice said, in David Houston's ear, _I'm quite surehe's one. He's cashing a check for a thousand pounds. Keep him undersurveillance._
Houston didn't look up immediately. He simply stood there in the lobbyof the big London bank, filling out a deposit slip at one of the long,high desks. When he had finished, he picked up the slip and headedtowards the teller's cage.
Ahead of him, standing at the window, was a tall, impeccably dressed,aristocratic-looking man with graying hair.
"The man in the tweeds?" Houston whispered. His voice was so low that itwas inaudible a foot away, and his lips scarcely moved. But thesensitive microphone in his collar picked up the voice and relayed it tothe man behind the teller's wicket.
_That's him_, said the tiny speaker hidden in Houston's ear. _Thefine-looking chap in the tweeds and bowler._
"Got him," whispered Houston.
* * * * *
He didn't go anywhere near the man in the bowler and tweeds; instead, hewent to a window several feet away.
"Deposit," he said, handing the slip to the man on the other side of thepartition. While the teller went through the motions of putting thedeposit through the robot accounting machine, David Houston kept hisears open.
"How did you want the thousand, sir?" asked the teller in the nextwicket.
"Ten pound notes, if you please," said the graying man. "I think ahundred notes will go into my brief case easily enough." He chuckled, asthough he'd made a clever witticism.
"Yes, sir," said the clerk, smiling.
Houston whispered into his microphone again. "Who is the guy?"
On the other side of the partition, George Meredith, a small,unimposing-looking man, sat at a desk marked: MR. MEREDITH--ACCOUNTINGDEPT. He looked as though he were paying no attention whatever toanything going on at the various windows, but he, too, had a microphoneat his throat and a hidden pickup in his ear.
At Houston's question, he whispered: "That's Sir Lewis Huntley. Thecheck's good, of course. Poor fellow."
"Yeah," whispered Houston, "if he is what we think he is."
"I'm fairly certain," Meredith replied. "Sir Lewis isn't the type offellow to draw that much in cash. At the present rate of exchange,that's worth three thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars American.Sir Lewis might carry a hundred pounds as pocket-money, but never athousand."
Houston and Meredith were a good thirty feet from each other, andneither looked at the other. Unless a bystander had equipment to tune inon the special scrambled wavelength they were using, that bystanderwould never know they were holding a conversation.
"... nine-fifty, nine-sixty, nine-seventy, nine-eighty, nine-ninety, athousand pounds," said the clerk who was taking care of Sir Lewis'scheck. "Would you count that to make sure, sir?"
"Certainly. Ten, twenty, thirty, ..."
While the baronet was double-checking the amount, David Houston glancedat him. Sir Lewis looked perfectly calm and unhurried, as though he weredoing something perfectly legal--which, in a way, he was. And, inanother way, he most definitely was not, if George Meredith's suspicionswere correct.
"Your receipt, sir." It was the teller at Houston's own window.
Houston took the receipt, thanked the teller, and walked toward thebroad front doors of the bank.
"George," he whispered into the throat mike, "has Sir Lewis noticed me?"
"Hasn't so much as looked at you," Meredith answered. "Good hunting."
"Thanks."
* * * * *
As Houston stepped outside the bank, he casually dropped one hand into acoat pocket and turned a small knob on his radio control box. "Houstonto HQ," he whispered.
"London HQ; what is it, Houston?" asked the earpiece.
"Leadenhall Street Post. Meredith thinks he's spotted one. Sir LewisHuntley."
"Righto. We've got men in that part of the city now. We'll have anetwork posted within five minutes. Can you hold onto him that long?"
Houston looked around. Leadenhall Street was full of people, and thevisibility was low. "I'll have to tail him pretty closely," Houstonsaid. "Your damned English fogs don't give a man much chance to seeanything."
There was a chuckle from the earphone. "Cheer up, Yank; you should haveseen it back before 1968. When atomic power replaced coal and oil, ourfogs became a devil of a lot cleaner."
The voice was quite clear; at the London headquarters of the UNPsychodeviant Police, there was no need to wear a throat mike, which hada tendency to make the voice sound muffled in spite of the StatisticalInformation-Bit Samplers which were supposed to clarify the speechcoming through them.
"What do you know about 1968?" Houston asked sardonically. "Your motherwas still pushing you around in a baby-carriage then."
"In a pram," corrected the Headquarters operator. "That is true, but mydear Aunt Jennifer told me all about it. She was--"
"The hell with your Aunt Jennifer," Houston interrupted suddenly. "Herecomes Sir Lewis. Get me cover--fast!"
"Right. Keep us posted."
Sir Lewis Huntley stepped out of the broad door of the bank and turnedleft. He took a couple of steps and stopped. He didn't look around; hesimply took a cigarette out of a silver case, put it in his mouth, andlit it. The glow of the lighter shone yellowly on the brass plate nearthe door which said: _An Affiliate of Westminster Bank, Ltd._
Sir Lewis snapped the light out, drew on the cigarette, and strode ondown the street, swinging a blue plastex brief case which contained athousand pounds in United Nations Bank of England notes.
Houston decided the baronet had not been looking for a tail; he wishedhe could probe the man's mind to make sure, but he knew that would befatal. He'd have to play the game and hope for the best.
"He's heading east," Houston whispered. "Doesn't look as if he's goingto get a cab."
"Check," said the earphone.
Sir Lewis seemed in no great hurry, but he walked briskly, as though hehad a definite destination in mind.
After a little way, he crossed to the south side of Leadenhall Streetand kept going east. Houston stayed far enough behind to be abovesuspicion, but not so far that he ran a chance of losing his man.
"He's turning south on Fenchurch," Houston said a little later. "Iwonder where he's going."
"Keep after him," said Headquarters. "Our net men haven't spotted eitherof you yet. They can hardly see across the street in this damned fog."
Houston kept going.
"What the hell?" he whispered a few minutes later. "He's still followingFenchurch Street! He's doubling back!"
Leadenhall Street, the banking center of the City of London, runs almostdue east-and-west; Fenchurch Street makes a forty-five degree angle withit at the western end, running southwest for a bit and then curvingtoward the west, toward Lombard.
"Houston," said HQ, "touch your left ear."
Houston obediently reached up and scratched his left ear.
"Okay," said HQ. "Bogart's spotted you, but he hasn't spotted Sir Lewis.Bogart's across the street."
"He can't miss Sir Lewis," whispered Houston. "Conservativelydressed--matching coat and trousers of orange nylon tweed--royal bluehalf-brim bowler--carrying a blue brief case."
There w
as a pause, then: "Yeah. Bogart's spotted him, and so hasMacGruder. Mac's on your side, a few yards ahead."
"Check. How about the rest of the net?"
"Coming, coming. Be patient, old man."
"I _am_ patient," growled Houston. _I have to be_, he thought tohimself, _otherwise I'd never stay alive_.
"We've got him bracketed now," HQ said. "If we lose him now, he's amagician."
Sir Lewis walked on, seemingly oblivious to the group of men who hadsurrounded him. He came to the end of Fenchurch Street and looked