to hisleft, towards London Bridge. Then he glanced to his right.
"I think he's looking for a cab," Houston whispered.
"That's what MacGruder says," came the reply. "We've got Arthmore in acab behind you; he'll pick you up. MacGruder will get another cab, andwe have a private car for Bogart."
Sir Lewis flagged a cab, climbed in, and gave an address to the driver.Houston didn't hear it, but MacGruder, a heavy-set, short, balding man,was standing near enough to get the instructions Sir Lewis had given tothe driver.
* * * * *
A cab pulled up to the curb near Houston, and he got in.
Arthmore, the driver, was a thin, tall, hawknosed individual who couldhave played Sherlock Holmes on TV. Once he got into character for apart, he never got out of it unless absolutely necessary. Right now, hewas a Cockney cab-driver, and he would play the part to the hilt.
"Where to, guv'nor?" he asked innocently.
"Buckingham Palace," said Houston. "I've got a poker appointment withPrince Charles."
"Blimey, guv'nor," said Arthmore. "You _are_ movin' in 'igh circles!'Ow's 'Er Majesty these days?"
The turboelectric motor hummed, and the cab shot off into traffic."According to the report I get on the blinkin' wireless," he continued,"a chap named MacGruder claims that the eminent Sir Lewis 'Untley is'eaded for Number 37 Upper Berkeley Mews."
"One of these days," said Houston, "all those _H_'s you drop is going tobounce back and hit you in the face."
"Beg pardon, Mr. Yewston?" Arthmore asked blankly.
Houston grinned. "Nothing, cabbie; it's just that you remind me of acultured, intelligent fellow named Jack Arthmore. The only difference isthat Jack speaks the Queen's English."
"Crikey!" said Arthmore. "Wot a coincidence!" He paused, then: "TheQueen's English, you say? She _'as_ to be, don't she?"
"Shut up," said Houston conversationally. "And give me a cigarette," headded.
"There's a package of Players in my shirt pocket," Arthmore said,keeping his hands on the wheel.
* * * * *
Houston fished out a cigarette, lit it, and returned the pack.
Apropos of nothing, Arthmore said: "Reminds me of the time I was workin'for a printer, see? We 'ad to print up a bunch of 'andbills advertisin'a church charity bazaar. Down at the bottom was supposed to be printed'Under the auspices of St. Bede's-on-Thames.' So I--"
He went on with a long, rambling tale about making a mistake in printingthe handbill. Houston paid little attention. He smoked in silence,keeping his eyes on the red glow of the taillight ahead of them.
Neither man mentioned the approaching climax of the chase. Even hardenedveterans of the Psychodeviant Police don't look forward to thepossibility of having their minds taken over, controlled by some outsideforce.
It had never happened to Houston, but he knew that Arthmore had beenthrough the experience once. It evidently wasn't pleasant.
"--and the boss was 'oppin' mad," Arthmore was saying, "but, crikey, 'owwas I to know that _auspice_ was spelled A-U-S-P-I-C-E?"
Houston grinned. "Yeah, sure. How're we doing with Sir Lewis?"
"Seems to be headed in the right direction," Arthmore said, suddenlydropping the Cockney accent. "This is the route I'd take if I wereheaded for Upper Berkeley Mews. He probably hasn't told the driver tochange addresses--maybe he won't."
"The victims never do," Houston said. "He probably is actually headedtoward Number 37 Upper Berkeley Mews."
"Yeah. Nobody's perfect," said Arthmore.
* * * * *
Forty-five minutes of steady progress through the streets of GreaterLondon brought Sir Lewis Huntley to Upper Berkeley and to the shortdead-end street which constituted the Mews. By the time the dapperbaronet stepped out of the machine and paid his driver, the whole areawas surrounded by and filled with the well-armed, silent, and carefulagents of the Psychodeviant Police.
Number 37 was an old concrete-and-steel structure of the George VIperiod, faced with a veneer of red brick. It had obviously beenremodeled at least once to make the facade more modern and morefashionable; the red-violet anodized aluminum was relatively fresh andunstained. It wouldn't have taken vast wealth to rent a flat in thebuilding, but neither would an average income have been quite enough.
Houston looked out of the window of Arthmore's cab and glanced at thetiers of windows in the building. Presumably, the man they were lookingfor was up there--somewhere.
_So you occupy a station in the upper middle-class_, thought Houston. Itchecked. Every bit of evidence that came his way seemed to checkperfectly and fit neatly into the hypothesis which he had formed. Soonit would be time to test that theory--but the time had not yet come.
"Stand by and wait for orders, Houston," said the speaker in Houston'sear. "We've got men inside the building."
Sir Lewis Huntley opened the sparkling, translucent door of Number 37Upper Berkeley Mews and went inside.
Arthmore pulled the cab over to the curb a few yards from the entranceand the two men waited in silence. All around them were other men, somein private cars, some walking slowly along the street. All of them werepart of the net that had gathered to catch one man.
_Poor fish_, Houston thought wryly.
There was no noise, no excitement. Five minutes after Sir Lewis hadentered the front door, it opened again. A man whom Houston had neverseen before stepped out and gestured with one hand. At the same time,Houston's speaker said: "They've got him. Hit him with a stun gun whenhe tried to get out through the fire exit."
An ambulance which had been waiting at the entrance of the Mews pulledup in front of Number 37, and a minute or so later a little clot of mencame out bearing a stretcher, which was loaded into the ambulance.Immediately after them came another man who had a firm, but polite gripon the arm of Sir Lewis Huntley.
Houston sighed and leaned back in his seat. That was that. It was allover. Simple. Nothing to it.
Another Controller had been apprehended by the Psychodeviant Police.Another deviant, already tried and found guilty, was ready to be exiledfrom Earth and imprisoned on one of the Penal Asteroids. All in theday's work.
_There's just one thing I'd like to know_, Houston thought blackly._What in the hell's going on?_
* * * * *
In his hotel room near Piccadilly Circus, several hours later, DavidHouston sat alone, drink in hand, and put that same question to himselfagain.
"What's going on?"
On the face of it, it was simple. On the face of it, the answer wasright in front of him, printed in black and white on the front page ofthe evening _Times_.
Houston lifted the paper off the bed and looked at it. The banner linesaid: _Controller Captured in Lambeth!_
Beneath that, in smaller type, the headline added: Robert Harris Accusedof Taking Control of Barrister Sir Lewis Huntley.
The column itself told the whole story. Mr. Robert Harris, of No. 37Upper Berkeley Mews, had, by means of mental control, taken over themind of Sir Lewis and compelled him to draw one thousand pounds out ofhis bank. While Sir Lewis was returning to Harris with the money, theUnited Nations Psychodeviant Police had laid a trap. Sir Lewis, uponrecovering his senses when Harris was rendered unconscious by a stungun, had given evidence to the PD Police and to officials at NewScotland Yard.
Houston looked at the full-color photo of Harris that was printedalongside the column. Nice-looking chap; late twenties or earlythirties, Houston guessed. Blond-red hair, blue eyes. All-in-all, avery pleasant, but ordinary sort of man.
There had been evidence that a Controller had been at work in London forsome weeks now. Twelve days before, several men, following an impulse,had mailed twenty pounds to a "Richard Hempstead," General Delivery,Waterloo Station. By the time the matter had come to the authorities'attention, the envelopes had been called for and the Controller hadescaped.
Robert Harris was not the first Contr
oller to be captured, nor, Houstonknew, would he be the last. The first one had shown up more than sixteenyears before, in Dallas, Texas, USA.
Houston grinned as he thought of it. Projective telepathy had only beena crackpot's idea back then. In spite of the work of many intelligent,sane men, who had shown that mental powers above and beyond the ordinarydid exist, the average man simply laughed off such nonsense. It wasmysticism; it was magic; it was foolish superstition. It was anythingbut true.
But ever since "Blackjack" Donnely had practically taken control of thewhole city of Dallas, the average man had changed his mind. It was stillmysterious; it was