still magic; but now the weird machinations of thesupernormal mind were something to be feared.
In the sixteen years that had ensued since the discovery of the abnormalmental powers of "Blackjack" Donnely, rumors had spread all over theworld. There were supposed to be men who could levitate--fly through theair at will. Others could walk through walls, and still others couldmake themselves invisible. The horrible monsters that were supposed tobe walking the Earth were legion.
* * * * *
Actually, only one type of supernormal psychodeviant had been found--thetelepath, the mindreader who could probe into the mental processes ofothers. Worse than that, the telepath could project his own thoughtsinto the mind of another, so that the victim supposed that the thoughtswere his own. Actually, it was a high-powered form of hypnotism; thevictim could be made to do anything the projective telepath wanted himto.
"Blackjack" Donnely had made that clear in his trial in Texas.
Donnely had been a big man--big physically, and important in citypolitics. He had also been as arrogant as the Devil himself.
It was the arrogance that had finally tripped up Donnely. He had thoughthimself impregnable. Haled into court on charges of misappropriation ofpublic funds, he had just sat and smirked while several witnesses forthe State admitted that they had aided Donnely, but they claimed he had"hypnotized" them. Donnely didn't try to interfere with theevidence--that's where he made his mistake. And that's where hisarrogance tripped him up.
* * * * *
If he'd used telepathic projection to influence the State Attorney orthe witnesses or the judge or the Grand Jury _before_ the trial, hemight never have been discovered as the first of the Controllers. Butthat wasn't Donnely's style.
"None of this namby-pamby stuff," he had once been quoted as saying; "ifyou got enemies, don't tease 'em--show 'em who's running things.Blackjack 'em, if you have to."
And that's exactly what "Blackjack" Donnely had done. The trial was afarce from beginning to end; each witness gave his evidence from thestand, and then Donnely took control of their minds and made them refuteevery bit of it, publicly and tearfully apologizing to the "wonderfulMr. Donnely" for saying such unkind things about him.
The judge and the jury knew something funny was going on, but they hadno evidence, one way or another. The case, even at that point, mighthave ended with an acquittal or a hung jury, but Donnely wasn't throughusing his blackjack.
He took over the mind of the foreman of the jury. The foreman claimedlater that the jury had decided that they could reach no decision. Otherjurors claimed that they had decided Donnely was guilty, but that wasprobably an _ex post facto_ switch. It didn't matter, anyway; when theforeman came out, he pronounced Donnely innocent. That should have endedit.
The other jurors began to protest, but by that time, Donnely had gainedcontrol of the judge's mind. Rapidly, the judge silenced the jurors,declared Donnely to be free, and then publicly apologized for everdaring to doubt Mr. Donnely.
The State's Attorney was equally verbose in his apology; he was almostin tears because of his "deep contrition at having cast aspersions onthe spotless character of so great a man."
Donnely was released.
The next evening, "Blackjack" Donnely was shot down at the front door ofhis own home. There were fifteen bullets in his body; three from a .32,five from a .38, and seven from a .45.
The police investigation was far from thorough; any evidence that mayhave turned up somehow got lost. It was labelled as "homicide committedby person or persons unknown," and it stayed that way.
* * * * *
Donnely was only the first. In the next two years, four more showed up.Everyone of them, in one way or another, had attempted to gain power ormoney by mental projection. Everyone of them was a twisted megalomaniac.
Houston looked again at Harris's picture on the front page of the_Times_. Here was one Controller who neither looked nor acted like amegalomaniac. That wouldn't make much difference to the PD Police; asfar as the officials were concerned, the ability to projecttelepathically and the taint of delusions of grandeur went hand in hand.Controllers were power-mad and criminal by definition.
Fear still ruled the emotional reactions against Controllers, in spiteof the protection of the Psychodeviant Police.
But David Houston knew damned good and well that all telepaths were notnecessarily insane.
He should know. He was a Controller, himself.
* * * * *
_Brrrring!_
David Houston tossed the paper on the bed and walked over to the phone.He cut in the circuit, and waited for the phone's TV screen to show theface of his caller. But the screen remained blank.
"Who is it?" Houston asked.
"Is this CHAring Cross 7-8161?" It was a woman's voice, soft andwell-modulated.
"No, this is CHElsea 7-8161," Houston said. "You must have dialed C-H-Einstead of C-H-A."
"Oh. I'm very sorry. Excuse me." There was a click, and she hung up.
Houston walked back over to the bed and picked up his paper. He lookedat it, but he didn't read it. It no longer interested him.
So Dorrine was finally in London, eh? He'd recognized her voiceinstantly; even years of training couldn't smother the midwesternAmerican of Chicago completely beneath the precise British of thewell-educated English girl.
The signal had been agreed upon, just in case his phone was tapped. Eventhe Psychodeviant Police could be suspected of harboring aController--although Houston didn't think it too likely. Nevertheless,he wasn't one to take too many chances.
He glanced at his watch. He had an hour yet. He'd wait five minutesbefore he phoned headquarters.
* * * * *
He sat down in his chair again and forced himself to relax, smoke acigarette, and read the paper--the sports section. Perusing the recordsof the season's cricket matches kept his mind off that picture on thefront page. At least, he hoped they would. Let's see, now--Benton wasbeing rated as the finest googly bowler on the Staffordshire Club ...
Everything went fine until he came across a reference to a John Harris,a top-flight batsman for Hambledon; that reminded him of Robert Harris.Houston threw down the paper in disgust and walked over to the phone.
The number was TROwbridge 5-4321, but no one ever bothered to rememberit. Simply dial 8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1, and every time a voice at the other endwould answer--
"Hamilton speaking."
"Houston here; will I be needed in the next hour or so?"
"Mmmm. Just a second; I'll check the roster. No; your evidence won't beneeded personally. You've filed an affidavit. No, I don't think--wait aminute! Yes, there's a return here for you; reservation on the six A.M.jet to New York. Your job here is done, Houston, so you can take therest of the evening off and relax. Going anywhere in particular?"
"I thought I'd get a bite to eat and take in a movie, maybe, but if I'mdue out at six, I'll forego the cinematic diversion. When's the trial?"
"It's scheduled for eleven-thirty this evening. Going to come?"
Houston shook his head. "Not if I'm not needed to give evidence. ThoseControllers always give me the creeps."
"They do everybody," said Hamilton. "Well, you caught him; there's noneed for you to stick around for the windup. Have a good time."
"Thanks," said Houston shortly, and hung up.
_The windup_, Houston thought. _Sure. That's all it will be. AController's trial is a farce. Knock him out with a stun gun and thenpump him full of comatol. How can he defend himself if he's unconsciousall through the trial?_
Houston knew what the average man's answer to that would be: "If aController were allowed to remain conscious, he'd take over the judge'smind and get himself freed."
Houston said an obscene word under his breath, jammed his hat on hishead, put on his coat, and left his apartment.
* * *
* *
With the coming of darkness, the heavy fog had become still denser. Theyellow beams of the sodium vapor lamps were simply golden spots hangingin an all-enveloping blackness. Walking the street was a process ofmoving from one little golden island of light to another, crossing seasof blankness between. The monochromatic yellow shone on the human facesthat passed beneath the lamps, robbing them of all color, giving them adead, grayish appearance beneath the yellow itself.
David Houston walked purposefully along the pavement, his hand jammeddeep in his overcoat pockets. One hand held the control box for thelittle earpiece he wore. He kept moving the band selector, listening forany sign that the Psychodeviant Police were suspicious of a Controllerin their midst.
If they were following him, of course, they would use a differentscrambler circuit than the one which was plugged into his own unit, buthe would be able to hear the gabble of voices, even if he couldn'tunderstand what they were saying.
So far, there hadn't been a sound; if he was being followed, his tailersweren't using the personal intercom units.
He didn't try to elude anyone who might be following. That, in itself,would be a giveaway. Let them watch, if they _were_ watching. Theywouldn't see anything but a man going to get himself a bit of dinner.
The _Charles II Inn_, on Regent Street, near Piccadilly Circus, was ahaven of brightness in an otherwise Stygian London. It was one of those"old-fashioned" places--Restoration style of decoration, carried out inmodern plastics. The oak panelling looked authentic enough, but it wasjust a little too glossy to be real.
Houston pushed open the door, stepped inside, removed his hat and coatand shook the dampness from them. As he handed them to the checker, helooked casually around. Dorrine was nowhere in sight, but he hadn'texpected her to be. There would be no point in their meeting physically;it might even be downright dangerous.
The headwaiter, clad in the long waistcoat and full trunk-hose of thelate Seventeenth Century, bowed punctiliously.
"You're alone, sir?"
"Alone, yes," Houston said. "I'll just be wanting a light supper and adrink or two."
"This way, sir."
Houston followed the man to a small table in the rear of the huge diningroom. It was set for two, but the other place was quickly cleared away.Houston ordered an Irish-and-soda from a waiter who was only slightlyless elaborately dressed than the headwaiter, and then settled himselfdown to wait. If he knew Dorrine, she would be on time to the minute.
She came while the waiter was setting the drink on Houston's table. Shestepped in through the door, her unmistakable hair glowing a rich red inthe illumination of the pseudo-candlelight.
She didn't bother to look around; she knew he would be there.
After a single glance, Houston averted his eyes from her and looked backat his drink.
And in that same instant, their minds touched.
_Dave, darling! I knew you'd be early!_
_Dorrine!_
And then their minds meshed for an instant.
_I_--_(we)_--_you_--LOVE--_you_--(each other)--me!--us!
* * * * *
Houston looked complacently at his drink while the headwaiter ledDorrine to a table on the far side of the room. She sat down gracefully,smiled at the waiter, and ordered a cocktail. Then she took a magazinefrom her handbag and began--presumably--to read.
Her thought came: _Who is this Richard Harris? He's not one of ourGroup._
Houston sipped at his drink. _No. An unknown, like the others. I wonderif he's even a telepath._
_What?_ Her thought carried astonishment. _Why, Dave--he'd_ have _to be!How else could he have controlled this Sir Lewis--whatsisname--Huntley?_
_Well--I've got a funny idea_, Houston replied. _Look at it this way: Sofar as we know, there are two Groups of telepaths. There's our ownGroup. All we want is to be left alone. We don't read a Normal's mindunless we have to, and we don't try to control one unless our lives arethreatened. We stay under cover, out of everyone's way._
_Then there are the megalomaniacs. They try, presumably, to gain wealthand power by controlling Normals. And they get caught with monotonousregularity. Right?_
The girl caught an odd note in that thought. _What do you mean,"monotonous regularity"?_ she asked.
_I mean_, Houston thought savagely, _why is it they're all so bloodystupid? Look at this Harris guy; he is supposed to have taken over SirLewis's mind in order to get a thousand pounds. So what did he have SirLewis do? Parade all around the city to pick up a PD Police net, andthen give his address to a cabman in a loud voice and lead the wholenet right to Harris! How stupid can a man get?_
_It does look pretty silly_, Dorrine agreed. _Have you got anexplanation?_
_Several_, Houston told her. _And I don't know which one is correct._
_Let's have them_, the girl thought.
* * * * *
Houston gave them to her. None of them, he knew, was completelysatisfactory, but they all made more sense that the theory that Harrishad done what the PD Police claimed he'd done.
Theory Number One: The real megalomaniac Controller had taken over SirLewis's mind and made him draw out the thousand pounds and head west onLeadenhall Street. Somehow, the Controller had found out that Sir Lewiswas being followed, and had steered him away from the originaldestination, heading him toward the innocent Robert Harris. That impliedthat the Controller had been within a few dozen yards of the net menthat afternoon. A Controller can't control a mind directly from adistance, although orders can be implanted which will cause a man tocarry out a plan of action, even though he may be miles from theController. But in order to change those plans, the Controller wouldhave to be within projection range.
Theory Two: Robert Harris actually was a megalomaniac Controller; with along record of success behind him, who had finally grown careless.
At that point, Dorrine interjected a thought: _Isn't it possible that hewanted to be caught?_
Houston mulled it over for a minute. _A guilt-punishment reaction? Hewanted to be punished for his crimes? I suppose that might account forpart of it, yes. But if he'd been so successful, what did he do with allhis money?_
Dorrine gave a mental shrug. _Who knows? What's Theory Number Three?_
* * * * *
Number Three was the screwiest one of all, yet it made a weird kind ofsense. Suppose that Sir Lewis himself had had a grudge against Harris?The whole thing would have been ridiculously easy; all he'd have to dowould be to act just as he had acted and then give evidence againstHarris.
The thing that made it odd wasn't the actual frame-up (if that's what itwas); these days, every crime was blamed on a Controller. A man accusedof murder simply looked virtuous and said that he would never have donesuch a thing if he hadn't been under the power of a Controller. Dittofor robbery, rape, and any other felony you'd care to name.
An aura of fear hung over the whole Earth; each man half suspectedeveryone with whom he came in contact of being a Controller.
So it wasn't that the frame-up in itself was peculiar in this case; itwas simply that it wasn't Sir Lewis Huntley's style. If Sir Lewis hadwanted to get Harris, he'd have done it legally, without any underhandedframe-ups. Still, the theory remained as a possibility.
_I suppose it does_, Dorrine agreed, _but how does that tie in with ourown Group? What about Jackson and Marcy? What happened to them?_
_I don't know_, Houston admitted, _I just don't know_.
Jackson and Marcy had been members of the Group of telepaths who hadbanded together for companionship and mutual protection. Both of themhad been trapped by the PD Police in exactly the same way that Harrishad been trapped. They were now where Harris would be in a matter ofhours--in the Penal Cluster.
Their arrests didn't make sense, either; they had been accused of takingover someone's mind for the purpose of gaining money illegally--illegal,that is, according to the new UN laws that ha
d been passed to supersedethe various national laws that had previously been in effect.
But Houston had known both men well, and neither of them was the kind ofman who would pull such a stunt, much less do it in such a stupidmanner.
Dorrine thought: _Well, Dave, this Harris case is out of our hands now;we've got to concentrate on getting others into the Group--we've got tofind the other sane ones._
_You're ready to take over here, then?_ he asked.
* * * * *
At the table, several yards away from where Houston was sitting,Dorrine, still looking at the book, smiled faintly.
_I'll have to; you're being transferred back to New York at six in themorning._
Houston allowed a feeling of startled surprise to bridge the gap betweentheir minds. _How'd you know that?_ He hadn't told her, and she couldn'thave forced the knowledge from his mind. A telepath can open the mindof a Normal as simply as he might open the pages of a book, but the mindof another Controller is far stronger. One telepath couldn't forceanything from the mind of another; all thoughts had to be exchangedvoluntarily.
She was still smiling. _We've got a few spies in the UN now_, she toldhim. _I got the information before you did._
_You knew before you left New York?_ he asked incredulously.
_That's right_, she thought. _The decision was made last night. Why?_
_Nothing_, he told her. _I was just surprised, that's all._ But deepbehind the telepathic barrier he had erected against her probing mind,he was thinking something else. He had been assigned to London tocapture the Controller--then unknown--who was said to be