excellence_. If that were so,he--or they--could make the late "Blackjack" Donnely look like a meek,harmless, little mouse.
* * * * *
The one part of Continental U.S.A. over which the American Governmenthad no jurisdiction was small, areawise, in comparison with its power.The District of the United Nations occupied the small area of ManhattanIsland which ran from 38th Street on the south to 49th Street on thenorth; its western border was Third Avenue, its eastern, the East River.From here, the UN ruled Earth.
There were no walls or fences around it; only by looking at street signscould anyone tell that they had crossed an international border.Crossing Third Avenue from west to east, one found that 45th Street hadsuddenly become Deutschland Strasse; 40th Street became Rue de France;47th was the Via Italiano. 43rd Street's sign was painted in Cyrilliccharacters, but beneath it, in English, were the words "Avenue of MotherRussia."
Third Avenue was technically One World Drive. Second Avenue was labelledas Planetary Peace Drive, and First was United Nations Drive.
But New Yorkers are, and always have been, diehards. Just as The Avenueof the Americas had forever remained Sixth Avenue, no matter what themaps called it, so had the other streets retained their old names inconversation.
Even the International Post Office, after years of wrangling, had givenup, and letters addressed to _Supreme Headquarters, United NationsPolice, 45th Street at Second Avenue_, were delivered without comment,even though the IPO still firmly held that they were technicallymisaddressed. And, privately, even the IPO officials admitted that thenumbers were easier to say and remember than the polyglot street namesthat had been tagged on by the General Assembly.
So when David Houston signalled a taxi at Grand Central Station andsaid, "Forty-fifth and Second," the driver simply set his automaticcontrols, leaned back in his seat, and said, "Goin' to see the cops,huh?"
When no answer was forthcoming, the driver turned around and took a goodlook at his passenger. "Maybe you're a UN cop yourself, huh?"
Houston shook his head. "Nope. Some kids have been scribbling dirtywords on my sidewalk, and I'm going to report it to the authorities."
The driver turned back around and looked ahead again. "Jeez! That'sserious. Hadn't you better take it up with the Secretary General? Iwouldn't be satisfied with no underlings in a case like that."
"I'm thinking of taking it up with the Atomic Energy Control Board,"Houston told him. "I think those kids are using radioactive chalk."
"That's one way for 'em to get blue jeans," said the driver cryptically.
There was silence for a moment as the taxi braked smoothly to a halt,guided and controlled by the automatic machinery in the hood.
Then, suddenly, the driver said: "Ship up!" He pointed east, along 45thStreet, toward Long Island. Far in the distance was a rapidly risingvapor trail, pointing vertically toward the sky, the unmistakable signof a spaceship takeoff. They didn't leave often, and it was still anunusual sight.
Houston said nothing as he climbed out and paid the driver, tossing inan extra tip.
"Thanks, buddy," said the driver. "Watch out for them kids."
Houston didn't answer. He was still watching the vapor trail as the cabpulled away.
* * * * *
_There goes Harris_, he was thinking. _An innocent man, guilty ofnothing more than being born different. And because of that, he'slabelled as an inhuman monster, not even worthy of being executed.Instead, he's taken into space, filled full of hibernene, and chained toa floating piece of rock for the rest of his life._
Such was humanity's "humane" way of taking care of the bogey ofControllers. Capital punishment had been outlawed all over Earth; it hadlong since been proved that legalized murder, execution by the State,solved nothing, helped no one, prevented no crimes, and did infinitelymore harm than good in the long run.
With the coming of the Controllers, a movement had arisen to bring backthe old evil of judicial murder, but it had been quickly put down whenthe Penal Cluster plan had been put forth as a more "humane" method.
Hibernene was a drug that had been evolved from the study of animalslike the bear, which spent its winters in an almost death-like sleep. Ahuman being, given a proper dosage of the drug, lapsed into a deep coma.The bodily processes were slowed down; the heart throbbed sluggishly,once every few minutes; thought ceased. It was the ideal prison for amental offender that ordinary prisons could not hold.
But it wasn't quite enough for the bloodthirsty desire for vengeancethat the Normals held for the Controllers. There had to be more.
Following Earth in its orbit around the sun, trailing it by someninety-three million miles, were a group of tiny asteroids, occupyingwhat is known as the Trojan position. They were invisible from Earth,being made of dark rock and none of them being more than fifteen feet indiameter. But they had been a source of trouble in some of the earlyexpeditions to Mars, and had been carefully charted by the SpaceCommission.
Now a use had been found for them. A man in a spacesuit could easily bechained to one of them. With him was a small, sun-powered engine andtanks of liquified food concentrates and oxygen. Kept under theinfluence of hibernene, and kept cool by the chill of space, a man couldspend the rest of his life there--unmoving, unknowing, uncaring, dead asfar as he and the rest of Mankind were concerned--his slight bodilyneeds tended automatically by machine.
It was a punishment that satisfied both sides of the life-or-deathargument.
Houston shook off the bleak, black feeling of terrible chill that hadcrept over him and pushed his way into the UN Police building.
* * * * *
The thirteenth floor housed the Psychodeviant Division. As he stood inthe rising elevator, Houston wondered wryly if the number 13 was goodluck or bad in this case.
He stepped out of the elevator and headed for the Division Chief'soffice.
Division Chief Reinhardt was a heavy-set, balding man, built like aprofessional wrestler. His cold blue eyes gleamed from beneath shaggy,overhanging brows, and his face was almost expressionless except for afaint scowl that crossed it from time to time. In spite of the fact thata Canadian education had wiped out all but the barest trace of Germanaccent, his Prussian training, of the old Junkers school, was stillevident. He demanded--and got--precision and obedience from hissubordinates, although he had no use for the strictly military viewpointof obsequiousness towards one's superiors.
He was sitting behind his desk, scowling slightly at some papers on itwhen Houston stepped in.
"You wanted me to report straight to you, Mr. Reinhardt?"
Reinhardt looked up, his heavy face becoming expressionless. "Ah,Houston. Yes; sit down. You did a fine job on that London affair; that'swhat I call coming through at the last moment."
"How so?"
"Your orders to return," he said, "were cut before you found your man.We have a much more important case for you than some petty pilferingController. We are after much more dangerous game."
Houston nodded. "I see." Inwardly, he wondered. It was almost as ifReinhardt knew that Houston had found out that the recall had comeearly. Houston would have given his right arm at that moment to be ableto probe Reinhardt's mind. But he held himself back. He had, in thepast, sent tentative probes toward the Division Chief and found nothing,but he didn't know whether it would be safe now or not. It would bebetter to wait.
* * * * *
Reinhardt stood up, walked to the wall, and turned on a display screen.He twisted a knob to a certain setting, and a map of Manhattan Islandsprang onto the screen in glowing color.
"As you know," Reinhardt said pedantically, "no Controller can do aperfect job of controlling a normal person. No matter how much he maywant to make John Smith act naturally, some of the personality of theController will show up in the actions of John Smith. Am I correct?"
Houston nodded without saying anything. The question was purelyrhet
orical, and the statement was perfectly correct.
"Very well, then," Reinhardt continued, "by means of thesepeculiarities, our psychologists have found that there is widespread,but very subtle controlling going on right in the UN General Assemblyitself! The amazing thing is that they all bear the--shall wesay--trademark of the same Controller. Whoever he is, he seems to have along-range plan in mind; he wants to change, ever so slightly, certaininternational laws so that he will profit by them. Do you follow?"
"I follow," said Houston.
"Good. It has taken painstaking research and a great deal ofpsychological statistical analysis, but we have found that onecompany--and one company only--benefits by these legal changes. Did youever hear of Lasser & Sons?"
"Sure," said Houston. "They're in