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through so strong that I could almost read the filed-off serial number of
the thing, but the guy himself I couldn't dig at all. I stopped to look
back but the only sign of life I could see was the fast flick of taxicab
lights as they crossed an intersection about a half mile back. I stepped
into a doorway so that I could think and stay out of the line of fire at
the same time.
me off. The bird was following me. He was no peace-loving citizen because
honest men do not cart weapons with the serial numbers filed off.
Therefore the character tailing me was a hot papa with a burner charge
labelled "Steve Hammond" in his needler.
ninety-eight men out of a hundred anywhere. He was shorter than my
six-feet-two and lighter than my one-ninety. I could guess that he was
better looking. I'd had my features arranged by a blocked drop kick the
year before the National Football League ruled the Rhine Institute out
because of our use of mentals and perceptives. I gave up trying -- I wanted
details and not an overall picture of a hotbird carrying a burner.
irregularity. I passed places where I could zig out to take cover in front
of telephone poles, and other places where I could zag in to take cover
beyond front steps and the like. I let my perception run up the block and
by the time I got to the end of my range, I knew that block just as well
as if I'd made a practise run in the daytime.
bent for destruction. He was a mental sensitive, and he had been following
my thoughts while my sense of perception made its trial run up the street.
He was running like the devil to catch up with my mind and burn it down
per schedule. It must have come as quite a shock to him when he realized
that while the mind he was reading was running like hell up the street,
the hard old body was standing in the doorway waiting for him.
hard and ask some pointed questions. He saw me as I saw him skidding to an
unbalanced stop, and there was the dull glint of metal in his right hand.
His needle-ray came swinging up and I went for my armpit. I found time to
curse my own stupidity for not having hardware in my own fist at the
moment. But then I had my rod in my fist. I felt the hot scorch of the
needle going off just over my shoulder, and then came the godawful racket
of my ancient forty-five. The big slug caught him high in the belly and
tossed him back. It folded him over and dropped him in the gutter while
the echoes of my cannon were still racketing back and forth up and down
the quiet street.
before. But he knew all about me before the 'copter hit the ground. I
could almost feel his sense of perception frisking me from the skin
outward, going through my wallet and inspecting the Private Operator's
license and my Weapon-Permit. I found out later that Williamson was a
Rhine Scholar with a Bachelor's Degree in Perception, which put him head
and shoulders over me. He came to the point at once.
minds. I was hoping to collect him whole enough to ask questions, but he
forced my hand." I looked to where some of the clean-up squad were tucking
the corpse into a basket. "It was one of the few times I'd have happily
swapped my perception for the ability to read a mind."
good, solid, permanent things like buildings and street-car tracks, but
unfamiliar things get foggy at about a half a block. I can dig lethal
machinery coming in my direction for about a block and a half because I'm
a bit sensitive about such things. I looked at Lieutenant Williamson and
said, "With a range like yours, how come there's any crime in this town at
all?"
sensitivity, but I didn't think it wise to admit that I had been
considering just exactly how to get to Scarmann. I was quickly and firmly
convoyed home in a jetcopter but once I saw them take off I walked out of
the apartment again.
tumbler cylinder job that would have taxed the best of esper lockpicks.
But there was a service entrance in back that was not locked and I took
it. The elevator was a self-service job, and Rambaugh's back door was
locked on a snaplatch that a playful kitten could have opened. I dug the
place for a few minutes and found it clean, so I went in and took a more
careful look.
unpaid bills. The dresser in the bedroom was the same, excepting for the
bottom drawer. That was filled with a fine collection of needle-rays and
stunguns and one big force blaster that could blow a hole in a brick wall.
None of them had their serial numbers intact.
must have been built before Rhine Institute discovered the key to man's
latent abilities. Inside of this tin can was a collection of photographs
that must have brought Rambaugh a nice sum in the months when the murder
business went slack. I couldn't quite dig them clear because I didn't know
any of the people involved, and I didn't try too hard because there were
some letters and notes that might lead me into the answer to why Rambaugh
was hotburning for me.
armpit and came out with the forty five. It was a woman and she was
carrying nothing more lethal than the fountain pen in her purse. She
blanched when she saw my forty-five swinging towards her middle, but she
took a deep breath when I halted it in midair.
a couple of charge-account plates, a driver's license, and a hospital
card, all made out to Miss Martha Franklin. Miss Franklin was about
twenty-four, and she was a strawberry blonde with the pale skin and blue
eyes that goes with the hair. I gathered that she didn't belong there any
more than I did.
there wasn't anything there that would give me an inkling of why he was
gunning for me. I came back with one of his needle-rays and burned the
contents of the safe to a black char. I stirred up the ashes with the nose
of the needier and then left it in the safe after wiping it clean on my
handkerchief.
in spite of its limitations. A woman without mental training might have
every right to object to visiting a bachelor apartment at two o'clock in
the morning. But I had no firm plans for playing up to Martha Franklin; I
really wanted to talk this mess out and get it squared away. This she
could read, so I was saved the almost-impossible task of trying to
convince an attractive woman that I really had no designs upon her
beautiful white body. I was not at all cold to the idea, but Martha did
not seem to be the pushover type.
left it. He digs in the mailbox on his way towards it, and he may dig in
his refrigerator to see whether he should stop for beer or whatever else,
because these things save steps. But nobody really expects to find trouble
in his own home, especially when he is coming in at three o'clock in the
morning with a good looking woman.
had no warning until they stepped out from either side of my front door
and lifted me into my living room by the elbows. They hurled me into an
easy chair with a crash. When I stopped bouncing, one of the gorillas was
standing in front of me, about as tall as Washington Monument as seen from
the sidewalk in front. He was looking at my forty-five with careful
curiosity.
enough for me. I came up out of my chair, lifting my fist from the floor
and putting my back and thigh muscles behind it. It should have taken his
head off, but all he did was grunt, stagger back, dig his heels in, and
then come back at me with his head down. I chopped at the bridge of his
nose but missed and almost broke my hand on his hard skull. Then the other
guy came charging in and I flung out a side-chop with my other hand and
caught him on the wrist.
was a mental, and he should have been sensitive enough to keep his take
low enough so that it wouldn't drive Martha into thinking up ways and
means of getting rid of him. Even so, he shouldn't have been gunning for
me, unless there was a lot more to this than I could dig.
of my hand. I knew what was coming but I couldn't wiggle my fingers much,
let alone turn my hand over to dump out the stuff. The other guy planted
the end of the cigarette between my middle fingers and I had to squeeze
hard to keep the hot end up. My fingers began to ache almost immediately,
and I was beginning to imagine the flash of flame and the fierce wave of
pain that would strike when my tired hand lost its pep and let the
cigarette fall into that little mound of powder.
wonder how long it would be before a fleck of hot ash would fall. How long
it would take for the ash to grow long and top-heavy and then to fall into
the powder. And whether or not the ash would be hot enough to touch it
off. I struggled to keep my hands steady, but they were trembling. I felt
the cigarette slip a bit and clamped down tight again with my aching
fingers.
down to the bitter end. Then there would be a flash, and I'd probably
never hold my hand around a gun butt again. I'd have to go looking for
this pair of lice with my gun in my left. If they didn't try the same
trick on my other hand. I tried to shut my mind on that notion but it was
no use. It slipped. But the chances were that this pair of close-mouthed
hotboys had considered that idea before.
