The demolished man (12 page)

"Yes, sir. Now, I'm ready to go all out on Ben Reich and Monarch to get that

evidence for Old Man Mose. I want to ask you a straight question. Are you

willing to go all out too?"

Crabbe, who resented and hated all Espers, turned purple and shot up from the

ebony chair behind the ebony desk in his ebony-and-silver office. "What the hell

is that supposed to mean, Powell?"

"Don't sound for undercurrents, sir. I'm merely asking if you're tied to Reich

and Monarch in any way. Will you be embarrassed when the heat's on? Will it be

possible for Reich to come to you and get our rockets cooled?"

"No, it will not, damn you."

"Sir:" Wynken shot at Powell. "On December 4th last, Commissioner Crabbe

discussed the Monolith Case with you. Extract follows:

   
POWELL:

   
There's a tricky financial angle to this business, Commissioner. Monarch may

   
hold us up with a Demurrer.

   
CRABBE:

   
Reich's given me his word he won't; and I can always depend on Ben Reich. He

   
backed me for County Attorney.

   
End quote."

"Right, Wynk. I thought there was something in Crabbe's file." Powell switched

his tactics and glared at Crabbe. "What the devil are you trying to hand me?

What about your campaign for County D.A.? Reich backed you for that, didn't he?"

"He did."

"And I'm supposed to believe he hasn't continued supporting you?"

"Damn you, Powell---Yes, you are. He backed me then. He has not supported me

since."

"Then I have the beacon on the Reich murder?"

"Why do you insist that Ben Reich killed that man? It's ridiculous. You've got

no proof. Your own admission."

Powell continued to glare at Crabbe.

"He didn't kill him. Ben Reich wouldn't kill anybody. He's a fine man who---"

"Do I have your beacon on this murder?"

"All right, Powell. You do."

"But with strong reservations. Make a note, boys. He's scared to death of Reich.

Make another note. So am I."

To his staff, Powell said: "Now look---You all know what a cold-blooded monster

Old Man Mose is. Always screaming for facts---facts---evidence---unassailable

proof. We'll have to produce evidence to convince that damned machine he ought

to prosecute. To do that we're going to pull the Rough & Smooth on Reich. You

know the method. We'll assign a clumsy operative and a slick one to every

subject. The cluck won't know the smoothie is on the job. Neither will the

subject. After he's shaken the Rough Tail he'll imagine he's clear. That makes

it a cinch for the slicker. And that's what we're going to do to Reich."

"Check," said Beck.

"Go through every department. Pull out a hundred low-grade cops. Put 'em in

plainclothes and assign 'em to the Reich case. Go up to Lab and get hold of

every crackpot tracer-robot that's been submitted in the last ten years. Put all

the gadgets to work on the Reich case. Make this whole package a Rough tail...

the kind he won't have any trouble shaking, but the kind he'll have to work to

shake."

"Any specific areas?" Beck inquired.

"Why were they playing `Sardine'? Who suggested the game? The Beaumont's

secretaries went on record that Reich couldn't be peeped because he had a song

kicking around in his skull. What song? Who wrote it? Where'd Reich hear it? Lab

says, the guards were blasted with some kind of Visual Purple Ionizer. Check all

research on that sort of thing. What killed D'Courtney? Let's have lots of

weapon research. Backtrack on Reich's relations with D'Courtney. We know they

were commercial rivals. Were they deadly enemies? Was it a profitable murder? A

terrified murder? What and how much does Reich stand to win by D'Courtney's

death?"

"Jesus!" Beck exclaimed. "All this Rough? We'll louse the case, Linc."

"Maybe. I don't think so. Reich's a successful man. He's had a string of

victories that's made him cocky. I think he'll bite. He'll imagine he's

outsmarting us every time he outmaneuvers one of our decoys. Keep him thinking

that. We're going to run into some brutal public relations. The news'll tear us

apart. But play along with it. Rave. Rant. Make outraged statements. We're all

going to be blundering, outwitted cops... and while Reich's eating himself fat

on that diet---"

"You'll be eating Reich," Beck grinned. "What about the girl?"

"She's the one exception to the Rough Routine. We level with her. I want a

description and photo sent to every police officer in the country within one

hour. On the bottom of the stat we announce that the man who locates her will

automatically be jumped five grades."

"Sir: Regulations forbid elevation of more than three ranks at any time." Thus

spake Nod.

"To hell with Regulations," Powell snapped. "Five grades to the man who finds

Barbara D'Courtney. I've got to get that girl."

In Monarch Tower, Ben Reich shoved every piezo crystal off his desk into the

startled hands of his secretaries.

"Get the hell out of here and take all this slok with you," he growled. "From

now on the office coasts without me. Understand? Don't bother me."

"Mr. Reich, we'd understood you were contemplating taking over the D'Courtney

interests now that Craye D'Courtney's dead. If you---"

"I'm taking care of that right now. That's why I don't want to be bothered. Now

beat it. Jet!"

He horded the terrified squad toward the door, pushed them out, slammed the door

and locked it. He went to the phone, punched BD-12,232 and waited impatiently.

After too long a time, the image of Jerry Church appeared against a background

of pawnshop debris.

"You?" Church snarled and reached for the cut-off.

"Me. On business. Still interested in reinstatement?"

Church stared. "What about it?"

"You've made yourself a deal. I'm starting action on your reinstatement at once.

And I can do it, Jerry. I own the league of Esper Patriots. But I want a lot in

return."

"For God's sake, Ben. Anything. Just ask me."

"That's what I want."

"Anything?"

"And everything. Unlimited service. You know the price I'm paying. Are you

selling?"

"I'm selling, Ben. Yes."

"And I want Keno Quizzard too."

"You can't want him, Ben. He isn't safe. Nobody gets anything from Quizzard."

"Set up a meeting. Same old place. Same time. This is like it used to be, eh,

Jerry? Only this time it's going to have a happy ending."

The usual line was assembled in the anteroom of the Esper Guild Institute when

Lincoln Powell entered. The hopeful hundreds, all ages, all sexes, all classes,

each dreaming that he had the magic quality that could make life the fulfillment

of fantasy, unaware of the heavy responsibility that quality entailed. The

naivete of those dreams always made Powell smile. Read minds and make a killing

on the market... (Guild Law forbade speculation or gambling by peepers) Read

minds and know the answers to all exam questions... (That was a schoolboy,

unaware that Esper Proctors were hired by Examination Boards to prevent that

kind of peeper-cheating) Read minds and know what people really think of me...

Read minds and know which girls are willing... Read minds and be like a King...

At the desk, the receptionist wearily broadcast on the widest TP band: If you

can hear me, please go through the door on the left marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. If

you can hear me, please go through the door on the left marked EMPLOYEES ONLY...

To an assured young socialite, with a checkbook in her hand, she was saying:

"No, Madame. The Guild does not charge for training and instruction, your offer

is worthless. Please go home, Madame. We can do nothing for you."

Deaf to the basic test of the Guild, the woman turned away angrily, to be

succeeded by the schoolboy.

If you can hear me, please go through the door on the left...

A young Negro suddenly detached himself from the line, glanced uncertainly at

the receptionist, and then walked to the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. He opened

it and entered. Powell was excited. Latent Espers turned up infrequently. He'd

been fortunate to arrive at this moment.

He nodded to the receptionist and followed the Latent through the door. Inside,

two of the Guild staff were enthusiastically shaking the surprised man's hand

and patting him on the back. Powell joined them for a moment and added his

congratulations. It was always a happy day for the Guild when they unearthed

another Esper.

Powell walked down the corridor toward the president's suite. He passed a

kindergarten where thirty children and ten adults were mixing speech and thought

in a frightful patternless mish-mash. Their instructor was patiently

broadcasting: "Think, class. Think. Words are not necessary. Think. Remember to

break the speech reflex. Repeat the first rule after me..."

And the class chanted: "Eliminate the Larynx."

Powell winced and moved on. The wall opposite the kindergarten was covered by a

gold plaque on which was engraved the sacred words of the Esper Pledge:

   
I will look upon him who shall have taught me this Art as one of my parents.

   
I will share my substance with him, and I will supply his necessities if he

   
be in need. I will regard his offspring even as my own brethren and I will

   
teach them this Art by precept, by lecture, and by every mode of teaching;

   
and I will teach this Art to all others. The regimen I adopt shall be for

   
the benefit of mankind according to my ability and judgment, and not for

   
hurt or wrong. I will give no deadly thought to any, though it be asked of

   
me.

   
Whatsoever mind I enter, there will I go for the benefit of man, refraining

   
from all wrong-doing and corruption. Whatsoever thoughts I see or hear in

   
the mind of man which ought not to be made known, I will keep silence

   
thereon, counting such things to be as sacred secrets.

In the lecture hall, a class of 3rds was earnestly weaving simple basket

patterns while they discussed current events. There was one little overdue 2nd,

a twelve-year-old, who was adding zig-zag ad libs to the dull discussion and

peaking every zig with a spoken word. The words rhymed and were barbed comments

on the speakers. It was amusing and amazingly precocious.

Powell found the president's suite in an uproar. All the office doors were open,

and clerks and secretaries were scurrying. Old T'sung H'sai, the president, a

portly mandarin with shaven skull and benign features, stood in the center of

his office and raged. He was so angry he was shouting, and the shock of the

articulated words made his staff shake.

"I don't care what the scoundrels call themselves," T'sung H'sai roared.

"They're a gang of selfish, self-seeking reactionaries. Talk to me about purity

of the race, will they? Talk to me about aristocracy, will they? I'll talk to

them. I'll fill their ears. Miss Prinn! Miss Pr-i-nnnnn!"

Miss Prinn crept into T'sung's office, horrified at the prospect of oral

dictation.

"Take a letter to these devils. To the League of Esper Patriots. Gentlemen...

Good morning, Powell. Haven't seen you in eons... How's Dishonest Abe? The

organized campaign of your clique to cut down Guild Taxation and appropriations

for the education of Espers and the dissemination of Esper training to mankind

is conceived in a spirit of treachery and fascism. Paragraph..."

T'sung wrenched himself from his diatribe and winked profoundly at Powell. "And

have you found the peeper of your dreams yet?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Confound you, Powell. Get married!" T'sung bellowed. "I don't want to be stuck

with this job forever. Paragraph, Miss Prinn: You speak of the hardships of

taxation, of preserving the aristocracy of Espers, of the unsuitability of the

average man for Esper training... What do you want, Powell?"

"I want to use the grapevine, sir."

"Well don't bother me. Speak to my #2 girl. Paragraph, Miss Prinn: Why don't you

come out into the open? You parasites want Esper powers reserved for an

exclusive class so you can turn the rest of the world into a host for your

blood-sucking! You leeches want to---"

Powell tactfully closed the door and turned to T'sung's second secretary, who

was quaking in a corner.

"Are you really scared?"

Image of an eye winking.

Image of a question mark quaking.

"When Papa T'sung blows his top we like him to think we're petrified. Makes him

happier. He hates to be reminded that he's a Santa Claus."

"Well, I'm Santa Claus too. Here's something for your stocking." Powell dropped

the official police description and portrait of Barbara D'Courtney on the

secretary's desk.

"What a beautiful girl," she exclaimed.

"I want this sent out on the grapevine. Marked urgent. A reward goes with it.

Pass the word that the peeper who locates Barbara D'Courtney for me will have