Psichopath Read online

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  Transcriber's Note:

  This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact & Fiction October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

  PSICHOPATH

  By DARREL T. LANGART

  _Given psi powers like clairvoyance and telepathy, solving problems of sabotage would be easy, of course. That is, it seems that way at first thought!_

  Illustrated by van Dongen

  * * * * *

  The man in the pastel blue topcoat walked with steady purpose, butwithout haste, through the chill, wind-swirled drizzle that filled theair above the streets of Arlington, Virginia. His matching bluecap-hood was pulled low over his forehead, and the clear, infraredradiating face mask had been flipped down to protect his chubby cheeksand round nose from the icy wind.

  No one noticed him particularly. He was just another average man whoblended in with all the others who walked the streets that day. No onerecognized him; his face did not appear often in public places, exceptin his own state, and, even so, it was a thoroughly ordinary face.But, as he walked, Senator John Peter Gonzales was keeping a mental,fine-webbed, four-dimensional net around him, feeling for theslightest touch of recognition. He wanted no one to connect him in anyway with his intended destination.

  It was not his first visit to the six-floor brick building that stoodon a street in a lower-middle-class district of Arlington. Actually,government business took him there more often than would have beensafe for the average man-on-the-street. For Senator Gonzales, theprocess of remaining incognito was so elementary that it was almostsubconscious.

  Arriving at his destination, he paused on the sidewalk to light acigarette, shielding it against the wind and drizzle with cuppedhands while his mind made one last check on the surroundings. Then hestrode quickly up the five steps to the double doors which weremarked: _The Society For Mystical And Metaphysical Research, Inc._

  Just as he stepped in, he flipped the face shield up and put on anold-fashioned pair of thick-lensed, black-rimmed spectacles. Then, hisface assuming a bland smile that would have been completely out ofplace on Senator Gonzales, he went from the foyer into the frontoffice.

  "Good afternoon, Mrs. Jesser," he said, in a high, smooth, slightlyaccented voice that was not his own. "I perceive by your aura that youare feeling well. Your normal aura-color is tinged with a positivegolden hue."

  Mrs. Jesser, a well-rounded matron in her early forties, rose to thebait like a porpoise being hand-fed at a Florida zoo. "_Dear_ SwamiChandra! How perfectly wonderful to see you again! You're looking_very_ well your-_self_."

  The Swami, whose Indian blood was of the Aztec rather than the Brahminvariety, nonetheless managed to radiate all the mystery of the East."My well-being, dear Mrs. Jesser, is due to the fact that I have beencommuning for the past three months with my very good friend, theFifth Dalai Lama. A most refreshingly wise person." Senator Gonzaleswas fond of the Society's crackpot receptionist, and he knew exactlywhat kind of hokum would please her most.

  "Oh, I _do_ hope you will find time to tell me _all_ about it," shesaid effusively. "Mr. Balfour isn't in the city just now," she wenton. "He's lecturing in New York on the history of flying saucersightings. Do you realize that this is the fortieth anniversary of thefirst saucer sighting, back in 1944?"

  "The first _photographed_ sighting," the Swami correctedcondescendingly. "Our friends have been watching and guiding us forfar longer than that, and were sighted many times before they werephotographed."

  Mrs. Jesser nodded briskly. "Of course. You're right, as always,Swami."

  "I am sorry to hear," the Swami continued smoothly, "that I will notbe able to see Mr. Balfour. However, I came at the call of Mr. BrianTaggert, who is expecting me."

  Mrs. Jesser glanced down at her appointment sheet. "He didn't mentionan appointment to me. However--" She punched a button on the intercom."Mr. Taggert? Swami Chandra is here to see you. He says he has anappointment."

  Brian Taggert's deep voice came over the instrument. "The Swami, asusual, is very astute. I have been thinking about calling him. Sendhim right up."

  "You may go up, Swami," said Mrs. Jesser, wide-eyed. She watched inawe as the Swami marched regally through the inner door and began toclimb the stairs toward the sixth floor.

  * * * * *

  One way to hide an ex-officio agency of the United States Governmentwas to label it truthfully--_The Society For Mystical And MetaphysicalResearch_. In spite of the fact that the label was literally true, itsounded so crackpot that no one but a crackpot would bother to lookinto it. As a consequence, better than ninety per cent of themembership of the Society was composed of just such people. Only a fewmembers of the "core" knew the organization's true function andpurpose. And as long as such scatter-brains as Mrs. Jesser and Mr.Balfour were in there pitching, no one would ever penetrate to theactual core of the Society.

  The senator had already pocketed the exaggerated glasses by the timehe reached the sixth floor, and his face had lost its bland,overly-wise smile. He pushed open the door to Taggert's office.

  "Have you got any ideas yet?" he asked quickly.

  Brian Taggert, a heavily-muscled man with dark eyes and black,slightly wavy hair, sat on the edge of a couch in one corner of theroom. His desk across the room was there for paperwork only, andTaggert had precious little of that to bother with.

  He took a puff from his heavy-bowled briar. "We're going to have tosend an agent in there. Someone who can be on the spot. Someone whocan get the feel of the situation first hand."

  "That'll be difficult. We can't just suddenly stick an unknown inthere and have an excuse for his being there. Couldn't Donahue orReeves--"

  Taggert shook his head. "Impossible, John. Extrasensory perceptioncan't replace sight, any more than sight can replace hearing. You knowthat."

  "Certainly. But I thought we could get enough information that way totell us who our saboteur is. No dice, eh?"

  "No dice," said Taggert. "Look at the situation we've got there. Thepurpose of the Redford Research Team is to test the Meson UltimateDecay Theory of Dr. Theodore Nordred. Now, if we--"

  Senator Gonzales, walking across the room toward Taggert, gesturedwith one hand. "I know! I know! Give me _some_ credit forintelligence! But we _do_ have one suspect, don't we? What about_him_?"

  Taggert chuckled through a wreath of smoke. "Calm down, John. Or areyou trying to give me your impression of Mrs. Jesser in a conversationwith a saucerite?"

  The senator laughed and sat down in a nearby chair. "All right. Sorry.But this whole thing is lousing up our entire space program. Firstoff, we nearly lose Dr. Ch'ien, and, with him gone, the interstellardrive project would've been shot. Now, if this sabotage keeps up, theRedford project _will_ be shot, and that means we might have to stickto the old-fashioned rocket to get off-planet. Brian, we _need_antigravity, and, so far, Nordred's theory is our only clue."

  "Agreed," said Taggert.

  "Well, we're never going to get it if equipment keeps mysteriouslyburning itself out, breaking down, and just generally goofing up. Thismorning, the primary exciter on the new ultracosmotron went haywire,and the beam of sodium nuclei burned through part of the acceleratortube wall. It'll take a month to get it back in working order."

  Taggert took his pipe out of his mouth and tapped the dottle into anearby ash disposal unit. "And you want to pick up our pet spy?"

  Senator Gonzales scowled. "Well, I'd certainly call him our primesuspect." But th
ere was a certain lack of conviction in his manner.

  Brian Taggert didn't flatly contradict the senator. "Maybe. But youknow, John, there's one thing that bothers me about these accidents."

  "What's that?"

  "The fact that we have not one shred of evidence that points tosabotage."

  * * * * *

  In a room on the fifth floor, directly below Brian Taggert's office, ayoung man was half sitting, half reclining in a thickly upholsteredadjustable chair. He had dropped the back of the chair to a forty-fivedegree angle and lifted up the footrest; now he was leaning back inlazy comfort, his ankles crossed, his right hand holding a slowlysmoldering cigarette, his eyes contemplating the ceiling. Or, rather,they