The Second Randall Garrett Megapack Read online

  The senator looked at the other two men who were with him on the fifth floor office of the Society for Mystical and Metaphysical Research. Taggert was relaxing on his couch, and Spencer Candron, just out of the hospital, looked rather pale as he sat in the big, soft chair that Taggert had provided.

  The senator looked at Candron. “The thing I don’t understand is, why was it necessary to knock out Ch’ien? He’ll have a sore jaw for weeks. Why didn’t you just tell him who you were and what you were up to?”

  Candron glanced at Taggert, but Taggert just grinned and nodded.

  “We couldn’t allow that,” said Candron, looking at Senator Kerotski. “Dr. James Ch’ien has too much of a logical, scientific mind for that. We’d have ruined him if he’d seen me in action.”

  The senator looked a little surprised. “Why? We’ve convinced other scientists that they were mistaken in their observations. Why not Ch’ien?”

  “Ch’ien is too good a scientist,” Candron said. “He’s not the type who would refuse to believe something he saw simply because it didn’t agree with his theories. Ch’ien is one of those dangerous in-betweens. He’s too brilliant to be allowed to go to waste, and, at the same time, too rigid to change his manner of thinking. If he had seen me teleport or levitate, he wouldn’t reject it—he’d try to explain it. And that would have effectively ruined him.”

  “Ruined him?” The senator looked a little puzzled.

  Taggert raised his heavy head from the couch. “Sure, Leo,” he said to the senator. “Don’t you see? We need Ch’ien on this interstellar project. He absolutely must dope out the answer somehow, and no one else can do it as quickly.”

  “With the previous information,” the senator said, “we would have been able to continue.”

  “Yeah?” Taggert said, sitting up. “Has anyone been able to dope out Fermat’s Last Theorem without Fermat? No. So why ruin Ch’ien?”

  “It would ruin him,” Candron broke in, before the senator could speak. “If he saw, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that levitation and teleportation were possible, he would have accepted his own senses as usable data on definite phenomena. But, limited as he is by his scientific outlook, he would have tried to evolve a scientific theory to explain what he saw. What else could a scientist do?”

  Senator Kerotski nodded, and his nod said: “I see. He would have diverted his attention from the field of the interstellar drive to the field of psionics. And he would have wasted years trying to explain an inherently nonlogical area of knowledge by logical means.”

  “That’s right,” Candron said. “We would have set him off on a wild goose chase, trying to solve the problems of psionics by the scientific, the logical, method. We would have presented him with an unsolvable problem.”

  Taggert patted his knees. “We would have given him a problem that he could not solve with the methodology at hand. It would be as though we had proved to an ancient Greek philosopher that the cube could be doubled, and then allowed him to waste his life trying to do it with a straight-edge and compass.”

  “We know Ch’ien’s psychological pattern,” Candron continued. “He’s not capable of admitting that there is any other thought pattern than the logical. He would try to solve the problems of psionics by logical methods, and would waste the rest of his life trying to do the impossible.”

  The senator stroked his chin. “That’s clear,” he said at last. “Well, it was worth a cracked jaw to save him. We’ve given him a perfectly logical explanation of his rescue and, simultaneously, we’ve put the Chinese government into absolute confusion. They have no idea of how you got out of there, Candron.”

  “That’s not as important as saving Ch’ien,” Candron said.

  “No,” the senator said quickly, “of course not. After all, the Secretary of Research needs Dr. Ch’ien—the man’s important.”

  Spencer Candron smiled. “I agree. He’s practically indispensable—as much as a man can be.”

  “He’s the Secretary’s right hand man,” said Taggert firmly.

  PSICHOPATH (1960)

  The man in the pastel blue topcoat walked with steady purpose, but without haste, through the chill, wind-swirled drizzle that filled the air above the streets of Arlington, Virginia. His matching blue cap-hood was pulled low over his forehead, and the clear, infrared radiating face mask had been flipped down to protect his chubby cheeks and round nose from the icy wind.

  No one noticed him particularly. He was just another average man who blended in with all the others who walked the streets that day. No one recognized him; his face did not appear often in public places, except in 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 the slightest touch of recognition. He wanted no one to connect him in any way with his intended destination.

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

  Arriving at his destination, he paused on the sidewalk to light a cigarette, shielding it against the wind and drizzle with cupped hands while his mind made one last check on the surroundings. Then he strode quickly up the five steps to the double doors which were marked: The Society For Mystical And Metaphysical Research, Inc.

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

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Jesser,” he said, in a high, smooth, slightly accented voice that was not his own. “I perceive by your aura that you are feeling well. Your normal aura-color is tinged with a positive golden hue.”

  Mrs. Jesser, a well-rounded matron in her early forties, rose to the bait like a porpoise being hand-fed at a Florida zoo. “Dear Swami Chandra! How perfectly wonderful to see you again! You’re looking very well yourself.”

  The Swami, whose Indian blood was of the Aztec rather than the Brahmin variety, nonetheless managed to radiate all the mystery of the East. “My well-being, dear Mrs. Jesser, is due to the fact that I have been communing for the past three months with my very good friend, the Fifth Dalai Lama. A most refreshingly wise person.” Senator Gonzales was fond of the Society’s crackpot receptionist, and he knew exactly what kind of hokum would please her most.

  “Oh, I do hope you will find time to tell me all about it,” she said effusively. “Mr. Balfour isn’t in the city just now,” she went on. “He’s lecturing in New York on the history of flying saucer sightings. Do you realize that this is the fortieth anniversary of the first saucer sighting, back in 1944?”

  “The first photographed sighting,” the Swami corrected condescendingly. “Our friends have been watching and guiding us for far longer than that, and were sighted many times before they were photographed.”

  Mrs. Jesser nodded briskly. “Of course. You’re right, as always, Swami.”

  “I am sorry to hear,” the Swami continued smoothly, “that I will not be able to see Mr. Balfour. However, I came at the call of Mr. Brian Taggert, who is expecting me.”

  Mrs. Jesser glanced down at her appointment sheet. “He didn’t mention an appointment to me. However—” She punched a button on the intercom. “Mr. Taggert? Swami Chandra is here to see you. He says he has an appointment.”

  Brian Taggert’s deep voice came over the instrument. “The Swami, as usual, is very astute. I have been thinking about calling him. Send him right up.”

  “You may go up, Swami,” said Mrs. Jesser, wide-eyed. She watched in awe as the Swami marched regally through the inner door and began to climb the stairs toward the sixth floor.

>   * * * *

  One way to hide an ex-officio agency of the United States Government was to label it truthfully—The Society For Mystical And Metaphysical Research. In spite of the fact that the label was literally true, it sounded so crackpot that no one but a crackpot would bother to look into it. As a consequence, better than ninety per cent of the membership of the Society was composed of just such people. Only a few members of the “core” knew the organization’s true function and purpose. And as long as such scatter-brains as Mrs. Jesser and Mr. Balfour were in there pitching, no one would ever penetrate to the actual core of the Society.

  The senator had already pocketed the exaggerated glasses by the time he 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 the room. His desk across the room was there for paperwork only, and Taggert had precious little of that to bother with.

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

  “That’ll be difficult. We can’t just suddenly stick an unknown in there and have an excuse for his being there. Couldn’t Donahue or Reeves—”

  Taggert shook his head. “Impossible, John. Extrasensory perception can’t replace sight, any more than sight can replace hearing. You know that.”

  “Certainly. But I thought we could get enough information that way to tell us who our saboteur is. No dice, eh?”

  “No dice,” said Taggert. “Look at the situation we’ve got there. The purpose of the Redford Research Team is to test the Meson Ultimate Decay Theory of Dr. Theodore Nordred. Now, if we—”

  Senator Gonzales, walking across the room toward Taggert, gestured with one hand. “I know! I know! Give me some credit for intelligence! But we do have one suspect, don’t we? What about him?”

  Taggert chuckled through a wreath of smoke. “Calm down, John. Or are you trying to give me your impression of Mrs. Jesser in a conversation with 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. First off, we nearly lose Dr. Ch’ien, and, with him gone, the interstellar drive project would’ve been shot. Now, if this sabotage keeps up, the Redford project will be shot, and that means we might have to stick to 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 mysteriously burning itself out, breaking down, and just generally goofing up. This morning, the primary exciter on the new ultracosmotron went haywire, and the beam of sodium nuclei burned through part of the accelerator tube 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 a nearby ash disposal unit. “And you want to pick up our pet spy?”

  Senator Gonzales scowled. “Well, I’d certainly call him our prime suspect.” But there was a certain lack of conviction in his manner.

  Brian Taggert didn’t flatly contradict the senator. “Maybe. But you know, 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 to sabotage.”

  * * * *

  In a room on the fifth floor, directly below Brian Taggert’s office, a young man was half sitting, half reclining in a thickly upholstered adjustable chair. He had dropped the back of the chair to a forty-five degree angle and lifted up the footrest; now he was leaning back in lazy comfort, his ankles crossed, his right hand holding a slowly smoldering cigarette, his eyes contemplating the ceiling. Or, rather, they seemed to be contemplating something beyond the ceiling.

  It was pure coincidence that the focus of his thoughts happened to be located in about the same volume of space that his eyes seemed to be focused on. If Brian Taggert and Senator Gonzales had been in the room below, his eyes would still be looking at the ceiling.

  In repose, his face looked even younger than his twenty-eight years would have led one to expect. His close-cropped brown hair added to the impression of youth, and the well-tailored suit on his slim, muscular body added to the effect. At any top-flight university, he could have passes for a well-bred, sophisticated, intelligent student who had money enough to indulge himself and sense enough not to overdo it.

  He was beginning to understand the pattern that was being woven in the room above—beginning to feel it in depth.

  Senator Gonzalez was mildly telepathic, inasmuch as he could pick up thoughts in the prevocal stage—the stage at which thought becomes definitely organized into words, phrases, and sentences. He could go a little deeper, into the selectivity stage, where the linking processes of logic took over from the nonlogical but rational processes of the preconscious—but only if he knew the person well. Where the senator excelled was in detecting emotional tone and manipulating emotional processes, both within himself and within others.

  Brian Taggert was an analyzer, an originator, a motivator—and more. The young man found himself avoiding too deep a probe into the mind of Brian Taggert; he knew that he had not yet achieved the maturity to understand the multilayered depths of a mind like that. Eventually, perhaps.…

  Not that Senator Gonzales was a child, nor that he was emotionally or intellectually shallow. It was merely that he was not of Taggert’s caliber.

  The young man absently took another drag from his cigarette. Taggert had explained the basic problem to him, but he was getting a wider picture from the additional information that Senator Gonzales had brought.

  Dr. Theodore Nordred, a mathematical physicist and one of the top-flight, high-powered, original minds in the field, had shown that Einstein’s final equations only held in a universe composed entirely of normal matter. Since the great Einstein had died before the Principle of Parity had been overthrown in the mid-fifties, he had been unable to incorporate the information into his Unified Field Theory. Nordred had been able to show, mathematically, that Einstein’s equations were valid only for a completely “dexter,” or right-handed universe, or for a completely “sinister” or left-handed universe.

  Although the universe in which Man lived was predominantly dexter—arbitrarily so designated—it was not completely so. It had a “sinister” component amounting to approximately one one-hundred-thousandth of one per cent. On the average, one atom out of every ten million in the universe was an atom of antimatter. The distribution was unequal of course; antimatter could not exist in contact with ordinary matter. Most of it was distributed throughout interstellar space in the form of individual atoms, freely floating in space, a long way from any large mass of normal matter.

  But that minute fraction of a per cent was enough to show that the known universe was not totally Einsteinian. In a purely Einsteinian universe, antigravity was impossible, but if the equations of Dr. Theodore Nordred were actually a closer approximation to true reality than those of Einstein, then antigravity might be a practical reality.

  And that was the problem the Redford Research Team was working on. It was a parallel project to the interstellar drive problem, being carried on elsewhere.

  * * * *

  The “pet spy,” as Taggert had called him, was Dr. Konrad Bern, a middle-aged Negro from Tanganyika, who was convinced that only under Communism could the colored races of the world achieve the technological organization and living standard of the white man. He had been trained as a “sleeper”; not even the exhaustive investigations of the FBI had turned up any relationship between Bern and the Soviets. It had taken the telepathic probing of the S.M.M.R. agents to uncove
r his real purposes. Known, he constituted no danger.

  There was no denying that he was a highly competent, if not brilliant, physicist. And, since it was quite impossible for him to get any information on the Redford Project into the hands of the opposition—it was no longer fashionable to call Communists “the enemy”—there was no reason why he shouldn’t be allowed to contribute to the American efforts to bridge space.

  Three times in the five months since Bern had joined the project, agents of the Soviet government had made attempts to contact the physicist. Three times the FBI, warned by S.M.M.R. agents, had quietly blocked the contact. Konrad Bern had been effectively isolated.

  But, at the project site itself, equipment failure had become increasingly more frequent, all out of proportion to the normal accident rate in any well-regulated laboratory. The work of the project had practically come to a standstill; the ultra-secret project reports to the President were beginning to show less and less progress in the basic research, and more and more progress in repairing damaged equipment. Apparently, though, increasing efficiency in repair work was self-neutralizing; repairing an instrument in half the time merely meant that it could break down twice as often.

  It had to be sabotage. And yet, not even the S.M.M.R. agents could find any trace of intentional damage nor any thought patterns that would indicate deliberate damage.

  And Senator John Peter Gonzales quite evidently did not want to face the implications of that particular fact.

  “We’re going to have to send an agent in,” Taggert repeated.

  (That’s my cue, thought the young man on the fifth floor as he crushed out his cigarette and got up from the chair.)

  “I don’t know how we’re going to manage it,” said the senator. “What excuse do we have for putting a new man on the Redford team?”

  Brian Taggert grinned. “What they need is an expert repair technician—a man who knows how to build and repair complex research instruments. He doesn’t have to know anything about the purpose of the team itself, all he has to do is keep the equipment in good shape.”