Three to Conquer (17 page)

             
"I suppose so." Doubtfully, Conway shifted his gaze to Benfield. "Have you any ideas?"

             
"Yes, General.
I think it best to pursue this matter on the principle of overlooking nothing."

             
"That's the boy," approved Harper. "With all the troops and police Uttering this country, we should be able to spare a couple of dozen to chase a possibility. The grave loss of manpower won't make us topple any quicker."

             
Conway did not approve the humor, which smacked to him of unwarranted sarcasm; but it served its purpose of stinging him into immediate action. He made his call.

             
"Williams, about that filling-station murder; I want it looked into. Make it quick and thorough. Yes, orders are suspended with respect to this case only. It may be linked with the search; if so, one of the wanted men has been in that area today. Call me and report directly you make progress." He ended, gave a challenging look at the others. "That settles that. There's little more we can do until we make our first capture—and it's to be hoped we get him alive."

             
"It's also to be hoped that one will lead to the others," put in Benfield.

             
"And it's further to be hoped that, sometime before Christmas, somebody will make up his mind about accepting or rejecting my offer to dangle on the hook," said Harper.

             
"Your first job is to check the Whittingham family," Conway shot back. "After that we'll consider what to do with you next."

             
"Then let's go." Harper waved a familiar goodbye to General Conway, performing it in the manner of a rookie too raw to know better. Conway involuntarily bristled at him, a fact he found most pleasing.

             
"There's no sense in going out of your way to irritate the old boy," reproved Jameson, when they had exited and reached the car. "He has troubles enough."

             
"I was reasserting the freedom of the individual at the moment when it's likeliest to become disputed," snapped Harper.

             
Back at headquarters, Jameson said, "The sooner you get out there and do your stuff, the better. We
'
ll send you by plane or copter. Sit down and wait—
I'll
find out what can be done."

             
"You restore my good character while you're at it," Harper suggested. "Cancel that dragnet for me. I don't like it, even if it
is
being ignored. Priority of pilot-search won't prevent some sharp-eyed cuss from grabbing me, if he notices me right under his nose."

             
"We'll tend to that eventually. Meanwhile
I'll
send a couple of agents with you
,,
to be on the safe side."

             
"Think I can't look after myself?"

             
"It's Conway's order."

             
"Oh, all right." As the other went through the door, Harper called, "And I want my gun back. It's my property, isn't it?"

             
Jameson returned in two minutes, tossed him the weapon and a large brown envelope. "Study that while I get things
moving—all planes are busy,
and you'll have to use a copter." He departed again.

             
Tucking the gun under his left arm, Harper extracted the envelope's flap, slid out three full-plate glossy photographs. Each had a typed slip of data attached to its back. He examined them closely.

             
The first was of William Gould, twenty-eight, test-pilot-in-chief, a frank-faced, blond-haired, husky individual who weighed one-eighty pounds and had a half-moon scar on the left brow. The thinner, dark-haired face smiling from the second picture was that of Cory McDonald, twenty-four, test-pilot and computer, a wiry type of one-fifty-five pounds, no identifying marks on body. Picture number three showed the thoughtful, serious features of Earl James Langley, twenty-seven, test-pilot and astronavigator, dark-haired, one-sixty-two pounds, small mole on right thigh,
white
scars on both kneecaps.

             
"Gould, McDonald and Langley," recited Harper to himself, as he shuffled the photos to and fro and memorized the faces.
"Gould, McDonald and Langley.
Three good boys who went away full of hope and came back full of hell. God rest their souls!"

             
He felt vengeful as he looked at them.

             
Three fine young men.

             
Three rotten apples.

             
"Damn!" he said loudly. "Damn!"

             
"What are you cussing over?" inquired Jameson, coming through the door.

             
"Somebody's sons—and what's been done to them."

             
"Don't bother your head about them. We've a bigger worry—namely, that of what they're doing to others."

             
"I know. But it's in my nature to deplore the deplorable." He returned the photographs to the envelope, handed it over. "If I can have copies, will you see they're put in my car? They're too large to fold into my pocket."

             
We're printing thousands of smaller ones, wallet-size; you'll get a set in due course." Jameson gazed expectantly toward the door. Two men entered. They were young, lean, well-dressed, with an air of quiet competence. Jameson introduced them. "Meet Dan Norris and Bill Rausch. Try getting away from them."

             
"These are the escort?"

             
"Y
es."

             
"Hope I won't bore you, boys," said Harper. "Are we ready to go?"

             
"Right away," Jameson informed. "An army copter is on the roof."

             
Accompanied by the two silent agents, Harper rode an elevator to its limit, and proceeded to the waiting machine.

             
Three and a half hours later, they landed in the o
rn
ate grounds of a state isolation hospital. An agent met them as they stepped to the ground, identified himself as Vera Pritchard.

             
"You're holding the Whittinghams here?" Harper asked.

             
"Yes. There are five in the family. They swallowed our story of possible contagion, and came without protest. They fear they may be incubating something, and can hardly wait to find out."

             
"None of them have tried to escape?"

             
"No," said Pritchard.

             
"Or communicate with somebody at a distance?
"

             
"
No."

             
"Where are they?"

             
Pritchard pointed.
"In the annex over there."

             
Gazing meditatively at the place
indicated,
which was about four hundred yards away, Harper said, after a while, "They're okay. You can let them go."

             
Incredulity came into Pritchard's features as he protested, "But you haven't
seen
them
!
"

             
"I don't need to."

             
"Well, my orders are to be governed entirely by what you say. I take it that you do know what you're saying?"

             
"I do; I say they're clean. You can release them."

             
"All right."
Hopelessly
baffled, Pritchard covered himself against a possible blunder by saying to his fellow agents, "You two are witnesses to this."

             
They signified agreement, followed Harper back into the copter as Pritchard walked toward the annex. The copter rose, started the return trip.

             
"Thank the Lord not everyone knows what's wrong with me," remarked Harper, thereby stimulating his companions
'
minds into revealing channels.

             
Mental reactions showed that they didn't know, either; Jameson had told them no more than was strictly necessary.

             
The powers-to-be were trying to hide two menaces from the public, not just one.

             
Authority was trying to conceal a human pryer, as well as an inhuman enslaver. The idea was to use the former to destroy the latter—and then decide the fate of the former.

-

             
Moira stood as one paralyzed when he marched surlily into the office, planted himself behind his desk, and commenced rummaging through delayed correspondence.

             
After a while, he glanced up and growled, "Well, what's eating you? Have I turned into purple opprobrium around here?"

             
"No, Mr. Harper." She sat down weakly, still looking at him wide-eyed.

             
"Don't let your mouth hang open that way. It makes you resemble a half-starved carp. Where's the Pest Control progress report? They're bellyaching already."

             
She flew to a cabinet, jerked open a drawer, rifled its cards, extracted one and gave it to him. Her mind was whirling with the belief that she was alone with public enemy number one, and somebody ought to do something about it.

             
"Mr. Riley has been around several times," she informed, hoping he'd take the hint. "He said he'd call again today."

             
"He would, the big ugly bum.
"
Harper studied the card, his expression sour.
"Umph
!
When I say six weeks, I mean six weeks and not six days.
Dear
sirs
, in reply to your query of yesterday's date—"

             
Grabbing her pencil, Moira scribbled with frantic haste. He spouted another forty words, and knew she was making a hopeless mess of her script.

             
"See here, Lanky, I am not a convicted criminal. During my absence, I have disembowelled none save the few hundred who deserved it. I am not wanted by cops, judges, wardens, army recruiters, or whatever. Now pull yourself together, and apply your mind to the job. Dear
sirs
, in reply to your query—"

             
This time she managed to take it down without error. She slipped paper into her machine, adjusted it,
paused
expectantly as heavy footsteps approached the office door.

             
"Here he is," announced Harper, with mock tenseness. "Dive under the desk when the shooting starts."

             
Moira sat frozen, one finger poised over a key.

             
Next moment, Riley bashed open the door in his usual elephantine manner, took the usual two steps to reach the desk. If his scowl had forced his eyebrows an inch lower, they'd have served as a mustache. He splayed both hands on the desk, while he leaned across it to stare into the other's eyes. Behind him, Moira, feeling faint with relief, gave the key a tentative tap.