Eric Russell - Three to Conquer

“Then who did?” Jameson challenged.

“A-a-ah!” Harper eyed him meaningfully. “Now you’re getting right down to the heart of the matter. Who killed Aider-son—and why?”

“Well?”

“Three men in a Thunderbug. Three men who, in all probability, resented Alderson’s intrusion at a critical moment, when the Whittingham girl was being taken over.”

“Taken over?”

“Don’t stare at me like that. How do’ I know precisely what happened—something did happen to produce the result I discovered.”

Jameson looked baffled.

“Three men,” continued Harper, giving it emphasis. “In green suits, matching green ties, gray shirts and collars. Three men wearing uniforms with which nobody is familiar. Why haven’t those uniforms been recognized?”

“Because they were not uniforms at all,” Jameson hazarded. “They merely looked that way, having a sort of official cut, let us say.”

“Or because they were uniforms that nobody knows about,” suggested Harper, “because the government has said nothing to anybody.”

“What the devil are you getting at?”

“We’re pulling the Moon to pieces, and nobody thinks anything of it. It’s been going on long enough to have become commonplace. We’re so sophisticated about such matters that we’ve lost the capacity for surprise.”

“I’m aware of all this, since I live in the present,” said Jameson, a trifle impatiently. “What of it?”

“Has anyone cooked up notions of exploiting Venus or Mars? Have you sent anyone there to take a look and, if so, when was it? Are they due back by now? Were they three men in green uniforms with gray shirts?”

“My God!” ejaculated Jameson.

“Three men went somewhere, got more than they bargained for and involuntarily brought it back to spread around. That’s my theory. Try it for size.”

“If I approach the proper quarter with such a fantasy, they’ll think I’m cracked.”

“I know why you fear that; I can read your mind, remember? First, you personally know of no space-expedition, have heard not the slightest hint of one. Secondly, you cannot credit my diagnosis. Right?”

“Fat lot of use denying it.”

“Then look at it this way: I know that, for a fragmentary moment, I touched a genuinely alien mind in possession of a human body. That entity could not have solidified out of sheer nothingness. It must have arrived in some concealed manner. Somebody must have brought it. The only possible suspects are those three men.”

“Go on,” encouraged Jameson.

“We. have not the vaguest notion how long those three have been gallivanting around. Maybe for a week, maybe for a year.” He fixed his listener with an accusative stare. “Therefore, the Whittingham girl may not have been the first. That trio may have given the treatment to a hundred, and maybe busily tending to a hundred more while we’re sitting here making useless noises. If we wait long enough, they’ll enslave half the world before we wake up.”

Jameson fidgeted, and glanced hesitantly at the phone.

“Brockman of Special Services,” said Harper. “He’s the guy you’ve got in mind right now.” He made an urgent gesture. “All “right, get through to him. What is there to lose? Perhaps he’ll tell you what he wouldn’t dream of telling me. Ask him if an expedition is out in space, and when it’s due back.”

“Ten to one he’ll ignore the question and want to know why I’m asking,” Jameson protested. “I can hardly offer him your notions, and secondhand at that.”

“He’ll jump on you only if there’s no such expedition,” Harper asserted. “But if there is one, and it’s top secret, your query will make him hotfoot over to find how the news got out. Try him, and let’s hear what he says.”

Doubtfully, Jameson picked up the phone, said in resigned tones, “Get me Special Services Department, Mr. Brockman.”

When the call went through, Jameson spoke in the reluctant manner of one compelled to announce the arrest of Snow White and all the seven dwarfs.

“We’re onto something peculiar here. I won’t take up your time with the full details. It would help considerably if you can tell me whether a new space-venture has been made in secret.” He listened a bit, while his expression gradually went flat. “Yes, it’s highly important that we should know one way or the other. Will you? Thanks a lot!” He planted the phone.

“He doesn’t know?” said Harper.

“Correct.”

“Should he know?”

“I assumed that he would;’ I could be wrong. The more highly confidential a piece of knowledge, the fewer entrusted with it—and the further we’ll have to seek for an answer, if there is a satisfactory answer.” Taking a large blue handkerchief from his breast pocket, Jameson mopped his brow, although he was not perspiring. “Brockman will call back as soon as he can make it.”

“It would save valuable time to ring the White House and ask the President. Don’t tell me he won’t know what’s going on.

Jameson was shocked. “Look, let me handle this in my own way, will you?”

“Sure. But the longer we take over this, the sooner you may start handling things in some unearthly way.” Harper registered a sour grin. “Not having my gun, I’d then be forced to strangle you with my own hands—if I could do so without you taking me over.”

“Shut up!” ordered Jameson, . looking slightly sick. He scowled at the telephone, which promptly jangled. He snatched it up, said, “Well?” and let half a dozen expressions run over his face. Then he racked the phone, came to his feet and said, “They want us over there immediately.”

“And we know why, don’t we?”

Offering no response, Jameson led the way down and got into a car. They rolled ten blocks, went up to the twentieth floor of a glass and concrete building and entered an office in which waited four serious men.

These four glanced briefly at Harper without recognizing him, despite all the recent publicity. Apparently, they seldom got around to reading the newspapers, or watching the video.

The oldest of the quartet, a lean-faced individual with sharp eyes and fine white hair, snapped at Jameson, “What’s all this about a space-expedition? Where did you pick up such a story?”

Jameson indicated his companion. “This is Wade Harper. State police have him tagged as a murderer. He came to us an hour or so ago. My query arose from his story.”

Four pairs of eyes shifted to Harper. “What story?”

These men were edgy, and Harper could see it. He could also see why they had the willies: they were deeply concerned about reserved data becoming public property. And he could see, too, that, for the moment, Jameson had forgotten his special aptitude.

Addressing the white-haired man, Harper filched his name and said, “Mr. King, I know for a fact that eighteen months ago we sent a ship to Venus, the nearest planet. That ship was the result of twenty years of governmental experimentation. It bore a crew of three hand-picked men. Its return has two alternative dates. If the crew found conditions unbearable, the ship should have been back last November. If conditions permit them to exist, and indulge a little exploration, they’re due in mid-June, about five weeks hence. The fact that they are not known to have returned is officially considered encouraging. The government awaits their arrival before giving the news to the world.”

King heard all this with a facial impassivity that he fondly imagined concealed his boiling thoughts. He asked with forced calmness, And how did you obtain this information?”

It was too much for Jameson, who had listened with amazement to the recital and had been awakened by it. “This man is telepathic, Mr. King. He has proved it to my satisfaction; he has picked the facts out of your mind.”