Eric Russell - Three to Conquer

“Norris!” he yelled.

Moira gave a jerk, dropped a bunch of papers, scrabbled for them on the floor.

The door whisked open and the agent looked in. “What’s the matter?”

“I think this is it.”

“You mean—?”

“It’s coming on two feet. No car. On the sidewalk taking a stroll.”

“Stay where you are!” ordered Norris. He bolted from sight.

Going to the window, Harper looked onto the road ten feet below. He opened the casement, and leaned out to get a better view.

If there was one pedestrian in sight, there must have been a thousand. The mind he sought had to be among that cluster on the left-hand side of the road, between four and five hundred yards to the north. His directional sense assured him of that much, but it could hot detach one individual from a distant bunch of nondescripts.

Still leaning out and watching, he waited for the weird mind to draw closer. Three hundred yards, two hundred, one fifty. By now he had narrowed the possibility down to three people—a smart housewife tripping along perkily; a plump and prosperous-looking businessman in his early forties; a lanky, lantern-jawed individual who slunk along close to the Wall.

Behind him, Norris reappeared and said, “All set. Now can you—?”

Ignoring him, Harper made a vicious mental stab along the receiving-line. The result came back in a split second: intense shock, wild alarm, frantic desire to escape and carry a warning elsewhere.

The housewife kept going, without faltering or changing pace. The lanky slinker maintained pace and manner. The plump man stopped in his tracks, glared wildly around, swung on one heel and started back whence he had come, at a rapid walk.

Harper jumped out the window. He heard a gasp from Norris, and an exclamation from Moira, before he landed heavily. His gun was already in his right fist as he regained balance and plunged forward, in the wake of the escapee.

Something in the expressions of passers-by told the quarry that things had begun to happen behind him. Lifting arms to sides, he broke into a headlong run. For one of his portly build, he showed a remarkable turn of speed.

A bewildered clerk carrying a large box danced in front of the charging Harper, who snarled, “Out of my way, Stupid!” brushed him aside and pounded on. Back of him, someone was shouting indistinguishable words in authoritative tones. On the comer, six hundred yards ahead, someone else blew a shrill whistle. A police-car siren started wailing. Two agents stepped out of a doorway ahead of the fugitive, weapons in hands, and bawled an order to halt. Two more came racing down the opposite side of the road.

The plump man wasn’t finished yet. Taking as little notice of the guns as one would of peashooters, he dived through the main door of an office building. Harper went in five seconds later, red-faced and breathing hard; two agents followed close upon his heels. A car squealed into the curb, unloaded four more.

One of a bank of self-operated elevators was going up fast, taking the fugitive with it. Stopping at its folding gate, Harper scowled upward, watched the other’s feet disappear from sight. One pair of agents raced up nearby stairs; two more jumped into an adjoining elevator and boosted it skyward.

Putting the muzzle of his weapon to the gate’s lock, Harper fired, broke it, hauled the gate open and halted the elevator at the third-floor level. He had hoped to get the quarry stuck between floors, but the apparatus proved to be of automatic-levelling type and responded to sudden loss of power by letting its box sink into adjustment.

Listening to the minds above, he detected the fugitive’s break-out onto the third floor, the nearness to him of the agents on the stairs, and knew what was going to happen before he could prevent it.

He galloped up the stairs with sweat beading his brow. He had covered the first flight and half the second, taking steps three at a time, when overhead there sounded a terrific blast, a tinkle of falling’ glass, a brief pause followed by a hammering burst of explosions. His speed upped itself another twenty per cent while his lungs heaved.

While taking the turn from second to third, he heard the yowl of an alien spark becoming extinguished in a useless body, also the wild, despairing cry of something more human on its way out. He slowed down, mounting the remaining stairs at normal pace, knowing that he was too late.

The third floor corridor was a shambles. Three agents stood in a little group looking over the scene. One was holding a heavy riot gun still warm in the muzzle. Another was mopping blood that dripped steadily from his left ear. The third was gazing gloomily at the body of a fourth sprawled near the top of the stairs, crimson splotches on chest and face.

Ten yards from the elevator lay the corpse of the plump man. He was not a pleasant sight.

The man with the dripping ear bent over the agent who lay supine by the stairs, slid a hand under his vest, felt around and rasped, “He’s dead.” He stood up, patted a crimson-spotted handkerchief to the side of his head. “If he hadn’t beaten me to the top, he mightn’t have got it. And if I hadn’t been four steps lower, I’d have got it all over and right through.”

“We soared past him in that other box,” explained the one with the riot gun to Harper. “When he stopped so suddenly, we overshot him and had to back down. It was just then that he got out and tossed an egg at the other pair. A splinter went right through the floor and between my feet. We jerked open the gate, saw him running down there, and gave him a burst before he could throw any more.”

A horde came charging up the stairs, Norris and Rausch in the lead. Loud murmurings came from the street far below. Harper realized that he was still gripping his gun, and tucked it away.

Norris glanced around, thinned his lips, examined the agent lying by the stairs. “He looks gone to me. Rush him down to the ambulance, just in case.” He turned to the others. “What happened?”

They told him, finishing, “Fat chance we had of taking him alive.”

One of the onlookers opened a penknife, picked at the wall, dug out a ragged piece of metal. He studied it closely and said, “Army grenade by the looks of it.” He gave the fragment to Norris. “What do you think?”

“Yes, you may be right. We’ll have to start checking the armories. Frisk him, and let’s see what else he’s got.”

They made a thorough search of the plump man’s clothes. The grenade was all he had carried in the way of lethal objects. He had an expensive watch, a diamond stickpin, and a well-filled wallet. His clothes were of top quality, and his shoes were also expensive.

They laid him flat on his back, revealing a double-chinned and amiable face, close-shaven and well cared-for. Even now, his features wore the expression of one who would not harm a fly—unless it tried to make off with his stickpin. His hands were clean and soft, with pink, almond-shaped nails expertly manicured.

Apart from the watch, pin, wallet and two fine linen hand- kerchiefs, there wasn’t another thing in his pockets: no driving permit, business card or identity card; no pen, cigarette case, lighter or keys. His clothes were devoid of a tailor’s label; his shoes bore no maker’s mark other than that indicating the size. There wasn’t a thing by means of which he could be identified quickly.

“More delay,” remarked Norris bitterly. “It’s going to use up valuable time finding out who he is.” He became momentarily hopeful. “I don’t suppose you can tell us anything about him?”

“Sorry,” said Harper, genuinely regretful. It was beyond his power to dig data out of a dead brain. Although he had not had a chance to put it to the test, he suspected that a Venusian, involuntarily identifies himself as a Venusian, and not as the entity he has usurped. That was the cause of all the trouble, the reason why one exceptional man could recognize them.