Cristopher Stasheff - Escape Velocity

A slow grin spread over the Exec’s face. “Had that memorized, did you?”

Dar swallowed, and nodded.

The Exec nodded, too, and rose, clapping Dar on the shoulder. “It’s always a pleasure to meet a genuine patriot.” But his hand tightened, and he called out, “Did you hook up those cameras?”

“Yes, Mr. Secretary.” The staging director looked frightened. “We’re patched into network. You can go live to all of Terra whenever you want.”

“Good, good.” The Exec let go of Dar just as harder hands laid hold of him. Looking up, he saw the shop steward and one of the assistants holding him, each one leveling a small but efficient-looking pistol at his torso. Whitey was suffering the same treatment; and the whole crew, except for the camera operators and the staging director, had pistols out.

“All right, then. Put us on,” the Exec said. He smiled into the camera in front of him, seeming suddenly warm and weary, but solemn. The staging director raised a hand, palm flat and stiff, gazing off into space, listening to a voice talking into his ear-button. Suddenly his arm swung down like a sword, to point at the Exec.

“Fellow citizens,” the Exec intoned, “we are happy to be able to announce that we have arrested the vile telepath who has been stalking relentlessly through the planets, to Terra. He is here.”

The red light on his camera went off, and the corresponding light on the other camera glowed to life—pointing straight at Dar. With a sudden, horrible, sinking feeling, he realized everyone on Terra could see him.

“My Executive Guards caught him just in time,” the Exec went on, “right here, in this studio, attempting to assassinate me.”

A sudden horrible chill seized Dar’s intestines as he found a pistol in his hand. How …?

Then, suddenly, he realized what the Exec was saying, realizing he was being identified as the horrible, vicious, telepathic assassin. He screamed, “N-o-o-o-o!” and threw his weight frantically against the hands that held him. They bit into his arms like steel clamps, and he writhed and twisted, bellowing in outrage, trying to shake them off.

“He knew what I was going to say next,” the Exec said grimly, “that the danger is not over. For he has confederates, fellow citizens—traveling unseen and unknown, here on Terra itself! Where these vicious assassins will next strike, we cannot tell—nor who will be their next victim. Probably myself—but it also might be any one of you.”

His voice deepened, ringing with conviction. “They must be stopped! For you, my fellow citizens, do not have a corps of guardsmen to protect you day and night. They must be stopped—but your Civil Police cannot arrest the people whom they know to be dangerous telepaths, because of the restrictions of civil rights laws! The only way to end this peril is to grant me full emergency powers, so that I can have your police clap these criminals into jails, where they belong. Today I will ask the Assembly for those powers—but I will not receive them without your support. Call your Elector now! Tell him to give me the powers I need to protect you! So that mad-dog renegades, such as this one, can be banished to the farthest reaches of Terran space!”

He stared solemnly into the camera, the perfect image of a good but troubled man, until the red light went out.

Then he thrust himself to his feet, grinning, and turned to Dar. “Thank you, young man. You timed your struggling perfectly.”

“It’s you!” Dar burst out. “ You’re the one who planned the coup!”

“No—but I will be the one who takes power. If there’s going to be a dictator, I intend to make sure that I’m it.”

“You don’t even care about saving democracy!”

“Why so surprised?” The Exec’s smile was gentle, sympathetic—and underscored with contempt. “You poor, naïve idiot! Did you honestly think any politician really cared about anything but personal power anymore?”

Dar stared at him, horrified.

Then the frustration broke, and the rage leaped through it. He threw himself at the Exec with a howl, fingers curving into claws—but the guards’ hands held him back, and a cold spray hit his face, filling his head with fumes that spread darkness through his brain.

WHY DID YOU ESCAPE FROM WOLMAR?”

The voice blasted through into Dar’s nice, warm nest of unconsciousness. An idiot monotone was singing in his right ear, and a cricket with absolutely no sense of rhythm was chirping into his left.

“HOW DID YOU LEAVE THE PLANET WOLMAR?”

“I hopped into a courier ship,” Dar answered truthfully. He levered his eyelids open, squinting against the light.

Five of them, actually—red, blue, green, yellow, and orange—hitting him with stroboscopic flashes that didn’t quite have a rhythmic pattern—but it was a different nonrhythmic pattern than the cricket’s. Dar stared, dazzled.

“WHAT IS YOUR NAME?”

It was ridiculous, but he couldn’t think of it. All he could think of was that he wanted someone to turn the lights off. “I don’t know!”

“EXCELLENT,” the unseen owner of the voice purred. “WHICH OF YOUR TRAVELING COMPANIONS WAS THE TELEPATH?”

“The what ?”

“DO NOT SEEK TO MISLEAD US! WE KNOW THAT AT LEAST ONE MEMBER OF YOUR GROUP WAS A TELEPATH. AND DO NOT TRY TO READ OUR MINDS; THE SENSORY DISTRACTIONS YOU ARE EXPERIENCING WILL PREVENT YOU FROM BEING ABLE TO CONCENTRATE SUFFICIENTLY FOR TELEPATHY!”

“We hope,” someone near the voice muttered.

“I can’t read anybody’s mind!”

“SEE?” the voice boomed to someone else. “THE LIGHTS AND NOISES DO WORK!”

“I never could read anybody’s mind! I’m not a telepath!”

The voice was quiet for a moment; then it boomed, “WHEN WERE YOU LAST A TELEPATH?”

“Never! Never, so help me!”

“He could be lying,” the voice muttered.

“Not with that sensory assault you’ve laid onto him,” the other voice answered. “Poor fellow can’t even close his eyes now. I don’t think he could concentrate enough to think up a lie.”

“That was the other purpose of this system,” the first voice admitted. Then it boomed out again: “OUR AGENTS FOLLOWED YOU ALL THE WAY FROM WOLMAR TO TERRA, OF COURSE. HOW DID YOU FORCE TOD TAMBOURIN TO AID YOU?”

“I didn’t! I didn’t force him at all!” Then, suddenly realizing they might accuse Whitey, Dar added, “I conned him!”

“He is only a poet,” the other voice murmured. “Probably true. Besides, you’d better get back to the main question before he goes catatonic on you.”

That sent a chill trickling down Dar’s spine.

“Right,” the voice muttered; then, “WHO IN YOUR GROUP WAS THE TELEPATH?”

“There wasn’t any! There aren’t any! There never have been any!”

“WE KNOW BETTER,” the voice said scornfully. “WHO WAS IT?”

The flashing lights bit into his brain; the thousand-hertz tone bored straight through from ear to ear, while the random clicks tripped up every thought that tried to flow. “I can’t think!” Dar yelled. “I can’t think who it could possibly be! For the life of me!”

“IT MAY BE JUST THAT. DO YOU REALLY EXPECT US TO BELIEVE …?” The voice broke off in midsentence. “WHO’S THAT? GET HIM OUT OF HERE!”

“My credentials, gentlemen.” It was a fulsome voice, growing louder as it came closer. “If you doubt them, you may verify me through the computer.”

“Why?” snorted the other voice. “They’re computer-fed, anyway … Chief Torturer ?”

“To Mr. Horatio Bocello, yes.”

“He’s just a billionaire, not a politician! Why would he need a torturer?”