Читать книгу The Ming Vase and Other Science Fiction Stories - E.C. Tubb - Страница 6

THE MING VASE

The antique shop was one of those high-class places, which catered only to the very rich and the very possessive. A single vase of hand-worked glass stood in one window, an Egyptian Solar Boat in the other, between them the door presented a single expanse of unbroken glass to the street outside.

Don Gregson paused before it, deep-set eyes curious as he stared at the street. There was no trace of the accident. The wreckage had been removed and the rain had washed away the last traces of blood. Even the inevitable sightseers had gone about their business. Turning back to the door he pushed it open and stepped into the warmth inside.

Earlman was there, and Bronson, both standing beside a small, elderly man with delicate hands and intelligent eyes. Some assistants hovered discreetly in the background. The police had left and Don was glad of it. Earlman stepped forward.

“Hi, Don. You made good time.”

“The general sees to that. Is that the owner?”

Max nodded, gesturing to the little man. Quickly he made the introductions.

“Mr. Levkin this is Don Gregson, C.I.A., Special Department.”

They shook hands. Don was surprised at the wiry strength in the delicate fingers. Bronson, as usual, merely stood and watched; a coiled spring waiting his moment of release.

“I wish we could have met under happier circumstances,” said Don to the owner. “Please tell me all about it.”

“Again?”

“If you please. First-hand reports are always the most reliable.”

Levkin shrugged and spread his hands in a gesture almost as old as time.

“I have been robbed,” he said with simple understatement. “I have been robbed of the most precious item in my shop. It was small, a vase from the Ming Dynasty, but it was beautiful. You understand?”

“How small?”

Levkin gestured with his hands and Don nodded.

“About six inches high, small enough to slip into a pocket. You said that it was valuable. How valuable?”

“I said that it was precious,” corrected the owner. “How do you value a work of art? The price is what the purchaser is prepared to pay. Let me say only that I have refused five hundred thousand dollars for it.”

Earlman grunted, his thin, harassed face and dark, bruised-looking eyes veiled behind the smoke of his cigarette.

“Tell us about the man.”

“He was medium built, medium height, well-dressed, brown hair and eyes…remarkable eyes. About a hundred and seventy pounds, softly spoken, very gentle and polite.”

Over Levkin’s head Earlman caught Don’s eye and nodded.

“Nothing ostentatious,” continued Levkin. “Nothing which gave a hint that he was not what he seemed. I had no reason to suspect that he was a thief.”

“He isn’t,” said Don, then frowned at his own absurdity. “Go on.”

“We spoke. He was interested in rare and beautiful things; it was natural that I should show him the vase. Then there was a crash in the street, an accident. Inevitably we turned and headed towards the door. It was a bad accident, our attention was distracted, but only for a moment. It was enough. By the time I remembered the man had gone and he had taken the vase with him.”

“Are you positive as to that?” Don laboured the point. “Could it be hidden here somewhere? Anywhere?”

“The police asked that. No, it is not hidden. I have made a thorough search. It has been stolen.” For the first time the man displayed emotion. “Please, you will get it back? You will do your best?”

Don nodded, jerking his head at Earlman as he stepped to one side. Bronson, as always, joined them.

“How about the identification?” Don spoke in a trained whisper inaudible two feet from his lips. “Is it positive?”

“They swear to the photograph. It’s our man all right.”

“I’ve got to be certain. How about the accident? Could that have been faked?”

“Not a chance. A cab hit a pedestrian and swerved into a truck. The jaywalker’s dead, the cabbie will lose a leg and the truck driver’s in a bad way. That was no rigged diversion.”

“Coincidence?” Don shook his head. “No, the timing was too limited for that. Levkin’s no fool and even the smartest crook requires a certain reaction time before he can spot an opportunity, weigh his chances and then swing into action. Levkin would never have given an ordinary crook that much time. It looks as if you’re right, Max.”

“I am right. It was Klieger.” Earlman looked puzzled. “But why, Don? Why?”

Gregson didn’t answer. His face was strained, thoughtful.

“Why?” repeated Earlman. “Why should he want to steal a thing he can’t sell, can’t eat, can’t do anything with but sit and look at? Why?”

* * * *

General Penn asked the same question, but unlike Earlman he demanded an answer. Slumped in his chair behind the wide desk he looked even older and more harassed than he had when this whole thing had started. Don could understand that. The general, literally, had his neck on the block.

“Well?” The voice reflected the strain. Harsh, heavy with irritating undertones, it carried too much of a barrack square, too little of understanding or patience. “You’ve found what you said to look for. Now, what’s the answer?”

“We’ve found something I said might possibly happen,” corrected Don. “It has. What answer are you looking for?”

“Are you crazy?” Penn surged out of his chair. “You know what the top-priority is! Find Klieger! What other answer would I be interested in?”

“You might,” said Don quietly, “be interested in finding out just why he left in the first place.”

Penn said a word. He repeated it. Don tensed then forced himself to relax. Slowly he lit a cigarette.

“Three weeks ago,” he said, “Albert Klieger decided to leave Cartwright House and did so. Since then you’ve had all field units concentrate on the one object of finding him. Why?”

“Because he is the greatest potential danger to this country walking on two legs!” Penn spat the words as if they were bullets. “If he gets to the other side and spills what he knows, we’ll lose our greatest advantage in the cold war and the hot war when it comes. Gregson, you know all this!”

“I’ve been told it,” said Don. He didn’t look at the congested face of the general. “And if we find him and he doesn’t want to return, what then?”

“We’ll worry about that when we’ve found him,” said Penn grimly. Don nodded.

“Is that why Bronson is always with my team? Why other men just like him accompany all field units?” He didn’t press for an answer. “Have you ever wondered why the English stopped using the Press Gang system? They knew it wasn’t humane from the beginning but, for a while, it worked—for a while and up to a point. Maybe we could learn something from that if we tried.”

“You talk like a fool.” Penn slumped back into his chair. “No one press-ganged Klieger. I found him in a third-rate carnival and gave him the chance to help his country. He took that chance. It’s fair to say that we’ve given him far more than he’s given us. After all, Klieger isn’t the only one.”

“That,” said Don, “is the whole point.” He stared directly at the general. “How long is it going to be before others in the Project...sorry, Cartwright House, decide that they’ve had enough?”

“There’ll be no more walking out.” Penn was very positive. “I’ve tripled the security guards and installed gimmicks which makes that impossible.”

It was, of course, a matter of locking the stable door after the horse had been stolen, but Don didn’t point that out. Penn, with his reputation and career in the balance, could only be pushed so far at a time. And, to Penn, his career was all-important. Not even Cartwright House came before that.

Which, thought Don bitterly, was the inevitable result of a military machine based on political manoeuvrings. What a man was, what he could do, that was unimportant against who he knew, what he could do for others. Don himself had no illusions. He was useful but he could be branded, damned, kicked out and made the scapegoat if Penn felt he needed a sacrifice. And time was running out.

“We’ve got to find him.” Penn drummed on the desk. “Gregson, why can’t you find him?”

“You know why. I’ve trailed him and found where he’s been a dozen times. But always too late. To catch him I’ve got to be where he is when he is, or before he gets there. And that’s impossible.”

“This theft.” Penn’s mind veered to the latest scrap of information. “Money I can understand, but why a Ming vase? The guy must be crazy.”

“He isn’t normal, but he isn’t crazy.” Don crushed out his cigarette. “And I’ve an idea that he has a very good reason for wanting that vase. The chances are that he will be collecting other, similar things, how many depends on circumstances.”

“But why?”

“They’re beautiful. To those that appreciate them such objects are beyond price. Klieger must have an intensely artistic streak. He has a reason for wanting to own them and it worries me.”

Penn snorted.

“I need more information.” Don was decisive. “Without it I’m fighting a shadow. I’ve got to go where I can get it.”

“But—”

“I’ve got to. There’s no other way. None in the world.”

* * * *

No one called it a prison. No one even called it a Project because everyone knew that a ‘Project’ was both military and important. So it was called Cartwright House and it was a little harder to get into than Fort Knox and far more difficult to leave than Alcatraz.

Don waited patiently as his identification was checked, double-checked, cleared to a higher level and then checked again. It took time but finally he faced Leon Malchin, tall, thin, burning with frustrated zeal and with the courtesy rank of colonel, which meant nothing until he tried to act like a civilian when he felt the full impact of military discipline.

“General Penn has contacted me,” he said. “I am to offer you every assistance.” He stared at Don through old-fashioned spectacles. “How can I help you?”

“Question,” said Don. “How do normal men catch a clairvoyant?”

“You mean Klieger, of course?”

“Of course.”

“They can’t. They don’t.” Malchin settled back in his chair, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Next question?”

“There is no next question—not yet.” Don took the other chair and proffered his cigarettes. Malchin shook his head and sucked at a brier.

“I am a hunter,” said Don abruptly. “I hunt men. I’m good at it because I have a knack, talent, skill—you name it—for being able to outguess my quarry. You might say that I have a series of lucky hunches. Somehow, I don’t know how, I know what they will do next—where they will be and when. I have never yet failed to get my man.”

“But you haven’t got Klieger.” Malchin nodded as if he had expected this visit for some time. “And you want to know why.”

“I know why. He is a clairvoyant. What I want to know is how. How does he do it? How does he operate? How effective is he?”

“Very effective.” Malchin took his pipe from his mouth and stared into the bowl. “He is, or was, our star resident. He could see further than anyone I have ever investigated—and I have invested psi phenomena all my adult life.”

“Go on.”

“I don’t think you fully realize just what you are up against in Klieger. He isn’t a superman, of course; nothing like that, but he has this one talent. You are, in a sense, a blind man trying to trap a man who can see. Trap him in broad daylight on an open plain. You are also wearing a bell around your neck to attract his attention. Personally I do not think you have a ghost of a chance.”

“How,” Don insisted, “does this talent work?”

“I don’t know.” Malchin anticipated the next question. “You don’t mean that, of course, what you mean is how does he use it. If I knew how it worked I would be a very happy man. He frowned, searching for words. “This is going to be difficult to describe. How could you explain sight to a man born blind, or sound to a man born deaf? And you, at least, could tell how these senses ‘worked’. However—”

Don lit another cigarette, listening to Malchin’s explanations, building pictures in his mind. A piece of rough fabric, each thread of which was a person’s life stretching into the future. Some threads were short, others longer, all meshed and interwoven so that it was almost impossible to follow any single thread. But, with training and skill it could be done. Then events came clear and action could be planned.

A bank where a teller suffered an attack of acute appendicitis just as he was counting out a sheaf of notes—and a man who calmly picked them up as if he had just cashed a cheque.

A store where the takings were left unattended for just that essential few minutes of time.

A penthouse apartment and an officer who sneezed just as the quarry walked past.

An antique shop and an accident to create the necessary diversion.

So simple when you could see exactly what would happen and exactly how to take advantage of it.

How to catch Klieger?

Don jerked upright as the cigarette burned his fingers and became aware of Malchin’s stare.

“I was thinking of your analogy,” he said. “You know, the blind man trying to trap the one who could see. I know how it can be done.”

“Yes?”

“The blind man gets eyes.”

* * * *

They were comfortable. They had soft beds and good food, canned music, television, a library of books and private movies. They had games and a swimming pool and even a bowling alley. They wore good clothes and were fit and looked it, but they were intelligent and they knew.

A prison is somewhere you can’t leave when you want to and they were in prison.

For their own protection, naturally. The guards, the gimmicks, the restrictions were solely designed to keep unwanted people out. The secrecy was from fear of spies and patriotism was the excuse for all. But the things designed to keep people out worked just as well to keep others in.

And, sometimes, patriotism as an excuse wears a little thin.

“It’s good to see a new face.” Sam Edwards, fifty, built like a boy with the face of a boxer, grinned as he gripped Don’s hand. “You joining the club?”

“He’s just visiting.” A wizened oldster sucked at his teeth as he peered at Don from the depths of an easy chair. “Say, Gregson, if you fancy a little poker later on I guess we could accommodate you.”

He laughed with a wheezy effort then frowned and slammed a hand on his knee.

“Goldarn it! I miss my poker!”

“Telepaths,” whispered Malchin. “Most of them are in permanent rapport with others who are you-know-where. I won’t bother to introduce you around.”

Don nodded, staring uneasily at the assembled ‘residents’. Some were old, a few young, most were middle-aged. They watched him with eyes glinting with secret amusement.

“Oddly enough most of them seem to stick together according to their various talents,” mused Malchin. “You’ve seen the telepaths, in this room are those with telekinetic abilities. Nothing standing in the way of progress as yet, but they are getting on. In here are the clairvoyants.”

There were fifteen of them. Don was surprised at the number, Then he wondered why he was surprised. In the great cross-section of humanity that was the United States every deviation from the norm must have been repeated many times. Shrewdly he guessed that he saw only a part of the whole; that Cartwright House was duplicated many times under many names.

“We have found,” whispered Malchin, “that communal use of their talent greatly aids development of that talent. Klieger was little more than a carnival fortune-teller when he joined us; in ten years he became amazingly proficient.”

“Ten years?”

“That’s what I said. Many of our residents have been here longer than that.”

If there was irony in Malchin’s voice, Don didn’t catch it. But one of the men in the room did. He came forward, hand outstretched, a taut smile on his face.

“Tab Welker,” he said. “Maybe you can settle an argument. In England, from what I hear, a man sentenced to life imprisonment usually gets out in about nine years. Right?”

“It depends on his conduct.” Don felt his skin tighten as he saw what the man was driving at. “A life term in England is about fifteen years. A third remission would make it about what you say.”

“And that’s usually given for nothing short of murder.” Tab nodded. “You know, I’ve been here eight years. One more year to go—maybe!”

“You’re not a prisoner,” said Don. The man laughed.

“Please.” He lifted his hand. “No arguments, no speeches!” He lost his smile. “What do you want?”

“Help,” said Don simply.

He moved about the room, halting by a small table bearing chessmen set on a board. They were of wood lovingly carved with the unfinished look of true hand-production. He lifted a knight and studied it, then met Welker’s eyes.

“Klieger’s?”

“How did you guess?” Tab’s eyes softened as he stared at the chessmen. “Albert loved beautiful things. The thing he missed most while in here was being able to visit the museums. He always said that man’s true achievements were to be found in the things he had made to ornament his life.”

“Things like vases?”

“Paintings, statuary, cameos, he liked them all providing they were well made.”

“A man with artistic appreciation.” Don nodded. “I understand. When did you all decide to help him escape?”

“I... What did you say?”

“You heard what I said.” Don’s eyes locked with those of the other man then, slowly, Welker smiled.

“You’re no fool,” he said. Don returned the smile.

“Now I’ve another question.” He paused, conscious of the men and their watching eyes. “Just what does Klieger hope to gain?”

* * * *

“No!” General Penn slammed his hand down on the arm of the backseat. “No! No!”

Don sighed, staring through the windows at the rain. It dripped from the trees above, pinging on the roof of the car, dewing the glass with a glitter of transient pearls. Further down the road the rear of another car loomed vague through the rain. Behind them would be another. Their own driver was somewhere up ahead probably cursing the odd exigencies of the Service.

“Listen,” said the general, “we’ve got word that they know about Klieger. Don’t ask me how they even guessed he was important to us, but they do. Now it’s a race between us. We daren’t lose.”

“We won’t lose,” said Don. “But we’ll have to do it my way. It’s the only way there is.”

“No.”

“General!” Don released his pent-up temper and frustration m a furious blast of sound. “What other way is there?”

It stopped Penn as he knew it would, but only for a moment.

“I can’t risk it,” he snapped. “Klieger’s only one man, dangerous but still only one. We can handle one man, but can we handle a dozen or more? It’s treasonable even to suggest it.”

Don fumed as he recognized the emotion-loaded semantic symbol. Penn with his mania for security had probably aroused unwelcome attention in the first place. Like now when he had insisted that they meet in a car on a road in the rain for fear of some undetected electronic ear waiting to catch their conversation. For long moments the silence dragged, then Don drew a deep breath.

“Treasonable or not it’s something you have to consider. For one thing the escape was organized. The lights failed—a telepathically controlled rat gnawed a vital cable. A guard was taken sick for no apparent reason and, for a moment, there was a blank spot in the defences. There were other things, all small, not one coincidental. The whole lot could have walked right out.”

“But they didn’t!” Penn pounded the arm of the rear seat. “Only Klieger. That proves something.”

“That he wanted to run to the Reds?” Don shrugged. “Then what’s keeping him? He’s had plenty of time to make contact if that’s what he wanted.”

“What’s your point?” Penn was losing his patience. “Are you trying to tell me that those...freaks back there are holding a gun to my head? They’ll help, you say, but on their terms. Terms! His hand closed into a fist. “Don’t they understand that the country is as good as at war?”

“They want the thing we keep saying we are fighting to protect,” said Don. “They want a little freedom. Is that such an outrageous demand?”

He leaned back, closing his eyes, seeing again the faces of the men back in Cartwright House. Some of them, so Malchin had said, had been there twelve years. A long time. Too long to be willing guinea pigs so that their talents could be trained and developed and exploited. But to the general they weren’t men. They were ‘freaks’; just another weapon to be used, to be protected and hidden, to be destroyed if there was a chance they might fall into enemy hands.

“What?” He opened his eyes, conscious that the general was talking to him. Penn glowered and repeated what he had said. “Can you catch him, even if they won’t help you?”

“I don’t know.” Don pursed his lips, shadowed eyes introspective beneath prominent brows. “I feel that we’ve gone about this thing in the wrong way. We’ve thought of it as just another manhunt and we’ve failed because we’re trying to catch no ordinary man. There must be a purpose behind what Klieger did. Find the reason for his leaving and we’ll find the purpose.”

“Isn’t that what you went to find out?” Penn made no effort to hide his sarcasm.

“Yes. I didn’t fail.”

“Then—?”

“He stole a rare vase of the Ming Dynasty,” said Don. “Find out why and you have the answer.”

* * * *

Max Earlman lay supine on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The hotel room was warm, littered with the personal effects of the three men. Against one wall a large-scale map of the city hung slightly out of true, the grid pattern of streets marked with a host of colored pins. Beyond the windows the early evening had softened the harsh outlines of the concrete jungle, turning even the garish illuminations into things of glowing beauty.

Bronson stirred where he sat at a table, the thin reek of gun oil harsh to Earlman’s nostrils. He lit a cigarette to kill the odour and stared distastefully at the other man.

“Do you have to do that?” Smoke plumed from the cigarette as Max gestured towards the pistol Bronson was cleaning. Bronson continued with his business.

“What gives with you, Bronson?” Earlman swung to his feet, nerves taut with irritation. “You walk and eat and sleep and I guess you can make noises, too, if you put your mind to it, but are you really a man?”

Metal clicked with deadly precision as Bronson reassembled the gun. He tucked it into its holster, drew it with a fantastic turn of speed, and returned it again.

Earlman jerked forward, anger burning in the deep, bruised-looking eyes. He turned as Don entered the room. He looked tired.

“No luck?” Max knew the answer. Don shook hiss head.

“We’re still on our own.” Crossing the room he stood before the map, studying the clusters of coloured pins. “Have you got them all?”

“Every single one.” Earlman blew smoke at the map. “If anyone ever tells me this city has no culture, I’ll tear them apart. The place is lousy with art galleries, museums, exhibitions, antique shops, displays, missions and what have you. I’ve marked them all.” He looked sideways at Gregson’s bleak face. “There are a lot, Don. Too many.”

“We can whittle them down.” Don sighed, feeling the tension of the past few weeks building up inside, the tautness of the past few days stretching his nerves. He forced himself to relax, taking deep breaths, forgetting the urgency and Penn’s hysterical demands.

“Cut out foreign films, contemporary art, modernist paintings, exhibitions of abstract design. Eliminate the stamp collections, trade missions, engineering displays. Concentrate on the old, the rare, the beautiful.”

“How close should I go?”

“Close. Keep the unusual, the short-term, the items loaned from private collections.”

Earlman nodded and busied himself with the coloured pins and a sheaf of catalogues. Don turned and stared out of the window.

Below him the city sprawled, scar-like streets slashing between soaring anthills of concrete, the whole glittering with light. Somewhere in the city another man probably stood staring from a window—a mild man with a love of artistic things. A man who, until recently, had lived a law-abiding existence and who, suddenly, had broken the conditioning of a lifetime to rob and steal and run.

Why?

Frustration, yes, all the ‘residents’ of Cartwright House were frustrated, but they had remained when they could have fled. Only Klieger had run and had kept running. Now he was somewhere in the city, his talent warning him of approaching danger, showing him how to dodge and move and avoid so as to remain free.

Free in order to do what?

Don sighed, wondering for the thousandth time just how it must feel to be a clairvoyant. How to catch a man who was.

The others could have helped but Penn had blocked that. With a dozen other clairvoyants Don could have covered the field and trapped Klieger by sheer weight of numbers. No one man, no matter how gifted, could have beaten such odds.

Now he was on his own.

It had begun to rain and the window glittered with reflected light so that his eyes constantly changed focus from the window to the city beyond them back to the window. Then he stopped trying to focus and just stood there, eyes wide, thoughts travelling unfamiliar paths.

How?

How did he know when and where to catch a wanted man? What was it that made him just that little different from other men? All his life Don had had that edge. He could guess—if it was guessing—and those guesses had been right. So, was it guessing? Or did he know?

His record had backed his application to the C.I.A. That same record of unbroken success had paved his way into the Special Detachment. He was a man-hunter who always found his man. And he didn’t know how he did it.

As Malchin didn’t know how the ‘residents’ at Cartwright House used their talents.

* * * *

Even whittled down the list was too long. Earlman gestured towards the map, smoke drifting from the cigarette dangling from his lips, pointing to the varicoloured pins.

“I can’t get it closer than this, Don. From here on it’s pure guesswork.”

“Not quite.” Don scanned the list. “I learned something about Klieger back at Cartwright House. He is an artistic type. My guess is that he’s been visiting the museums and art galleries all along.”

“Then we’ve got him!” Earlman was jubilant. “All we need do is cover these places and he’ll walk right into our hands.”

Don raised his eyebrows and Max suddenly sobered.

“No. Every cop in the city has his photograph and description. All routes from the metropolis are covered. All field units are on the hunt. If it was as easy as that, we’d have had him by now.” He gestured towards the map. “Then why all this?”

“Concentration of effort.” Don sat on the edge of a bed. “The cops can’t spot him until they see him, and he makes certain they don’t. Mostly he’s just one man in a crowd and that’s the best disguise there is. Never forget, Max, he can ‘see’ our traps and so avoid them.”

“Then it’s hopeless.” Savagely Earlman stamped on his cigarette. “No matter what we do, where we go, he won’t be there. Have I wasted my time, Don?”

“No.”

“But—”

“It’s between him and me now,” said Don. “Up until now I’ve tackled this like a slightly abnormal operation. I’ve depended on outside help and even tried to get special assistance but that wasn’t the way to do it. Now I’ve got to use his weakness against him.” He looked down at the list in his hand.

“All right, both of you get out, I want to be alone.”

Bronson didn’t move.

“You heard the man!” Earlman jerked open the door. “Out!”

Slowly Bronson rose to his feet. His eyes shone as he stared at Don.

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Gregson tiredly. “You can wait outside if you want.”

Alone he untied his shoes, loosened his tie and slipped off his jacket. Killing the lights he lay back on the bed, eyes towards the window with its glitter of reflected light. Deliberately he relaxed.

For him it was a normal procedure, this quiet relaxation while his mind digested the thousand odd items of assembled fact to come up with a guess that wasn’t a guess because it was always right. But now he had to do more than that. Now he had to pit himself against a man who could ‘see’ the future and he had to outguess that other man.

His breathing grew even, regular and deeper as he entered the first stage of self-hypnosis. Outside sounds wouldn’t bother him now, there would be no distractions, he could concentrate fully on the problem he had to solve.

Find Klieger.

Find where he would be and when.

Find him as he had found a thousand others with no doubt, no uncertainty, just the conviction that at a certain place at a certain time he would spot his quarry.

Forget the sense that he was beaten before he could start. Forget that he was up against an abnormal talent. Forget the picture of the piece of fabric and the nodes of events. Forget everything but one man and where and when he would be.

* * * *

“The Lustrum Galleries.” Earlman nodded then grunted as the cab braked to avoid a jaywalker. “They are having a private showing this evening, invitation only. The exhibition doesn’t open until tomorrow,” He looked at Don, face even more haggard in the dim light. “Are you certain he will be there?”

“Yes.”

“But—” Earlman shrugged and broke off, killing the obvious question. “A display of Chinese art,” he read from a crumpled catalogue. “Ceramics from the Ming, Han and Manchu Dynasties. It figures. The Ming vase?”

Don nodded, then closed his eyes, resting his head on the back of the seat. He felt drained, worn out yet filled with a glowing exultation. He knew! How or why he couldn’t guess but he knew! Klieger would be at the galleries. He would stake his life on it.

Their badges got them in, past a very punctilious uniformed attendant, past a fussing curator, into a long hall shining with glass cases on which in reverent array stood the exhibits.

“Tomorrow,” said the curator, “these will be within the cases but tonight, because of the selected visitors, we feel it safe to have them as they are.”

“Why?” Earlman was blunt. “What’s the point?”

“You are not a connoisseur,” said the curator. “That is obvious. If you were, you would know that there is more to ceramics than just the visual aspect. There is a feel, a tactile sense that is as much a part of the pottery as the colors. Our visitors, most of them collectors, appreciate that. And, too, the true beauty of these pieces cannot be wholly appreciated when they are seen from only one angle as they will be when sealed in the cases.”

He looked suddenly anxious.

“You haven’t mentioned your business. I trust that nothing will—”

“There will be no trouble.” Don glanced around the gallery, forehead creased in a frown. “Just operate as if we weren’t here.” He smiled at the anxious expression. “One thing I can promise you, your exhibits are in no danger.”

Satisfied, the curator bustled off about his business. Don glanced to either side then led the way towards the far end of the gallery.

“We’ll wait here. The cases will screen us and we can watch the whole gallery. When Klieger comes you will go to the stairs, Max, and cut off his escape.”

Earlman grunted then paused, a cigarette halfway to his lips.

“How come, Don? How come Klieger is going to walk right into this set-up when we know that he must know we’re waiting for him?”

“He wants to see the exhibits.”

“But—?”

“This is his only chance to actually touch and examine them. To him that’s important, don’t ask me why.” Don’s voice was sharp. “He’ll be here, I know it.”

It sounded logical. It sounded as if it could be true but Don knew that wasn’t the reason Klieger would come. He would want to see the ceramics, that was true, but would he want to handle them so much that nothing else mattered? And, if so, why? Why tonight?

Waiting between the cases, eyes on the long vista of the gallery with its shining glass and neat exhibits Don fought the question that had puzzled him all along. In a way it was a seeming paradox, but he knew that it only seemed that way to him. As the visitors began to arrive and the air vibrated to their murmured comments as they studied the exhibits the question nagged at his peace of mind.

Klieger must know he would be walking into a trap.

Yet he would come, Don was certain of it.

So, if Don wasn’t mistaken and he was certain he was not, Klieger must consider the visit to be worth certain capture.

Capture or—

Bronson moved, an automatic gesture, one hand sliding beneath his coat, and Don snarled at him with savage impatience.

“There’ll be none of that! Do you understand? You won’t be needed!”

Inwardly he cursed Penn’s cold, inhuman logic. In war it is good sense to destroy material you can’t use to prevent it falling into enemy hands, but this wasn’t war and Penn wasn’t dealing with machines or supplies.

Klieger must know the risk he ran of being shot to death.

Don started as Earlman gripped his arm. Max jerked his head, eyes bright in the haggard face as he stared down the gallery.

“There, Don,” he breathed. “Down by that big case. See him?”

Klieger!

He was—ordinary. Engrossed with the hunt Don had mentally fitted the quarry with supernatural peculiarities but now, watching him as he stood, entranced by pottery fired before the dawn of Western civilization, he seemed nothing but what he was. An ordinary man with more than an ordinary interest in things considered beautiful by a minority.

And yet he had knowledge, which made him the most dangerous man to the security of the West.

“Got him!” Earlman’s whisper was triumphant. “You did it again, Don! You called it right on the nose!”

“Get into position.” Gregson didn’t take his eyes from the slight figure he had hunted so long. “Stand by in case he makes a break for it. You know what to do.”

“I know.” Earlman hesitated. “Bronson?”

“I’ll take care of him.”

Don waited as Earlman slipped away, gliding past the cases to lean casually at the top of the far stairs. He sensed the other’s relief and understood it. They had worked together for eight years and his failure would, in part, have been shared by Earlman.

But he had not failed.

Savouring the sweet taste of success he walked forward half-conscious of Bronson at his heels. Klieger did not turn. He stood, caressing a shallow, wide-mouthed bowl in his hands, eyes intent on the still-bright colours.

“Klieger!”

Slowly he set down the vase.

“Don’t run. Don’t fight. Don’t do anything stupid.” Don’s voice was a grim whisper. “You can’t get away.”

“I know.”

“Just in case you’re wondering I’m from the C.I.A.”

“I know.”

“This is the end of the line, Klieger.”

“I know.”

The calm, emotionless tones irritated Gregson. The man should have complained, argued, anything but the flat baldness of the repeated statement. Savagely he gripped a shoulder and spun Klieger round to face him.

“Do you know everything?”

Klieger didn’t answer. Heavy lids dropped over the eyes and Don remembered how Levkin had described them. ‘Remarkable’ the owner had said, but the word was misleading. They were haunted. There was no other description, no other word. Haunted.

“What are you going to do with me?” Klieger opened his eyes and stared up into the grim face of the hunter. Don shrugged.

“Why ask? You’re the man who is supposed to know everything.”

“I am a clairvoyant,” said Klieger calmly. “I can see into the future, but so can you. Do you know everything?”

“I—” Don swallowed. “What did you say?”

“How else would you have known that I would he here? And I mean know, not guess. You were certain that you would find me, as certain as I am that—”

“Go on.”

“You have the talent. By knowing that I would be here at this time you ‘saw’ into the future. Not far, perhaps, but too clearly, but you ‘saw. What other proof do you need?”

“But I simply had a conviction that— Is that how clairvoyancy works?”

“For you, obviously yes. For others perhaps not exactly the same. But when you are convinced beyond any shadow of doubt that at a certain time a thing will happen, or that a thing will happen even if the exact time is not too precise, then you have the gift which General Penn values most highly.” Klieger gave a bitter smile. “Much good may it do you.”

Don shook his head, conscious of receiving knowledge too fast and too soon. At his elbow Bronson shifted his weight a little, poising on the balls of his feet. Around them was a clear space as the other visitors moved down the line of cases. The three of them stood in an island of isolation.

“I am not coming back with you,” announced Klieger. “I have had enough of Cartwright House.”

“You have no choice.”

Klieger smiled. “You forget,” he pointed out gently, “it isn’t a question of choice. It is a simple question of knowledge. I shall never see the general again.”

Bronson made an incoherent sound deep in his throat.

He was fast, incredibly fast, but Don was even faster. Warned by some unknown sense he spun as the gun flashed into view, snatching at the wrist as it swung level, twisting and forcing the black muzzle from its target with viciously applied leverage. Muscles knotted then the bone snapped with the dry sound of a breaking stick. Bronson opened his mouth as the gun fell from nerveless fingers then Don slashed the hard edge of his palm across the nerves in the neck and the mute collapsed.

Quickly Don scooped up the gun and heaved Bronson to his feet, supporting the unconscious man as he fought mounting tides of hate. Hate for Bronson who lived only to take revenge on the world for his disability. Hatred for Penn who could find a use for the psychopathic mute and others like him. Licensed murderers in the sacred name of expediency; safe because they could never talk.

Earlman had seen what the others in the gallery had not. Running forward he met the blaze of Gregson’s eyes.

“Get rid of this thing, fast!”

“So he had to try it.” Earlman relieved Don of the dead weight. “Penn is going to love you for this.”

Don sucked air, fighting to rid himself of hate. “Take him back to the hotel. I’ll worry about Penn when I have to.”

“And Klieger?”

“I’ll take care of him.”

Don had almost forgotten Klieger in the savage fury of the past few minutes. He found him standing by one of the exhibits, staring at a relic of the past as if he were trying to drink its beauty and impress its image on his brain. Gently he picked up the piece, a man entranced by the artistic perfection of ancient craftsmen and, looking at him, Don felt his stomach tighten with a sudden, sick understanding.

* * * *

Penn didn’t trust women. The receptionist was a man as were all his personnel. He took one look at Don then lunged for a buzzer.

“Why bother?” Don headed past him towards the inner office. “Just tell the general that I’m on my way in.”

“But—?”

“How did I get this far without being stopped?” Don shrugged. “You figure it out.”

Penn wasn’t alone. Earlman, more haggard than ever, sat smoking unhappily and Don guessed that he had been receiving the full weight of the general’s anger. He grinned as the door slammed shut behind him.

“Hi, Max, you look as if you’ve been having a bad time.”

“Don!” Earlman lunged to his feet. “Where have you been? It’s more than a week now. Where’s Klieger?”

“Klieger.” Don smiled. “At this moment he is somewhere in Soviet territory being interrogated by every lie-detection device known to man.”

For a moment there was a deathly silence then Penn leaned forward.

“All right, Gregson, you’ve had your joke. Now produce Klieger or take the consequences.”

“It’s no joke.” Don stared grimly into the general’s eyes. “That’s what I’ve been doing this past week. Talking to Klieger, fixing his passage, dodging your hunters.”

“Traitor!”

Don didn’t answer.

“You dirty, stinking traitor!” Suddenly Penn became icy calm and his calmness was more terrible than his rage. “This is a Democracy, Gregson, but we know how to protect ourselves. You should have gone with Klieger to the safety of your friends.”

“Friends! You think I did it for them?” Don looked down at his hands, they were shaking. Deliberately he sat down, lit a cigarette, waited for his anger to pass.

“You demand loyalty,” he said. “Blind, unswerving, unthinking loyalty. You think that those who are not with you must be for the enemy but you are wrong. There is a greater loyalty than to an individual, a nation or a group of nations. There is a loyalty to the human race. One day, please God, both sides may realize that.”

“Don!”

Earlman leaned forward. Gregson gestured him back to his chair,

“Just listen, Max, you too, General. Listen and try to understand.”

He paused, dragging at the cigarette, his broad-planed face revealing some of his fatigue.

“The answer,” he said, “lay in the Ming vase.”

“The one Klieger stole from the antique shop?” Earlman nodded. “What about it, Don? Why was it so important?”

He was, Don knew, acting as a barrier between him and the wrath of the general and he was suddenly glad that he was there. Penn, alone, might never have found the patience to listen.

“Klieger can see into the future,” continued Don. “Never forget that. He was the star ‘resident’ at Cartwright House and stayed there for ten years. Then, for no apparent reason, he decided to take off. He did. He stole money—he had to live, and he stole a vase, to him a thing of wondrous beauty. The answer lies in why he did it.”

“A thief!” Penn snorted. “He was a thief. That’s the answer.”

“No,” said Don quietly. “The reason is that time was running out—and he knew it!”

They stared at him. They didn’t understand, not even Earlman, certainly not Penn and yet, to Don, it was all clear. So ghastly clear.

“What a man does is determined by his character,” said Don. “Given a certain stimulus he will react in a certain way—and this is predictable. Think of Klieger and what he was. Meek, mild, inoffensive, willing to do as he was told without question. He did it for ten years while his talent was being trained so that he could ‘see’ further and clearer into the future. Then one day he ‘sees’ something that drives him desperate.

“Desperate enough to break the habits of a lifetime. He persuaded the others to help him escape. They thought that he was doing it to help them, perhaps they wanted to prove something, that isn’t important now. Klieger is. He walked out. He stole. He tried to fill every waking hour with what he considered to be the ultimate of beauty. A different man would have gambled, drank, chased women. Klieger loves old and precious things. He stole a Ming vase.”

“Why?” Despite himself Penn was interested.

“Because he saw the ultimate war!”

Don leaned forward, his cigarette forgotten, his eyes burning with the necessity of making them see what he knew was the truth.

“He saw the end of everything. He saw his own death and he wanted, poor devil, to live a little before he died.”

It made sense. Even to Penn it made sense. He had seen the secret records, the breakdown of a man’s character, the psychological dissection and extrapolations. Security was very thorough.

“I—” Penn swallowed. “I can’t believe it.”

“It’s the truth.” Don remembered his cigarette. “He told me—we had plenty of time for talking. How else do you think we managed to catch him? He could have remained free forever had he tried. But he was tired, afraid, terrified. He wanted to see the exhibition and he expected to die by Bronson’s bullet.”

“Now wait a minute!” Earlman frowned, a crease folding his forehead. “No man in his right mind would willingly go to his death. It doesn’t make sense.”

“No?” Don was grim. “Think about it.”

“A bullet is quick and clean,” mused Earlman. “But he didn’t die! Bronson was stopped!”

“That is why I turned ‘traitor’.” Don crushed out his cigarette. “By stopping Bronson I proved that the future is a variable, that even an expert clairvoyant like Klieger can only see the probable future, not the inevitable one. It gave us hope. Both of us.”

He rose, looking down at Penn slumped behind his desk, trying not to let the hate he saw in the general’s eyes disturb him. He had no need to worry.

“I had no choice. The pattern must be broken if we are to avoid the future Klieger saw. So I gave him to the Reds—he was willing to do his part. They will learn the truth.”

“They will copy us!” Penn reared to his feet. “They will form their own project and we will lose our greatest advantage. Gregson, do you know what you have done?”

“I’ve opened a window to the future—for them as well as for us. Now there will be no ultimate war.”

“Smart!” Penn didn’t trouble to hide his sneer. “You’re so smart! You’ve taken it on yourself to do this without authority. I’ll see you dead for this!”

“No, General.” Don shook his head. “You won’t see me dead.”

“That’s what you think. I’ll have you shot!”

Don smiled, warm in the comforting knowledge of his new awareness.

“No,” he said. “You won’t have me shot.”