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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Penal Cluster, by 
+Ivar Jorgensen (AKA Randall Garrett)
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Penal Cluster
+
+Author: Ivar Jorgensen (AKA Randall Garrett)
+
+Release Date: April 12, 2008 [EBook #25061]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PENAL CLUSTER ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: Their combined thought-force hit him like a
+thunderbolt.]
+
+
+             THE
+            PENAL
+           CLUSTER
+
+      By IVAR JORGENSEN
+
+
+ _Tomorrow's technocracy will
+ produce more and more things
+ for better living. It will
+ produce other things, also;
+ among them, criminals too
+ despicable to live on this
+ earth. Too abominable to
+ breathe our free air._
+
+
+The clipped British voice said, in David Houston's ear, _I'm quite sure
+he's one. He's cashing a check for a thousand pounds. Keep him under
+surveillance._
+
+Houston didn't look up immediately. He simply stood there in the lobby
+of the big London bank, filling out a deposit slip at one of the long,
+high desks. When he had finished, he picked up the slip and headed
+towards the teller's cage.
+
+Ahead of him, standing at the window, was a tall, impeccably dressed,
+aristocratic-looking man with graying hair.
+
+"The man in the tweeds?" Houston whispered. His voice was so low that it
+was inaudible a foot away, and his lips scarcely moved. But the
+sensitive microphone in his collar picked up the voice and relayed it to
+the man behind the teller's wicket.
+
+_That's him_, said the tiny speaker hidden in Houston's ear. _The
+fine-looking chap in the tweeds and bowler._
+
+"Got him," whispered Houston.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+He didn't go anywhere near the man in the bowler and tweeds; instead, he
+went to a window several feet away.
+
+"Deposit," he said, handing the slip to the man on the other side of the
+partition. While the teller went through the motions of putting the
+deposit through the robot accounting machine, David Houston kept his
+ears open.
+
+"How did you want the thousand, sir?" asked the teller in the next
+wicket.
+
+"Ten pound notes, if you please," said the graying man. "I think a
+hundred notes will go into my brief case easily enough." He chuckled, as
+though he'd made a clever witticism.
+
+"Yes, sir," said the clerk, smiling.
+
+Houston whispered into his microphone again. "Who is the guy?"
+
+On the other side of the partition, George Meredith, a small,
+unimposing-looking man, sat at a desk marked: MR. MEREDITH--ACCOUNTING
+DEPT. He looked as though he were paying no attention whatever to
+anything going on at the various windows, but he, too, had a microphone
+at his throat and a hidden pickup in his ear.
+
+At Houston's question, he whispered: "That's Sir Lewis Huntley. The
+check's good, of course. Poor fellow."
+
+"Yeah," whispered Houston, "if he is what we think he is."
+
+"I'm fairly certain," Meredith replied. "Sir Lewis isn't the type of
+fellow to draw that much in cash. At the present rate of exchange,
+that's worth three thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars American.
+Sir Lewis might carry a hundred pounds as pocket-money, but never a
+thousand."
+
+Houston and Meredith were a good thirty feet from each other, and
+neither looked at the other. Unless a bystander had equipment to tune in
+on the special scrambled wavelength they were using, that bystander
+would never know they were holding a conversation.
+
+"... nine-fifty, nine-sixty, nine-seventy, nine-eighty, nine-ninety, a
+thousand pounds," said the clerk who was taking care of Sir Lewis's
+check. "Would you count that to make sure, sir?"
+
+"Certainly. Ten, twenty, thirty, ..."
+
+While the baronet was double-checking the amount, David Houston glanced
+at him. Sir Lewis looked perfectly calm and unhurried, as though he were
+doing something perfectly legal--which, in a way, he was. And, in
+another way, he most definitely was not, if George Meredith's suspicions
+were correct.
+
+"Your receipt, sir." It was the teller at Houston's own window.
+
+Houston took the receipt, thanked the teller, and walked toward the
+broad front doors of the bank.
+
+"George," he whispered into the throat mike, "has Sir Lewis noticed me?"
+
+"Hasn't so much as looked at you," Meredith answered. "Good hunting."
+
+"Thanks."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+As Houston stepped outside the bank, he casually dropped one hand into a
+coat pocket and turned a small knob on his radio control box. "Houston
+to HQ," he whispered.
+
+"London HQ; what is it, Houston?" asked the earpiece.
+
+"Leadenhall Street Post. Meredith thinks he's spotted one. Sir Lewis
+Huntley."
+
+"Righto. We've got men in that part of the city now. We'll have a
+network posted within five minutes. Can you hold onto him that long?"
+
+Houston looked around. Leadenhall Street was full of people, and the
+visibility was low. "I'll have to tail him pretty closely," Houston
+said. "Your damned English fogs don't give a man much chance to see
+anything."
+
+There was a chuckle from the earphone. "Cheer up, Yank; you should have
+seen it back before 1968. When atomic power replaced coal and oil, our
+fogs became a devil of a lot cleaner."
+
+The voice was quite clear; at the London headquarters of the UN
+Psychodeviant Police, there was no need to wear a throat mike, which had
+a tendency to make the voice sound muffled in spite of the Statistical
+Information-Bit Samplers which were supposed to clarify the speech
+coming through them.
+
+"What do you know about 1968?" Houston asked sardonically. "Your mother
+was still pushing you around in a baby-carriage then."
+
+"In a pram," corrected the Headquarters operator. "That is true, but my
+dear Aunt Jennifer told me all about it. She was--"
+
+"The hell with your Aunt Jennifer," Houston interrupted suddenly. "Here
+comes Sir Lewis. Get me cover--fast!"
+
+"Right. Keep us posted."
+
+Sir Lewis Huntley stepped out of the broad door of the bank and turned
+left. He took a couple of steps and stopped. He didn't look around; he
+simply took a cigarette out of a silver case, put it in his mouth, and
+lit it. The glow of the lighter shone yellowly on the brass plate near
+the door which said: _An Affiliate of Westminster Bank, Ltd._
+
+Sir Lewis snapped the light out, drew on the cigarette, and strode on
+down the street, swinging a blue plastex brief case which contained a
+thousand pounds in United Nations Bank of England notes.
+
+Houston decided the baronet had not been looking for a tail; he wished
+he could probe the man's mind to make sure, but he knew that would be
+fatal. He'd have to play the game and hope for the best.
+
+"He's heading east," Houston whispered. "Doesn't look as if he's going
+to get a cab."
+
+"Check," said the earphone.
+
+Sir Lewis seemed in no great hurry, but he walked briskly, as though he
+had a definite destination in mind.
+
+After a little way, he crossed to the south side of Leadenhall Street
+and kept going east. Houston stayed far enough behind to be above
+suspicion, but not so far that he ran a chance of losing his man.
+
+"He's turning south on Fenchurch," Houston said a little later. "I
+wonder where he's going."
+
+"Keep after him," said Headquarters. "Our net men haven't spotted either
+of you yet. They can hardly see across the street in this damned fog."
+
+Houston kept going.
+
+"What the hell?" he whispered a few minutes later. "He's still following
+Fenchurch Street! He's doubling back!"
+
+Leadenhall Street, the banking center of the City of London, runs almost
+due east-and-west; Fenchurch Street makes a forty-five degree angle with
+it at the western end, running southwest for a bit and then curving
+toward the west, toward Lombard.
+
+"Houston," said HQ, "touch your left ear."
+
+Houston obediently reached up and scratched his left ear.
+
+"Okay," said HQ. "Bogart's spotted you, but he hasn't spotted Sir Lewis.
+Bogart's across the street."
+
+"He can't miss Sir Lewis," whispered Houston. "Conservatively
+dressed--matching coat and trousers of orange nylon tweed--royal blue
+half-brim bowler--carrying a blue brief case."
+
+There was a pause, then: "Yeah. Bogart's spotted him, and so has
+MacGruder. Mac's on your side, a few yards ahead."
+
+"Check. How about the rest of the net?"
+
+"Coming, coming. Be patient, old man."
+
+"I _am_ patient," growled Houston. _I have to be_, he thought to
+himself, _otherwise I'd never stay alive_.
+
+"We've got him bracketed now," HQ said. "If we lose him now, he's a
+magician."
+
+Sir Lewis walked on, seemingly oblivious to the group of men who had
+surrounded him. He came to the end of Fenchurch Street and looked to his
+left, towards London Bridge. Then he glanced to his right.
+
+"I think he's looking for a cab," Houston whispered.
+
+"That's what MacGruder says," came the reply. "We've got Arthmore in a
+cab behind you; he'll pick you up. MacGruder will get another cab, and
+we have a private car for Bogart."
+
+Sir Lewis flagged a cab, climbed in, and gave an address to the driver.
+Houston didn't hear it, but MacGruder, a heavy-set, short, balding man,
+was standing near enough to get the instructions Sir Lewis had given to
+the driver.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A cab pulled up to the curb near Houston, and he got in.
+
+Arthmore, the driver, was a thin, tall, hawknosed individual who could
+have played Sherlock Holmes on TV. Once he got into character for a
+part, he never got out of it unless absolutely necessary. Right now, he
+was a Cockney cab-driver, and he would play the part to the hilt.
+
+"Where to, guv'nor?" he asked innocently.
+
+"Buckingham Palace," said Houston. "I've got a poker appointment with
+Prince Charles."
+
+"Blimey, guv'nor," said Arthmore. "You _are_ movin' in 'igh circles!
+'Ow's 'Er Majesty these days?"
+
+The turboelectric motor hummed, and the cab shot off into traffic.
+"According to the report I get on the blinkin' wireless," he continued,
+"a chap named MacGruder claims that the eminent Sir Lewis 'Untley is
+'eaded for Number 37 Upper Berkeley Mews."
+
+"One of these days," said Houston, "all those _H_'s you drop is going to
+bounce back and hit you in the face."
+
+"Beg pardon, Mr. Yewston?" Arthmore asked blankly.
+
+Houston grinned. "Nothing, cabbie; it's just that you remind me of a
+cultured, intelligent fellow named Jack Arthmore. The only difference is
+that Jack speaks the Queen's English."
+
+"Crikey!" said Arthmore. "Wot a coincidence!" He paused, then: "The
+Queen's English, you say? She _'as_ to be, don't she?"
+
+"Shut up," said Houston conversationally. "And give me a cigarette," he
+added.
+
+"There's a package of Players in my shirt pocket," Arthmore said,
+keeping his hands on the wheel.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Houston fished out a cigarette, lit it, and returned the pack.
+
+Apropos of nothing, Arthmore said: "Reminds me of the time I was workin'
+for a printer, see? We 'ad to print up a bunch of 'andbills advertisin'
+a church charity bazaar. Down at the bottom was supposed to be printed
+'Under the auspices of St. Bede's-on-Thames.' So I--"
+
+He went on with a long, rambling tale about making a mistake in printing
+the handbill. Houston paid little attention. He smoked in silence,
+keeping his eyes on the red glow of the taillight ahead of them.
+
+Neither man mentioned the approaching climax of the chase. Even hardened
+veterans of the Psychodeviant Police don't look forward to the
+possibility of having their minds taken over, controlled by some outside
+force.
+
+It had never happened to Houston, but he knew that Arthmore had been
+through the experience once. It evidently wasn't pleasant.
+
+"--and the boss was 'oppin' mad," Arthmore was saying, "but, crikey, 'ow
+was I to know that _auspice_ was spelled A-U-S-P-I-C-E?"
+
+Houston grinned. "Yeah, sure. How're we doing with Sir Lewis?"
+
+"Seems to be headed in the right direction," Arthmore said, suddenly
+dropping the Cockney accent. "This is the route I'd take if I were
+headed for Upper Berkeley Mews. He probably hasn't told the driver to
+change addresses--maybe he won't."
+
+"The victims never do," Houston said. "He probably is actually headed
+toward Number 37 Upper Berkeley Mews."
+
+"Yeah. Nobody's perfect," said Arthmore.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Forty-five minutes of steady progress through the streets of Greater
+London brought Sir Lewis Huntley to Upper Berkeley and to the short
+dead-end street which constituted the Mews. By the time the dapper
+baronet stepped out of the machine and paid his driver, the whole area
+was surrounded by and filled with the well-armed, silent, and careful
+agents of the Psychodeviant Police.
+
+Number 37 was an old concrete-and-steel structure of the George VI
+period, faced with a veneer of red brick. It had obviously been
+remodeled at least once to make the façade more modern and more
+fashionable; the red-violet anodized aluminum was relatively fresh and
+unstained. It wouldn't have taken vast wealth to rent a flat in the
+building, but neither would an average income have been quite enough.
+
+Houston looked out of the window of Arthmore's cab and glanced at the
+tiers of windows in the building. Presumably, the man they were looking
+for was up there--somewhere.
+
+_So you occupy a station in the upper middle-class_, thought Houston. It
+checked. Every bit of evidence that came his way seemed to check
+perfectly and fit neatly into the hypothesis which he had formed. Soon
+it would be time to test that theory--but the time had not yet come.
+
+"Stand by and wait for orders, Houston," said the speaker in Houston's
+ear. "We've got men inside the building."
+
+Sir Lewis Huntley opened the sparkling, translucent door of Number 37
+Upper Berkeley Mews and went inside.
+
+Arthmore pulled the cab over to the curb a few yards from the entrance
+and the two men waited in silence. All around them were other men, some
+in private cars, some walking slowly along the street. All of them were
+part of the net that had gathered to catch one man.
+
+_Poor fish_, Houston thought wryly.
+
+There was no noise, no excitement. Five minutes after Sir Lewis had
+entered the front door, it opened again. A man whom Houston had never
+seen before stepped out and gestured with one hand. At the same time,
+Houston's speaker said: "They've got him. Hit him with a stun gun when
+he tried to get out through the fire exit."
+
+An ambulance which had been waiting at the entrance of the Mews pulled
+up in front of Number 37, and a minute or so later a little clot of men
+came out bearing a stretcher, which was loaded into the ambulance.
+Immediately after them came another man who had a firm, but polite grip
+on the arm of Sir Lewis Huntley.
+
+Houston sighed and leaned back in his seat. That was that. It was all
+over. Simple. Nothing to it.
+
+Another Controller had been apprehended by the Psychodeviant Police.
+Another deviant, already tried and found guilty, was ready to be exiled
+from Earth and imprisoned on one of the Penal Asteroids. All in the
+day's work.
+
+_There's just one thing I'd like to know_, Houston thought blackly.
+_What in the hell's going on?_
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In his hotel room near Piccadilly Circus, several hours later, David
+Houston sat alone, drink in hand, and put that same question to himself
+again.
+
+"What's going on?"
+
+On the face of it, it was simple. On the face of it, the answer was
+right in front of him, printed in black and white on the front page of
+the evening _Times_.
+
+Houston lifted the paper off the bed and looked at it. The banner line
+said: _Controller Captured in Lambeth!_
+
+Beneath that, in smaller type, the headline added: Robert Harris Accused
+of Taking Control of Barrister Sir Lewis Huntley.
+
+The column itself told the whole story. Mr. Robert Harris, of No. 37
+Upper Berkeley Mews, had, by means of mental control, taken over the
+mind of Sir Lewis and compelled him to draw one thousand pounds out of
+his bank. While Sir Lewis was returning to Harris with the money, the
+United Nations Psychodeviant Police had laid a trap. Sir Lewis, upon
+recovering his senses when Harris was rendered unconscious by a stun
+gun, had given evidence to the PD Police and to officials at New
+Scotland Yard.
+
+Houston looked at the full-color photo of Harris that was printed
+alongside the column. Nice-looking chap; late twenties or early
+thirties, Houston guessed. Blond-red hair, blue eyes. All-in-all, a
+very pleasant, but ordinary sort of man.
+
+There had been evidence that a Controller had been at work in London for
+some weeks now. Twelve days before, several men, following an impulse,
+had mailed twenty pounds to a "Richard Hempstead," General Delivery,
+Waterloo Station. By the time the matter had come to the authorities'
+attention, the envelopes had been called for and the Controller had
+escaped.
+
+Robert Harris was not the first Controller to be captured, nor, Houston
+knew, would he be the last. The first one had shown up more than sixteen
+years before, in Dallas, Texas, USA.
+
+Houston grinned as he thought of it. Projective telepathy had only been
+a crackpot's idea back then. In spite of the work of many intelligent,
+sane men, who had shown that mental powers above and beyond the ordinary
+did exist, the average man simply laughed off such nonsense. It was
+mysticism; it was magic; it was foolish superstition. It was anything
+but true.
+
+But ever since "Blackjack" Donnely had practically taken control of the
+whole city of Dallas, the average man had changed his mind. It was still
+mysterious; it was still magic; but now the weird machinations of the
+supernormal mind were something to be feared.
+
+In the sixteen years that had ensued since the discovery of the abnormal
+mental powers of "Blackjack" Donnely, rumors had spread all over the
+world. There were supposed to be men who could levitate--fly through the
+air at will. Others could walk through walls, and still others could
+make themselves invisible. The horrible monsters that were supposed to
+be walking the Earth were legion.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Actually, only one type of supernormal psychodeviant had been found--the
+telepath, the mindreader who could probe into the mental processes of
+others. Worse than that, the telepath could project his own thoughts
+into the mind of another, so that the victim supposed that the thoughts
+were his own. Actually, it was a high-powered form of hypnotism; the
+victim could be made to do anything the projective telepath wanted him
+to.
+
+"Blackjack" Donnely had made that clear in his trial in Texas.
+
+Donnely had been a big man--big physically, and important in city
+politics. He had also been as arrogant as the Devil himself.
+
+It was the arrogance that had finally tripped up Donnely. He had thought
+himself impregnable. Haled into court on charges of misappropriation of
+public funds, he had just sat and smirked while several witnesses for
+the State admitted that they had aided Donnely, but they claimed he had
+"hypnotized" them. Donnely didn't try to interfere with the
+evidence--that's where he made his mistake. And that's where his
+arrogance tripped him up.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+If he'd used telepathic projection to influence the State Attorney or
+the witnesses or the judge or the Grand Jury _before_ the trial, he
+might never have been discovered as the first of the Controllers. But
+that wasn't Donnely's style.
+
+"None of this namby-pamby stuff," he had once been quoted as saying; "if
+you got enemies, don't tease 'em--show 'em who's running things.
+Blackjack 'em, if you have to."
+
+And that's exactly what "Blackjack" Donnely had done. The trial was a
+farce from beginning to end; each witness gave his evidence from the
+stand, and then Donnely took control of their minds and made them refute
+every bit of it, publicly and tearfully apologizing to the "wonderful
+Mr. Donnely" for saying such unkind things about him.
+
+The judge and the jury knew something funny was going on, but they had
+no evidence, one way or another. The case, even at that point, might
+have ended with an acquittal or a hung jury, but Donnely wasn't through
+using his blackjack.
+
+He took over the mind of the foreman of the jury. The foreman claimed
+later that the jury had decided that they could reach no decision. Other
+jurors claimed that they had decided Donnely was guilty, but that was
+probably an _ex post facto_ switch. It didn't matter, anyway; when the
+foreman came out, he pronounced Donnely innocent. That should have ended
+it.
+
+The other jurors began to protest, but by that time, Donnely had gained
+control of the judge's mind. Rapidly, the judge silenced the jurors,
+declared Donnely to be free, and then publicly apologized for ever
+daring to doubt Mr. Donnely.
+
+The State's Attorney was equally verbose in his apology; he was almost
+in tears because of his "deep contrition at having cast aspersions on
+the spotless character of so great a man."
+
+Donnely was released.
+
+The next evening, "Blackjack" Donnely was shot down at the front door of
+his own home. There were fifteen bullets in his body; three from a .32,
+five from a .38, and seven from a .45.
+
+The police investigation was far from thorough; any evidence that may
+have turned up somehow got lost. It was labelled as "homicide committed
+by person or persons unknown," and it stayed that way.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Donnely was only the first. In the next two years, four more showed up.
+Everyone of them, in one way or another, had attempted to gain power or
+money by mental projection. Everyone of them was a twisted megalomaniac.
+
+Houston looked again at Harris's picture on the front page of the
+_Times_. Here was one Controller who neither looked nor acted like a
+megalomaniac. That wouldn't make much difference to the PD Police; as
+far as the officials were concerned, the ability to project
+telepathically and the taint of delusions of grandeur went hand in hand.
+Controllers were power-mad and criminal by definition.
+
+Fear still ruled the emotional reactions against Controllers, in spite
+of the protection of the Psychodeviant Police.
+
+But David Houston knew damned good and well that all telepaths were not
+necessarily insane.
+
+He should know. He was a Controller, himself.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_Brrrring!_
+
+David Houston tossed the paper on the bed and walked over to the phone.
+He cut in the circuit, and waited for the phone's TV screen to show the
+face of his caller. But the screen remained blank.
+
+"Who is it?" Houston asked.
+
+"Is this CHAring Cross 7-8161?" It was a woman's voice, soft and
+well-modulated.
+
+"No, this is CHElsea 7-8161," Houston said. "You must have dialed C-H-E
+instead of C-H-A."
+
+"Oh. I'm very sorry. Excuse me." There was a click, and she hung up.
+
+Houston walked back over to the bed and picked up his paper. He looked
+at it, but he didn't read it. It no longer interested him.
+
+So Dorrine was finally in London, eh? He'd recognized her voice
+instantly; even years of training couldn't smother the midwestern
+American of Chicago completely beneath the precise British of the
+well-educated English girl.
+
+The signal had been agreed upon, just in case his phone was tapped. Even
+the Psychodeviant Police could be suspected of harboring a
+Controller--although Houston didn't think it too likely. Nevertheless,
+he wasn't one to take too many chances.
+
+He glanced at his watch. He had an hour yet. He'd wait five minutes
+before he phoned headquarters.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+He sat down in his chair again and forced himself to relax, smoke a
+cigarette, and read the paper--the sports section. Perusing the records
+of the season's cricket matches kept his mind off that picture on the
+front page. At least, he hoped they would. Let's see, now--Benton was
+being rated as the finest googly bowler on the Staffordshire Club ...
+
+Everything went fine until he came across a reference to a John Harris,
+a top-flight batsman for Hambledon; that reminded him of Robert Harris.
+Houston threw down the paper in disgust and walked over to the phone.
+
+The number was TROwbridge 5-4321, but no one ever bothered to remember
+it. Simply dial 8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1, and every time a voice at the other end
+would answer--
+
+"Hamilton speaking."
+
+"Houston here; will I be needed in the next hour or so?"
+
+"Mmmm. Just a second; I'll check the roster. No; your evidence won't be
+needed personally. You've filed an affidavit. No, I don't think--wait a
+minute! Yes, there's a return here for you; reservation on the six A.M.
+jet to New York. Your job here is done, Houston, so you can take the
+rest of the evening off and relax. Going anywhere in particular?"
+
+"I thought I'd get a bite to eat and take in a movie, maybe, but if I'm
+due out at six, I'll forego the cinematic diversion. When's the trial?"
+
+"It's scheduled for eleven-thirty this evening. Going to come?"
+
+Houston shook his head. "Not if I'm not needed to give evidence. Those
+Controllers always give me the creeps."
+
+"They do everybody," said Hamilton. "Well, you caught him; there's no
+need for you to stick around for the windup. Have a good time."
+
+"Thanks," said Houston shortly, and hung up.
+
+_The windup_, Houston thought. _Sure. That's all it will be. A
+Controller's trial is a farce. Knock him out with a stun gun and then
+pump him full of comatol. How can he defend himself if he's unconscious
+all through the trial?_
+
+Houston knew what the average man's answer to that would be: "If a
+Controller were allowed to remain conscious, he'd take over the judge's
+mind and get himself freed."
+
+Houston said an obscene word under his breath, jammed his hat on his
+head, put on his coat, and left his apartment.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+With the coming of darkness, the heavy fog had become still denser. The
+yellow beams of the sodium vapor lamps were simply golden spots hanging
+in an all-enveloping blackness. Walking the street was a process of
+moving from one little golden island of light to another, crossing seas
+of blankness between. The monochromatic yellow shone on the human faces
+that passed beneath the lamps, robbing them of all color, giving them a
+dead, grayish appearance beneath the yellow itself.
+
+David Houston walked purposefully along the pavement, his hand jammed
+deep in his overcoat pockets. One hand held the control box for the
+little earpiece he wore. He kept moving the band selector, listening for
+any sign that the Psychodeviant Police were suspicious of a Controller
+in their midst.
+
+If they were following him, of course, they would use a different
+scrambler circuit than the one which was plugged into his own unit, but
+he would be able to hear the gabble of voices, even if he couldn't
+understand what they were saying.
+
+So far, there hadn't been a sound; if he was being followed, his tailers
+weren't using the personal intercom units.
+
+He didn't try to elude anyone who might be following. That, in itself,
+would be a giveaway. Let them watch, if they _were_ watching. They
+wouldn't see anything but a man going to get himself a bit of dinner.
+
+The _Charles II Inn_, on Regent Street, near Piccadilly Circus, was a
+haven of brightness in an otherwise Stygian London. It was one of those
+"old-fashioned" places--Restoration style of decoration, carried out in
+modern plastics. The oak panelling looked authentic enough, but it was
+just a little too glossy to be real.
+
+Houston pushed open the door, stepped inside, removed his hat and coat
+and shook the dampness from them. As he handed them to the checker, he
+looked casually around. Dorrine was nowhere in sight, but he hadn't
+expected her to be. There would be no point in their meeting physically;
+it might even be downright dangerous.
+
+The headwaiter, clad in the long waistcoat and full trunk-hose of the
+late Seventeenth Century, bowed punctiliously.
+
+"You're alone, sir?"
+
+"Alone, yes," Houston said. "I'll just be wanting a light supper and a
+drink or two."
+
+"This way, sir."
+
+Houston followed the man to a small table in the rear of the huge dining
+room. It was set for two, but the other place was quickly cleared away.
+Houston ordered an Irish-and-soda from a waiter who was only slightly
+less elaborately dressed than the headwaiter, and then settled himself
+down to wait. If he knew Dorrine, she would be on time to the minute.
+
+She came while the waiter was setting the drink on Houston's table. She
+stepped in through the door, her unmistakable hair glowing a rich red in
+the illumination of the pseudo-candlelight.
+
+She didn't bother to look around; she knew he would be there.
+
+After a single glance, Houston averted his eyes from her and looked back
+at his drink.
+
+And in that same instant, their minds touched.
+
+_Dave, darling! I knew you'd be early!_
+
+_Dorrine!_
+
+And then their minds meshed for an instant.
+
+_I_--_(we)_--_you_--LOVE--_you_--(each other)--me!--us!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Houston looked complacently at his drink while the headwaiter led
+Dorrine to a table on the far side of the room. She sat down gracefully,
+smiled at the waiter, and ordered a cocktail. Then she took a magazine
+from her handbag and began--presumably--to read.
+
+Her thought came: _Who is this Richard Harris? He's not one of our
+Group._
+
+Houston sipped at his drink. _No. An unknown, like the others. I wonder
+if he's even a telepath._
+
+_What?_ Her thought carried astonishment. _Why, Dave--he'd_ have _to be!
+How else could he have controlled this Sir Lewis--whatsisname--Huntley?_
+
+_Well--I've got a funny idea_, Houston replied. _Look at it this way: So
+far as we know, there are two Groups of telepaths. There's our own
+Group. All we want is to be left alone. We don't read a Normal's mind
+unless we have to, and we don't try to control one unless our lives are
+threatened. We stay under cover, out of everyone's way._
+
+_Then there are the megalomaniacs. They try, presumably, to gain wealth
+and power by controlling Normals. And they get caught with monotonous
+regularity. Right?_
+
+The girl caught an odd note in that thought. _What do you mean,
+"monotonous regularity"?_ she asked.
+
+_I mean_, Houston thought savagely, _why is it they're all so bloody
+stupid? Look at this Harris guy; he is supposed to have taken over Sir
+Lewis's mind in order to get a thousand pounds. So what did he have Sir
+Lewis do? Parade all around the city to pick up a PD Police net, and
+then give his address to a cabman in a loud voice and lead the whole
+net right to Harris! How stupid can a man get?_
+
+_It does look pretty silly_, Dorrine agreed. _Have you got an
+explanation?_
+
+_Several_, Houston told her. _And I don't know which one is correct._
+
+_Let's have them_, the girl thought.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Houston gave them to her. None of them, he knew, was completely
+satisfactory, but they all made more sense that the theory that Harris
+had done what the PD Police claimed he'd done.
+
+Theory Number One: The real megalomaniac Controller had taken over Sir
+Lewis's mind and made him draw out the thousand pounds and head west on
+Leadenhall Street. Somehow, the Controller had found out that Sir Lewis
+was being followed, and had steered him away from the original
+destination, heading him toward the innocent Robert Harris. That implied
+that the Controller had been within a few dozen yards of the net men
+that afternoon. A Controller can't control a mind directly from a
+distance, although orders can be implanted which will cause a man to
+carry out a plan of action, even though he may be miles from the
+Controller. But in order to change those plans, the Controller would
+have to be within projection range.
+
+Theory Two: Robert Harris actually was a megalomaniac Controller; with a
+long record of success behind him, who had finally grown careless.
+
+At that point, Dorrine interjected a thought: _Isn't it possible that he
+wanted to be caught?_
+
+Houston mulled it over for a minute. _A guilt-punishment reaction? He
+wanted to be punished for his crimes? I suppose that might account for
+part of it, yes. But if he'd been so successful, what did he do with all
+his money?_
+
+Dorrine gave a mental shrug. _Who knows? What's Theory Number Three?_
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Number Three was the screwiest one of all, yet it made a weird kind of
+sense. Suppose that Sir Lewis himself had had a grudge against Harris?
+The whole thing would have been ridiculously easy; all he'd have to do
+would be to act just as he had acted and then give evidence against
+Harris.
+
+The thing that made it odd wasn't the actual frame-up (if that's what it
+was); these days, every crime was blamed on a Controller. A man accused
+of murder simply looked virtuous and said that he would never have done
+such a thing if he hadn't been under the power of a Controller. Ditto
+for robbery, rape, and any other felony you'd care to name.
+
+An aura of fear hung over the whole Earth; each man half suspected
+everyone with whom he came in contact of being a Controller.
+
+So it wasn't that the frame-up in itself was peculiar in this case; it
+was simply that it wasn't Sir Lewis Huntley's style. If Sir Lewis had
+wanted to get Harris, he'd have done it legally, without any underhanded
+frame-ups. Still, the theory remained as a possibility.
+
+_I suppose it does_, Dorrine agreed, _but how does that tie in with our
+own Group? What about Jackson and Marcy? What happened to them?_
+
+_I don't know_, Houston admitted, _I just don't know_.
+
+Jackson and Marcy had been members of the Group of telepaths who had
+banded together for companionship and mutual protection. Both of them
+had been trapped by the PD Police in exactly the same way that Harris
+had been trapped. They were now where Harris would be in a matter of
+hours--in the Penal Cluster.
+
+Their arrests didn't make sense, either; they had been accused of taking
+over someone's mind for the purpose of gaining money illegally--illegal,
+that is, according to the new UN laws that had been passed to supersede
+the various national laws that had previously been in effect.
+
+But Houston had known both men well, and neither of them was the kind of
+man who would pull such a stunt, much less do it in such a stupid
+manner.
+
+Dorrine thought: _Well, Dave, this Harris case is out of our hands now;
+we've got to concentrate on getting others into the Group--we've got to
+find the other sane ones._
+
+_You're ready to take over here, then?_ he asked.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+At the table, several yards away from where Houston was sitting,
+Dorrine, still looking at the book, smiled faintly.
+
+_I'll have to; you're being transferred back to New York at six in the
+morning._
+
+Houston allowed a feeling of startled surprise to bridge the gap between
+their minds. _How'd you know that?_ He hadn't told her, and she couldn't
+have forced the knowledge from his mind. A telepath can open the mind
+of a Normal as simply as he might open the pages of a book, but the mind
+of another Controller is far stronger. One telepath couldn't force
+anything from the mind of another; all thoughts had to be exchanged
+voluntarily.
+
+She was still smiling. _We've got a few spies in the UN now_, she told
+him. _I got the information before you did._
+
+_You knew before you left New York?_ he asked incredulously.
+
+_That's right_, she thought. _The decision was made last night. Why?_
+
+_Nothing_, he told her. _I was just surprised, that's all._ But deep
+behind the telepathic barrier he had erected against her probing mind,
+he was thinking something else. He had been assigned to London to
+capture the Controller--then unknown--who was said to be active in
+England. But his recall order had been decided upon _before_ Harris was
+caught--or even suspected. Someone in the UN Psychodeviant Police
+Supreme Headquarters in New York must have known that Harris would be
+caught that day!
+
+_Something's bothering you_, Dorrine stated flatly.
+
+_I was thinking about leaving London_, he replied evasively. _I haven't
+seen you for six months, and now I have to leave again._
+
+_I'll be back in New York within three weeks_, the girl thought warmly.
+_I'll be--_
+
+Her thoughts were cut off suddenly by a strident voice in Houston's ear.
+"Attention; all-band notice. Robert Bentley Harris, arraigned this
+evening on a charge of illegal use of psychodeviant powers for the
+purpose of compounding a felony, has been found guilty as charged. He
+was therefore sentenced by the Lord Justice of Her Majesty's Court of
+Star Chamber to be banished from Earth forever, such banishment to be
+carried out by the United Nations Penology Service at the Queen's
+pleasure."
+
+The words that were running through Houston's brain, had been
+transmitted easily to Dorrine. For a moment, neither of them made any
+comment. Then Houston glanced at his watch.
+
+_Twenty-one minutes_, he thought bitterly. _What took them so long?_
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+High in the thin ionosphere, seventy miles above the surface of the
+Earth, a fifteen-hundred-mile-an-hour rocket airliner winged its way
+westward across the Atlantic, pushing herself forward on the thin,
+whispering, white-hot jets of her atomic engine. Behind her, the
+outdistanced sun sank slowly below the eastern horizon.
+
+David Houston wasn't watching the sunrise-in-reverse; he was sitting
+quietly in his seat, still trying to puzzle out his queer recall to New
+York. When Hamilton had told him about it over the phone, he'd assumed
+that New York, having been notified that Harris had been captured, had
+decided to send for Houston, now that his job was over.
+
+But now he knew that the order had come through nearly twenty-four hours
+before Harris was captured.
+
+Did someone at UN Headquarters know that Harris was going to be
+captured? Or did someone there suspect that there was something odd
+about Police Operative David Houston?
+
+Or both?
+
+Whatever it was, Houston would have to take his chances; to act
+suspiciously would be a deadly mistake.
+
+A stewardess, clad in the chic BOAC uniform, moved down the aisle,
+quietly informing the passengers that they could have coffee served at
+their seats or take breakfast in the lounge. The atmosphere of the
+plane's interior was filled with the low murmur of a hundred
+conversations against the background of the susurrant mutter of the
+mighty engines.
+
+_Uhhh--uh--uh--dizzy--head hurts--uh--uh--_
+
+The sounds in the plane altered subtly as the faint thought insinuated
+itself on every brain inside the aircraft. None of the Normal passengers
+recognized it for what it was; it was too gentle, too weak, to be
+recognized directly by their minds.
+
+But David Houston recognized it instantly for what it was.
+
+Somewhere on the plane, a Controller had been unconscious. _Had_ been.
+For now, his powerful mind was trying to swim up from the black depths
+of nothingness.
+
+_Uh--uhhhh--uhh--_
+
+The Normal passengers became uneasy, not knowing why they were
+disturbed. To them, it was like a vaguely unpleasant but totally
+unrecognizable nudge from their own subconscious, like some
+long-forgotten and deeply buried memory that had been forced down into
+oblivion and was now trying to obtrude itself on the conscious mind.
+
+_Uhhh--Oooohh--where?--what happened?--_
+
+A fully conscious telepath could project his thoughts along a narrow
+locus, focusing them on a single brain, leaving all other brains
+oblivious to his thoughts. Like a TV broadcasting station, he could
+choose his wavelength and stick to it.
+
+But a half-conscious Controller sprayed his thoughts at random, creating
+mental disturbances in his vicinity. Like a thunderstorm creating radio
+static, there was no selectivity.
+
+Savagely, David Houston did what he had to do. It might be a trap, but
+he had to avoid the carnage that might follow if this went on. He hurled
+a beam of thought, hard-held, at the offending mind of the awakening
+telepath.
+
+_DON'T THINK! RELAX!_
+
+Normally it was impossible for a Controller to take over the mind of
+another Controller, but these were abnormal circumstances; the
+half-conscious man, whoever he was, was weakened mentally by some kind
+of enforced unconsciousness--either a drug or a stun gun. Houston took
+over his mind smoothly and easily.
+
+_Robert Harris!_
+
+Houston recognized the mind as soon as he held it.
+
+He didn't try to force anything on Harris's mind; he simply held it,
+cradling it, helping Harris to regain consciousness easily, bringing him
+up from the darkness gently.
+
+In normal sleep, everyone's mind retains a certain amount of
+self-control and awareness of environment. If it didn't, noise and
+bright lights wouldn't awaken a sleeping person.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In normal sleep, a telepath retained enough control to keep his thoughts
+to himself, even when waking up.
+
+But total anaesthesia brought on a mental blackout from which the victim
+recovered only with effort. And during that time, a Controller's mind
+was violently disturbing to the Normal minds around him, who mistook his
+disordered thoughts for their own.
+
+Like pouring heavy oil on choppy waters, Houston soothed the
+disturbances of Harris's mind, focusing the random broadcasts on his own
+brain.
+
+And while he did that, he probed gently into the weakened mind of the
+prisoner for information.
+
+Harris was a Controller, all right; there was no doubt about that. But
+nowhere in his mind was there any trace of any knowledge of what had
+happened to Sir Lewis Huntley. If Sir Lewis had actually been
+controlled, it hadn't been done by Robert Harris.
+
+Houston wished he'd been able to probe Sir Lewis's mind; he'd have been
+able to get a lot more information out of it than he had in his
+possession now. But that would have been dangerous; if Sir Lewis was a
+Controller himself, and had been acting a part, Houston would have given
+himself away the instant he attempted to touch the baronet's mind. If,
+on the other hand, Sir Lewis had actually been under the control of
+another telepath, any probing into the mind of the puppet would have
+betrayed Houston to the real Controller.
+
+Harris knew nothing. He wasn't acquainted with any other Controllers,
+and had kept his nose clean ever since he'd discovered his latent
+powers. He knew that megalomaniac Controllers were either captured or
+mobbed, and he had no wish to experience either.
+
+The Normals had long since discovered that the only way to overcome a
+Controller was by force of numbers. A Controller could only hold one
+Normal mind at a time. That was why a mob could easily kill a single
+Controller; that was why the Psychodeviant Police had evolved the "net"
+system for arresting a telepath.
+
+Harris, then, had been framed. Or could it be called a frame-up when
+Harris was really guilty of the actual crime? Because the crime he had
+really been accused of was not that of controlling Sir Lewis, but the
+crime of being a telepath. That, and that alone, damned him in the eyes
+of the Normals; the crime of taking over a mind for gain was incidental.
+The stigma lies in what he _was_, not what he did.
+
+Harris himself was in the bottom of the plane, in the baggage section
+near the landing gear. After his trial, still drugged, he had been
+secretly put aboard, to be taken to the Long Island Spaceport in New
+York. It had had to be secret; no Normal would knowingly ride on an
+aircraft which carried a Controller, even if he were drugged into total
+unconsciousness.
+
+With Harris were two PD Police guards. Their low conversation impinged
+on Harris's ears, and was transmitted to Houston's mind.
+
+Suddenly, one of them said: "Hey! He's moving!"
+
+"Better give him another shot, Harry;" said the other, "when those guys
+wake up, they drive you crazy."
+
+Houston could almost feel the sting of the needle as it was inserted
+into the arm of the helpless prisoner.
+
+Slowly, Harris's thoughts, which had begun to become fully coherent,
+again became chaotic, finally sliding off into silence and darkness.
+
+"Are you all right, sir?"
+
+Houston looked up from his intense concentration. The stewardess was
+standing by his seat. He realized that there was a film of perspiration
+on his brow, and that he probably had looked dazed while he was
+concentrating on Harris's mind.
+
+"Sure," he said quickly, "I'm all right. I'm just a little tired. Had to
+get up too early to catch this plane." He rubbed his forehead. "I do
+have a little headache; would you happen to have any aspirin aboard?"
+
+She smiled professionally. "Certainly, sir. I'll get a couple of
+tablets."
+
+As she left for the first-aid cabinet, Houston thought bleakly to
+himself: _Harris was framed. Possibly others have been, too. But by
+whom? And why?_
+
+He could see why a Normal might do such a thing. But why would a
+Controller do it?
+
+There was only one answer. Somewhere, there was a Controller, or a group
+of Controllers who were megalomaniacs _par excellence_. If that were so,
+he--or they--could make the late "Blackjack" Donnely look like a meek,
+harmless, little mouse.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The one part of Continental U.S.A. over which the American Government
+had no jurisdiction was small, areawise, in comparison with its power.
+The District of the United Nations occupied the small area of Manhattan
+Island which ran from 38th Street on the south to 49th Street on the
+north; its western border was Third Avenue, its eastern, the East River.
+From here, the UN ruled Earth.
+
+There were no walls or fences around it; only by looking at street signs
+could anyone tell that they had crossed an international border.
+Crossing Third Avenue from west to east, one found that 45th Street had
+suddenly become Deutschland Strasse; 40th Street became Rue de France;
+47th was the Via Italiano. 43rd Street's sign was painted in Cyrillic
+characters, but beneath it, in English, were the words "Avenue of Mother
+Russia."
+
+Third Avenue was technically One World Drive. Second Avenue was labelled
+as Planetary Peace Drive, and First was United Nations Drive.
+
+But New Yorkers are, and always have been, diehards. Just as The Avenue
+of the Americas had forever remained Sixth Avenue, no matter what the
+maps called it, so had the other streets retained their old names in
+conversation.
+
+Even the International Post Office, after years of wrangling, had given
+up, and letters addressed to _Supreme Headquarters, United Nations
+Police, 45th Street at Second Avenue_, were delivered without comment,
+even though the IPO still firmly held that they were technically
+misaddressed. And, privately, even the IPO officials admitted that the
+numbers were easier to say and remember than the polyglot street names
+that had been tagged on by the General Assembly.
+
+So when David Houston signalled a taxi at Grand Central Station and
+said, "Forty-fifth and Second," the driver simply set his automatic
+controls, leaned back in his seat, and said, "Goin' to see the cops,
+huh?"
+
+When no answer was forthcoming, the driver turned around and took a good
+look at his passenger. "Maybe you're a UN cop yourself, huh?"
+
+Houston shook his head. "Nope. Some kids have been scribbling dirty
+words on my sidewalk, and I'm going to report it to the authorities."
+
+The driver turned back around and looked ahead again. "Jeez! That's
+serious. Hadn't you better take it up with the Secretary General? I
+wouldn't be satisfied with no underlings in a case like that."
+
+"I'm thinking of taking it up with the Atomic Energy Control Board,"
+Houston told him. "I think those kids are using radioactive chalk."
+
+"That's one way for 'em to get blue jeans," said the driver cryptically.
+
+There was silence for a moment as the taxi braked smoothly to a halt,
+guided and controlled by the automatic machinery in the hood.
+
+Then, suddenly, the driver said: "Ship up!" He pointed east, along 45th
+Street, toward Long Island. Far in the distance was a rapidly rising
+vapor trail, pointing vertically toward the sky, the unmistakable sign
+of a spaceship takeoff. They didn't leave often, and it was still an
+unusual sight.
+
+Houston said nothing as he climbed out and paid the driver, tossing in
+an extra tip.
+
+"Thanks, buddy," said the driver. "Watch out for them kids."
+
+Houston didn't answer. He was still watching the vapor trail as the cab
+pulled away.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_There goes Harris_, he was thinking. _An innocent man, guilty of
+nothing more than being born different. And because of that, he's
+labelled as an inhuman monster, not even worthy of being executed.
+Instead, he's taken into space, filled full of hibernene, and chained to
+a floating piece of rock for the rest of his life._
+
+Such was humanity's "humane" way of taking care of the bogey of
+Controllers. Capital punishment had been outlawed all over Earth; it had
+long since been proved that legalized murder, execution by the State,
+solved nothing, helped no one, prevented no crimes, and did infinitely
+more harm than good in the long run.
+
+With the coming of the Controllers, a movement had arisen to bring back
+the old evil of judicial murder, but it had been quickly put down when
+the Penal Cluster plan had been put forth as a more "humane" method.
+
+Hibernene was a drug that had been evolved from the study of animals
+like the bear, which spent its winters in an almost death-like sleep. A
+human being, given a proper dosage of the drug, lapsed into a deep coma.
+The bodily processes were slowed down; the heart throbbed sluggishly,
+once every few minutes; thought ceased. It was the ideal prison for a
+mental offender that ordinary prisons could not hold.
+
+But it wasn't quite enough for the bloodthirsty desire for vengeance
+that the Normals held for the Controllers. There had to be more.
+
+Following Earth in its orbit around the sun, trailing it by some
+ninety-three million miles, were a group of tiny asteroids, occupying
+what is known as the Trojan position. They were invisible from Earth,
+being made of dark rock and none of them being more than fifteen feet in
+diameter. But they had been a source of trouble in some of the early
+expeditions to Mars, and had been carefully charted by the Space
+Commission.
+
+Now a use had been found for them. A man in a spacesuit could easily be
+chained to one of them. With him was a small, sun-powered engine and
+tanks of liquified food concentrates and oxygen. Kept under the
+influence of hibernene, and kept cool by the chill of space, a man could
+spend the rest of his life there--unmoving, unknowing, uncaring, dead as
+far as he and the rest of Mankind were concerned--his slight bodily
+needs tended automatically by machine.
+
+It was a punishment that satisfied both sides of the life-or-death
+argument.
+
+Houston shook off the bleak, black feeling of terrible chill that had
+crept over him and pushed his way into the UN Police building.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The thirteenth floor housed the Psychodeviant Division. As he stood in
+the rising elevator, Houston wondered wryly if the number 13 was good
+luck or bad in this case.
+
+He stepped out of the elevator and headed for the Division Chief's
+office.
+
+Division Chief Reinhardt was a heavy-set, balding man, built like a
+professional wrestler. His cold blue eyes gleamed from beneath shaggy,
+overhanging brows, and his face was almost expressionless except for a
+faint scowl that crossed it from time to time. In spite of the fact that
+a Canadian education had wiped out all but the barest trace of German
+accent, his Prussian training, of the old Junkers school, was still
+evident. He demanded--and got--precision and obedience from his
+subordinates, although he had no use for the strictly military viewpoint
+of obsequiousness towards one's superiors.
+
+He was sitting behind his desk, scowling slightly at some papers on it
+when Houston stepped in.
+
+"You wanted me to report straight to you, Mr. Reinhardt?"
+
+Reinhardt looked up, his heavy face becoming expressionless. "Ah,
+Houston. Yes; sit down. You did a fine job on that London affair; that's
+what I call coming through at the last moment."
+
+"How so?"
+
+"Your orders to return," he said, "were cut before you found your man.
+We have a much more important case for you than some petty pilfering
+Controller. We are after much more dangerous game."
+
+Houston nodded. "I see." Inwardly, he wondered. It was almost as if
+Reinhardt knew that Houston had found out that the recall had come
+early. Houston would have given his right arm at that moment to be able
+to probe Reinhardt's mind. But he held himself back. He had, in the
+past, sent tentative probes toward the Division Chief and found nothing,
+but he didn't know whether it would be safe now or not. It would be
+better to wait.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Reinhardt stood up, walked to the wall, and turned on a display screen.
+He twisted a knob to a certain setting, and a map of Manhattan Island
+sprang onto the screen in glowing color.
+
+"As you know," Reinhardt said pedantically, "no Controller can do a
+perfect job of controlling a normal person. No matter how much he may
+want to make John Smith act naturally, some of the personality of the
+Controller will show up in the actions of John Smith. Am I correct?"
+
+Houston nodded without saying anything. The question was purely
+rhetorical, and the statement was perfectly correct.
+
+"Very well, then," Reinhardt continued, "by means of these
+peculiarities, our psychologists have found that there is widespread,
+but very subtle controlling going on right in the UN General Assembly
+itself! The amazing thing is that they all bear the--shall we
+say--trademark of the same Controller. Whoever he is, he seems to have a
+long-range plan in mind; he wants to change, ever so slightly, certain
+international laws so that he will profit by them. Do you follow?"
+
+"I follow," said Houston.
+
+"Good. It has taken painstaking research and a great deal of
+psychological statistical analysis, but we have found that one
+company--and one company only--benefits by these legal changes. Did you
+ever hear of Lasser & Sons?"
+
+"Sure," said Houston. "They're in the import-export business, with a few
+fingers in shipping and air transport."
+
+"That's them," said Reinhardt. "Someone in that company, presumably
+someone at the top, is a Controller. And he's a very subtle, very
+dangerous man. Unlike the others, there is nothing hasty or overt in his
+plans. But within a few years, if this goes on, he will have more power
+than the others ever dreamed of."
+
+"And my job is to get him?" Houston asked.
+
+Reinhardt nodded. "That's it. Get him. One way or another. You're in
+charge; I don't care how you do it, but this one Controller is more
+dangerous than any other we've come across, so get him."
+
+Houston nodded slowly. "Okay. Can you give me all the data you have so
+far?"
+
+Reinhardt patted a heavy folder on his desk. "It's all here." Then he
+tapped the projected map on the screen. "That's the Lasser
+Building--Church Street at Worth. Somewhere in there is the man we're
+looking for."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+David Houston spent the next six weeks gathering facts, trying to
+determine the identity of the mysterious Controller at Lasser & Sons.
+Slowly, the evidence began to pile up.
+
+At the same time, he worried over his own problem. Who was betraying
+non-criminal Controllers to the PD Police?
+
+In that six-week period, two more men and a woman were arrested--one in
+Spain, one in India, and one in Hawaii.
+
+There weren't very many Controllers on Earth, percentagewise. Of the
+three and a half billion people on Earth, less than an estimated
+one-thousandth of one percent were telepathic. But that made a grand
+total of some thirty-five thousand people.
+
+Spread, as they were, all over the planet, it was rare that one
+Controller ever met another. The intelligent ones didn't use their
+power; they remained concealed, even from each other.
+
+But _someone_, somewhere, was finding them and betraying them to the
+Psychodeviant Police.
+
+As more and more data came in on the Lasser case, Houston began to get
+an idea. If there were a really clever, highly intelligent, megalomaniac
+Controller, wouldn't it be part of his psychological pattern to attempt
+to get rid of the majority of Controllers, those who simply wanted to
+lead normal lives?
+
+And, if so, wasn't it possible that both his cases--the official and the
+unofficial--might lead to the same place: Lasser & Sons?
+
+It began to look as though Houston could kill both his birds at once, if
+he could just figure out when, how, and in what direction to throw the
+stone.
+
+In the middle of the seventh week, a Controller in Manchester, England,
+was mobbed and torn to bits by an irate crowd before the PD Police
+could get to him. There was no doubt in Houston's mind that this one was
+a real megalomaniac; he had taken over another man's brain and forced
+him to commit suicide. The controlled man had taken a Webley automatic,
+put it to his temple, and blown his brains out.
+
+The Controller's mistake was in not realizing what the sudden shock of
+that bullet, transmitted to him telepathically, could do to his own
+mind. In the mental disorder that followed, he was spotted and killed
+easily.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+There was still no word from Dorrine. She had flown back to the States a
+week after Houston had returned, but she had had to get back to England
+after three days. Since then, he had had three letters, nothing more.
+And letters are a damned unsatisfactory way for a telepath to conduct a
+love affair.
+
+The one other factor that entered in was The Group, the small band of
+sane, reasonable telepaths who had begun to build themselves into an
+organization--a sort of Mutual Protective Association.
+
+Personally, Houston didn't think much of the idea; the Group didn't have
+any real organization, and they refused to put one together. It was
+supposed to be democratic, but it sometimes bordered on the anarchic.
+
+He stayed with them more for companionship than any other reason. When
+Dorrine had come back for her short stay, Houston had met with them and
+tried to get them to help him trace down the megalomaniac Controller who
+was doing so much damage, but they'd balked at the idea. Their job, they
+claimed, was to get enough members so that they could protect themselves
+from arrest by the Normals, and then just let things ride.
+
+"After all," Dorrine had said, "things will work themselves out,
+darling; they always do."
+
+"Not unless somebody helps them, they don't," Houston had snapped back.
+"Someone has to do something."
+
+"But, Dave, darling--we _are_ doing something! Don't you see?"
+
+He didn't, but there was no convincing either the Group or Dorrine. She
+was passionately interested in the recruiting work she was doing, and
+she thought that the Group was the answer to every Controller's
+troubles.
+
+And then she had rushed back to England. "I'll be back soon, Dave,"
+she'd said. "I think I have a lead on a girl in Liverpool."
+
+So far, the girl hadn't been found. Controllers didn't like to give
+themselves away to anyone, so they kept a tight screen up most of the
+time.
+
+It seemed as though everyone on Earth was in deadly fear all the time.
+The Normals feared losing their identities to Controllers, and the
+Controllers feared death at the hands of the Normals.
+
+And death or the Penal Cluster were their only choices if they were
+discovered.
+
+Houston worried about the risks Dorrine was taking, but there was
+nothing he could do. She was doing what she thought was right, just as
+he was; how could he argue with that?
+
+Houston went on with his job, putting together facts and rumors and
+statistical data analysis, searching out his quarry.
+
+And, at the end of the eighth week, everything blew high, wide, and
+hellish.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was late evening. A cool wind blew over New York, bringing with it a
+hint of the rain to come. Church Street, in lower Manhattan, was not
+crowded, as it had been in the late afternoon, but neither was it
+entirely deserted. The cafes and bars did a lively business, but the
+tall, many-colored office buildings gaped at the street with blind and
+darkened eyes. Only a few of the windows glowed whitely with fluorescent
+illumination.
+
+In one of the small coffee shops, David Houston sat, smoking a cigarette
+and stirring idly at a cup of cooling coffee.
+
+Across the street was the Lasser Building; high up on the sixtieth
+floor, a whole suite of offices was brightly lit. The rest of the
+building was clothed in blackness.
+
+Who was up there in that suite? Houston wasn't quite sure. He had
+narrowed his list of suspects down to three men: John Sager, Loris
+Pederson, and Norcross Lasser, three top officials in the company. Sager
+and Pederson were both vice-presidents of the firm; Sager was in charge
+of the Foreign Exports department, while Pederson handled the actual
+shipping. Lasser, by virtue of being the grandson of the man who had
+founded the firm, was president of Lasser & Sons, Inc.
+
+Lasser seemed like a poor choice as chief villain of the outfit; he was
+a mild, bland man, quiet and friendly. Besides, his position made him
+an obvious suspect; naturally, the majority stockholder of the firm
+would profit most by the increased power of the company. And, equally
+obviously, a Controller wouldn't want to put himself in such an exposed
+position.
+
+Which made Lasser, in Houston's mind, a hell of a good suspect. If
+anything happened, Lasser could cover by claiming that he, too, had been
+controlled, and the chances were that he could get away with it. A
+Controller never did anything directly; their dirty work was done by
+someone else--a puppet under their mental control. At least, so ran the
+popular misconception. If Lasser were the man, he stood a good chance of
+getting away with it, even if he were caught, provided he played his
+cards right.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+That reasoning still didn't eliminate Sager or Pederson. Either of them
+could be the Controller. And there still remained the possibility that
+some unknown, unsuspected fourth person had the company of Lasser & Sons
+under his thumb.
+
+That was what Houston intended to find out tonight.
+
+He took a sip of his coffee, found it still reasonably hot.
+
+Damn the megalomaniacs, anyway! Houston subconsciously tightened his
+fists. He, personally, had more to fear from the Normals than from
+another Controller. Normals could kill or imprison him, while a
+Controller would have a hard time doing either, directly.
+
+But Houston could understand the Normal man; he could see how fear of a
+Controller could drive a man without the ability into a frenzied panic.
+He could understand, even forgive their actions, born and bred in
+ignorance and fear.
+
+No, the ones he hated were the ones who had conceived and fostered that
+fear--the psychologically unstable megalomaniac Controllers. There were
+only a handful of them--probably not more than a few hundred or a
+thousand. But because of them, every telepath on Earth found his life in
+danger, and every Normal found his life a hell of terror.
+
+Let Dorrine and her do-nothing friends run around the globe recruiting
+members for their precious Group; that was all right for them.
+Meanwhile, David Houston would be doing something on a more basic action
+level.
+
+He glanced at his watch. Almost time.
+
+"How's the deployment?" he whispered in his throat.
+
+"We've got the building surrounded now," said the voice in his ear. "You
+can go in anytime."
+
+"How about the roof?"
+
+"That's taken care of, sir; we've got 'copter that can be on the top of
+the Lasser Building at any time you call. They can land within thirty
+seconds of your signal."
+
+"Okay," Houston said; "I'm going in now. Remember--no matter what I say
+or do, no one is to leave that building if they're conscious. And keep
+your eyes on me; if I act in the least peculiar, handcuff me--but don't
+knock me out.
+
+"And if I'm not back on time, come in anyway."
+
+"Right."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Houston finished his coffee, dropped a coin on the counter, and headed
+for the other side of the street.
+
+The big problem was getting into the building itself. It was ringed with
+alarms; Lasser & Sons didn't want just anybody wandering in and out of
+their building.
+
+So Houston had arranged a roundabout way. The building next to the
+Lasser Building was a good deal smaller, only forty-five stories high. A
+week before, Houston had rented an office on the eighteenth floor of
+the building; on the door, he had already had a sign engraved: Ajax
+Enterprises.
+
+It was a shame the office would never be used.
+
+Houston walked straight to the next-door building and opened the front
+door with his key. Inside, a night watchman lounged behind a desk,
+smoking a blackened briar. He looked up, smiled, and nodded.
+
+"Evening, Mr. Griswold; working late tonight?"
+
+Houston forced a smile he did not feel. "Just doing a little paper
+work," he said.
+
+He took the automatic elevator to the eighteenth floor. He didn't relish
+the idea of walking up to the roof, but taking the elevator would make
+the nightwatchman suspicious.
+
+He didn't bother going to the office; he headed directly for the
+stairway and began his long climb--twenty-seven floors to the roof.
+
+All through it, he kept up a running comment through his throat mike. "I
+wish I weighed about fifty pounds less; carrying two hundred and twenty
+pounds of blubber up these stairs isn't easy."
+
+"Blubber, hooey!" the earphone interrupted. "Any man who's
+six-feet-three has a right to carry that much weight. Actually, you're
+a skinny-looking sort of goop."
+
+Both men were exaggerating; Houston wasn't fat, but his broad, powerful
+frame couldn't be called skinny, either.
+
+When he finally reached the roof, he paused and surveyed the wall of the
+Lasser Building, which towered high above him, spearing an additional
+thirty stories in the air. Up there, the lights on the sixtieth floor
+gleamed in the night.
+
+The air was growing cooler, and the beginnings of a mist were forming.
+Houston hoped it wouldn't start to rain before he got inside.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The forty-sixth floor of the Lasser Building had no windows on this
+side, but there were plenty on the forty-seventh.
+
+Leading up to them was an inviting looking fire escape, but Houston knew
+he didn't dare take that. By law, every fire escape was rigged with a
+fire alarm, in addition to the regular burglar alarm. He'd have to use
+another way.
+
+The Lasser Building was a steel structure, shelled over with a bright
+blue anodized aluminum sheath. Only the day before, Houston, wearing the
+gray coverall of a power-line workman, had checked the wall to find the
+big steel beams beneath the aluminum. He had also installed certain
+other equipment; now he was going to make use of it.
+
+Concealed in the louvres of the air-conditioner intake of the lower
+building was a specially constructed suit and several hundred feet of
+power line which was connected to the main line of the building.
+
+In the darkness, Houston slipped on the suit. It was constructed
+somewhat like a light diving suit or a spacesuit, but without the
+helmet. In the toes, knees, and hands, were powerful electromagnets
+controlled by switches in the fingers of the gloves and powered by the
+current in the long line.
+
+Houston stepped over to the blue aluminum wall, reached out a hand, and
+lowered one finger. Instantly, the powerful magnet anchored his hand to
+the wall, held by the dense magnetic field to the steel beam beneath the
+aluminum sheath. That one magnet alone could support his full body
+weight, and he had six magnets to work with.
+
+Slowly, carefully, David Houston began to crawl up the wall.
+
+Turn on a magnet in the right hand; lift up the left hand and anchor it
+higher; turn on the right hand and lift it even with the left, then
+anchor it again; do the same with both legs; then begin the process all
+over again, turning the magnets off and on in rotation.
+
+Up and up he went. Past the forty-sixth floor, past the forty-seventh,
+the forty-eighth, and the forty-ninth. Not until he reached the fiftieth
+floor did he attempt to open one of the windows.
+
+There was a magnetic lock inside the window, but Houston had taken that,
+too, into account. The powerful magnet in his right glove slid it aside
+easily. Houston lifted the window and stepped inside.
+
+He had ten more floors to go.
+
+He took off the suit and rolled it up into a tight package, then dropped
+it out the window. It landed with a barely audible thump. Houston took a
+deep breath, drew his stun gun, and headed for the stairway.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+On the landing of the sixtieth floor of the Lasser Building, David
+Houston paused for a moment.
+
+"Sounds like you're out of breath," said the voice in his ear.
+
+"You try climbing all that way sometime," Houston whispered. "I'm no
+superman, you know."
+
+"Shucks," said the voice, "you've disillusioned me. What now?"
+
+"I'm going to try to get a little information," Houston told him. "Hold
+on."
+
+On the other side of the door, he could hear faint sound, as if someone
+were moving around, but he could hear no voices.
+
+Carefully, he sent out a probing thought, trying to see if he could
+attune his mind with that of someone inside without betraying himself.
+
+He couldn't detect anything. The sixtieth floor covered a lot of space;
+if whoever was inside was too far away, their thoughts would be too
+faint to pick up unless Houston stepped up his own power, and he didn't
+want to do that.
+
+Cautiously, he reached out a hand and eased open the door.
+
+The hallway was brightly lit, but there was no one in sight. The
+unaccustomed light made Houston blink for a moment before his eyes
+adjusted to it; the hallways and landings below had been pitch dark,
+forcing him to use a penlight to find his way up.
+
+He stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
+
+Now he could hear voices. He stopped to listen. The conversation was
+coming from an office down the hall--if it could be called a
+conversation.
+
+There would be long periods of silence, then a word or two: "But not
+that way." "Until tomorrow." "Vacillates."
+
+There were three different voices.
+
+Houston moved on down the hall, his stun gun ready. A few yards from the
+door, he stopped again, and, very gently, he sent out another
+thought-probe, searching for the minds of those within, carefully
+forging his way.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+And, at that crucial instant, a voice spoke in his ear.
+
+"Houston! What's going on? You haven't said a thing for two full
+minutes!"
+
+"I'm all right!" Houston snapped. Only the force of long training and
+habit kept him from shouting the words aloud instead of keeping them to
+a subvocal whisper.
+
+"All right or not," said the other, "we're coming in in seven minutes,
+as ordered. Meanwhile, there's a news bulletin for you; the British
+division has picked up another Controller--a woman named Dorrine Kent.
+Two in one night ought to be a pretty good bag."
+
+For a moment, Houston's mind was a meaningless blur.
+
+_Dorrine!_
+
+And then another voice broke through his shock.
+
+"Dear me, sir! Calm yourself! You're positively fizzing!"
+
+Houston jerked. Standing in the doorway of the office was Norcross
+Lasser, with a benign smile on his face and a deadly-looking .38
+automatic in his hand. Behind him stood John Sager and Loris Pederson,
+their faces wary.
+
+"Please drop that stun gun, Mr. Cop."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In those few moments, Houston had regained control of himself. He
+realized what had happened. The interruption of his thought-probe had
+startled him just a little, but that little had been enough to warn the
+Controller.
+
+He wondered which of the three men was the actual Controller.
+
+He began to lower his weapon, then, suddenly, with all the force and
+hatred he could muster, he sent a blistering, shocking thought toward
+the man with the gun.
+
+Lasser staggered as though he'd been struck. His gun wavered, and
+Houston fired quickly with his stun gun. At the same time, Lasser's
+automatic went off.
+
+The bullet went wild, and the stun beam didn't do much better. It struck
+Lasser's hand, paralyzing it, but it didn't knock out Lasser.
+
+The mental battle that ensued only took a half second, but at the speed
+of thought, a lot of things can happen in a half second.
+
+Houston realized almost instantaneously that he had made a vast mistake.
+He had badly underestimated the enemy.
+
+There was no need to worry, now, about which one of the men was a
+Controller--_all three of them were!_
+
+As soon as Sager and Pederson realized what had happened, they
+leaped--mentally--into the battle. Lasser, already weakened by the
+unexpected mental blow from Houston, lost consciousness when the others
+let loose their blasts because his mind was still linked with Houston's,
+and he absorbed a great deal of the mental energy meant for Houston's
+brain.
+
+Houston, fully warned by now, held up a denial wall which screened his
+mind from the worst that Sager and Pederson could put out, but he knew
+he couldn't hold out for long.
+
+"Come in--_now!_" he said hoarsely into the microphone.
+
+"Stupid swine!" Sager susurrated sibilantly.
+
+Pederson said nothing aloud, but his brain was blazing with fear and
+hatred. His gun hand jerked towards a holster under his arm. Lasser was
+still crumpling towards the floor.
+
+The entire action had taken less than a second.
+
+Houston tried to fire again with his stun gun, but it required every bit
+of concentration he could sum up to hold off the combined mental
+assaults of Sager and Pederson.
+
+But they, too, were at somewhat of a disadvantage. In order to keep all
+their efforts concentrated on the PD policeman, both Controllers had to
+refrain from putting too much attention on their bodily motions.
+Pederson was still fumbling for his gun, and Sager hadn't yet started
+for his.
+
+Lasser barely touched the floor before his consciousness began to
+return. The resulting fraction of a second of mental static afforded
+Houston a brief respite; it disturbed Pederson just as he was getting
+his fingers on the butt of his weapon.
+
+Both Controllers were focusing their mental energies on Houston's brain,
+and during the brief respite, Houston made one vital mental adjustment.
+He allowed both thought-probes to fuse in a small part of his
+consciousness. They went _through_ him and lashed back at the two
+Controllers.
+
+Both of them had had their minds tuned to Houston's, and in that instant
+they found they, were also attuned to each other.
+
+The resultant of the energy was shocking to Houston, but it was
+infinitely worse for Sager and Pederson, since neither of them had been
+expecting it. Pederson, who had already been slightly distracted, got
+the major brunt of the force. He managed to jerk his gun free, but his
+brain was already lapsing into unconsciousness.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Houston's fingers tightened on his own weapon. It fired once at Lasser,
+who was trying to lift himself from the floor. Then it swept up and
+coughed again, dropping Pederson. His pistol barked once, sending a
+singing ricochet along the hall.
+
+Sager, who had staggered to one side when he and Pederson had
+short-circuited each other, had time to get behind the protection of
+the office door. He couldn't close it because Lasser's and Pederson's
+inert forms blocked the doorway, but at least it afforded protection
+against Houston's stun gun.
+
+His thought came through to Houston: _So the stupid Normals have a
+Controller working for them! Traitor!_
+
+_You're the traitor_, Houston thought coldly. _You and your megalomaniac
+friends. It's madmen like you who have made telepaths hated and feared
+by the Normals._
+
+_And so they should hate and fear us_, came the snarling mental answer.
+_Within a few generations, we will have supplanted them. We will control
+Earth--not they._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The exchange had only taken a fraction of a second. Houston was already
+charging toward the open door, hoping to get inside before Sager could
+reach a weapon.
+
+_You call me a traitor_, Houston thought, _but you have been framing
+innocent Controllers, putting them into the hands of the PD Police_.
+
+_That's a lie!_ the reply came hotly. _We would never betray another
+telepath to the stupid Normals! If a telepath were so bullheaded as to
+get in our way, we'd dispose of him. But it would be Controller
+justice; we wouldn't turn him over to animals!_
+
+In one blazing moment, Houston realized that the Controller was telling
+the truth!
+
+No mental communication can be expressed properly in words. In, behind,
+and around each statement, other, dimmer nuances of thought gleam
+through. Each thought tells the receiver much more than can be put down
+in crude verbal symbols.
+
+Thus, Houston already knew that Lasser, Sager, and Pederson were the
+three top men in a world-wide clique of megalomaniac Controllers. This
+was the top of the madmen's organization; these three were the _creme de
+la creme_ of the Normal human's real enemies.
+
+He knew that there were twelve others scattered over Earth, and he knew
+where and who they were. That brief exchange had brought all the
+information into Houston's own mind as it leaked from the minds of the
+others. He knew it without thinking about how he knew it.
+
+And they were _not_ the ones who had been turning the sane Controllers
+over to the Psychodeviant Police!
+
+Then who was? And why?
+
+Houston was right back where he had started.
+
+But that brief instant of confusion was Houston's downfall. Sager
+instantly realized that he had delivered, inadvertently, a telling blow
+to Houston's mind.
+
+Physically, Houston had been propelling himself toward the open door. At
+the instant of the revelation, he had been part way through it. And at
+that moment, Sager acted.
+
+He slammed all his weight violently against his side of the door,
+knocking Houston off balance as the door swung and struck him. He went
+down, and Sager was on top of him before he struck the floor.
+
+It was the weirdest battle ever fought, but its true worth could only
+have been detected by another telepath. It was intense and brutal.
+
+The men fought both physically and mentally. They struggled for
+possession of the stun gun, at the same time hurling emotion-charged
+shafts of mental energy at each other's brains.
+
+The struggle lasted less than a minute. Somehow, Sager managed to get
+one hand on the gun, twisting it. Houston, trying to keep it out of
+Sager's hand, jerked it up between them.
+
+It coughed once, sending a beam of supersonic energy into the bodies of
+both men.
+
+The effect was the same as if they had both been crowned with baseball
+bats.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Little pinpoints of light against a sea of darkness.
+
+_I'm cold_, Houston thought. _And I'm sick._
+
+He couldn't tell whether his eyes were open or closed--and he didn't
+much care.
+
+He tried to move his arms and legs, found he couldn't, and gave it up.
+
+He blinked.
+
+_My eyes must be open_, he thought, _if I can blink_.
+
+Well, then, if his eyes were open, why couldn't he see anything? All he
+could see were the little pinpoints of light against a background of
+utter blackness.
+
+_Like stars_, he thought.
+
+_Stars? STARS!_
+
+With a sudden rush, total awareness came back to him, and he realized
+with awful clarity where he was.
+
+He was chained, spread-eagled, on an asteroid in the Penal Cluster,
+nearly a hundred million miles from Earth.
+
+It was easy to piece together what had happened. He dimly remembered
+that he had started to wake up once before. It was a vague, confused
+recollection, but he knew what had taken place.
+
+The PD Police, coming in response to his call, had found all four men
+unconscious from the effects of the stun beam. Naturally, all of them
+had been taken into custody; the PD Police had to find out which one of
+the men was the Controller and which the controlled. That could easily
+be tested by waiting until they began to wake up; the resulting mental
+disturbances would easily identify the telepath.
+
+Houston could imagine the consternation that must have resulted when the
+PD men found that all three suspects--_and_ their brother officer--were
+Controllers.
+
+And now here he was--tried, convicted, and sentenced while he was
+unconscious--doomed to spend the rest of his life chained to a rock
+floating in space.
+
+A sudden chill of terror came over him. Why wasn't he asleep? Why wasn't
+he under hibernene?
+
+_It's their way of being funny_, came a bitter thought. _We're supposed
+to be under hibernene, but we're left to die, instead._
+
+For a moment, Houston did not realize that the thought was not his own,
+so well did it reflect his own bitterness. It was bad enough to have to
+live out one's life under the influence of the hibernation drug, but it
+was infinitely worse to be conscious. Under hibernene, he would have
+known nothing; his sleeping mind in his comatose body would never have
+realized what had happened to him. But this way, he would remain fully
+awake while his body used up the air too fast and his stomach became
+twisted with hunger pangs which no amount of intravenous feeding could
+quell. Oh, he'd live, all right--for a few months--but it would be
+absolute hell while he lasted. Insanity and catatonia would come long
+before death.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_That's a nasty thought; I wish you hadn't brought it up._
+
+That wasn't his own thought! There was someone else out here!
+
+_Hell, yes, my friend; we're all out here._
+
+"Where are you?" Houston asked aloud, just to hear his own voice. He
+knew the other couldn't hear the words which echoed so hollowly inside
+the bubble of the spacesuit helmet, but the thought behind them would
+carry.
+
+"You mean with relation to yourself?" came the answer. "I don't know. I
+can see several rocks around me, but I can't tell which one you're on."
+
+Houston could tell now that the other person was talking aloud, too. So
+great was the illusion carried to his own brain that it almost seemed as
+though he could hear the voice with his ears.
+
+"Then there are others around us?" Houston asked.
+
+"Sure. There were three of us: a Hawaiian named Jerry Matsukuo; a girl
+from Bombay, Sonali Siddhartha; and myself, Juan Pedro de Cadiz. Jerry
+and Sonali are taking a little nap. You're the first of your group to
+wake up."
+
+"My group?"
+
+"Certainly, my friend. There are five of you; the other four must still
+be unconscious."
+
+Four? That would be Lasser, Sager, Pederson, and--_and Dorrine!_
+
+Juan Pedro de Cadiz picked up the whole thought-process easily.
+
+"The girl--I'm sorry," he said. "But the other three--of us all, I
+think, they deserve this."
+
+"Juan!" came another thought-voice. "Have our newcomers awakened?"
+
+"Just one of them, my sweet," replied the Spaniard. "Sonali, may I
+present Mr. David Houston. Mr. Houston, the lovely Sonali Siddhartha."
+
+"Juano has a habit of jumping to conclusions, David," said the girl.
+"He's never even seen me, and I'm sure that after three weeks of being
+locked in this prison whatever beauty I may have had has disappeared."
+
+"Your thoughts are beautiful, Sonali," said Juan Pedro, "and with us,
+that is all that counts."
+
+"It is written," said a third voice, "that he who disturbs the slumber
+of his betters will wake somebody up. You people are giving me dreams,
+with your ceaseless mental chatter."
+
+"Ah!" the Spaniard said. "Mr. Matsukuo, may I--"
+
+"I heard, Romeo, I heard," said the Hawaiian. "An ex-cop, eh? I wonder
+if I like you? I'll take a few thousand years to think it over; in the
+meantime, you may treat me as a friend."
+
+"I'll try to live down my reputation," said Houston.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was an odd feeling. Physically, he was alone. Around him, he could
+see nothing but the blackness of space and the glitter of the stars. He
+knew that the sun must be shining on the back of his own personal
+asteroid, but he couldn't see it. As far as his body was concerned,
+there was nothing else in the universe but a chunk of pitted rock and a
+set of chains.
+
+But mentally, he felt snug and warm, safe in the security of good
+friends. He felt--
+
+"David! David! Help me! Oh, David, David, David!"
+
+It was Dorrine, coming up from her slumber. Like a crashing blare of
+static across the neural band, her wakening mind burst into sudden
+telepathic activity.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Gently, Houston sent out his thoughts, soothing her mind as he had
+soothed Harris's mind weeks before. And he noticed, as he did it, that
+the other three were with him, helping. By the time Dorrine was fully
+awake, she was no longer frightened or panicky.
+
+"You're wonderful people," she thought simply, after several minutes.
+
+"To one so beautiful, how else could we be?" asked Juan Pedro.
+
+"Ignore him, Dorrine," said Sonali, "he tells me the same thing."
+
+"But not in the same way, _amiga_!" the Spaniard protested. "Not in the
+same way. The beauty of your mind, Sonali, is like the beauty of a
+mountain lake, cool and serene; the beauty of Dorrine is like the beauty
+of the sun--warm, fiery, and brilliant."
+
+"By my beard!" snorted Matsukuo. "Such blather!"
+
+"I'll be willing to wager my beautiful _hacienda_ in the lovely
+countryside of Aragon against your miserable palm-leaf _nipi_ shack on
+Oahu that you have no beard," said Juan Pedro.
+
+"Hah!" said Matsukuo; "that's all I need now--Castles in Spain."
+
+It was suddenly dizzying for Houston. Here were five people, doomed to
+slow, painful death, talking as though there were nothing to worry
+about. Within minutes, each had learned to know the others almost
+perfectly.
+
+It was more than just the words each used. Talking aloud helped focus
+the thoughts more, but at the same time, thousands of little, personal,
+fringe ideas were present with the main idea transmitted in words.
+Houston had talked telepathically to Dorrine hundreds of times, but
+never before had so much fine detail come through.
+
+Why? Was there something different about space that made mental
+communication so much more complete?
+
+"No, not that, I think," said Matsukuo. "I believe it is because we have
+lost our fear--not of death; we still fear death--but of betrayal."
+
+That was it. They knew they were going to die, and soon. They had
+already been sentenced; nothing further could frighten them. Always
+before, on Earth, they had kept their thoughts to themselves, fearing to
+broadcast too much, lest the Normals find them out. The little, personal
+things that made a human being a living personality were kept hidden
+behind heavy mental walls. The suppression worked subconsciously, even
+when they actually wanted to communicate with another Controller.
+
+But out here, there was nothing to fear on that score. Why should they,
+who were already facing death, be afraid of anything now?
+
+So they opened up--wide. And they knew each other as no group of human
+beings had ever known each other. Every human being has little faults
+and foibles that he may be ashamed of, that he wants to keep hidden from
+others. But such things no longer mattered out here, where they had
+nothing but imminent death and the emptiness of space--and each other.
+
+Physically, they were miserable. To be chained in one position, with
+very little room to move around, for three weeks, as Sonali had been,
+was torture. Sonali had been there longer than the others--for three
+days, there had been no one but herself out there in the loneliness of
+space.
+
+But now, even physical discomfort meant little; it was easy to forget
+the body when the mind was free.
+
+"What of the others?" Dorrine asked. "Where are the ones who were
+sentenced before us?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Houston thought of Robert Harris. What had happened to the young
+Englishman?
+
+"Space is big," said Juan Pedro. "Perhaps they are too far away for our
+thoughts to reach them--or perhaps they are already dead."
+
+"Let's not talk of death." Sonali Siddhartha's thought was soft. "We
+have so many things to do."
+
+"We will have a language session," said Juan Pedro. "_Si?_"
+
+Matsukuo chuckled. "Good! Houston, until you've tried to learn Spanish,
+Hindustani, Arabic, Japanese, and French all at once, you don't know
+what a language session is. We--"
+
+The Hawaiian's thought was suddenly broken off by a shrieking burst of
+mental static.
+
+The effect was similar to someone dropping a handful of broken glass
+into an electric meat grinder right in the middle of a Bach cantata.
+
+It was Sager, coming out of his coma.
+
+Almost automatically, the five contacted his mind to relax him as he
+awoke. They touched his mind--and were repelled!
+
+_Stay out of my mind!_
+
+With almost savage fury, the still half-conscious Sager hurled thoughts
+of hatred and fear at the five minds who had tried to help him. They
+recoiled from the burst of insane emotion.
+
+"Leave him alone," Houston thought sharply. "He's a tough fighter."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+At first, Sager was terrified when he learned what had happened to him.
+Then the terror was mixed with a boiling, seething hatred. A hatred of
+the Normals who had done this to him, and an even more terrible hatred
+for Houston, the "traitor."
+
+The very emptiness of space itself seemed to vibrate with the surging
+violence of his hatred.
+
+"I know," Houston told him, "you'd kill me if you could. But you can't,
+so forget it."
+
+Not even the power of that hatred could touch Houston, protected as he
+was by the combined strength of the other four sane telepaths. He was
+comparatively safe.
+
+Sager snarled like a trapped animal. "You're all insane! Look at you!
+The four of you, siding with a man who has betrayed us to the Normals!
+He--"
+
+What Sager thought of Houston couldn't be put into words, and if it
+could no sane person would want to repeat the mad foulness in those
+words.
+
+"This is unbearable!" Sonali thought softly.
+
+"That's not a mind," said Dorrine, "it's a sewer."
+
+"I suggest," said Matsukuo, "that we do a little probing. Let's find out
+what makes this thing tick."
+
+"Stay out of my mind!" Sager screamed. "You have no right!"
+
+"You seemed to think you had the right to probe into the helpless minds
+of Normals," said Juan Pedro coldly. "We should show you how it feels."
+
+"But they're just animals!" Sager retorted. "I am a Controller!"
+
+"You're a madman," said Matsukuo. "And we must find out what makes you
+mad."
+
+Synchronizing perfectly, five minds began to probe at the walls that
+Sager had built up around his personality. And as they probed, Sager
+retreated behind ever thicker walls, howling in hatred and anguish.
+
+On and on went the five, needling, pressing at every weak spot, trying
+to break him down. Outnumbered and overpowered, it seemed as though
+Sager had no chance.
+
+But his insanity was stronger than they suspected. The barriers he built
+were harder, more opaque, and more impenetrable than any they had ever
+seen. The five pushed on, anyway, but their advance slowed tremendously.
+
+Then, mentally, there was a sudden silence.
+
+_Sager?_ they thought.
+
+No answer.
+
+"That's finished it," said Houston. "He's retreated so far behind those
+mental barriers that he's cut himself off completely."
+
+"He's not dead, is he?" Dorrine asked.
+
+"Dead?" said Juan Pedro. "Not in the sense you mean. But I think he is
+catatonic now; he has lost all touch with the outside. He is as though
+he were still drugged; he is physically helpless, and mentally blanked
+out."
+
+"There's one difference," Matsukuo said analytically. "And that is that,
+although he has cut himself off from us and from the rest of the
+universe, he is still conscious in some little, walled-in compartment of
+his mind. He has no one there but himself--and that, I think, is damned
+poor company."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+They waited then. When Pederson awoke, they were ready for him. His
+hatred took a slightly different form from Sager's, but the effect was
+the same.
+
+And so were the results when the five bore down on him.
+
+Again they waited. Lasser was next.
+
+At first, it looked as though Lasser would go the way of Sager and
+Pederson, ending up as a hopelessly insane catatonic. Like his cohorts
+before him, Lasser retreated under the full pressure of the
+thought-probes of the five, building stronger and stronger walls.
+
+But, quite suddenly, all his defenses crumbled. The mental barriers went
+down, shattered and dissolving. Lasser's whole mind lay bare. Instead of
+fighting and hating, Lasser was begging, pleading for help.
+
+Lasser was not basically insane. His mind was twisted and warped, but
+beneath the outer shell was a personality that had enough internal
+strength to be able to admit that it was wrong and ask for help instead
+of retreating into oblivion.
+
+"This one--I think we can do something with," Matsukuo's thought
+whispered.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Eight bodies, uncomfortable and pain-wracked, floated in space, chained
+to tiny asteroids that drifted slowly in their orbits under the constant
+pull of the sun. Two of them contained minds that were locked
+irrevocably within prisons of their own building, sealed off forever
+from external stimuli, but their suffering was the greater for all that.
+
+The other six, chained though their limbs might be, had minds that were
+free--free, even, of any but the most necessary of internal limitations.
+
+Eight bodies, chained to eight lumps of pitted rock, spun endlessly in
+endless space.
+
+And then the ship came.
+
+The flare of its atomic rocket could be seen for over an hour before it
+reached the Penal Cluster. The six eyed it speculatively. Although only
+two of them were facing the proper direction to see it with their
+physical eyes, the impressions of those two were easily transmitted to
+the other four.
+
+"Another load of captives," whispered Juan Pedro de Cadiz. "How many
+this time, I wonder?"
+
+"How long have we been here?" asked Houston, not expecting any answer.
+
+"Who knows?" It was Lasser. "What we need out here is a clock to tell us
+when we'll die."
+
+"Our oxygen tanks are our clocks," said Sonali. "And they'll notify us
+when the time comes."
+
+"I do believe you morbid-minded people are developing a sense of humor,"
+said Matsukuo, "but I'm not sure I care for the style too much."
+
+The flare of the rocket grew brighter as the decelerating ship
+approached the small cluster of rocks. At last the ship itself took
+form, shining in the eternal blaze of the sun. When the whiteness of the
+rocket blaze died suddenly, the ship was only a few dozen yards from
+Houston's own asteroid.
+
+And then a mental voice came into the minds of the six prisoners.
+
+"How do you feel, Controllers?"
+
+Only Houston recognized that thought-pattern, but his recognition was
+transmitted instantly to the others.
+
+"_Reinhardt!_"
+
+Hermann Reinhardt, Division Chief of the Psychodeviant Police, the one
+man most hated and feared by Controllers, was himself a telepath!
+
+"Naturally," said Reinhardt. "Someone had to take control of the
+situation. I was the only one who was in a position to do it."
+
+His thoughts were neither hard nor cold; it was almost as if he were one
+of them--except for one thing. Only the words of his thoughts came
+through; there were none of the fringe thoughts that the six were used
+to in each other.
+
+"That's true," thought Reinhardt. "You see, we have been at this a good
+deal longer than you." Then he directed his thoughts at members of the
+crew of the spaceship, but they could still be heard by the six
+prisoners. "All right, men, get those people off those rocks. We have to
+make room for another batch."
+
+The airlock in the side of the ship opened, and a dozen spacesuited men
+leaped out. The propulsion units in their hands guided them toward the
+prison asteroids.
+
+"Give them all anaesthetic except Sager and Pederson," Reinhardt
+ordered. "They won't need it." Then, with a note of apology, "I'm sorry
+we'll have to anaesthetize you, but you've been in one position so long
+that moving you will be rather painful. We have to get you to a hospital
+quickly."
+
+The minds of the six prisoners were frantically pounding questions at
+the PD chief, but he gave them no answer. "No; wait until you're
+better."
+
+The spacesuited rescuers went to the "back" of each asteroid and
+injected sleep-gas into the oxygen line that ran from the tank to the
+spacesuit of the prisoner.
+
+Houston could smell the sweetish, pungent odor in his helmet. Just
+before he blacked out, he hurled one last accusing thought at Reinhardt.
+
+"_You're_ the one who's been framing Controllers!"
+
+"Naturally, Houston," came the answer. "How else could I get you out
+here?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Houston woke up in a hospital bed. He was weak and hungry, but he felt
+no pain. As he came up from unconsciousness, he felt a fully awake mind
+guiding him out of the darkness.
+
+It was Reinhardt.
+
+"You're a tough man, Houston," he said mentally. "The others won't wake
+up for a while yet."
+
+He was sitting on a chair next to the bed, holding a smouldering
+cigarette in one hand. He looked strange, somehow, and it took Houston a
+moment to realize that there was a smile on that broad, normally
+expressionless face.
+
+Houston focussed his eyes on the man's face. "I want an explanation,
+Reinhardt," he said aloud. "And it better be a damned good one."
+
+"I give you free access to my mind," Reinhardt said. "See for yourself
+if my method wasn't the best one."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Houston probed. The explanation, if not the best, was better than any
+Houston could have thought of.
+
+When the hatred of the normal-minded people of Earth had been turned
+against the Controllers because of the actions of a few megalomaniacs,
+it had become obvious that legal steps had to be taken to prevent mob
+violence.
+
+It had been Reinhardt himself who had suggested the Penal method to the
+UN government. At first, he had simply thought of it as a method to
+keep the Controllers alive until he could think of something better. But
+when he had discovered, by accident, what a small group of Controllers,
+alone in space, could do, he had set up the present machinery.
+
+As soon as a Controller was spotted, a careful frame-up was arranged.
+Then, when several had been found, they were arrested in quick
+succession and sent to the asteroids.
+
+Always and invariably, they had done what Houston's group had done--the
+sane or potentially sane ones had improved themselves tremendously,
+while the megalomaniacs had lapsed into catatonia.
+
+"Why couldn't it be done on Earth?" Houston asked.
+
+"We tried it," Reinhardt said. "It didn't work. Safe, on Earth,
+surrounded by Normals, a Controller still feels the hatred around him.
+He can't open his mind completely. Only the certain knowledge of
+impending death, and a complete freedom from the hatred of Normals can
+free the mind.
+
+"And that's why you couldn't be told beforehand; if you knew you were
+going to be rescued, you wouldn't open up."
+
+Houston nodded. It made sense. "Where are we now?" he asked.
+
+"Antarctica," said Reinhardt. "We've built an outpost here--almost
+self-sufficient. When you're in better shape physically, I'll show you
+around."
+
+"Do you mean that everyone who's been arrested is here, in Antarctica?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Reinhardt laughed. "No, not by a long shot. Most of us are back out in
+civilization, searching for new, undiscovered Controllers, so that we
+can frame them. And, of course, some of us--the insane ones--have died.
+They will themselves to die when the going gets too tough."
+
+"Searching for recruits? Then the Group that Dorrine was working for
+was--"
+
+Reinhardt shook his head. "No. They were going about it the wrong way,
+just as you thought. We picked up the whole lot of them last week;
+they're occupying the asteroids now."
+
+"What do you do with the insane catatonics?"
+
+"Put them under hibernene and keep them alive. We hope, someday, to
+figure out a method of restoring their sanity. Until then, let them
+sleep."
+
+Houston narrowed his eyes. "How long have you known I was a Controller,
+Reinhardt?"
+
+The Prussian smiled. "Ever since you first tried to probe me.
+Fortunately, my training enabled me to put up a shield that you couldn't
+penetrate; I seemed like a Normal to you.
+
+"I kept you on because I knew you'd be useful in cracking Lasser and his
+gang when the time came. No one else could have done what you did that
+night."
+
+"Thanks," Houston said sincerely. "What's going to happen now? After I
+get well, I mean."
+
+"You'll do what the others have done. A little plastic surgery to change
+your face a trifle, a little record-juggling to give you a new identity,
+and you'll be ready to go back to work for the PD Police.
+
+"If anyone recognizes you, it's easy to take over their minds just long
+enough to make them forget. We allow that much Controlling."
+
+"And then what?" Houston wanted to know. "What happens in the long run?"
+
+"In a way," said Reinhardt, "your friend Sager was right. The
+Controllers will eventually become the rulers of Earth. But not by force
+or trickery. We must just bide our time. More and more of us are being
+born all the time; the Normals are becoming fewer and fewer. Within a
+century, we will outnumber them--we will be the Normals, not they.
+
+"But they'll never know what's going on. The last Normal will die
+without ever knowing that he is in a world of telepaths.
+
+"By the time that comes about, we'll no longer need the Penal Cluster,
+since Controllers will be born into a world where there is no fear of
+non-telepaths."
+
+"I wonder," Houston mused, "I wonder how this ability came about. Why is
+the human race acquiring telepathy so suddenly?"
+
+Reinhardt shrugged. "I can give you many explanations--atomic radiation,
+cosmic rays, natural evolution. But none of them really explains it.
+They just make it easier to live with.
+
+"I think something similar must have happened a few hundred thousand
+years ago, when Cro-Magnon man, our own ancestors, first developed true
+intelligence instead of the pseudo-intelligence, the highly developed
+instincts, of the Neanderthals and other para-men.
+
+"Within a relatively short time, the para-men had died out, leaving the
+Cro-Magnon, with his true intelligence, to rule Earth."
+
+Reinhardt stood up. "Why is it happening? We don't know. Maybe we never
+will know, any more than we know why Man developed intelligence." He
+shrugged. "Perhaps the only explanation we'll ever have is to call it
+the Will of God and let it go at that."
+
+"Maybe that's the best explanation, after all," Houston said.
+
+"Perhaps. Who knows?" Reinhardt crushed his cigarette out in a tray.
+"I'll go now, and let you get some rest. And don't worry; I'll have you
+notified as soon as Dorrine starts to come out of it."
+
+"Thanks--Chief," Houston said as Reinhardt left the room.
+
+David Houston lay back in his bed and closed his eyes.
+
+For the first time in his life, he felt completely at peace--with
+himself, and with the Universe.
+
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Note:
+
+    This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ September 1957.
+    Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
+    copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
+    typographical errors have been corrected without note.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Penal Cluster, by 
+Ivar Jorgensen (AKA Randall Garrett)
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PENAL CLUSTER ***
+
+***** This file should be named 25061-8.txt or 25061-8.zip *****
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+    <title>
+      The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Penal Cluster, by Ivar Jorgensen
+    </title>
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Penal Cluster, by 
+Ivar Jorgensen (AKA Randall Garrett)
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Penal Cluster
+
+Author: Ivar Jorgensen (AKA Randall Garrett)
+
+Release Date: April 12, 2008 [EBook #25061]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PENAL CLUSTER ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+<div class="figright">
+<img src="images/001.png" width="547" height="500" alt="" title="" />
+<b><small>Their combined thought-force hit him like a thunderbolt.</small></b></div>
+
+<h1>THE<br />
+PENAL<br />
+CLUSTER</h1>
+
+<h2><small>By IVAR JORGENSEN</small></h2>
+
+<p class="tease"><i>Tomorrow's technocracy will
+produce more and more things
+for better living. It will
+produce other things, also;
+among them, criminals too
+despicable to live on this
+earth. Too abominable to
+breathe our free air.</i></p>
+
+<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">The</span> clipped British voice
+said, in David Houston's
+ear, <i>I'm quite sure he's one.
+He's cashing a check for a
+thousand pounds. Keep him
+under surveillance.</i></p>
+
+<p>Houston didn't look up immediately.
+He simply stood
+there in the lobby of the big
+London bank, filling out a deposit
+slip at one of the long,
+high desks. When he had finished,
+he picked up the slip
+and headed towards the
+teller's cage.</p>
+
+<p>Ahead of him, standing at
+the window, was a tall, impeccably
+dressed, aristocratic-looking
+man with graying
+hair.</p>
+
+<p>"The man in the tweeds?"
+Houston whispered. His voice
+was so low that it was inaudible
+a foot away, and his lips
+scarcely moved. But the sensitive
+microphone in his collar
+picked up the voice and
+relayed it to the man behind
+the teller's wicket.</p>
+
+<p><i>That's him</i>, said the tiny
+speaker hidden in Houston's
+ear. <i>The fine-looking chap in
+the tweeds and bowler.</i></p>
+
+<p>"Got him," whispered
+Houston.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>He didn't go anywhere
+near the man in the bowler
+and tweeds; instead, he went
+to a window several feet
+away.</p>
+
+<p>"Deposit," he said, handing
+the slip to the man on the
+other side of the partition.
+While the teller went through
+the motions of putting the
+deposit through the robot accounting
+machine, David
+Houston kept his ears open.</p>
+
+<p>"How did you want the
+thousand, sir?" asked the
+teller in the next wicket.</p>
+
+<p>"Ten pound notes, if you
+please," said the graying man.
+"I think a hundred notes will
+go into my brief case easily
+enough." He chuckled, as
+though he'd made a clever witticism.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir," said the clerk,
+smiling.</p>
+
+<p>Houston whispered into his
+microphone again. "Who is
+the guy?"</p>
+
+<p>On the other side of the
+partition, George Meredith, a
+small, unimposing-looking
+man, sat at a desk marked:
+MR. MEREDITH&mdash;ACCOUNTING
+DEPT. He looked
+as though he were paying
+no attention whatever to anything
+going on at the various
+windows, but he, too, had a
+microphone at his throat and
+a hidden pickup in his ear.</p>
+
+<p>At Houston's question, he
+whispered: "That's Sir Lewis
+Huntley. The check's good, of
+course. Poor fellow."</p>
+
+<p>"Yeah," whispered Houston,
+"if he is what we think
+he is."</p>
+
+<p>"I'm fairly certain," Meredith
+replied. "Sir Lewis isn't
+the type of fellow to draw
+that much in cash. At the
+present rate of exchange,
+that's worth three thousand
+seven hundred and fifty dollars
+American. Sir Lewis
+might carry a hundred
+pounds as pocket-money, but
+never a thousand."</p>
+
+<p>Houston and Meredith were
+a good thirty feet from each
+other, and neither looked at
+the other. Unless a bystander
+had equipment to tune in on
+the special scrambled wavelength
+they were using, that
+bystander would never know
+they were holding a conversation.</p>
+
+<p>"... nine-fifty, nine-sixty,
+nine-seventy, nine-eighty,
+nine-ninety, a thousand
+pounds," said the clerk who
+was taking care of Sir Lewis's
+check. "Would you count that
+to make sure, sir?"</p>
+
+<p>"Certainly. Ten, twenty,
+thirty, ..."</p>
+
+<p>While the baronet was
+double-checking the amount,
+David Houston glanced at
+him. Sir Lewis looked perfectly
+calm and unhurried, as
+though he were doing something
+perfectly legal&mdash;which,
+in a way, he was. And, in another
+way, he most definitely
+was not, if George Meredith's
+suspicions were correct.</p>
+
+<p>"Your receipt, sir." It was
+the teller at Houston's own
+window.</p>
+
+<p>Houston took the receipt,
+thanked the teller, and walked
+toward the broad front
+doors of the bank.</p>
+
+<p>"George," he whispered
+into the throat mike, "has
+Sir Lewis noticed me?"</p>
+
+<p>"Hasn't so much as looked
+at you," Meredith answered.
+"Good hunting."</p>
+
+<p>"Thanks."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>As Houston stepped outside
+the bank, he casually dropped
+one hand into a coat pocket
+and turned a small knob on
+his radio control box. "Houston
+to HQ," he whispered.</p>
+
+<p>"London HQ; what is it,
+Houston?" asked the earpiece.</p>
+
+<p>"Leadenhall Street Post.
+Meredith thinks he's spotted
+one. Sir Lewis Huntley."</p>
+
+<p>"Righto. We've got men in
+that part of the city now.
+We'll have a network posted
+within five minutes. Can you
+hold onto him that long?"</p>
+
+<p>Houston looked around.
+Leadenhall Street was full of
+people, and the visibility was
+low. "I'll have to tail him
+pretty closely," Houston said.
+"Your damned English fogs
+don't give a man much chance
+to see anything."</p>
+
+<p>There was a chuckle from
+the earphone. "Cheer up,
+Yank; you should have seen it
+back before 1968. When
+atomic power replaced coal
+and oil, our fogs became a
+devil of a lot cleaner."</p>
+
+<p>The voice was quite clear;
+at the London headquarters
+of the UN Psychodeviant Police,
+there was no need to wear
+a throat mike, which had a
+tendency to make the voice
+sound muffled in spite of the
+Statistical Information-Bit
+Samplers which were supposed
+to clarify the speech
+coming through them.</p>
+
+<p>"What do you know about
+1968?" Houston asked sardonically.
+"Your mother was still
+pushing you around in a
+baby-carriage then."</p>
+
+<p>"In a pram," corrected the
+Headquarters operator. "That
+is true, but my dear Aunt Jennifer
+told me all about it. She
+was&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"The hell with your Aunt
+Jennifer," Houston interrupted
+suddenly. "Here comes Sir
+Lewis. Get me cover&mdash;fast!"</p>
+
+<p>"Right. Keep us posted."</p>
+
+<p>Sir Lewis Huntley stepped
+out of the broad door of the
+bank and turned left. He took
+a couple of steps and stopped.
+He didn't look around; he
+simply took a cigarette out of
+a silver case, put it in his
+mouth, and lit it. The glow of
+the lighter shone yellowly on
+the brass plate near the door
+which said: <i>An Affiliate of
+Westminster Bank, Ltd.</i></p>
+
+<p>Sir Lewis snapped the light
+out, drew on the cigarette,
+and strode on down the street,
+swinging a blue plastex brief
+case which contained a thousand
+pounds in United Nations
+Bank of England notes.</p>
+
+<p>Houston decided the baronet
+had not been looking for
+a tail; he wished he could
+probe the man's mind to make
+sure, but he knew that would
+be fatal. He'd have to play the
+game and hope for the best.</p>
+
+<p>"He's heading east," Houston
+whispered. "Doesn't look
+as if he's going to get a cab."</p>
+
+<p>"Check," said the earphone.</p>
+
+<p>Sir Lewis seemed in no
+great hurry, but he walked
+briskly, as though he had a
+definite destination in mind.</p>
+
+<p>After a little way, he crossed
+to the south side of
+Leadenhall Street and kept
+going east. Houston stayed far
+enough behind to be above
+suspicion, but not so far that
+he ran a chance of losing his
+man.</p>
+
+<p>"He's turning south on
+Fenchurch," Houston said a
+little later. "I wonder where
+he's going."</p>
+
+<p>"Keep after him," said
+Headquarters. "Our net men
+haven't spotted either of you
+yet. They can hardly see
+across the street in this
+damned fog."</p>
+
+<p>Houston kept going.</p>
+
+<p>"What the hell?" he whispered
+a few minutes later.
+"He's still following Fenchurch
+Street! He's doubling
+back!"</p>
+
+<p>Leadenhall Street, the
+banking center of the City of
+London, runs almost due east-and-west;
+Fenchurch Street
+makes a forty-five degree
+angle with it at the western
+end, running southwest for a
+bit and then curving toward
+the west, toward Lombard.</p>
+
+<p>"Houston," said HQ, "touch
+your left ear."</p>
+
+<p>Houston obediently reached
+up and scratched his left ear.</p>
+
+<p>"Okay," said HQ. "Bogart's
+spotted you, but he hasn't
+spotted Sir Lewis. Bogart's
+across the street."</p>
+
+<p>"He can't miss Sir Lewis,"
+whispered Houston. "Conservatively
+dressed&mdash;matching
+coat and trousers of orange
+nylon tweed&mdash;royal blue half-brim
+bowler&mdash;carrying a blue
+brief case."</p>
+
+<p>There was a pause, then:
+"Yeah. Bogart's spotted him,
+and so has MacGruder. Mac's
+on your side, a few yards
+ahead."</p>
+
+<p>"Check. How about the rest
+of the net?"</p>
+
+<p>"Coming, coming. Be patient,
+old man."</p>
+
+<p>"I <i>am</i> patient," growled
+Houston. <i>I have to be</i>, he
+thought to himself, <i>otherwise
+I'd never stay alive</i>.</p>
+
+<p>"We've got him bracketed
+now," HQ said. "If we lose
+him now, he's a magician."</p>
+
+<p>Sir Lewis walked on, seemingly
+oblivious to the group
+of men who had surrounded
+him. He came to the end of
+Fenchurch Street and looked
+to his left, towards London
+Bridge. Then he glanced to his
+right.</p>
+
+<p>"I think he's looking for a
+cab," Houston whispered.</p>
+
+<p>"That's what MacGruder
+says," came the reply. "We've
+got Arthmore in a cab behind
+you; he'll pick you up. MacGruder
+will get another cab,
+and we have a private car for
+Bogart."</p>
+
+<p>Sir Lewis flagged a cab,
+climbed in, and gave an address
+to the driver. Houston
+didn't hear it, but MacGruder,
+a heavy-set, short, balding
+man, was standing near
+enough to get the instructions
+Sir Lewis had given to the
+driver.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>A cab pulled up to the curb
+near Houston, and he got in.</p>
+
+<p>Arthmore, the driver, was a
+thin, tall, hawknosed individual
+who could have played
+Sherlock Holmes on TV. Once
+he got into character for a
+part, he never got out of it
+unless absolutely necessary.
+Right now, he was a Cockney
+cab-driver, and he would play
+the part to the hilt.</p>
+
+<p>"Where to, guv'nor?" he
+asked innocently.</p>
+
+<p>"Buckingham Palace," said
+Houston. "I've got a poker
+appointment with Prince
+Charles."</p>
+
+<p>"Blimey, guv'nor," said
+Arthmore. "You <i>are</i> movin' in
+'igh circles! 'Ow's 'Er Majesty
+these days?"</p>
+
+<p>The turboelectric motor
+hummed, and the cab shot off
+into traffic. "According to the
+report I get on the blinkin'
+wireless," he continued, "a
+chap named MacGruder
+claims that the eminent Sir
+Lewis 'Untley is 'eaded for
+Number 37 Upper Berkeley
+Mews."</p>
+
+<p>"One of these days," said
+Houston, "all those <i>H</i>'s you
+drop is going to bounce back
+and hit you in the face."</p>
+
+<p>"Beg pardon, Mr. Yewston?"
+Arthmore asked blankly.</p>
+
+<p>Houston grinned. "Nothing,
+cabbie; it's just that you remind
+me of a cultured, intelligent
+fellow named Jack
+Arthmore. The only difference
+is that Jack speaks the
+Queen's English."</p>
+
+<p>"Crikey!" said Arthmore.
+"Wot a coincidence!" He
+paused, then: "The Queen's
+English, you say? She <i>'as</i> to
+be, don't she?"</p>
+
+<p>"Shut up," said Houston
+conversationally. "And give
+me a cigarette," he added.</p>
+
+<p>"There's a package of
+Players in my shirt pocket,"
+Arthmore said, keeping his
+hands on the wheel.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Houston fished out a cigarette,
+lit it, and returned the
+pack.</p>
+
+<p>Apropos of nothing, Arthmore
+said: "Reminds me of
+the time I was workin' for a
+printer, see? We 'ad to print
+up a bunch of 'andbills advertisin'
+a church charity bazaar.
+Down at the bottom was supposed
+to be printed 'Under the
+auspices of St. Bede's-on-Thames.'
+So I&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>He went on with a long,
+rambling tale about making a
+mistake in printing the handbill.
+Houston paid little attention.
+He smoked in silence,
+keeping his eyes on the red
+glow of the taillight ahead of
+them.</p>
+
+<p>Neither man mentioned the
+approaching climax of the
+chase. Even hardened veterans
+of the Psychodeviant Police
+don't look forward to the
+possibility of having their
+minds taken over, controlled
+by some outside force.</p>
+
+<p>It had never happened to
+Houston, but he knew that
+Arthmore had been through
+the experience once. It evidently
+wasn't pleasant.</p>
+
+<p>"&mdash;and the boss was 'oppin'
+mad," Arthmore was saying,
+"but, crikey, 'ow was I to
+know that <i>auspice</i> was spelled
+A-U-S-P-I-C-E?"</p>
+
+<p>Houston grinned. "Yeah,
+sure. How're we doing with
+Sir Lewis?"</p>
+
+<p>"Seems to be headed in the
+right direction," Arthmore
+said, suddenly dropping the
+Cockney accent. "This is the
+route I'd take if I were headed
+for Upper Berkeley Mews.
+He probably hasn't told the
+driver to change addresses&mdash;maybe
+he won't."</p>
+
+<p>"The victims never do,"
+Houston said. "He probably is
+actually headed toward Number
+37 Upper Berkeley
+Mews."</p>
+
+<p>"Yeah. Nobody's perfect,"
+said Arthmore.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Forty-five minutes of steady
+progress through the streets
+of Greater London brought
+Sir Lewis Huntley to Upper
+Berkeley and to the short
+dead-end street which constituted
+the Mews. By the time
+the dapper baronet stepped
+out of the machine and paid
+his driver, the whole area was
+surrounded by and filled with
+the well-armed, silent, and
+careful agents of the Psychodeviant
+Police.</p>
+
+<p>Number 37 was an old concrete-and-steel
+structure of
+the George VI period, faced
+with a veneer of red brick. It
+had obviously been remodeled
+at least once to make the
+fa&ccedil;ade more modern and more
+fashionable; the red-violet
+anodized aluminum was relatively
+fresh and unstained. It
+wouldn't have taken vast
+wealth to rent a flat in the
+building, but neither would an
+average income have been
+quite enough.</p>
+
+<p>Houston looked out of the
+window of Arthmore's cab
+and glanced at the tiers of
+windows in the building. Presumably,
+the man they were
+looking for was up there&mdash;somewhere.</p>
+
+<p><i>So you occupy a station
+in the upper middle-class</i>,
+thought Houston. It checked.
+Every bit of evidence that
+came his way seemed to check
+perfectly and fit neatly into
+the hypothesis which he had
+formed. Soon it would be
+time to test that theory&mdash;but
+the time had not yet come.</p>
+
+<p>"Stand by and wait for orders,
+Houston," said the
+speaker in Houston's ear.
+"We've got men inside the
+building."</p>
+
+<p>Sir Lewis Huntley opened
+the sparkling, translucent
+door of Number 37 Upper
+Berkeley Mews and went inside.</p>
+
+<p>Arthmore pulled the cab
+over to the curb a few yards
+from the entrance and the two
+men waited in silence. All
+around them were other men,
+some in private cars, some
+walking slowly along the
+street. All of them were part
+of the net that had gathered
+to catch one man.</p>
+
+<p><i>Poor fish</i>, Houston thought
+wryly.</p>
+
+<p>There was no noise, no excitement.
+Five minutes after
+Sir Lewis had entered the
+front door, it opened again. A
+man whom Houston had never
+seen before stepped out and
+gestured with one hand. At
+the same time, Houston's
+speaker said: "They've got
+him. Hit him with a stun gun
+when he tried to get out
+through the fire exit."</p>
+
+<p>An ambulance which had
+been waiting at the entrance
+of the Mews pulled up in
+front of Number 37, and a
+minute or so later a little clot
+of men came out bearing a
+stretcher, which was loaded
+into the ambulance. Immediately
+after them came another
+man who had a firm, but
+polite grip on the arm of Sir
+Lewis Huntley.</p>
+
+<p>Houston sighed and leaned
+back in his seat. That was
+that. It was all over. Simple.
+Nothing to it.</p>
+
+<p>Another Controller had
+been apprehended by the Psychodeviant
+Police. Another
+deviant, already tried and
+found guilty, was ready to be
+exiled from Earth and imprisoned
+on one of the Penal Asteroids.
+All in the day's work.</p>
+
+<p><i>There's just one thing I'd
+like to know</i>, Houston thought
+blackly. <i>What in the hell's going
+on?</i></p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>In his hotel room near Piccadilly
+Circus, several hours
+later, David Houston sat
+alone, drink in hand, and put
+that same question to himself
+again.</p>
+
+<p>"What's going on?"</p>
+
+<p>On the face of it, it was
+simple. On the face of it, the
+answer was right in front of
+him, printed in black and
+white on the front page of the
+evening <i>Times</i>.</p>
+
+<p>Houston lifted the paper off
+the bed and looked at it. The
+banner line said: <i>Controller
+Captured in Lambeth!</i></p>
+
+<p>Beneath that, in smaller
+type, the headline added:
+Robert Harris Accused of
+Taking Control of Barrister
+Sir Lewis Huntley.</p>
+
+<p>The column itself told the
+whole story. Mr. Robert Harris,
+of No. 37 Upper Berkeley
+Mews, had, by means of mental
+control, taken over the
+mind of Sir Lewis and compelled
+him to draw one thousand
+pounds out of his bank.
+While Sir Lewis was returning
+to Harris with the money,
+the United Nations Psychodeviant
+Police had laid a trap.
+Sir Lewis, upon recovering
+his senses when Harris was
+rendered unconscious by a
+stun gun, had given evidence
+to the PD Police and to officials
+at New Scotland Yard.</p>
+
+<p>Houston looked at the full-color
+photo of Harris that
+was printed alongside the column.
+Nice-looking chap; late
+twenties or early thirties,
+Houston guessed. Blond-red
+hair, blue eyes. All-in-all, a
+very pleasant, but ordinary
+sort of man.</p>
+
+<p>There had been evidence
+that a Controller had been at
+work in London for some
+weeks now. Twelve days before,
+several men, following
+an impulse, had mailed twenty
+pounds to a "Richard
+Hempstead," General Delivery,
+Waterloo Station. By the
+time the matter had come to
+the authorities' attention, the
+envelopes had been called for
+and the Controller had
+escaped.</p>
+
+<p>Robert Harris was not the
+first Controller to be captured,
+nor, Houston knew,
+would he be the last. The first
+one had shown up more than
+sixteen years before, in Dallas,
+Texas, USA.</p>
+
+<p>Houston grinned as he
+thought of it. Projective
+telepathy had only been a
+crackpot's idea back then. In
+spite of the work of many intelligent,
+sane men, who had
+shown that mental powers
+above and beyond the ordinary
+did exist, the average man
+simply laughed off such nonsense.
+It was mysticism; it
+was magic; it was foolish superstition.
+It was anything
+but true.</p>
+
+<p>But ever since "Blackjack"
+Donnely had practically taken
+control of the whole city of
+Dallas, the average man had
+changed his mind. It was still
+mysterious; it was still magic;
+but now the weird machinations
+of the supernormal
+mind were something to be
+feared.</p>
+
+<p>In the sixteen years that
+had ensued since the discovery
+of the abnormal mental
+powers of "Blackjack" Donnely,
+rumors had spread all
+over the world. There were
+supposed to be men who could
+levitate&mdash;fly through the air
+at will. Others could walk
+through walls, and still others
+could make themselves invisible.
+The horrible monsters
+that were supposed to be
+walking the Earth were
+legion.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Actually, only one type
+of supernormal psychodeviant
+had been found&mdash;the telepath,
+the mindreader who could
+probe into the mental processes
+of others. Worse than
+that, the telepath could project
+his own thoughts into the
+mind of another, so that the
+victim supposed that the
+thoughts were his own. Actually,
+it was a high-powered
+form of hypnotism; the victim
+could be made to do anything
+the projective telepath wanted
+him to.</p>
+
+<p>"Blackjack" Donnely had
+made that clear in his trial in
+Texas.</p>
+
+<p>Donnely had been a big man&mdash;big
+physically, and important
+in city politics. He had
+also been as arrogant as the
+Devil himself.</p>
+
+<p>It was the arrogance that
+had finally tripped up Donnely.
+He had thought himself
+impregnable. Haled into court
+on charges of misappropriation
+of public funds, he had
+just sat and smirked while
+several witnesses for the State
+admitted that they had aided
+Donnely, but they claimed he
+had "hypnotized" them. Donnely
+didn't try to interfere
+with the evidence&mdash;that's
+where he made his mistake.
+And that's where his arrogance
+tripped him up.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>If he'd used telepathic
+projection to influence the
+State Attorney or the witnesses
+or the judge or the
+Grand Jury <i>before</i> the trial,
+he might never have been discovered
+as the first of the Controllers.
+But that wasn't Donnely's
+style.</p>
+
+<p>"None of this namby-pamby
+stuff," he had once been
+quoted as saying; "if you got
+enemies, don't tease 'em&mdash;show
+'em who's running
+things. Blackjack 'em, if you
+have to."</p>
+
+<p>And that's exactly what
+"Blackjack" Donnely had
+done. The trial was a farce
+from beginning to end; each
+witness gave his evidence
+from the stand, and then Donnely
+took control of their
+minds and made them refute
+every bit of it, publicly and
+tearfully apologizing to the
+"wonderful Mr. Donnely" for
+saying such unkind things
+about him.</p>
+
+<p>The judge and the jury
+knew something funny was
+going on, but they had no evidence,
+one way or another.
+The case, even at that point,
+might have ended with an acquittal
+or a hung jury, but
+Donnely wasn't through using
+his blackjack.</p>
+
+<p>He took over the mind of
+the foreman of the jury. The
+foreman claimed later that the
+jury had decided that they
+could reach no decision. Other
+jurors claimed that they had
+decided Donnely was guilty,
+but that was probably an <i>ex
+post facto</i> switch. It didn't
+matter, anyway; when the
+foreman came out, he pronounced
+Donnely innocent.
+That should have ended it.</p>
+
+<p>The other jurors began to
+protest, but by that time,
+Donnely had gained control of
+the judge's mind. Rapidly, the
+judge silenced the jurors, declared
+Donnely to be free, and
+then publicly apologized for
+ever daring to doubt Mr. Donnely.</p>
+
+<p>The State's Attorney was
+equally verbose in his apology;
+he was almost in tears because
+of his "deep contrition at having
+cast aspersions on the
+spotless character of so great
+a man."</p>
+
+<p>Donnely was released.</p>
+
+<p>The next evening, "Blackjack"
+Donnely was shot down
+at the front door of his own
+home. There were fifteen bullets
+in his body; three from a
+.32, five from a .38, and seven
+from a .45.</p>
+
+<p>The police investigation was
+far from thorough; any evidence
+that may have turned
+up somehow got lost. It was
+labelled as "homicide committed
+by person or persons unknown,"
+and it stayed that
+way.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Donnely was only the first.
+In the next two years, four
+more showed up. Everyone of
+them, in one way or another,
+had attempted to gain power
+or money by mental projection.
+Everyone of them was a
+twisted megalomaniac.</p>
+
+<p>Houston looked again at
+Harris's picture on the front
+page of the <i>Times</i>. Here was
+one Controller who neither
+looked nor acted like a megalomaniac.
+That wouldn't make
+much difference to the PD Police;
+as far as the officials
+were concerned, the ability to
+project telepathically and the
+taint of delusions of grandeur
+went hand in hand. Controllers
+were power-mad and
+criminal by definition.</p>
+
+<p>Fear still ruled the emotional
+reactions against Controllers,
+in spite of the
+protection of the Psychodeviant
+Police.</p>
+
+<p>But David Houston knew
+damned good and well that all
+telepaths were not necessarily
+insane.</p>
+
+<p>He should know. He was a
+Controller, himself.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><i>Brrrring!</i></p>
+
+<p>David Houston tossed the
+paper on the bed and walked
+over to the phone. He cut in
+the circuit, and waited for the
+phone's TV screen to show the
+face of his caller. But the
+screen remained blank.</p>
+
+<p>"Who is it?" Houston asked.</p>
+
+<p>"Is this CHAring Cross
+7-8161?" It was a woman's
+voice, soft and well-modulated.</p>
+
+<p>"No, this is CHElsea
+7-8161," Houston said. "You
+must have dialed C-H-E instead
+of C-H-A."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh. I'm very sorry. Excuse
+me." There was a click, and
+she hung up.</p>
+
+<p>Houston walked back over
+to the bed and picked up his
+paper. He looked at it, but he
+didn't read it. It no longer interested
+him.</p>
+
+<p>So Dorrine was finally in
+London, eh? He'd recognized
+her voice instantly; even
+years of training couldn't
+smother the midwestern
+American of Chicago completely
+beneath the precise
+British of the well-educated
+English girl.</p>
+
+<p>The signal had been agreed
+upon, just in case his phone
+was tapped. Even the Psychodeviant
+Police could be suspected
+of harboring a Controller&mdash;although
+Houston
+didn't think it too likely.
+Nevertheless, he wasn't one to
+take too many chances.</p>
+
+<p>He glanced at his watch. He
+had an hour yet. He'd wait five
+minutes before he phoned
+headquarters.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>He sat down in his chair
+again and forced himself to
+relax, smoke a cigarette, and
+read the paper&mdash;the sports
+section. Perusing the records
+of the season's cricket
+matches kept his mind off that
+picture on the front page. At
+least, he hoped they would.
+Let's see, now&mdash;Benton was
+being rated as the finest googly
+bowler on the Staffordshire
+Club ...</p>
+
+<p>Everything went fine until
+he came across a reference to
+a John Harris, a top-flight
+batsman for Hambledon; that
+reminded him of Robert Harris.
+Houston threw down the
+paper in disgust and walked
+over to the phone.</p>
+
+<p>The number was TROwbridge
+5-4321, but no one ever
+bothered to remember it.
+Simply dial 8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1,
+and every time a voice at the
+other end would answer&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Hamilton speaking."</p>
+
+<p>"Houston here; will I be
+needed in the next hour or
+so?"</p>
+
+<p>"Mmmm. Just a second;
+I'll check the roster. No; your
+evidence won't be needed personally.
+You've filed an affidavit.
+No, I don't think&mdash;wait a
+minute! Yes, there's a return
+here for you; reservation on
+the six A.M. jet to New York.
+Your job here is done, Houston,
+so you can take the rest
+of the evening off and relax.
+Going anywhere in particular?"</p>
+
+<p>"I thought I'd get a bite to
+eat and take in a movie, maybe,
+but if I'm due out at six,
+I'll forego the cinematic diversion.
+When's the trial?"</p>
+
+<p>"It's scheduled for eleven-thirty
+this evening. Going to
+come?"</p>
+
+<p>Houston shook his head.
+"Not if I'm not needed to give
+evidence. Those Controllers always
+give me the creeps."</p>
+
+<p>"They do everybody," said
+Hamilton. "Well, you caught
+him; there's no need for you
+to stick around for the windup.
+Have a good time."</p>
+
+<p>"Thanks," said Houston
+shortly, and hung up.</p>
+
+<p><i>The windup</i>, Houston
+thought. <i>Sure. That's all it
+will be. A Controller's trial is
+a farce. Knock him out with a
+stun gun and then pump him
+full of comatol. How can he
+defend himself if he's unconscious
+all through the trial?</i></p>
+
+<p>Houston knew what the
+average man's answer to that
+would be: "If a Controller
+were allowed to remain conscious,
+he'd take over the
+judge's mind and get himself
+freed."</p>
+
+<p>Houston said an obscene
+word under his breath, jammed
+his hat on his head, put
+on his coat, and left his apartment.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>With the coming of darkness,
+the heavy fog had become
+still denser. The yellow
+beams of the sodium vapor
+lamps were simply golden
+spots hanging in an all-enveloping
+blackness. Walking the
+street was a process of moving
+from one little golden island
+of light to another,
+crossing seas of blankness between.
+The monochromatic
+yellow shone on the human
+faces that passed beneath the
+lamps, robbing them of all
+color, giving them a dead,
+grayish appearance beneath
+the yellow itself.</p>
+
+<p>David Houston walked purposefully
+along the pavement,
+his hand jammed deep in his
+overcoat pockets. One hand
+held the control box for the
+little earpiece he wore. He
+kept moving the band selector,
+listening for any sign
+that the Psychodeviant Police
+were suspicious of a Controller
+in their midst.</p>
+
+<p>If they were following him,
+of course, they would use a
+different scrambler circuit
+than the one which was plugged
+into his own unit, but he
+would be able to hear the
+gabble of voices, even if he
+couldn't understand what they
+were saying.</p>
+
+<p>So far, there hadn't been a
+sound; if he was being followed,
+his tailers weren't
+using the personal intercom
+units.</p>
+
+<p>He didn't try to elude anyone
+who might be following.
+That, in itself, would be a
+giveaway. Let them watch, if
+they <i>were</i> watching. They
+wouldn't see anything but a
+man going to get himself a bit
+of dinner.</p>
+
+<p>The <i>Charles II Inn</i>, on
+Regent Street, near Piccadilly
+Circus, was a haven of
+brightness in an otherwise
+Stygian London. It was one
+of those "old-fashioned"
+places&mdash;Restoration style of
+decoration, carried out in
+modern plastics. The oak
+panelling looked authentic
+enough, but it was just a little
+too glossy to be real.</p>
+
+<p>Houston pushed open the
+door, stepped inside, removed
+his hat and coat and shook the
+dampness from them. As he
+handed them to the checker,
+he looked casually around.
+Dorrine was nowhere in sight,
+but he hadn't expected her to
+be. There would be no point
+in their meeting physically; it
+might even be downright dangerous.</p>
+
+<p>The headwaiter, clad in the
+long waistcoat and full trunk-hose
+of the late Seventeenth
+Century, bowed punctiliously.</p>
+
+<p>"You're alone, sir?"</p>
+
+<p>"Alone, yes," Houston said.
+"I'll just be wanting a light
+supper and a drink or two."</p>
+
+<p>"This way, sir."</p>
+
+<p>Houston followed the man
+to a small table in the rear of
+the huge dining room. It was
+set for two, but the other
+place was quickly cleared
+away. Houston ordered an
+Irish-and-soda from a waiter
+who was only slightly less
+elaborately dressed than the
+headwaiter, and then settled
+himself down to wait. If he
+knew Dorrine, she would be
+on time to the minute.</p>
+
+<p>She came while the waiter
+was setting the drink on
+Houston's table. She stepped
+in through the door, her unmistakable
+hair glowing a
+rich red in the illumination of
+the pseudo-candlelight.</p>
+
+<p>She didn't bother to look
+around; she knew he would be
+there.</p>
+
+<p>After a single glance, Houston
+averted his eyes from her
+and looked back at his drink.</p>
+
+<p>And in that same instant,
+their minds touched.</p>
+
+<p><i>Dave, darling! I knew you'd
+be early!</i></p>
+
+<p><i>Dorrine!</i></p>
+
+<p>And then their minds meshed
+for an instant.</p>
+
+<p><i>I</i>&mdash;<i>(we)</i>&mdash;<i>you</i>&mdash;LOVE&mdash;<i>you</i>&mdash;(each
+other)&mdash;me!&mdash;us!</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Houston looked complacently
+at his drink while the
+headwaiter led Dorrine to a
+table on the far side of the
+room. She sat down gracefully,
+smiled at the waiter, and
+ordered a cocktail. Then she
+took a magazine from her
+handbag and began&mdash;presumably&mdash;to
+read.</p>
+
+<p>Her thought came: <i>Who is
+this Richard Harris? He's not
+one of our Group.</i></p>
+
+<p>Houston sipped at his
+drink. <i>No. An unknown, like
+the others. I wonder if he's
+even a telepath.</i></p>
+
+<p><i>What?</i> Her thought carried
+astonishment. <i>Why,
+Dave&mdash;he'd</i> have <i>to be! How
+else could he have controlled
+this Sir Lewis&mdash;whatsisname&mdash;Huntley?</i></p>
+
+<p><i>Well&mdash;I've got a funny idea</i>,
+Houston replied. <i>Look at it
+this way: So far as we know,
+there are two Groups of telepaths.
+There's our own Group.
+All we want is to be left alone.
+We don't read a Normal's
+mind unless we have to, and
+we don't try to control one unless
+our lives are threatened.
+We stay under cover, out of
+everyone's way.</i></p>
+
+<p><i>Then there are the megalomaniacs.
+They try, presumably,
+to gain wealth and
+power by controlling Normals.
+And they get caught
+with monotonous regularity.
+Right?</i></p>
+
+<p>The girl caught an odd note
+in that thought. <i>What do you
+mean, "monotonous regularity"?</i>
+she asked.</p>
+
+<p><i>I mean</i>, Houston thought
+savagely, <i>why is it they're all
+so bloody stupid? Look at this
+Harris guy; he is supposed to
+have taken over Sir Lewis's
+mind in order to get a thousand
+pounds. So what did he
+have Sir Lewis do? Parade all
+around the city to pick up a
+PD Police net, and then give
+his address to a cabman in a
+loud voice and lead the whole
+net right to Harris! How stupid
+can a man get?</i></p>
+
+<p><i>It does look pretty silly</i>,
+Dorrine agreed. <i>Have you got
+an explanation?</i></p>
+
+<p><i>Several</i>, Houston told her.
+<i>And I don't know which one
+is correct.</i></p>
+
+<p><i>Let's have them</i>, the girl
+thought.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Houston gave them to her.
+None of them, he knew, was
+completely satisfactory, but
+they all made more sense that
+the theory that Harris had
+done what the PD Police
+claimed he'd done.</p>
+
+<p>Theory Number One: The
+real megalomaniac Controller
+had taken over Sir Lewis's
+mind and made him draw out
+the thousand pounds and head
+west on Leadenhall Street.
+Somehow, the Controller had
+found out that Sir Lewis was
+being followed, and had steered
+him away from the original
+destination, heading him
+toward the innocent Robert
+Harris. That implied that the
+Controller had been within a
+few dozen yards of the net
+men that afternoon. A Controller
+can't control a mind
+directly from a distance, although
+orders can be implanted
+which will cause a man to
+carry out a plan of action,
+even though he may be miles
+from the Controller. But in
+order to change those plans,
+the Controller would have to
+be within projection range.</p>
+
+<p>Theory Two: Robert Harris
+actually was a megalomaniac
+Controller; with a long record
+of success behind him, who
+had finally grown careless.</p>
+
+<p>At that point, Dorrine interjected
+a thought: <i>Isn't it
+possible that he wanted to be
+caught?</i></p>
+
+<p>Houston mulled it over for
+a minute. <i>A guilt-punishment
+reaction? He wanted to be
+punished for his crimes? I
+suppose that might account
+for part of it, yes. But if he'd
+been so successful, what did
+he do with all his money?</i></p>
+
+<p>Dorrine gave a mental
+shrug. <i>Who knows? What's
+Theory Number Three?</i></p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Number Three was the
+screwiest one of all, yet it
+made a weird kind of sense.
+Suppose that Sir Lewis himself
+had had a grudge against
+Harris? The whole thing
+would have been ridiculously
+easy; all he'd have to do
+would be to act just as he had
+acted and then give evidence
+against Harris.</p>
+
+<p>The thing that made it odd
+wasn't the actual frame-up (if
+that's what it was); these
+days, every crime was blamed
+on a Controller. A man accused
+of murder simply looked
+virtuous and said that he
+would never have done such a
+thing if he hadn't been under
+the power of a Controller.
+Ditto for robbery, rape, and
+any other felony you'd care to
+name.</p>
+
+<p>An aura of fear hung over
+the whole Earth; each man
+half suspected everyone with
+whom he came in contact of
+being a Controller.</p>
+
+<p>So it wasn't that the frame-up
+in itself was peculiar in
+this case; it was simply that
+it wasn't Sir Lewis Huntley's
+style. If Sir Lewis had wanted
+to get Harris, he'd have done
+it legally, without any underhanded
+frame-ups. Still, the
+theory remained as a possibility.</p>
+
+<p><i>I suppose it does</i>, Dorrine
+agreed, <i>but how does that tie
+in with our own Group? What
+about Jackson and Marcy?
+What happened to them?</i></p>
+
+<p><i>I don't know</i>, Houston admitted,
+<i>I just don't know</i>.</p>
+
+<p>Jackson and Marcy had
+been members of the Group of
+telepaths who had banded together
+for companionship and
+mutual protection. Both of
+them had been trapped by the
+PD Police in exactly the same
+way that Harris had been
+trapped. They were now
+where Harris would be in a
+matter of hours&mdash;in the Penal
+Cluster.</p>
+
+<p>Their arrests didn't make
+sense, either; they had been
+accused of taking over someone's
+mind for the purpose of
+gaining money illegally&mdash;illegal,
+that is, according to the
+new UN laws that had been
+passed to supersede the various
+national laws that had
+previously been in effect.</p>
+
+<p>But Houston had known
+both men well, and neither of
+them was the kind of man who
+would pull such a stunt, much
+less do it in such a stupid manner.</p>
+
+<p>Dorrine thought: <i>Well,
+Dave, this Harris case is out
+of our hands now; we've got
+to concentrate on getting others
+into the Group&mdash;we've got
+to find the other sane ones.</i></p>
+
+<p><i>You're ready to take over
+here, then?</i> he asked.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>At the table, several yards
+away from where Houston
+was sitting, Dorrine, still
+looking at the book, smiled
+faintly.</p>
+
+<p><i>I'll have to; you're being
+transferred back to New York
+at six in the morning.</i></p>
+
+<p>Houston allowed a feeling of
+startled surprise to bridge the
+gap between their minds.
+<i>How'd you know that?</i> He
+hadn't told her, and she
+couldn't have forced the
+knowledge from his mind. A
+telepath can open the mind of
+a Normal as simply as he
+might open the pages of a
+book, but the mind of another
+Controller is far stronger. One
+telepath couldn't force anything
+from the mind of another;
+all thoughts had to be
+exchanged voluntarily.</p>
+
+<p>She was still smiling. <i>We've
+got a few spies in the UN now</i>,
+she told him. <i>I got the information
+before you did.</i></p>
+
+<p><i>You knew before you left
+New York?</i> he asked incredulously.</p>
+
+<p><i>That's right</i>, she thought.
+<i>The decision was made last
+night. Why?</i></p>
+
+<p><i>Nothing</i>, he told her. <i>I was
+just surprised, that's all.</i> But
+deep behind the telepathic
+barrier he had erected against
+her probing mind, he was
+thinking something else. He
+had been assigned to London
+to capture the Controller&mdash;then
+unknown&mdash;who was said
+to be active in England. But
+his recall order had been decided
+upon <i>before</i> Harris was
+caught&mdash;or even suspected.
+Someone in the UN Psychodeviant
+Police Supreme Headquarters
+in New York must
+have known that Harris would
+be caught that day!</p>
+
+<p><i>Something's bothering you</i>,
+Dorrine stated flatly.</p>
+
+<p><i>I was thinking about leaving
+London</i>, he replied evasively.
+<i>I haven't seen you for
+six months, and now I have to
+leave again.</i></p>
+
+<p><i>I'll be back in New York
+within three weeks</i>, the girl
+thought warmly. <i>I'll be&mdash;</i></p>
+
+<p>Her thoughts were cut off
+suddenly by a strident voice
+in Houston's ear. "Attention;
+all-band notice. Robert Bentley
+Harris, arraigned this evening
+on a charge of illegal use
+of psychodeviant powers for
+the purpose of compounding a
+felony, has been found guilty
+as charged. He was therefore
+sentenced by the Lord Justice
+of Her Majesty's Court of
+Star Chamber to be banished
+from Earth forever, such banishment
+to be carried out by
+the United Nations Penology
+Service at the Queen's pleasure."</p>
+
+<p>The words that were running
+through Houston's brain,
+had been transmitted easily to
+Dorrine. For a moment,
+neither of them made any
+comment. Then Houston
+glanced at his watch.</p>
+
+<p><i>Twenty-one minutes</i>, he
+thought bitterly. <i>What took
+them so long?</i></p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>High in the thin ionosphere,
+seventy miles above the surface
+of the Earth, a fifteen-hundred-mile-an-hour
+rocket
+airliner winged its way westward
+across the Atlantic,
+pushing herself forward on
+the thin, whispering, white-hot
+jets of her atomic engine.
+Behind her, the outdistanced
+sun sank slowly below the
+eastern horizon.</p>
+
+<p>David Houston wasn't
+watching the sunrise-in-reverse;
+he was sitting quietly
+in his seat, still trying to
+puzzle out his queer recall to
+New York. When Hamilton
+had told him about it over the
+phone, he'd assumed that New
+York, having been notified
+that Harris had been captured,
+had decided to send for
+Houston, now that his job was
+over.</p>
+
+<p>But now he knew that the
+order had come through nearly
+twenty-four hours before
+Harris was captured.</p>
+
+<p>Did someone at UN Headquarters
+know that Harris
+was going to be captured? Or
+did someone there suspect
+that there was something odd
+about Police Operative David
+Houston?</p>
+
+<p>Or both?</p>
+
+<p>Whatever it was, Houston
+would have to take his
+chances; to act suspiciously
+would be a deadly mistake.</p>
+
+<p>A stewardess, clad in the
+chic BOAC uniform, moved
+down the aisle, quietly informing
+the passengers that they
+could have coffee served at
+their seats or take breakfast
+in the lounge. The atmosphere
+of the plane's interior was
+filled with the low murmur of
+a hundred conversations
+against the background of the
+susurrant mutter of the
+mighty engines.</p>
+
+<p><i>Uhhh&mdash;uh&mdash;uh&mdash;dizzy&mdash;head hurts&mdash;uh&mdash;uh&mdash;</i></p>
+
+<p>The sounds in the plane altered
+subtly as the faint
+thought insinuated itself on
+every brain inside the aircraft.
+None of the Normal
+passengers recognized it for
+what it was; it was too gentle,
+too weak, to be recognized
+directly by their minds.</p>
+
+<p>But David Houston recognized
+it instantly for what it
+was.</p>
+
+<p>Somewhere on the plane, a
+Controller had been unconscious.
+<i>Had</i> been. For now, his
+powerful mind was trying to
+swim up from the black
+depths of nothingness.</p>
+
+<p><i>Uh&mdash;uhhhh&mdash;uhh&mdash;</i></p>
+
+<p>The Normal passengers became
+uneasy, not knowing
+why they were disturbed. To
+them, it was like a vaguely unpleasant
+but totally unrecognizable
+nudge from their
+own subconscious, like some
+long-forgotten and deeply
+buried memory that had been
+forced down into oblivion and
+was now trying to obtrude itself
+on the conscious mind.</p>
+
+<p><i>Uhhh&mdash;Oooohh&mdash;where?&mdash;what
+happened?&mdash;</i></p>
+
+<p>A fully conscious telepath
+could project his thoughts
+along a narrow locus, focusing
+them on a single brain,
+leaving all other brains oblivious
+to his thoughts. Like a
+TV broadcasting station, he
+could choose his wavelength
+and stick to it.</p>
+
+<p>But a half-conscious Controller
+sprayed his thoughts at
+random, creating mental disturbances
+in his vicinity. Like
+a thunderstorm creating radio
+static, there was no selectivity.</p>
+
+<p>Savagely, David Houston
+did what he had to do. It
+might be a trap, but he had
+to avoid the carnage that
+might follow if this went on.
+He hurled a beam of thought,
+hard-held, at the offending
+mind of the awakening telepath.</p>
+
+<p><i>DON'T THINK! RELAX!</i></p>
+
+<p>Normally it was impossible
+for a Controller to take over
+the mind of another Controller,
+but these were abnormal
+circumstances; the half-conscious
+man, whoever he was,
+was weakened mentally by
+some kind of enforced unconsciousness&mdash;either
+a drug or a
+stun gun. Houston took over
+his mind smoothly and easily.</p>
+
+<p><i>Robert Harris!</i></p>
+
+<p>Houston recognized the
+mind as soon as he held it.</p>
+
+<p>He didn't try to force anything
+on Harris's mind; he
+simply held it, cradling it,
+helping Harris to regain consciousness
+easily, bringing
+him up from the darkness
+gently.</p>
+
+<p>In normal sleep, everyone's
+mind retains a certain amount
+of self-control and awareness
+of environment. If it didn't,
+noise and bright lights
+wouldn't awaken a sleeping
+person.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>In normal sleep, a telepath
+retained enough control to
+keep his thoughts to himself,
+even when waking up.</p>
+
+<p>But total anaesthesia
+brought on a mental blackout
+from which the victim recovered
+only with effort. And
+during that time, a Controller's
+mind was violently disturbing
+to the Normal minds
+around him, who mistook his
+disordered thoughts for their
+own.</p>
+
+<p>Like pouring heavy oil on
+choppy waters, Houston
+soothed the disturbances of
+Harris's mind, focusing the
+random broadcasts on his own
+brain.</p>
+
+<p>And while he did that, he
+probed gently into the weakened
+mind of the prisoner for
+information.</p>
+
+<p>Harris was a Controller, all
+right; there was no doubt
+about that. But nowhere in his
+mind was there any trace of
+any knowledge of what had
+happened to Sir Lewis Huntley.
+If Sir Lewis had actually
+been controlled, it hadn't been
+done by Robert Harris.</p>
+
+<p>Houston wished he'd been
+able to probe Sir Lewis's
+mind; he'd have been able to
+get a lot more information
+out of it than he had in his
+possession now. But that
+would have been dangerous;
+if Sir Lewis was a Controller
+himself, and had been acting
+a part, Houston would have
+given himself away the instant
+he attempted to touch
+the baronet's mind. If, on the
+other hand, Sir Lewis had actually
+been under the control
+of another telepath, any probing
+into the mind of the puppet
+would have betrayed
+Houston to the real Controller.</p>
+
+<p>Harris knew nothing. He
+wasn't acquainted with any
+other Controllers, and had
+kept his nose clean ever since
+he'd discovered his latent
+powers. He knew that megalomaniac
+Controllers were
+either captured or mobbed,
+and he had no wish to experience
+either.</p>
+
+<p>The Normals had long since
+discovered that the only way
+to overcome a Controller was
+by force of numbers. A Controller
+could only hold one
+Normal mind at a time. That
+was why a mob could easily
+kill a single Controller; that
+was why the Psychodeviant
+Police had evolved the "net"
+system for arresting a telepath.</p>
+
+<p>Harris, then, had been
+framed. Or could it be called
+a frame-up when Harris was
+really guilty of the actual
+crime? Because the crime he
+had really been accused of
+was not that of controlling
+Sir Lewis, but the crime of
+being a telepath. That, and
+that alone, damned him in the
+eyes of the Normals; the
+crime of taking over a mind
+for gain was incidental. The
+stigma lies in what he <i>was</i>, not
+what he did.</p>
+
+<p>Harris himself was in the
+bottom of the plane, in the
+baggage section near the
+landing gear. After his trial,
+still drugged, he had been secretly
+put aboard, to be taken
+to the Long Island Spaceport
+in New York. It had had to be
+secret; no Normal would
+knowingly ride on an aircraft
+which carried a Controller,
+even if he were drugged into
+total unconsciousness.</p>
+
+<p>With Harris were two PD
+Police guards. Their low conversation
+impinged on Harris's
+ears, and was transmitted
+to Houston's mind.</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly, one of them said:
+"Hey! He's moving!"</p>
+
+<p>"Better give him another
+shot, Harry;" said the other,
+"when those guys wake up,
+they drive you crazy."</p>
+
+<p>Houston could almost feel
+the sting of the needle as it
+was inserted into the arm of
+the helpless prisoner.</p>
+
+<p>Slowly, Harris's thoughts,
+which had begun to become
+fully coherent, again became
+chaotic, finally sliding off into
+silence and darkness.</p>
+
+<p>"Are you all right, sir?"</p>
+
+<p>Houston looked up from his
+intense concentration. The
+stewardess was standing by
+his seat. He realized that there
+was a film of perspiration on
+his brow, and that he probably
+had looked dazed while
+he was concentrating on Harris's
+mind.</p>
+
+<p>"Sure," he said quickly,
+"I'm all right. I'm just a little
+tired. Had to get up too early
+to catch this plane." He rubbed
+his forehead. "I do have a
+little headache; would you
+happen to have any aspirin
+aboard?"</p>
+
+<p>She smiled professionally.
+"Certainly, sir. I'll get a couple
+of tablets."</p>
+
+<p>As she left for the first-aid
+cabinet, Houston thought
+bleakly to himself: <i>Harris
+was framed. Possibly others
+have been, too. But by whom?
+And why?</i></p>
+
+<p>He could see why a Normal
+might do such a thing. But
+why would a Controller do it?</p>
+
+<p>There was only one answer.
+Somewhere, there was a Controller,
+or a group of Controllers
+who were megalomaniacs
+<i>par excellence</i>. If that were
+so, he&mdash;or they&mdash;could make
+the late "Blackjack" Donnely
+look like a meek, harmless,
+little mouse.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>The one part of Continental
+U.S.A. over which the American
+Government had no jurisdiction
+was small, areawise,
+in comparison with its power.
+The District of the United
+Nations occupied the small
+area of Manhattan Island
+which ran from 38th Street on
+the south to 49th Street on
+the north; its western border
+was Third Avenue, its eastern,
+the East River. From here,
+the UN ruled Earth.</p>
+
+<p>There were no walls or
+fences around it; only by
+looking at street signs could
+anyone tell that they had
+crossed an international border.
+Crossing Third Avenue
+from west to east, one found
+that 45th Street had suddenly
+become Deutschland Strasse;
+40th Street became Rue de
+France; 47th was the Via
+Italiano. 43rd Street's sign
+was painted in Cyrillic characters,
+but beneath it, in English,
+were the words "Avenue
+of Mother Russia."</p>
+
+<p>Third Avenue was technically
+One World Drive. Second
+Avenue was labelled as
+Planetary Peace Drive, and
+First was United Nations
+Drive.</p>
+
+<p>But New Yorkers are, and
+always have been, diehards.
+Just as The Avenue of the
+Americas had forever remained
+Sixth Avenue, no matter
+what the maps called it, so
+had the other streets retained
+their old names in conversation.</p>
+
+<p>Even the International Post
+Office, after years of wrangling,
+had given up, and letters
+addressed to <i>Supreme
+Headquarters, United Nations
+Police, 45th Street at Second
+Avenue</i>, were delivered without
+comment, even though the
+IPO still firmly held that they
+were technically misaddressed.
+And, privately, even the
+IPO officials admitted that the
+numbers were easier to say
+and remember than the polyglot
+street names that had
+been tagged on by the General
+Assembly.</p>
+
+<p>So when David Houston signalled
+a taxi at Grand Central
+Station and said, "Forty-fifth
+and Second," the driver simply
+set his automatic controls,
+leaned back in his seat, and
+said, "Goin' to see the cops,
+huh?"</p>
+
+<p>When no answer was forthcoming,
+the driver turned
+around and took a good look
+at his passenger. "Maybe
+you're a UN cop yourself,
+huh?"</p>
+
+<p>Houston shook his head.
+"Nope. Some kids have been
+scribbling dirty words on my
+sidewalk, and I'm going to report
+it to the authorities."</p>
+
+<p>The driver turned back
+around and looked ahead
+again. "Jeez! That's serious.
+Hadn't you better take it up
+with the Secretary General?
+I wouldn't be satisfied with no
+underlings in a case like
+that."</p>
+
+<p>"I'm thinking of taking it
+up with the Atomic Energy
+Control Board," Houston told
+him. "I think those kids are
+using radioactive chalk."</p>
+
+<p>"That's one way for 'em to
+get blue jeans," said the
+driver cryptically.</p>
+
+<p>There was silence for a moment
+as the taxi braked
+smoothly to a halt, guided and
+controlled by the automatic
+machinery in the hood.</p>
+
+<p>Then, suddenly, the driver
+said: "Ship up!" He pointed
+east, along 45th Street, toward
+Long Island. Far in the
+distance was a rapidly rising
+vapor trail, pointing vertically
+toward the sky, the
+unmistakable sign of a spaceship
+takeoff. They didn't leave
+often, and it was still an unusual
+sight.</p>
+
+<p>Houston said nothing as he
+climbed out and paid the
+driver, tossing in an extra tip.</p>
+
+<p>"Thanks, buddy," said the
+driver. "Watch out for them
+kids."</p>
+
+<p>Houston didn't answer. He
+was still watching the vapor
+trail as the cab pulled away.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><i>There goes Harris</i>, he was
+thinking. <i>An innocent man,
+guilty of nothing more than
+being born different. And because
+of that, he's labelled as
+an inhuman monster, not
+even worthy of being executed.
+Instead, he's taken into
+space, filled full of hibernene,
+and chained to a floating piece
+of rock for the rest of his life.</i></p>
+
+<p>Such was humanity's "humane"
+way of taking care of
+the bogey of Controllers. Capital
+punishment had been
+outlawed all over Earth; it
+had long since been proved
+that legalized murder, execution
+by the State, solved nothing,
+helped no one, prevented
+no crimes, and did infinitely
+more harm than good in the
+long run.</p>
+
+<p>With the coming of the
+Controllers, a movement had
+arisen to bring back the old
+evil of judicial murder, but it
+had been quickly put down
+when the Penal Cluster plan
+had been put forth as a more
+"humane" method.</p>
+
+<p>Hibernene was a drug that
+had been evolved from the
+study of animals like the bear,
+which spent its winters in an
+almost death-like sleep. A human
+being, given a proper
+dosage of the drug, lapsed
+into a deep coma. The bodily
+processes were slowed down;
+the heart throbbed sluggishly,
+once every few minutes;
+thought ceased. It was the
+ideal prison for a mental offender
+that ordinary prisons
+could not hold.</p>
+
+<p>But it wasn't quite enough
+for the bloodthirsty desire for
+vengeance that the Normals
+held for the Controllers. There
+had to be more.</p>
+
+<p>Following Earth in its orbit
+around the sun, trailing it
+by some ninety-three million
+miles, were a group of tiny
+asteroids, occupying what is
+known as the Trojan position.
+They were invisible from
+Earth, being made of dark
+rock and none of them being
+more than fifteen feet in
+diameter. But they had been
+a source of trouble in some of
+the early expeditions to Mars,
+and had been carefully charted
+by the Space Commission.</p>
+
+<p>Now a use had been found
+for them. A man in a spacesuit
+could easily be chained to
+one of them. With him was a
+small, sun-powered engine and
+tanks of liquified food concentrates
+and oxygen. Kept under
+the influence of hibernene,
+and kept cool by the chill of
+space, a man could spend the
+rest of his life there&mdash;unmoving,
+unknowing, uncaring,
+dead as far as he and the rest
+of Mankind were concerned&mdash;his
+slight bodily needs tended
+automatically by machine.</p>
+
+<p>It was a punishment that
+satisfied both sides of the life-or-death
+argument.</p>
+
+<p>Houston shook off the bleak,
+black feeling of terrible chill
+that had crept over him and
+pushed his way into the UN
+Police building.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>The thirteenth floor housed
+the Psychodeviant Division.
+As he stood in the rising elevator,
+Houston wondered wryly
+if the number 13 was good
+luck or bad in this case.</p>
+
+<p>He stepped out of the elevator
+and headed for the
+Division Chief's office.</p>
+
+<p>Division Chief Reinhardt
+was a heavy-set, balding man,
+built like a professional
+wrestler. His cold blue eyes
+gleamed from beneath shaggy,
+overhanging brows, and his
+face was almost expressionless
+except for a faint scowl
+that crossed it from time to
+time. In spite of the fact that
+a Canadian education had
+wiped out all but the barest
+trace of German accent, his
+Prussian training, of the old
+Junkers school, was still evident.
+He demanded&mdash;and got&mdash;precision
+and obedience
+from his subordinates, although
+he had no use for the
+strictly military viewpoint of
+obsequiousness towards one's
+superiors.</p>
+
+<p>He was sitting behind his
+desk, scowling slightly at some
+papers on it when Houston
+stepped in.</p>
+
+<p>"You wanted me to report
+straight to you, Mr. Reinhardt?"</p>
+
+<p>Reinhardt looked up, his
+heavy face becoming expressionless.
+"Ah, Houston. Yes;
+sit down. You did a fine job
+on that London affair; that's
+what I call coming through at
+the last moment."</p>
+
+<p>"How so?"</p>
+
+<p>"Your orders to return," he
+said, "were cut before you
+found your man. We have a
+much more important case
+for you than some petty pilfering
+Controller. We are
+after much more dangerous
+game."</p>
+
+<p>Houston nodded. "I see."
+Inwardly, he wondered. It
+was almost as if Reinhardt
+knew that Houston had found
+out that the recall had come
+early. Houston would have
+given his right arm at that
+moment to be able to probe
+Reinhardt's mind. But he held
+himself back. He had, in the
+past, sent tentative probes toward
+the Division Chief and
+found nothing, but he didn't
+know whether it would be safe
+now or not. It would be better
+to wait.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Reinhardt stood up, walked
+to the wall, and turned on a
+display screen. He twisted
+a knob to a certain setting,
+and a map of Manhattan Island
+sprang onto the screen in
+glowing color.</p>
+
+<p>"As you know," Reinhardt
+said pedantically, "no Controller
+can do a perfect job of
+controlling a normal person.
+No matter how much he may
+want to make John Smith act
+naturally, some of the personality
+of the Controller will
+show up in the actions of
+John Smith. Am I correct?"</p>
+
+<p>Houston nodded without
+saying anything. The question
+was purely rhetorical, and the
+statement was perfectly correct.</p>
+
+<p>"Very well, then," Reinhardt
+continued, "by means of
+these peculiarities, our psychologists
+have found that
+there is widespread, but very
+subtle controlling going on
+right in the UN General Assembly
+itself! The amazing
+thing is that they all bear the&mdash;shall
+we say&mdash;trademark of
+the same Controller. Whoever
+he is, he seems to have a long-range
+plan in mind; he wants
+to change, ever so slightly,
+certain international laws so
+that he will profit by them. Do
+you follow?"</p>
+
+<p>"I follow," said Houston.</p>
+
+<p>"Good. It has taken painstaking
+research and a great
+deal of psychological statistical
+analysis, but we have
+found that one company&mdash;and
+one company only&mdash;benefits
+by these legal changes. Did
+you ever hear of Lasser &amp;
+Sons?"</p>
+
+<p>"Sure," said Houston.
+"They're in the import-export
+business, with a few fingers in
+shipping and air transport."</p>
+
+<p>"That's them," said Reinhardt.
+"Someone in that company,
+presumably someone at
+the top, is a Controller. And
+he's a very subtle, very dangerous
+man. Unlike the others,
+there is nothing hasty or
+overt in his plans. But within
+a few years, if this goes on,
+he will have more power than
+the others ever dreamed of."</p>
+
+<p>"And my job is to get him?"
+Houston asked.</p>
+
+<p>Reinhardt nodded. "That's
+it. Get him. One way or another.
+You're in charge; I
+don't care how you do it, but
+this one Controller is more
+dangerous than any other
+we've come across, so get
+him."</p>
+
+<p>Houston nodded slowly.
+"Okay. Can you give me all
+the data you have so far?"</p>
+
+<p>Reinhardt patted a heavy
+folder on his desk. "It's all
+here." Then he tapped the
+projected map on the screen.
+"That's the Lasser Building&mdash;Church
+Street at Worth.
+Somewhere in there is the
+man we're looking for."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>David Houston spent the
+next six weeks gathering
+facts, trying to determine the
+identity of the mysterious
+Controller at Lasser &amp; Sons.
+Slowly, the evidence began to
+pile up.</p>
+
+<p>At the same time, he worried
+over his own problem.
+Who was betraying non-criminal
+Controllers to the PD Police?</p>
+
+<p>In that six-week period,
+two more men and a woman
+were arrested&mdash;one in Spain,
+one in India, and one in
+Hawaii.</p>
+
+<p>There weren't very many
+Controllers on Earth, percentagewise.
+Of the three and a
+half billion people on Earth,
+less than an estimated one-thousandth
+of one percent
+were telepathic. But that made
+a grand total of some thirty-five
+thousand people.</p>
+
+<p>Spread, as they were, all
+over the planet, it was rare
+that one Controller ever met
+another. The intelligent ones
+didn't use their power; they
+remained concealed, even
+from each other.</p>
+
+<p>But <i>someone</i>, somewhere,
+was finding them and betraying
+them to the Psychodeviant
+Police.</p>
+
+<p>As more and more data
+came in on the Lasser case,
+Houston began to get an idea.
+If there were a really clever,
+highly intelligent, megalomaniac
+Controller, wouldn't it
+be part of his psychological
+pattern to attempt to get rid
+of the majority of Controllers,
+those who simply wanted to
+lead normal lives?</p>
+
+<p>And, if so, wasn't it possible
+that both his cases&mdash;the
+official and the unofficial&mdash;might
+lead to the same place:
+Lasser &amp; Sons?</p>
+
+<p>It began to look as though
+Houston could kill both his
+birds at once, if he could just
+figure out when, how, and in
+what direction to throw the
+stone.</p>
+
+<p>In the middle of the seventh
+week, a Controller in
+Manchester, England, was
+mobbed and torn to bits by an
+irate crowd before the PD Police
+could get to him. There
+was no doubt in Houston's
+mind that this one was a real
+megalomaniac; he had taken
+over another man's brain and
+forced him to commit suicide.
+The controlled man had taken
+a Webley automatic, put it to
+his temple, and blown his
+brains out.</p>
+
+<p>The Controller's mistake
+was in not realizing what the
+sudden shock of that bullet,
+transmitted to him telepathically,
+could do to his own mind.
+In the mental disorder that
+followed, he was spotted and
+killed easily.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>There was still no word
+from Dorrine. She had flown
+back to the States a week after
+Houston had returned, but
+she had had to get back to
+England after three days.
+Since then, he had had three
+letters, nothing more. And
+letters are a damned unsatisfactory
+way for a telepath to
+conduct a love affair.</p>
+
+<p>The one other factor that
+entered in was The Group, the
+small band of sane, reasonable
+telepaths who had begun to
+build themselves into an organization&mdash;a
+sort of Mutual
+Protective Association.</p>
+
+<p>Personally, Houston didn't
+think much of the idea; the
+Group didn't have any real organization,
+and they refused
+to put one together. It was
+supposed to be democratic, but
+it sometimes bordered on the
+anarchic.</p>
+
+<p>He stayed with them more
+for companionship than any
+other reason. When Dorrine
+had come back for her short
+stay, Houston had met with
+them and tried to get them to
+help him trace down the megalomaniac
+Controller who
+was doing so much damage,
+but they'd balked at the idea.
+Their job, they claimed, was
+to get enough members so that
+they could protect themselves
+from arrest by the Normals,
+and then just let things ride.</p>
+
+<p>"After all," Dorrine had
+said, "things will work themselves
+out, darling; they always
+do."</p>
+
+<p>"Not unless somebody helps
+them, they don't," Houston
+had snapped back. "Someone
+has to do something."</p>
+
+<p>"But, Dave, darling&mdash;we
+<i>are</i> doing something! Don't
+you see?"</p>
+
+<p>He didn't, but there was no
+convincing either the Group
+or Dorrine. She was passionately
+interested in the recruiting
+work she was doing, and
+she thought that the Group
+was the answer to every Controller's
+troubles.</p>
+
+<p>And then she had rushed
+back to England. "I'll be back
+soon, Dave," she'd said. "I
+think I have a lead on a girl
+in Liverpool."</p>
+
+<p>So far, the girl hadn't been
+found. Controllers didn't like
+to give themselves away to
+anyone, so they kept a tight
+screen up most of the time.</p>
+
+<p>It seemed as though everyone
+on Earth was in deadly
+fear all the time. The Normals
+feared losing their identities
+to Controllers, and the Controllers
+feared death at the
+hands of the Normals.</p>
+
+<p>And death or the Penal
+Cluster were their only
+choices if they were discovered.</p>
+
+<p>Houston worried about the
+risks Dorrine was taking, but
+there was nothing he could do.
+She was doing what she
+thought was right, just as he
+was; how could he argue with
+that?</p>
+
+<p>Houston went on with his
+job, putting together facts and
+rumors and statistical data
+analysis, searching out his
+quarry.</p>
+
+<p>And, at the end of the
+eighth week, everything blew
+high, wide, and hellish.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>It was late evening. A cool
+wind blew over New York,
+bringing with it a hint of the
+rain to come. Church Street,
+in lower Manhattan, was not
+crowded, as it had been in the
+late afternoon, but neither
+was it entirely deserted. The
+cafes and bars did a lively
+business, but the tall, many-colored
+office buildings gaped
+at the street with blind and
+darkened eyes. Only a few of
+the windows glowed whitely
+with fluorescent illumination.</p>
+
+<p>In one of the small coffee
+shops, David Houston sat,
+smoking a cigarette and stirring
+idly at a cup of cooling
+coffee.</p>
+
+<p>Across the street was the
+Lasser Building; high up on
+the sixtieth floor, a whole
+suite of offices was brightly
+lit. The rest of the building
+was clothed in blackness.</p>
+
+<p>Who was up there in that
+suite? Houston wasn't quite
+sure. He had narrowed his list
+of suspects down to three
+men: John Sager, Loris Pederson,
+and Norcross Lasser,
+three top officials in the company.
+Sager and Pederson
+were both vice-presidents of
+the firm; Sager was in charge
+of the Foreign Exports department,
+while Pederson
+handled the actual shipping.
+Lasser, by virtue of being the
+grandson of the man who had
+founded the firm, was president
+of Lasser &amp; Sons, Inc.</p>
+
+<p>Lasser seemed like a poor
+choice as chief villain of the
+outfit; he was a mild, bland
+man, quiet and friendly. Besides,
+his position made him
+an obvious suspect; naturally,
+the majority stockholder of
+the firm would profit most by
+the increased power of the
+company. And, equally obviously,
+a Controller wouldn't
+want to put himself in such an
+exposed position.</p>
+
+<p>Which made Lasser, in
+Houston's mind, a hell of a
+good suspect. If anything happened,
+Lasser could cover by
+claiming that he, too, had been
+controlled, and the chances
+were that he could get away
+with it. A Controller never
+did anything directly; their
+dirty work was done by someone
+else&mdash;a puppet under
+their mental control. At least,
+so ran the popular misconception.
+If Lasser were the man,
+he stood a good chance of getting
+away with it, even if he
+were caught, provided he
+played his cards right.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>That reasoning still didn't
+eliminate Sager or Pederson.
+Either of them could be the
+Controller. And there still remained
+the possibility that
+some unknown, unsuspected
+fourth person had the company
+of Lasser &amp; Sons under
+his thumb.</p>
+
+<p>That was what Houston intended
+to find out tonight.</p>
+
+<p>He took a sip of his coffee,
+found it still reasonably hot.</p>
+
+<p>Damn the megalomaniacs,
+anyway! Houston subconsciously
+tightened his fists.
+He, personally, had more to
+fear from the Normals than
+from another Controller. Normals
+could kill or imprison
+him, while a Controller would
+have a hard time doing either,
+directly.</p>
+
+<p>But Houston could understand
+the Normal man; he
+could see how fear of a Controller
+could drive a man without
+the ability into a frenzied
+panic. He could understand,
+even forgive their actions,
+born and bred in ignorance
+and fear.</p>
+
+<p>No, the ones he hated were
+the ones who had conceived
+and fostered that fear&mdash;the
+psychologically unstable megalomaniac
+Controllers. There
+were only a handful of them&mdash;probably
+not more than a
+few hundred or a thousand.
+But because of them, every
+telepath on Earth found his
+life in danger, and every Normal
+found his life a hell of
+terror.</p>
+
+<p>Let Dorrine and her do-nothing
+friends run around
+the globe recruiting members
+for their precious Group; that
+was all right for them. Meanwhile,
+David Houston would
+be doing something on a more
+basic action level.</p>
+
+<p>He glanced at his watch.
+Almost time.</p>
+
+<p>"How's the deployment?"
+he whispered in his throat.</p>
+
+<p>"We've got the building surrounded
+now," said the voice
+in his ear. "You can go in anytime."</p>
+
+<p>"How about the roof?"</p>
+
+<p>"That's taken care of, sir;
+we've got 'copter that can be
+on the top of the Lasser Building
+at any time you call. They
+can land within thirty seconds
+of your signal."</p>
+
+<p>"Okay," Houston said; "I'm
+going in now. Remember&mdash;no
+matter what I say or do, no
+one is to leave that building
+if they're conscious. And keep
+your eyes on me; if I act in
+the least peculiar, handcuff
+me&mdash;but don't knock me out.</p>
+
+<p>"And if I'm not back on
+time, come in anyway."</p>
+
+<p>"Right."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Houston finished his coffee,
+dropped a coin on the counter,
+and headed for the other side
+of the street.</p>
+
+<p>The big problem was getting
+into the building itself.
+It was ringed with alarms;
+Lasser &amp; Sons didn't want just
+anybody wandering in and out
+of their building.</p>
+
+<p>So Houston had arranged a
+roundabout way. The building
+next to the Lasser Building
+was a good deal smaller, only
+forty-five stories high. A week
+before, Houston had rented an
+office on the eighteenth floor
+of the building; on the door,
+he had already had a sign engraved:
+Ajax Enterprises.</p>
+
+<p>It was a shame the office
+would never be used.</p>
+
+<p>Houston walked straight to
+the next-door building and
+opened the front door with his
+key. Inside, a night watchman
+lounged behind a desk, smoking
+a blackened briar. He
+looked up, smiled, and nodded.</p>
+
+<p>"Evening, Mr. Griswold;
+working late tonight?"</p>
+
+<p>Houston forced a smile he
+did not feel. "Just doing a
+little paper work," he said.</p>
+
+<p>He took the automatic elevator
+to the eighteenth floor. He
+didn't relish the idea of walking
+up to the roof, but taking
+the elevator would make the
+nightwatchman suspicious.</p>
+
+<p>He didn't bother going to
+the office; he headed directly
+for the stairway and began
+his long climb&mdash;twenty-seven
+floors to the roof.</p>
+
+<p>All through it, he kept up a
+running comment through his
+throat mike. "I wish I weighed
+about fifty pounds less;
+carrying two hundred and
+twenty pounds of blubber up
+these stairs isn't easy."</p>
+
+<p>"Blubber, hooey!" the earphone
+interrupted. "Any man
+who's six-feet-three has a
+right to carry that much
+weight. Actually, you're a
+skinny-looking sort of goop."</p>
+
+<p>Both men were exaggerating;
+Houston wasn't fat, but
+his broad, powerful frame
+couldn't be called skinny,
+either.</p>
+
+<p>When he finally reached the
+roof, he paused and surveyed
+the wall of the Lasser Building,
+which towered high above
+him, spearing an additional
+thirty stories in the air. Up
+there, the lights on the sixtieth
+floor gleamed in the
+night.</p>
+
+<p>The air was growing cooler,
+and the beginnings of a
+mist were forming. Houston
+hoped it wouldn't start to rain
+before he got inside.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>The forty-sixth floor of the
+Lasser Building had no windows
+on this side, but there
+were plenty on the forty-seventh.</p>
+
+<p>Leading up to them was an
+inviting looking fire escape,
+but Houston knew he didn't
+dare take that. By law, every
+fire escape was rigged with a
+fire alarm, in addition to the
+regular burglar alarm. He'd
+have to use another way.</p>
+
+<p>The Lasser Building was a
+steel structure, shelled over
+with a bright blue anodized
+aluminum sheath. Only the
+day before, Houston, wearing
+the gray coverall of a power-line
+workman, had checked
+the wall to find the big steel
+beams beneath the aluminum.
+He had also installed certain
+other equipment; now he was
+going to make use of it.</p>
+
+<p>Concealed in the louvres of
+the air-conditioner intake of
+the lower building was a specially
+constructed suit and
+several hundred feet of power
+line which was connected to
+the main line of the building.</p>
+
+<p>In the darkness, Houston
+slipped on the suit. It was constructed
+somewhat like a light
+diving suit or a spacesuit, but
+without the helmet. In the
+toes, knees, and hands, were
+powerful electromagnets controlled
+by switches in the fingers
+of the gloves and powered
+by the current in the long
+line.</p>
+
+<p>Houston stepped over to the
+blue aluminum wall, reached
+out a hand, and lowered one
+finger. Instantly, the powerful
+magnet anchored his hand to
+the wall, held by the dense
+magnetic field to the steel
+beam beneath the aluminum
+sheath. That one magnet alone
+could support his full body
+weight, and he had six magnets
+to work with.</p>
+
+<p>Slowly, carefully, David
+Houston began to crawl up the
+wall.</p>
+
+<p>Turn on a magnet in the
+right hand; lift up the left
+hand and anchor it higher;
+turn on the right hand and
+lift it even with the left, then
+anchor it again; do the same
+with both legs; then begin the
+process all over again, turning
+the magnets off and on in
+rotation.</p>
+
+<p>Up and up he went. Past
+the forty-sixth floor, past the
+forty-seventh, the forty-eighth,
+and the forty-ninth.
+Not until he reached the fiftieth
+floor did he attempt to
+open one of the windows.</p>
+
+<p>There was a magnetic lock
+inside the window, but Houston
+had taken that, too, into
+account. The powerful magnet
+in his right glove slid it aside
+easily. Houston lifted the window
+and stepped inside.</p>
+
+<p>He had ten more floors to
+go.</p>
+
+<p>He took off the suit and
+rolled it up into a tight package,
+then dropped it out the
+window. It landed with a
+barely audible thump. Houston
+took a deep breath, drew
+his stun gun, and headed for
+the stairway.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>On the landing of the sixtieth
+floor of the Lasser
+Building, David Houston
+paused for a moment.</p>
+
+<p>"Sounds like you're out of
+breath," said the voice in his
+ear.</p>
+
+<p>"You try climbing all that
+way sometime," Houston
+whispered. "I'm no superman,
+you know."</p>
+
+<p>"Shucks," said the voice,
+"you've disillusioned me.
+What now?"</p>
+
+<p>"I'm going to try to get a
+little information," Houston
+told him. "Hold on."</p>
+
+<p>On the other side of the
+door, he could hear faint
+sound, as if someone were
+moving around, but he could
+hear no voices.</p>
+
+<p>Carefully, he sent out a
+probing thought, trying to see
+if he could attune his mind
+with that of someone inside
+without betraying himself.</p>
+
+<p>He couldn't detect anything.
+The sixtieth floor covered a
+lot of space; if whoever was
+inside was too far away, their
+thoughts would be too faint to
+pick up unless Houston stepped
+up his own power, and he
+didn't want to do that.</p>
+
+<p>Cautiously, he reached out
+a hand and eased open the
+door.</p>
+
+<p>The hallway was brightly
+lit, but there was no one in
+sight. The unaccustomed light
+made Houston blink for a moment
+before his eyes adjusted
+to it; the hallways and landings
+below had been pitch
+dark, forcing him to use a
+penlight to find his way up.</p>
+
+<p>He stepped into the hallway,
+closing the door behind
+him.</p>
+
+<p>Now he could hear voices.
+He stopped to listen. The
+conversation was coming
+from an office down the hall&mdash;if
+it could be called a conversation.</p>
+
+<p>There would be long periods
+of silence, then a word or
+two: "But not that way."
+"Until tomorrow." "Vacillates."</p>
+
+<p>There were three different
+voices.</p>
+
+<p>Houston moved on down the
+hall, his stun gun ready. A few
+yards from the door, he stopped
+again, and, very gently, he
+sent out another thought-probe,
+searching for the
+minds of those within, carefully
+forging his way.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>And, at that crucial instant,
+a voice spoke in his ear.</p>
+
+<p>"Houston! What's going
+on? You haven't said a thing
+for two full minutes!"</p>
+
+<p>"I'm all right!" Houston
+snapped. Only the force of
+long training and habit kept
+him from shouting the words
+aloud instead of keeping them
+to a subvocal whisper.</p>
+
+<p>"All right or not," said the
+other, "we're coming in in
+seven minutes, as ordered.
+Meanwhile, there's a news
+bulletin for you; the British
+division has picked up another
+Controller&mdash;a woman named
+Dorrine Kent. Two in one
+night ought to be a pretty
+good bag."</p>
+
+<p>For a moment, Houston's
+mind was a meaningless blur.</p>
+
+<p><i>Dorrine!</i></p>
+
+<p>And then another voice
+broke through his shock.</p>
+
+<p>"Dear me, sir! Calm yourself!
+You're positively fizzing!"</p>
+
+<p>Houston jerked. Standing
+in the doorway of the office
+was Norcross Lasser, with a
+benign smile on his face and
+a deadly-looking .38 automatic
+in his hand. Behind him stood
+John Sager and Loris Pederson,
+their faces wary.</p>
+
+<p>"Please drop that stun gun,
+Mr. Cop."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>In those few moments,
+Houston had regained control
+of himself. He realized
+what had happened. The interruption
+of his thought-probe
+had startled him just a
+little, but that little had been
+enough to warn the Controller.</p>
+
+<p>He wondered which of the
+three men was the actual Controller.</p>
+
+<p>He began to lower his
+weapon, then, suddenly, with
+all the force and hatred he
+could muster, he sent a blistering,
+shocking thought toward
+the man with the gun.</p>
+
+<p>Lasser staggered as though
+he'd been struck. His gun
+wavered, and Houston fired
+quickly with his stun gun. At
+the same time, Lasser's automatic
+went off.</p>
+
+<p>The bullet went wild, and
+the stun beam didn't do much
+better. It struck Lasser's
+hand, paralyzing it, but it
+didn't knock out Lasser.</p>
+
+<p>The mental battle that ensued
+only took a half second,
+but at the speed of thought, a
+lot of things can happen in a
+half second.</p>
+
+<p>Houston realized almost instantaneously
+that he had
+made a vast mistake. He had
+badly underestimated the
+enemy.</p>
+
+<p>There was no need to worry,
+now, about which one of the
+men was a Controller&mdash;<i>all
+three of them were!</i></p>
+
+<p>As soon as Sager and Pederson
+realized what had happened,
+they leaped&mdash;mentally&mdash;into
+the battle. Lasser, already
+weakened by the unexpected
+mental blow from
+Houston, lost consciousness
+when the others let loose their
+blasts because his mind was
+still linked with Houston's,
+and he absorbed a great deal
+of the mental energy meant
+for Houston's brain.</p>
+
+<p>Houston, fully warned by
+now, held up a denial wall
+which screened his mind from
+the worst that Sager and Pederson
+could put out, but he
+knew he couldn't hold out for
+long.</p>
+
+<p>"Come in&mdash;<i>now!</i>" he said
+hoarsely into the microphone.</p>
+
+<p>"Stupid swine!" Sager susurrated
+sibilantly.</p>
+
+<p>Pederson said nothing
+aloud, but his brain was blazing
+with fear and hatred. His
+gun hand jerked towards a
+holster under his arm. Lasser
+was still crumpling towards
+the floor.</p>
+
+<p>The entire action had taken
+less than a second.</p>
+
+<p>Houston tried to fire again
+with his stun gun, but it required
+every bit of concentration
+he could sum up to hold
+off the combined mental assaults
+of Sager and Pederson.</p>
+
+<p>But they, too, were at somewhat
+of a disadvantage. In
+order to keep all their efforts
+concentrated on the PD policeman,
+both Controllers had
+to refrain from putting too
+much attention on their bodily
+motions. Pederson was still
+fumbling for his gun, and
+Sager hadn't yet started for
+his.</p>
+
+<p>Lasser barely touched the
+floor before his consciousness
+began to return. The resulting
+fraction of a second of mental
+static afforded Houston a
+brief respite; it disturbed
+Pederson just as he was getting
+his fingers on the butt of
+his weapon.</p>
+
+<p>Both Controllers were focusing
+their mental energies
+on Houston's brain, and during
+the brief respite, Houston
+made one vital mental adjustment.
+He allowed both
+thought-probes to fuse in a
+small part of his consciousness.
+They went <i>through</i> him
+and lashed back at the two
+Controllers.</p>
+
+<p>Both of them had had their
+minds tuned to Houston's, and
+in that instant they found
+they, were also attuned to
+each other.</p>
+
+<p>The resultant of the energy
+was shocking to Houston, but
+it was infinitely worse for
+Sager and Pederson, since
+neither of them had been expecting
+it. Pederson, who had
+already been slightly distracted,
+got the major brunt of the
+force. He managed to jerk his
+gun free, but his brain was already
+lapsing into unconsciousness.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Houston's fingers tightened
+on his own weapon. It fired
+once at Lasser, who was trying
+to lift himself from the
+floor. Then it swept up and
+coughed again, dropping Pederson.
+His pistol barked
+once, sending a singing
+ricochet along the hall.</p>
+
+<p>Sager, who had staggered
+to one side when he and Pederson
+had short-circuited
+each other, had time to get behind
+the protection of the office
+door. He couldn't close it
+because Lasser's and Pederson's
+inert forms blocked the
+doorway, but at least it afforded
+protection against
+Houston's stun gun.</p>
+
+<p>His thought came through
+to Houston: <i>So the stupid
+Normals have a Controller
+working for them! Traitor!</i></p>
+
+<p><i>You're the traitor</i>, Houston
+thought coldly. <i>You and your
+megalomaniac friends. It's
+madmen like you who have
+made telepaths hated and
+feared by the Normals.</i></p>
+
+<p><i>And so they should hate and
+fear us</i>, came the snarling
+mental answer. <i>Within a few
+generations, we will have supplanted
+them. We will control
+Earth&mdash;not they.</i></p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>The exchange had only
+taken a fraction of a second.
+Houston was already charging
+toward the open door, hoping
+to get inside before Sager
+could reach a weapon.</p>
+
+<p><i>You call me a traitor</i>, Houston
+thought, <i>but you have
+been framing innocent Controllers,
+putting them into the
+hands of the PD Police</i>.</p>
+
+<p><i>That's a lie!</i> the reply came
+hotly. <i>We would never betray
+another telepath to the stupid
+Normals! If a telepath were
+so bullheaded as to get in our
+way, we'd dispose of him. But
+it would be Controller justice;
+we wouldn't turn him over to
+animals!</i></p>
+
+<p>In one blazing moment,
+Houston realized that the
+Controller was telling the
+truth!</p>
+
+<p>No mental communication
+can be expressed properly in
+words. In, behind, and around
+each statement, other, dimmer
+nuances of thought gleam
+through. Each thought tells
+the receiver much more than
+can be put down in crude verbal
+symbols.</p>
+
+<p>Thus, Houston already
+knew that Lasser, Sager, and
+Pederson were the three top
+men in a world-wide clique
+of megalomaniac Controllers.
+This was the top of the madmen's
+organization; these
+three were the <i>creme de la
+creme</i> of the Normal human's
+real enemies.</p>
+
+<p>He knew that there were
+twelve others scattered over
+Earth, and he knew where and
+who they were. That brief exchange
+had brought all the information
+into Houston's own
+mind as it leaked from the
+minds of the others. He knew
+it without thinking about how
+he knew it.</p>
+
+<p>And they were <i>not</i> the ones
+who had been turning the
+sane Controllers over to the
+Psychodeviant Police!</p>
+
+<p>Then who was? And why?</p>
+
+<p>Houston was right back
+where he had started.</p>
+
+<p>But that brief instant of
+confusion was Houston's
+downfall. Sager instantly
+realized that he had delivered,
+inadvertently, a telling blow
+to Houston's mind.</p>
+
+<p>Physically, Houston had
+been propelling himself toward
+the open door. At the
+instant of the revelation, he
+had been part way through it.
+And at that moment, Sager
+acted.</p>
+
+<p>He slammed all his weight
+violently against his side of
+the door, knocking Houston
+off balance as the door swung
+and struck him. He went
+down, and Sager was on top
+of him before he struck the
+floor.</p>
+
+<p>It was the weirdest battle
+ever fought, but its true worth
+could only have been detected
+by another telepath. It was intense
+and brutal.</p>
+
+<p>The men fought both physically
+and mentally. They
+struggled for possession of
+the stun gun, at the same
+time hurling emotion-charged
+shafts of mental energy at
+each other's brains.</p>
+
+<p>The struggle lasted less
+than a minute. Somehow,
+Sager managed to get one
+hand on the gun, twisting it.
+Houston, trying to keep it out
+of Sager's hand, jerked it up
+between them.</p>
+
+<p>It coughed once, sending a
+beam of supersonic energy
+into the bodies of both men.</p>
+
+<p>The effect was the same as
+if they had both been crowned
+with baseball bats.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Little pinpoints of light
+against a sea of darkness.</p>
+
+<p><i>I'm cold</i>, Houston thought.
+<i>And I'm sick.</i></p>
+
+<p>He couldn't tell whether his
+eyes were open or closed&mdash;and
+he didn't much care.</p>
+
+<p>He tried to move his arms
+and legs, found he couldn't,
+and gave it up.</p>
+
+<p>He blinked.</p>
+
+<p><i>My eyes must be open</i>, he
+thought, <i>if I can blink</i>.</p>
+
+<p>Well, then, if his eyes were
+open, why couldn't he see anything?
+All he could see were
+the little pinpoints of light
+against a background of utter
+blackness.</p>
+
+<p><i>Like stars</i>, he thought.</p>
+
+<p><i>Stars? STARS!</i></p>
+
+<p>With a sudden rush, total
+awareness came back to him,
+and he realized with awful
+clarity where he was.</p>
+
+<p>He was chained, spread-eagled,
+on an asteroid in the
+Penal Cluster, nearly a hundred
+million miles from Earth.</p>
+
+<p>It was easy to piece together
+what had happened. He
+dimly remembered that he
+had started to wake up once
+before. It was a vague, confused
+recollection, but he
+knew what had taken place.</p>
+
+<p>The PD Police, coming in
+response to his call, had found
+all four men unconscious from
+the effects of the stun beam.
+Naturally, all of them had
+been taken into custody; the
+PD Police had to find out
+which one of the men was the
+Controller and which the controlled.
+That could easily be
+tested by waiting until they
+began to wake up; the resulting
+mental disturbances would
+easily identify the telepath.</p>
+
+<p>Houston could imagine the
+consternation that must have
+resulted when the PD men
+found that all three suspects&mdash;<i>and</i>
+their brother officer&mdash;were
+Controllers.</p>
+
+<p>And now here he was&mdash;tried,
+convicted, and sentenced
+while he was unconscious&mdash;doomed
+to spend the
+rest of his life chained to a
+rock floating in space.</p>
+
+<p>A sudden chill of terror
+came over him. Why wasn't
+he asleep? Why wasn't he under
+hibernene?</p>
+
+<p><i>It's their way of being
+funny</i>, came a bitter thought.
+<i>We're supposed to be under
+hibernene, but we're left to
+die, instead.</i></p>
+
+<p>For a moment, Houston did
+not realize that the thought
+was not his own, so well did it
+reflect his own bitterness. It
+was bad enough to have to live
+out one's life under the influence
+of the hibernation drug,
+but it was infinitely worse to
+be conscious. Under hibernene,
+he would have known
+nothing; his sleeping mind in
+his comatose body would never
+have realized what had happened
+to him. But this way, he
+would remain fully awake
+while his body used up the air
+too fast and his stomach became
+twisted with hunger
+pangs which no amount of
+intravenous feeding could
+quell. Oh, he'd live, all right&mdash;for
+a few months&mdash;but it
+would be absolute hell while
+he lasted. Insanity and catatonia
+would come long before
+death.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><i>That's a nasty thought; I
+wish you hadn't brought it up.</i></p>
+
+<p>That wasn't his own
+thought! There was someone
+else out here!</p>
+
+<p><i>Hell, yes, my friend; we're
+all out here.</i></p>
+
+<p>"Where are you?" Houston
+asked aloud, just to hear his
+own voice. He knew the other
+couldn't hear the words which
+echoed so hollowly inside the
+bubble of the spacesuit helmet,
+but the thought behind them
+would carry.</p>
+
+<p>"You mean with relation to
+yourself?" came the answer.
+"I don't know. I can see several
+rocks around me, but I
+can't tell which one you're
+on."</p>
+
+<p>Houston could tell now that
+the other person was talking
+aloud, too. So great was the
+illusion carried to his own
+brain that it almost seemed as
+though he could hear the voice
+with his ears.</p>
+
+<p>"Then there are others
+around us?" Houston asked.</p>
+
+<p>"Sure. There were three of
+us: a Hawaiian named Jerry
+Matsukuo; a girl from Bombay,
+Sonali Siddhartha; and
+myself, Juan Pedro de Cadiz.
+Jerry and Sonali are taking a
+little nap. You're the first of
+your group to wake up."</p>
+
+<p>"My group?"</p>
+
+<p>"Certainly, my friend.
+There are five of you; the
+other four must still be unconscious."</p>
+
+<p>Four? That would be Lasser,
+Sager, Pederson, and&mdash;<i>and
+Dorrine!</i></p>
+
+<p>Juan Pedro de Cadiz picked
+up the whole thought-process
+easily.</p>
+
+<p>"The girl&mdash;I'm sorry," he
+said. "But the other three&mdash;of
+us all, I think, they deserve
+this."</p>
+
+<p>"Juan!" came another
+thought-voice. "Have our newcomers
+awakened?"</p>
+
+<p>"Just one of them, my
+sweet," replied the Spaniard.
+"Sonali, may I present Mr.
+David Houston. Mr. Houston,
+the lovely Sonali Siddhartha."</p>
+
+<p>"Juano has a habit of
+jumping to conclusions, David,"
+said the girl. "He's
+never even seen me, and I'm
+sure that after three weeks of
+being locked in this prison
+whatever beauty I may have
+had has disappeared."</p>
+
+<p>"Your thoughts are beautiful,
+Sonali," said Juan Pedro,
+"and with us, that is all that
+counts."</p>
+
+<p>"It is written," said a third
+voice, "that he who disturbs
+the slumber of his betters will
+wake somebody up. You people
+are giving me dreams,
+with your ceaseless mental
+chatter."</p>
+
+<p>"Ah!" the Spaniard said.
+"Mr. Matsukuo, may I&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"I heard, Romeo, I heard,"
+said the Hawaiian. "An ex-cop,
+eh? I wonder if I like
+you? I'll take a few thousand
+years to think it over; in the
+meantime, you may treat me
+as a friend."</p>
+
+<p>"I'll try to live down my
+reputation," said Houston.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>It was an odd feeling.
+Physically, he was alone.
+Around him, he could see
+nothing but the blackness of
+space and the glitter of the
+stars. He knew that the sun
+must be shining on the back
+of his own personal asteroid,
+but he couldn't see it. As far
+as his body was concerned,
+there was nothing else in the
+universe but a chunk of pitted
+rock and a set of chains.</p>
+
+<p>But mentally, he felt snug
+and warm, safe in the security
+of good friends. He felt&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"David! David! Help me!
+Oh, David, David, David!"</p>
+
+<p>It was Dorrine, coming up
+from her slumber. Like a
+crashing blare of static across
+the neural band, her wakening
+mind burst into sudden
+telepathic activity.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Gently, Houston sent out
+his thoughts, soothing her
+mind as he had soothed Harris's
+mind weeks before. And
+he noticed, as he did it, that
+the other three were with him,
+helping. By the time Dorrine
+was fully awake, she was no
+longer frightened or panicky.</p>
+
+<p>"You're wonderful people,"
+she thought simply, after several
+minutes.</p>
+
+<p>"To one so beautiful, how
+else could we be?" asked Juan
+Pedro.</p>
+
+<p>"Ignore him, Dorrine," said
+Sonali, "he tells me the same
+thing."</p>
+
+<p>"But not in the same way,
+<i>amiga</i>!" the Spaniard protested.
+"Not in the same way.
+The beauty of your mind,
+Sonali, is like the beauty of a
+mountain lake, cool and serene;
+the beauty of Dorrine
+is like the beauty of the sun&mdash;warm,
+fiery, and brilliant."</p>
+
+<p>"By my beard!" snorted
+Matsukuo. "Such blather!"</p>
+
+<p>"I'll be willing to wager my
+beautiful <i>hacienda</i> in the
+lovely countryside of Aragon
+against your miserable palm-leaf
+<i>nipi</i> shack on Oahu that
+you have no beard," said Juan
+Pedro.</p>
+
+<p>"Hah!" said Matsukuo;
+"that's all I need now&mdash;Castles
+in Spain."</p>
+
+<p>It was suddenly dizzying
+for Houston. Here were five
+people, doomed to slow, painful
+death, talking as though
+there were nothing to worry
+about. Within minutes, each
+had learned to know the others
+almost perfectly.</p>
+
+<p>It was more than just the
+words each used. Talking
+aloud helped focus the
+thoughts more, but at the
+same time, thousands of little,
+personal, fringe ideas were
+present with the main idea
+transmitted in words. Houston
+had talked telepathically to
+Dorrine hundreds of times,
+but never before had so much
+fine detail come through.</p>
+
+<p>Why? Was there something
+different about space that
+made mental communication
+so much more complete?</p>
+
+<p>"No, not that, I think," said
+Matsukuo. "I believe it is because
+we have lost our fear&mdash;not
+of death; we still fear
+death&mdash;but of betrayal."</p>
+
+<p>That was it. They knew
+they were going to die, and
+soon. They had already been
+sentenced; nothing further
+could frighten them. Always
+before, on Earth, they had
+kept their thoughts to themselves,
+fearing to broadcast
+too much, lest the Normals
+find them out. The little, personal
+things that made a human
+being a living personality
+were kept hidden behind
+heavy mental walls. The suppression
+worked subconsciously,
+even when they actually
+wanted to communicate with
+another Controller.</p>
+
+<p>But out here, there was
+nothing to fear on that score.
+Why should they, who were
+already facing death, be
+afraid of anything now?</p>
+
+<p>So they opened up&mdash;wide.
+And they knew each other as
+no group of human beings had
+ever known each other. Every
+human being has little faults
+and foibles that he may be
+ashamed of, that he wants to
+keep hidden from others. But
+such things no longer mattered
+out here, where they had
+nothing but imminent death
+and the emptiness of space&mdash;and
+each other.</p>
+
+<p>Physically, they were miserable.
+To be chained in one
+position, with very little room
+to move around, for three
+weeks, as Sonali had been, was
+torture. Sonali had been there
+longer than the others&mdash;for
+three days, there had been no
+one but herself out there in
+the loneliness of space.</p>
+
+<p>But now, even physical discomfort
+meant little; it was
+easy to forget the body when
+the mind was free.</p>
+
+<p>"What of the others?" Dorrine
+asked. "Where are the
+ones who were sentenced before
+us?"</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Houston thought of Robert
+Harris. What had happened
+to the young Englishman?</p>
+
+<p>"Space is big," said Juan
+Pedro. "Perhaps they are too
+far away for our thoughts to
+reach them&mdash;or perhaps they
+are already dead."</p>
+
+<p>"Let's not talk of death."
+Sonali Siddhartha's thought
+was soft. "We have so many
+things to do."</p>
+
+<p>"We will have a language
+session," said Juan Pedro.
+"<i>Si?</i>"</p>
+
+<p>Matsukuo chuckled. "Good!
+Houston, until you've tried to
+learn Spanish, Hindustani,
+Arabic, Japanese, and French
+all at once, you don't know
+what a language session is.
+We&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>The Hawaiian's thought
+was suddenly broken off by a
+shrieking burst of mental
+static.</p>
+
+<p>The effect was similar to
+someone dropping a handful
+of broken glass into an electric
+meat grinder right in the
+middle of a Bach cantata.</p>
+
+<p>It was Sager, coming out of
+his coma.</p>
+
+<p>Almost automatically, the
+five contacted his mind to relax
+him as he awoke. They
+touched his mind&mdash;and were
+repelled!</p>
+
+<p><i>Stay out of my mind!</i></p>
+
+<p>With almost savage fury,
+the still half-conscious Sager
+hurled thoughts of hatred and
+fear at the five minds who had
+tried to help him. They recoiled
+from the burst of insane
+emotion.</p>
+
+<p>"Leave him alone," Houston
+thought sharply. "He's a tough
+fighter."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>At first, Sager was terrified
+when he learned what had
+happened to him. Then the
+terror was mixed with a boiling,
+seething hatred. A hatred
+of the Normals who had done
+this to him, and an even more
+terrible hatred for Houston,
+the "traitor."</p>
+
+<p>The very emptiness of space
+itself seemed to vibrate with
+the surging violence of his
+hatred.</p>
+
+<p>"I know," Houston told him,
+"you'd kill me if you could.
+But you can't, so forget it."</p>
+
+<p>Not even the power of that
+hatred could touch Houston,
+protected as he was by the
+combined strength of the
+other four sane telepaths. He
+was comparatively safe.</p>
+
+<p>Sager snarled like a trapped
+animal. "You're all insane!
+Look at you! The four
+of you, siding with a man who
+has betrayed us to the Normals!
+He&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>What Sager thought of
+Houston couldn't be put into
+words, and if it could no sane
+person would want to repeat
+the mad foulness in those
+words.</p>
+
+<p>"This is unbearable!" Sonali
+thought softly.</p>
+
+<p>"That's not a mind," said
+Dorrine, "it's a sewer."</p>
+
+<p>"I suggest," said Matsukuo,
+"that we do a little probing.
+Let's find out what makes this
+thing tick."</p>
+
+<p>"Stay out of my mind!"
+Sager screamed. "You have no
+right!"</p>
+
+<p>"You seemed to think you
+had the right to probe into the
+helpless minds of Normals,"
+said Juan Pedro coldly. "We
+should show you how it feels."</p>
+
+<p>"But they're just animals!"
+Sager retorted. "I am a Controller!"</p>
+
+<p>"You're a madman," said
+Matsukuo. "And we must find
+out what makes you mad."</p>
+
+<p>Synchronizing perfectly,
+five minds began to probe at
+the walls that Sager had built
+up around his personality.
+And as they probed, Sager retreated
+behind ever thicker
+walls, howling in hatred and
+anguish.</p>
+
+<p>On and on went the five,
+needling, pressing at every
+weak spot, trying to break him
+down. Outnumbered and overpowered,
+it seemed as though
+Sager had no chance.</p>
+
+<p>But his insanity was stronger
+than they suspected. The
+barriers he built were harder,
+more opaque, and more impenetrable
+than any they had
+ever seen. The five pushed on,
+anyway, but their advance
+slowed tremendously.</p>
+
+<p>Then, mentally, there was a
+sudden silence.</p>
+
+<p><i>Sager?</i> they thought.</p>
+
+<p>No answer.</p>
+
+<p>"That's finished it," said
+Houston. "He's retreated so
+far behind those mental barriers
+that he's cut himself off
+completely."</p>
+
+<p>"He's not dead, is he?" Dorrine
+asked.</p>
+
+<p>"Dead?" said Juan Pedro.
+"Not in the sense you mean.
+But I think he is catatonic
+now; he has lost all touch with
+the outside. He is as though
+he were still drugged; he is
+physically helpless, and mentally
+blanked out."</p>
+
+<p>"There's one difference,"
+Matsukuo said analytically.
+"And that is that, although he
+has cut himself off from us
+and from the rest of the universe,
+he is still conscious in
+some little, walled-in compartment
+of his mind. He has no
+one there but himself&mdash;and
+that, I think, is damned poor
+company."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>They waited then. When
+Pederson awoke, they were
+ready for him. His hatred took
+a slightly different form from
+Sager's, but the effect was the
+same.</p>
+
+<p>And so were the results
+when the five bore down on
+him.</p>
+
+<p>Again they waited. Lasser
+was next.</p>
+
+<p>At first, it looked as though
+Lasser would go the way of
+Sager and Pederson, ending
+up as a hopelessly insane catatonic.
+Like his cohorts before
+him, Lasser retreated under
+the full pressure of the
+thought-probes of the five,
+building stronger and stronger
+walls.</p>
+
+<p>But, quite suddenly, all his
+defenses crumbled. The mental
+barriers went down, shattered
+and dissolving. Lasser's
+whole mind lay bare. Instead
+of fighting and hating, Lasser
+was begging, pleading for
+help.</p>
+
+<p>Lasser was not basically insane.
+His mind was twisted
+and warped, but beneath the
+outer shell was a personality
+that had enough internal
+strength to be able to admit
+that it was wrong and ask for
+help instead of retreating into
+oblivion.</p>
+
+<p>"This one&mdash;I think we can
+do something with," Matsukuo's
+thought whispered.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Eight bodies, uncomfortable
+and pain-wracked, floated in
+space, chained to tiny asteroids
+that drifted slowly in
+their orbits under the constant
+pull of the sun. Two of them
+contained minds that were
+locked irrevocably within
+prisons of their own building,
+sealed off forever from external
+stimuli, but their suffering
+was the greater for all
+that.</p>
+
+<p>The other six, chained
+though their limbs might be,
+had minds that were free&mdash;free,
+even, of any but the most
+necessary of internal limitations.</p>
+
+<p>Eight bodies, chained to
+eight lumps of pitted rock,
+spun endlessly in endless
+space.</p>
+
+<p>And then the ship came.</p>
+
+<p>The flare of its atomic
+rocket could be seen for over
+an hour before it reached the
+Penal Cluster. The six eyed it
+speculatively. Although only
+two of them were facing the
+proper direction to see it with
+their physical eyes, the impressions
+of those two were
+easily transmitted to the other
+four.</p>
+
+<p>"Another load of captives,"
+whispered Juan Pedro de
+Cadiz. "How many this time,
+I wonder?"</p>
+
+<p>"How long have we been
+here?" asked Houston, not expecting
+any answer.</p>
+
+<p>"Who knows?" It was Lasser.
+"What we need out here
+is a clock to tell us when we'll
+die."</p>
+
+<p>"Our oxygen tanks are our
+clocks," said Sonali. "And
+they'll notify us when the time
+comes."</p>
+
+<p>"I do believe you morbid-minded
+people are developing
+a sense of humor," said Matsukuo,
+"but I'm not sure I care
+for the style too much."</p>
+
+<p>The flare of the rocket grew
+brighter as the decelerating
+ship approached the small
+cluster of rocks. At last the
+ship itself took form, shining
+in the eternal blaze of the sun.
+When the whiteness of the
+rocket blaze died suddenly,
+the ship was only a few dozen
+yards from Houston's own asteroid.</p>
+
+<p>And then a mental voice
+came into the minds of the six
+prisoners.</p>
+
+<p>"How do you feel, Controllers?"</p>
+
+<p>Only Houston recognized
+that thought-pattern, but his
+recognition was transmitted
+instantly to the others.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Reinhardt!</i>"</p>
+
+<p>Hermann Reinhardt, Division
+Chief of the Psychodeviant
+Police, the one man most
+hated and feared by Controllers,
+was himself a telepath!</p>
+
+<p>"Naturally," said Reinhardt.
+"Someone had to take
+control of the situation. I was
+the only one who was in a position
+to do it."</p>
+
+<p>His thoughts were neither
+hard nor cold; it was almost
+as if he were one of them&mdash;except
+for one thing. Only the
+words of his thoughts came
+through; there were none of
+the fringe thoughts that the
+six were used to in each other.</p>
+
+<p>"That's true," thought Reinhardt.
+"You see, we have been
+at this a good deal longer
+than you." Then he directed
+his thoughts at members of
+the crew of the spaceship, but
+they could still be heard by
+the six prisoners. "All right,
+men, get those people off those
+rocks. We have to make room
+for another batch."</p>
+
+<p>The airlock in the side of
+the ship opened, and a dozen
+spacesuited men leaped out.
+The propulsion units in their
+hands guided them toward the
+prison asteroids.</p>
+
+<p>"Give them all anaesthetic
+except Sager and Pederson,"
+Reinhardt ordered. "They
+won't need it." Then, with a
+note of apology, "I'm sorry
+we'll have to anaesthetize you,
+but you've been in one position
+so long that moving you
+will be rather painful. We
+have to get you to a hospital
+quickly."</p>
+
+<p>The minds of the six prisoners
+were frantically pounding
+questions at the PD chief,
+but he gave them no answer.
+"No; wait until you're better."</p>
+
+<p>The spacesuited rescuers
+went to the "back" of each asteroid
+and injected sleep-gas
+into the oxygen line that ran
+from the tank to the spacesuit
+of the prisoner.</p>
+
+<p>Houston could smell the
+sweetish, pungent odor in his
+helmet. Just before he blacked
+out, he hurled one last accusing
+thought at Reinhardt.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>You're</i> the one who's been
+framing Controllers!"</p>
+
+<p>"Naturally, Houston," came
+the answer. "How else could I
+get you out here?"</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Houston woke up in a hospital
+bed. He was weak and
+hungry, but he felt no pain.
+As he came up from unconsciousness,
+he felt a fully
+awake mind guiding him out
+of the darkness.</p>
+
+<p>It was Reinhardt.</p>
+
+<p>"You're a tough man, Houston,"
+he said mentally. "The
+others won't wake up for a
+while yet."</p>
+
+<p>He was sitting on a chair
+next to the bed, holding a
+smouldering cigarette in one
+hand. He looked strange,
+somehow, and it took Houston
+a moment to realize that there
+was a smile on that broad,
+normally expressionless face.</p>
+
+<p>Houston focussed his eyes
+on the man's face. "I want an
+explanation, Reinhardt," he
+said aloud. "And it better be
+a damned good one."</p>
+
+<p>"I give you free access to
+my mind," Reinhardt said.
+"See for yourself if my method
+wasn't the best one."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Houston probed. The explanation,
+if not the best, was
+better than any Houston
+could have thought of.</p>
+
+<p>When the hatred of the
+normal-minded people of
+Earth had been turned
+against the Controllers because
+of the actions of a few
+megalomaniacs, it had become
+obvious that legal steps had to
+be taken to prevent mob violence.</p>
+
+<p>It had been Reinhardt himself
+who had suggested the
+Penal method to the UN government.
+At first, he had
+simply thought of it as a
+method to keep the Controllers
+alive until he could think
+of something better. But when
+he had discovered, by accident,
+what a small group of
+Controllers, alone in space,
+could do, he had set up the
+present machinery.</p>
+
+<p>As soon as a Controller was
+spotted, a careful frame-up
+was arranged. Then, when
+several had been found, they
+were arrested in quick succession
+and sent to the asteroids.</p>
+
+<p>Always and invariably, they
+had done what Houston's
+group had done&mdash;the sane or
+potentially sane ones had improved
+themselves tremendously,
+while the megalomaniacs
+had lapsed into catatonia.</p>
+
+<p>"Why couldn't it be done on
+Earth?" Houston asked.</p>
+
+<p>"We tried it," Reinhardt
+said. "It didn't work. Safe, on
+Earth, surrounded by Normals,
+a Controller still feels
+the hatred around him. He
+can't open his mind completely.
+Only the certain knowledge
+of impending death, and
+a complete freedom from the
+hatred of Normals can free
+the mind.</p>
+
+<p>"And that's why you
+couldn't be told beforehand;
+if you knew you were going
+to be rescued, you wouldn't
+open up."</p>
+
+<p>Houston nodded. It made
+sense. "Where are we now?"
+he asked.</p>
+
+<p>"Antarctica," said Reinhardt.
+"We've built an outpost
+here&mdash;almost self-sufficient.
+When you're in better shape
+physically, I'll show you
+around."</p>
+
+<p>"Do you mean that everyone
+who's been arrested is
+here, in Antarctica?"</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Reinhardt laughed. "No,
+not by a long shot. Most of us
+are back out in civilization,
+searching for new, undiscovered
+Controllers, so that we
+can frame them. And, of
+course, some of us&mdash;the insane
+ones&mdash;have died. They
+will themselves to die when
+the going gets too tough."</p>
+
+<p>"Searching for recruits?
+Then the Group that Dorrine
+was working for was&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>Reinhardt shook his head.
+"No. They were going about
+it the wrong way, just as you
+thought. We picked up the
+whole lot of them last week;
+they're occupying the asteroids
+now."</p>
+
+<p>"What do you do with the
+insane catatonics?"</p>
+
+<p>"Put them under hibernene
+and keep them alive. We hope,
+someday, to figure out a
+method of restoring their sanity.
+Until then, let them
+sleep."</p>
+
+<p>Houston narrowed his eyes.
+"How long have you known I
+was a Controller, Reinhardt?"</p>
+
+<p>The Prussian smiled. "Ever
+since you first tried to probe
+me. Fortunately, my training
+enabled me to put up a shield
+that you couldn't penetrate; I
+seemed like a Normal to you.</p>
+
+<p>"I kept you on because I
+knew you'd be useful in
+cracking Lasser and his gang
+when the time came. No one
+else could have done what you
+did that night."</p>
+
+<p>"Thanks," Houston said sincerely.
+"What's going to happen
+now? After I get well, I
+mean."</p>
+
+<p>"You'll do what the others
+have done. A little plastic
+surgery to change your face a
+trifle, a little record-juggling
+to give you a new identity,
+and you'll be ready to go back
+to work for the PD Police.</p>
+
+<p>"If anyone recognizes you,
+it's easy to take over their
+minds just long enough to
+make them forget. We allow
+that much Controlling."</p>
+
+<p>"And then what?" Houston
+wanted to know. "What happens
+in the long run?"</p>
+
+<p>"In a way," said Reinhardt,
+"your friend Sager was right.
+The Controllers will eventually
+become the rulers of
+Earth. But not by force or
+trickery. We must just bide
+our time. More and more of us
+are being born all the time;
+the Normals are becoming
+fewer and fewer. Within a
+century, we will outnumber
+them&mdash;we will be the Normals,
+not they.</p>
+
+<p>"But they'll never know
+what's going on. The last Normal
+will die without ever
+knowing that he is in a world
+of telepaths.</p>
+
+<p>"By the time that comes
+about, we'll no longer need the
+Penal Cluster, since Controllers
+will be born into a world
+where there is no fear of non-telepaths."</p>
+
+<p>"I wonder," Houston mused,
+"I wonder how this ability
+came about. Why is the human
+race acquiring telepathy
+so suddenly?"</p>
+
+<p>Reinhardt shrugged. "I can
+give you many explanations&mdash;atomic
+radiation, cosmic rays,
+natural evolution. But none of
+them really explains it. They
+just make it easier to live
+with.</p>
+
+<p>"I think something similar
+must have happened a few
+hundred thousand years ago,
+when Cro-Magnon man, our
+own ancestors, first developed
+true intelligence instead of the
+pseudo-intelligence, the highly
+developed instincts, of the
+Neanderthals and other para-men.</p>
+
+<p>"Within a relatively short
+time, the para-men had died
+out, leaving the Cro-Magnon,
+with his true intelligence, to
+rule Earth."</p>
+
+<p>Reinhardt stood up. "Why
+is it happening? We don't
+know. Maybe we never will
+know, any more than we know
+why Man developed intelligence."
+He shrugged. "Perhaps
+the only explanation
+we'll ever have is to call it the
+Will of God and let it go at
+that."</p>
+
+<p>"Maybe that's the best explanation,
+after all," Houston
+said.</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps. Who knows?"
+Reinhardt crushed his cigarette
+out in a tray. "I'll go
+now, and let you get some rest.
+And don't worry; I'll have
+you notified as soon as Dorrine
+starts to come out of it."</p>
+
+<p>"Thanks&mdash;Chief," Houston
+said as Reinhardt left the
+room.</p>
+
+<p>David Houston lay back in
+his bed and closed his eyes.</p>
+
+<p>For the first time in his
+life, he felt completely at
+peace&mdash;with himself, and
+with the Universe.</p>
+
+<p class="theend">THE END</p>
+
+<div class="figtran">
+<a href="images/002-2.jpg"><img src="images/002-1.jpg" width="144" height="200" alt="" title="" /></a>
+<b><big>Transcriber's Note:</big></b><br /><br />
+This etext was produced from <i>Amazing Stories</i> September 1957.
+Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
+copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
+typographical errors have been corrected without note.</div>
+<hr />
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Penal Cluster, by 
+Ivar Jorgensen (AKA Randall Garrett)
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PENAL CLUSTER ***
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+</body>
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@@ -0,0 +1,2841 @@
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Penal Cluster, by
+Ivar Jorgensen (AKA Randall Garrett)
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Penal Cluster
+
+Author: Ivar Jorgensen (AKA Randall Garrett)
+
+Release Date: April 12, 2008 [EBook #25061]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PENAL CLUSTER ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: Their combined thought-force hit him like a
+thunderbolt.]
+
+
+             THE
+            PENAL
+           CLUSTER
+
+      By IVAR JORGENSEN
+
+
+ _Tomorrow's technocracy will
+ produce more and more things
+ for better living. It will
+ produce other things, also;
+ among them, criminals too
+ despicable to live on this
+ earth. Too abominable to
+ breathe our free air._
+
+
+The clipped British voice said, in David Houston's ear, _I'm quite sure
+he's one. He's cashing a check for a thousand pounds. Keep him under
+surveillance._
+
+Houston didn't look up immediately. He simply stood there in the lobby
+of the big London bank, filling out a deposit slip at one of the long,
+high desks. When he had finished, he picked up the slip and headed
+towards the teller's cage.
+
+Ahead of him, standing at the window, was a tall, impeccably dressed,
+aristocratic-looking man with graying hair.
+
+"The man in the tweeds?" Houston whispered. His voice was so low that it
+was inaudible a foot away, and his lips scarcely moved. But the
+sensitive microphone in his collar picked up the voice and relayed it to
+the man behind the teller's wicket.
+
+_That's him_, said the tiny speaker hidden in Houston's ear. _The
+fine-looking chap in the tweeds and bowler._
+
+"Got him," whispered Houston.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+He didn't go anywhere near the man in the bowler and tweeds; instead, he
+went to a window several feet away.
+
+"Deposit," he said, handing the slip to the man on the other side of the
+partition. While the teller went through the motions of putting the
+deposit through the robot accounting machine, David Houston kept his
+ears open.
+
+"How did you want the thousand, sir?" asked the teller in the next
+wicket.
+
+"Ten pound notes, if you please," said the graying man. "I think a
+hundred notes will go into my brief case easily enough." He chuckled, as
+though he'd made a clever witticism.
+
+"Yes, sir," said the clerk, smiling.
+
+Houston whispered into his microphone again. "Who is the guy?"
+
+On the other side of the partition, George Meredith, a small,
+unimposing-looking man, sat at a desk marked: MR. MEREDITH--ACCOUNTING
+DEPT. He looked as though he were paying no attention whatever to
+anything going on at the various windows, but he, too, had a microphone
+at his throat and a hidden pickup in his ear.
+
+At Houston's question, he whispered: "That's Sir Lewis Huntley. The
+check's good, of course. Poor fellow."
+
+"Yeah," whispered Houston, "if he is what we think he is."
+
+"I'm fairly certain," Meredith replied. "Sir Lewis isn't the type of
+fellow to draw that much in cash. At the present rate of exchange,
+that's worth three thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars American.
+Sir Lewis might carry a hundred pounds as pocket-money, but never a
+thousand."
+
+Houston and Meredith were a good thirty feet from each other, and
+neither looked at the other. Unless a bystander had equipment to tune in
+on the special scrambled wavelength they were using, that bystander
+would never know they were holding a conversation.
+
+"... nine-fifty, nine-sixty, nine-seventy, nine-eighty, nine-ninety, a
+thousand pounds," said the clerk who was taking care of Sir Lewis's
+check. "Would you count that to make sure, sir?"
+
+"Certainly. Ten, twenty, thirty, ..."
+
+While the baronet was double-checking the amount, David Houston glanced
+at him. Sir Lewis looked perfectly calm and unhurried, as though he were
+doing something perfectly legal--which, in a way, he was. And, in
+another way, he most definitely was not, if George Meredith's suspicions
+were correct.
+
+"Your receipt, sir." It was the teller at Houston's own window.
+
+Houston took the receipt, thanked the teller, and walked toward the
+broad front doors of the bank.
+
+"George," he whispered into the throat mike, "has Sir Lewis noticed me?"
+
+"Hasn't so much as looked at you," Meredith answered. "Good hunting."
+
+"Thanks."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+As Houston stepped outside the bank, he casually dropped one hand into a
+coat pocket and turned a small knob on his radio control box. "Houston
+to HQ," he whispered.
+
+"London HQ; what is it, Houston?" asked the earpiece.
+
+"Leadenhall Street Post. Meredith thinks he's spotted one. Sir Lewis
+Huntley."
+
+"Righto. We've got men in that part of the city now. We'll have a
+network posted within five minutes. Can you hold onto him that long?"
+
+Houston looked around. Leadenhall Street was full of people, and the
+visibility was low. "I'll have to tail him pretty closely," Houston
+said. "Your damned English fogs don't give a man much chance to see
+anything."
+
+There was a chuckle from the earphone. "Cheer up, Yank; you should have
+seen it back before 1968. When atomic power replaced coal and oil, our
+fogs became a devil of a lot cleaner."
+
+The voice was quite clear; at the London headquarters of the UN
+Psychodeviant Police, there was no need to wear a throat mike, which had
+a tendency to make the voice sound muffled in spite of the Statistical
+Information-Bit Samplers which were supposed to clarify the speech
+coming through them.
+
+"What do you know about 1968?" Houston asked sardonically. "Your mother
+was still pushing you around in a baby-carriage then."
+
+"In a pram," corrected the Headquarters operator. "That is true, but my
+dear Aunt Jennifer told me all about it. She was--"
+
+"The hell with your Aunt Jennifer," Houston interrupted suddenly. "Here
+comes Sir Lewis. Get me cover--fast!"
+
+"Right. Keep us posted."
+
+Sir Lewis Huntley stepped out of the broad door of the bank and turned
+left. He took a couple of steps and stopped. He didn't look around; he
+simply took a cigarette out of a silver case, put it in his mouth, and
+lit it. The glow of the lighter shone yellowly on the brass plate near
+the door which said: _An Affiliate of Westminster Bank, Ltd._
+
+Sir Lewis snapped the light out, drew on the cigarette, and strode on
+down the street, swinging a blue plastex brief case which contained a
+thousand pounds in United Nations Bank of England notes.
+
+Houston decided the baronet had not been looking for a tail; he wished
+he could probe the man's mind to make sure, but he knew that would be
+fatal. He'd have to play the game and hope for the best.
+
+"He's heading east," Houston whispered. "Doesn't look as if he's going
+to get a cab."
+
+"Check," said the earphone.
+
+Sir Lewis seemed in no great hurry, but he walked briskly, as though he
+had a definite destination in mind.
+
+After a little way, he crossed to the south side of Leadenhall Street
+and kept going east. Houston stayed far enough behind to be above
+suspicion, but not so far that he ran a chance of losing his man.
+
+"He's turning south on Fenchurch," Houston said a little later. "I
+wonder where he's going."
+
+"Keep after him," said Headquarters. "Our net men haven't spotted either
+of you yet. They can hardly see across the street in this damned fog."
+
+Houston kept going.
+
+"What the hell?" he whispered a few minutes later. "He's still following
+Fenchurch Street! He's doubling back!"
+
+Leadenhall Street, the banking center of the City of London, runs almost
+due east-and-west; Fenchurch Street makes a forty-five degree angle with
+it at the western end, running southwest for a bit and then curving
+toward the west, toward Lombard.
+
+"Houston," said HQ, "touch your left ear."
+
+Houston obediently reached up and scratched his left ear.
+
+"Okay," said HQ. "Bogart's spotted you, but he hasn't spotted Sir Lewis.
+Bogart's across the street."
+
+"He can't miss Sir Lewis," whispered Houston. "Conservatively
+dressed--matching coat and trousers of orange nylon tweed--royal blue
+half-brim bowler--carrying a blue brief case."
+
+There was a pause, then: "Yeah. Bogart's spotted him, and so has
+MacGruder. Mac's on your side, a few yards ahead."
+
+"Check. How about the rest of the net?"
+
+"Coming, coming. Be patient, old man."
+
+"I _am_ patient," growled Houston. _I have to be_, he thought to
+himself, _otherwise I'd never stay alive_.
+
+"We've got him bracketed now," HQ said. "If we lose him now, he's a
+magician."
+
+Sir Lewis walked on, seemingly oblivious to the group of men who had
+surrounded him. He came to the end of Fenchurch Street and looked to his
+left, towards London Bridge. Then he glanced to his right.
+
+"I think he's looking for a cab," Houston whispered.
+
+"That's what MacGruder says," came the reply. "We've got Arthmore in a
+cab behind you; he'll pick you up. MacGruder will get another cab, and
+we have a private car for Bogart."
+
+Sir Lewis flagged a cab, climbed in, and gave an address to the driver.
+Houston didn't hear it, but MacGruder, a heavy-set, short, balding man,
+was standing near enough to get the instructions Sir Lewis had given to
+the driver.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A cab pulled up to the curb near Houston, and he got in.
+
+Arthmore, the driver, was a thin, tall, hawknosed individual who could
+have played Sherlock Holmes on TV. Once he got into character for a
+part, he never got out of it unless absolutely necessary. Right now, he
+was a Cockney cab-driver, and he would play the part to the hilt.
+
+"Where to, guv'nor?" he asked innocently.
+
+"Buckingham Palace," said Houston. "I've got a poker appointment with
+Prince Charles."
+
+"Blimey, guv'nor," said Arthmore. "You _are_ movin' in 'igh circles!
+'Ow's 'Er Majesty these days?"
+
+The turboelectric motor hummed, and the cab shot off into traffic.
+"According to the report I get on the blinkin' wireless," he continued,
+"a chap named MacGruder claims that the eminent Sir Lewis 'Untley is
+'eaded for Number 37 Upper Berkeley Mews."
+
+"One of these days," said Houston, "all those _H_'s you drop is going to
+bounce back and hit you in the face."
+
+"Beg pardon, Mr. Yewston?" Arthmore asked blankly.
+
+Houston grinned. "Nothing, cabbie; it's just that you remind me of a
+cultured, intelligent fellow named Jack Arthmore. The only difference is
+that Jack speaks the Queen's English."
+
+"Crikey!" said Arthmore. "Wot a coincidence!" He paused, then: "The
+Queen's English, you say? She _'as_ to be, don't she?"
+
+"Shut up," said Houston conversationally. "And give me a cigarette," he
+added.
+
+"There's a package of Players in my shirt pocket," Arthmore said,
+keeping his hands on the wheel.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Houston fished out a cigarette, lit it, and returned the pack.
+
+Apropos of nothing, Arthmore said: "Reminds me of the time I was workin'
+for a printer, see? We 'ad to print up a bunch of 'andbills advertisin'
+a church charity bazaar. Down at the bottom was supposed to be printed
+'Under the auspices of St. Bede's-on-Thames.' So I--"
+
+He went on with a long, rambling tale about making a mistake in printing
+the handbill. Houston paid little attention. He smoked in silence,
+keeping his eyes on the red glow of the taillight ahead of them.
+
+Neither man mentioned the approaching climax of the chase. Even hardened
+veterans of the Psychodeviant Police don't look forward to the
+possibility of having their minds taken over, controlled by some outside
+force.
+
+It had never happened to Houston, but he knew that Arthmore had been
+through the experience once. It evidently wasn't pleasant.
+
+"--and the boss was 'oppin' mad," Arthmore was saying, "but, crikey, 'ow
+was I to know that _auspice_ was spelled A-U-S-P-I-C-E?"
+
+Houston grinned. "Yeah, sure. How're we doing with Sir Lewis?"
+
+"Seems to be headed in the right direction," Arthmore said, suddenly
+dropping the Cockney accent. "This is the route I'd take if I were
+headed for Upper Berkeley Mews. He probably hasn't told the driver to
+change addresses--maybe he won't."
+
+"The victims never do," Houston said. "He probably is actually headed
+toward Number 37 Upper Berkeley Mews."
+
+"Yeah. Nobody's perfect," said Arthmore.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Forty-five minutes of steady progress through the streets of Greater
+London brought Sir Lewis Huntley to Upper Berkeley and to the short
+dead-end street which constituted the Mews. By the time the dapper
+baronet stepped out of the machine and paid his driver, the whole area
+was surrounded by and filled with the well-armed, silent, and careful
+agents of the Psychodeviant Police.
+
+Number 37 was an old concrete-and-steel structure of the George VI
+period, faced with a veneer of red brick. It had obviously been
+remodeled at least once to make the facade more modern and more
+fashionable; the red-violet anodized aluminum was relatively fresh and
+unstained. It wouldn't have taken vast wealth to rent a flat in the
+building, but neither would an average income have been quite enough.
+
+Houston looked out of the window of Arthmore's cab and glanced at the
+tiers of windows in the building. Presumably, the man they were looking
+for was up there--somewhere.
+
+_So you occupy a station in the upper middle-class_, thought Houston. It
+checked. Every bit of evidence that came his way seemed to check
+perfectly and fit neatly into the hypothesis which he had formed. Soon
+it would be time to test that theory--but the time had not yet come.
+
+"Stand by and wait for orders, Houston," said the speaker in Houston's
+ear. "We've got men inside the building."
+
+Sir Lewis Huntley opened the sparkling, translucent door of Number 37
+Upper Berkeley Mews and went inside.
+
+Arthmore pulled the cab over to the curb a few yards from the entrance
+and the two men waited in silence. All around them were other men, some
+in private cars, some walking slowly along the street. All of them were
+part of the net that had gathered to catch one man.
+
+_Poor fish_, Houston thought wryly.
+
+There was no noise, no excitement. Five minutes after Sir Lewis had
+entered the front door, it opened again. A man whom Houston had never
+seen before stepped out and gestured with one hand. At the same time,
+Houston's speaker said: "They've got him. Hit him with a stun gun when
+he tried to get out through the fire exit."
+
+An ambulance which had been waiting at the entrance of the Mews pulled
+up in front of Number 37, and a minute or so later a little clot of men
+came out bearing a stretcher, which was loaded into the ambulance.
+Immediately after them came another man who had a firm, but polite grip
+on the arm of Sir Lewis Huntley.
+
+Houston sighed and leaned back in his seat. That was that. It was all
+over. Simple. Nothing to it.
+
+Another Controller had been apprehended by the Psychodeviant Police.
+Another deviant, already tried and found guilty, was ready to be exiled
+from Earth and imprisoned on one of the Penal Asteroids. All in the
+day's work.
+
+_There's just one thing I'd like to know_, Houston thought blackly.
+_What in the hell's going on?_
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In his hotel room near Piccadilly Circus, several hours later, David
+Houston sat alone, drink in hand, and put that same question to himself
+again.
+
+"What's going on?"
+
+On the face of it, it was simple. On the face of it, the answer was
+right in front of him, printed in black and white on the front page of
+the evening _Times_.
+
+Houston lifted the paper off the bed and looked at it. The banner line
+said: _Controller Captured in Lambeth!_
+
+Beneath that, in smaller type, the headline added: Robert Harris Accused
+of Taking Control of Barrister Sir Lewis Huntley.
+
+The column itself told the whole story. Mr. Robert Harris, of No. 37
+Upper Berkeley Mews, had, by means of mental control, taken over the
+mind of Sir Lewis and compelled him to draw one thousand pounds out of
+his bank. While Sir Lewis was returning to Harris with the money, the
+United Nations Psychodeviant Police had laid a trap. Sir Lewis, upon
+recovering his senses when Harris was rendered unconscious by a stun
+gun, had given evidence to the PD Police and to officials at New
+Scotland Yard.
+
+Houston looked at the full-color photo of Harris that was printed
+alongside the column. Nice-looking chap; late twenties or early
+thirties, Houston guessed. Blond-red hair, blue eyes. All-in-all, a
+very pleasant, but ordinary sort of man.
+
+There had been evidence that a Controller had been at work in London for
+some weeks now. Twelve days before, several men, following an impulse,
+had mailed twenty pounds to a "Richard Hempstead," General Delivery,
+Waterloo Station. By the time the matter had come to the authorities'
+attention, the envelopes had been called for and the Controller had
+escaped.
+
+Robert Harris was not the first Controller to be captured, nor, Houston
+knew, would he be the last. The first one had shown up more than sixteen
+years before, in Dallas, Texas, USA.
+
+Houston grinned as he thought of it. Projective telepathy had only been
+a crackpot's idea back then. In spite of the work of many intelligent,
+sane men, who had shown that mental powers above and beyond the ordinary
+did exist, the average man simply laughed off such nonsense. It was
+mysticism; it was magic; it was foolish superstition. It was anything
+but true.
+
+But ever since "Blackjack" Donnely had practically taken control of the
+whole city of Dallas, the average man had changed his mind. It was still
+mysterious; it was still magic; but now the weird machinations of the
+supernormal mind were something to be feared.
+
+In the sixteen years that had ensued since the discovery of the abnormal
+mental powers of "Blackjack" Donnely, rumors had spread all over the
+world. There were supposed to be men who could levitate--fly through the
+air at will. Others could walk through walls, and still others could
+make themselves invisible. The horrible monsters that were supposed to
+be walking the Earth were legion.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Actually, only one type of supernormal psychodeviant had been found--the
+telepath, the mindreader who could probe into the mental processes of
+others. Worse than that, the telepath could project his own thoughts
+into the mind of another, so that the victim supposed that the thoughts
+were his own. Actually, it was a high-powered form of hypnotism; the
+victim could be made to do anything the projective telepath wanted him
+to.
+
+"Blackjack" Donnely had made that clear in his trial in Texas.
+
+Donnely had been a big man--big physically, and important in city
+politics. He had also been as arrogant as the Devil himself.
+
+It was the arrogance that had finally tripped up Donnely. He had thought
+himself impregnable. Haled into court on charges of misappropriation of
+public funds, he had just sat and smirked while several witnesses for
+the State admitted that they had aided Donnely, but they claimed he had
+"hypnotized" them. Donnely didn't try to interfere with the
+evidence--that's where he made his mistake. And that's where his
+arrogance tripped him up.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+If he'd used telepathic projection to influence the State Attorney or
+the witnesses or the judge or the Grand Jury _before_ the trial, he
+might never have been discovered as the first of the Controllers. But
+that wasn't Donnely's style.
+
+"None of this namby-pamby stuff," he had once been quoted as saying; "if
+you got enemies, don't tease 'em--show 'em who's running things.
+Blackjack 'em, if you have to."
+
+And that's exactly what "Blackjack" Donnely had done. The trial was a
+farce from beginning to end; each witness gave his evidence from the
+stand, and then Donnely took control of their minds and made them refute
+every bit of it, publicly and tearfully apologizing to the "wonderful
+Mr. Donnely" for saying such unkind things about him.
+
+The judge and the jury knew something funny was going on, but they had
+no evidence, one way or another. The case, even at that point, might
+have ended with an acquittal or a hung jury, but Donnely wasn't through
+using his blackjack.
+
+He took over the mind of the foreman of the jury. The foreman claimed
+later that the jury had decided that they could reach no decision. Other
+jurors claimed that they had decided Donnely was guilty, but that was
+probably an _ex post facto_ switch. It didn't matter, anyway; when the
+foreman came out, he pronounced Donnely innocent. That should have ended
+it.
+
+The other jurors began to protest, but by that time, Donnely had gained
+control of the judge's mind. Rapidly, the judge silenced the jurors,
+declared Donnely to be free, and then publicly apologized for ever
+daring to doubt Mr. Donnely.
+
+The State's Attorney was equally verbose in his apology; he was almost
+in tears because of his "deep contrition at having cast aspersions on
+the spotless character of so great a man."
+
+Donnely was released.
+
+The next evening, "Blackjack" Donnely was shot down at the front door of
+his own home. There were fifteen bullets in his body; three from a .32,
+five from a .38, and seven from a .45.
+
+The police investigation was far from thorough; any evidence that may
+have turned up somehow got lost. It was labelled as "homicide committed
+by person or persons unknown," and it stayed that way.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Donnely was only the first. In the next two years, four more showed up.
+Everyone of them, in one way or another, had attempted to gain power or
+money by mental projection. Everyone of them was a twisted megalomaniac.
+
+Houston looked again at Harris's picture on the front page of the
+_Times_. Here was one Controller who neither looked nor acted like a
+megalomaniac. That wouldn't make much difference to the PD Police; as
+far as the officials were concerned, the ability to project
+telepathically and the taint of delusions of grandeur went hand in hand.
+Controllers were power-mad and criminal by definition.
+
+Fear still ruled the emotional reactions against Controllers, in spite
+of the protection of the Psychodeviant Police.
+
+But David Houston knew damned good and well that all telepaths were not
+necessarily insane.
+
+He should know. He was a Controller, himself.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_Brrrring!_
+
+David Houston tossed the paper on the bed and walked over to the phone.
+He cut in the circuit, and waited for the phone's TV screen to show the
+face of his caller. But the screen remained blank.
+
+"Who is it?" Houston asked.
+
+"Is this CHAring Cross 7-8161?" It was a woman's voice, soft and
+well-modulated.
+
+"No, this is CHElsea 7-8161," Houston said. "You must have dialed C-H-E
+instead of C-H-A."
+
+"Oh. I'm very sorry. Excuse me." There was a click, and she hung up.
+
+Houston walked back over to the bed and picked up his paper. He looked
+at it, but he didn't read it. It no longer interested him.
+
+So Dorrine was finally in London, eh? He'd recognized her voice
+instantly; even years of training couldn't smother the midwestern
+American of Chicago completely beneath the precise British of the
+well-educated English girl.
+
+The signal had been agreed upon, just in case his phone was tapped. Even
+the Psychodeviant Police could be suspected of harboring a
+Controller--although Houston didn't think it too likely. Nevertheless,
+he wasn't one to take too many chances.
+
+He glanced at his watch. He had an hour yet. He'd wait five minutes
+before he phoned headquarters.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+He sat down in his chair again and forced himself to relax, smoke a
+cigarette, and read the paper--the sports section. Perusing the records
+of the season's cricket matches kept his mind off that picture on the
+front page. At least, he hoped they would. Let's see, now--Benton was
+being rated as the finest googly bowler on the Staffordshire Club ...
+
+Everything went fine until he came across a reference to a John Harris,
+a top-flight batsman for Hambledon; that reminded him of Robert Harris.
+Houston threw down the paper in disgust and walked over to the phone.
+
+The number was TROwbridge 5-4321, but no one ever bothered to remember
+it. Simply dial 8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1, and every time a voice at the other end
+would answer--
+
+"Hamilton speaking."
+
+"Houston here; will I be needed in the next hour or so?"
+
+"Mmmm. Just a second; I'll check the roster. No; your evidence won't be
+needed personally. You've filed an affidavit. No, I don't think--wait a
+minute! Yes, there's a return here for you; reservation on the six A.M.
+jet to New York. Your job here is done, Houston, so you can take the
+rest of the evening off and relax. Going anywhere in particular?"
+
+"I thought I'd get a bite to eat and take in a movie, maybe, but if I'm
+due out at six, I'll forego the cinematic diversion. When's the trial?"
+
+"It's scheduled for eleven-thirty this evening. Going to come?"
+
+Houston shook his head. "Not if I'm not needed to give evidence. Those
+Controllers always give me the creeps."
+
+"They do everybody," said Hamilton. "Well, you caught him; there's no
+need for you to stick around for the windup. Have a good time."
+
+"Thanks," said Houston shortly, and hung up.
+
+_The windup_, Houston thought. _Sure. That's all it will be. A
+Controller's trial is a farce. Knock him out with a stun gun and then
+pump him full of comatol. How can he defend himself if he's unconscious
+all through the trial?_
+
+Houston knew what the average man's answer to that would be: "If a
+Controller were allowed to remain conscious, he'd take over the judge's
+mind and get himself freed."
+
+Houston said an obscene word under his breath, jammed his hat on his
+head, put on his coat, and left his apartment.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+With the coming of darkness, the heavy fog had become still denser. The
+yellow beams of the sodium vapor lamps were simply golden spots hanging
+in an all-enveloping blackness. Walking the street was a process of
+moving from one little golden island of light to another, crossing seas
+of blankness between. The monochromatic yellow shone on the human faces
+that passed beneath the lamps, robbing them of all color, giving them a
+dead, grayish appearance beneath the yellow itself.
+
+David Houston walked purposefully along the pavement, his hand jammed
+deep in his overcoat pockets. One hand held the control box for the
+little earpiece he wore. He kept moving the band selector, listening for
+any sign that the Psychodeviant Police were suspicious of a Controller
+in their midst.
+
+If they were following him, of course, they would use a different
+scrambler circuit than the one which was plugged into his own unit, but
+he would be able to hear the gabble of voices, even if he couldn't
+understand what they were saying.
+
+So far, there hadn't been a sound; if he was being followed, his tailers
+weren't using the personal intercom units.
+
+He didn't try to elude anyone who might be following. That, in itself,
+would be a giveaway. Let them watch, if they _were_ watching. They
+wouldn't see anything but a man going to get himself a bit of dinner.
+
+The _Charles II Inn_, on Regent Street, near Piccadilly Circus, was a
+haven of brightness in an otherwise Stygian London. It was one of those
+"old-fashioned" places--Restoration style of decoration, carried out in
+modern plastics. The oak panelling looked authentic enough, but it was
+just a little too glossy to be real.
+
+Houston pushed open the door, stepped inside, removed his hat and coat
+and shook the dampness from them. As he handed them to the checker, he
+looked casually around. Dorrine was nowhere in sight, but he hadn't
+expected her to be. There would be no point in their meeting physically;
+it might even be downright dangerous.
+
+The headwaiter, clad in the long waistcoat and full trunk-hose of the
+late Seventeenth Century, bowed punctiliously.
+
+"You're alone, sir?"
+
+"Alone, yes," Houston said. "I'll just be wanting a light supper and a
+drink or two."
+
+"This way, sir."
+
+Houston followed the man to a small table in the rear of the huge dining
+room. It was set for two, but the other place was quickly cleared away.
+Houston ordered an Irish-and-soda from a waiter who was only slightly
+less elaborately dressed than the headwaiter, and then settled himself
+down to wait. If he knew Dorrine, she would be on time to the minute.
+
+She came while the waiter was setting the drink on Houston's table. She
+stepped in through the door, her unmistakable hair glowing a rich red in
+the illumination of the pseudo-candlelight.
+
+She didn't bother to look around; she knew he would be there.
+
+After a single glance, Houston averted his eyes from her and looked back
+at his drink.
+
+And in that same instant, their minds touched.
+
+_Dave, darling! I knew you'd be early!_
+
+_Dorrine!_
+
+And then their minds meshed for an instant.
+
+_I_--_(we)_--_you_--LOVE--_you_--(each other)--me!--us!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Houston looked complacently at his drink while the headwaiter led
+Dorrine to a table on the far side of the room. She sat down gracefully,
+smiled at the waiter, and ordered a cocktail. Then she took a magazine
+from her handbag and began--presumably--to read.
+
+Her thought came: _Who is this Richard Harris? He's not one of our
+Group._
+
+Houston sipped at his drink. _No. An unknown, like the others. I wonder
+if he's even a telepath._
+
+_What?_ Her thought carried astonishment. _Why, Dave--he'd_ have _to be!
+How else could he have controlled this Sir Lewis--whatsisname--Huntley?_
+
+_Well--I've got a funny idea_, Houston replied. _Look at it this way: So
+far as we know, there are two Groups of telepaths. There's our own
+Group. All we want is to be left alone. We don't read a Normal's mind
+unless we have to, and we don't try to control one unless our lives are
+threatened. We stay under cover, out of everyone's way._
+
+_Then there are the megalomaniacs. They try, presumably, to gain wealth
+and power by controlling Normals. And they get caught with monotonous
+regularity. Right?_
+
+The girl caught an odd note in that thought. _What do you mean,
+"monotonous regularity"?_ she asked.
+
+_I mean_, Houston thought savagely, _why is it they're all so bloody
+stupid? Look at this Harris guy; he is supposed to have taken over Sir
+Lewis's mind in order to get a thousand pounds. So what did he have Sir
+Lewis do? Parade all around the city to pick up a PD Police net, and
+then give his address to a cabman in a loud voice and lead the whole
+net right to Harris! How stupid can a man get?_
+
+_It does look pretty silly_, Dorrine agreed. _Have you got an
+explanation?_
+
+_Several_, Houston told her. _And I don't know which one is correct._
+
+_Let's have them_, the girl thought.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Houston gave them to her. None of them, he knew, was completely
+satisfactory, but they all made more sense that the theory that Harris
+had done what the PD Police claimed he'd done.
+
+Theory Number One: The real megalomaniac Controller had taken over Sir
+Lewis's mind and made him draw out the thousand pounds and head west on
+Leadenhall Street. Somehow, the Controller had found out that Sir Lewis
+was being followed, and had steered him away from the original
+destination, heading him toward the innocent Robert Harris. That implied
+that the Controller had been within a few dozen yards of the net men
+that afternoon. A Controller can't control a mind directly from a
+distance, although orders can be implanted which will cause a man to
+carry out a plan of action, even though he may be miles from the
+Controller. But in order to change those plans, the Controller would
+have to be within projection range.
+
+Theory Two: Robert Harris actually was a megalomaniac Controller; with a
+long record of success behind him, who had finally grown careless.
+
+At that point, Dorrine interjected a thought: _Isn't it possible that he
+wanted to be caught?_
+
+Houston mulled it over for a minute. _A guilt-punishment reaction? He
+wanted to be punished for his crimes? I suppose that might account for
+part of it, yes. But if he'd been so successful, what did he do with all
+his money?_
+
+Dorrine gave a mental shrug. _Who knows? What's Theory Number Three?_
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Number Three was the screwiest one of all, yet it made a weird kind of
+sense. Suppose that Sir Lewis himself had had a grudge against Harris?
+The whole thing would have been ridiculously easy; all he'd have to do
+would be to act just as he had acted and then give evidence against
+Harris.
+
+The thing that made it odd wasn't the actual frame-up (if that's what it
+was); these days, every crime was blamed on a Controller. A man accused
+of murder simply looked virtuous and said that he would never have done
+such a thing if he hadn't been under the power of a Controller. Ditto
+for robbery, rape, and any other felony you'd care to name.
+
+An aura of fear hung over the whole Earth; each man half suspected
+everyone with whom he came in contact of being a Controller.
+
+So it wasn't that the frame-up in itself was peculiar in this case; it
+was simply that it wasn't Sir Lewis Huntley's style. If Sir Lewis had
+wanted to get Harris, he'd have done it legally, without any underhanded
+frame-ups. Still, the theory remained as a possibility.
+
+_I suppose it does_, Dorrine agreed, _but how does that tie in with our
+own Group? What about Jackson and Marcy? What happened to them?_
+
+_I don't know_, Houston admitted, _I just don't know_.
+
+Jackson and Marcy had been members of the Group of telepaths who had
+banded together for companionship and mutual protection. Both of them
+had been trapped by the PD Police in exactly the same way that Harris
+had been trapped. They were now where Harris would be in a matter of
+hours--in the Penal Cluster.
+
+Their arrests didn't make sense, either; they had been accused of taking
+over someone's mind for the purpose of gaining money illegally--illegal,
+that is, according to the new UN laws that had been passed to supersede
+the various national laws that had previously been in effect.
+
+But Houston had known both men well, and neither of them was the kind of
+man who would pull such a stunt, much less do it in such a stupid
+manner.
+
+Dorrine thought: _Well, Dave, this Harris case is out of our hands now;
+we've got to concentrate on getting others into the Group--we've got to
+find the other sane ones._
+
+_You're ready to take over here, then?_ he asked.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+At the table, several yards away from where Houston was sitting,
+Dorrine, still looking at the book, smiled faintly.
+
+_I'll have to; you're being transferred back to New York at six in the
+morning._
+
+Houston allowed a feeling of startled surprise to bridge the gap between
+their minds. _How'd you know that?_ He hadn't told her, and she couldn't
+have forced the knowledge from his mind. A telepath can open the mind
+of a Normal as simply as he might open the pages of a book, but the mind
+of another Controller is far stronger. One telepath couldn't force
+anything from the mind of another; all thoughts had to be exchanged
+voluntarily.
+
+She was still smiling. _We've got a few spies in the UN now_, she told
+him. _I got the information before you did._
+
+_You knew before you left New York?_ he asked incredulously.
+
+_That's right_, she thought. _The decision was made last night. Why?_
+
+_Nothing_, he told her. _I was just surprised, that's all._ But deep
+behind the telepathic barrier he had erected against her probing mind,
+he was thinking something else. He had been assigned to London to
+capture the Controller--then unknown--who was said to be active in
+England. But his recall order had been decided upon _before_ Harris was
+caught--or even suspected. Someone in the UN Psychodeviant Police
+Supreme Headquarters in New York must have known that Harris would be
+caught that day!
+
+_Something's bothering you_, Dorrine stated flatly.
+
+_I was thinking about leaving London_, he replied evasively. _I haven't
+seen you for six months, and now I have to leave again._
+
+_I'll be back in New York within three weeks_, the girl thought warmly.
+_I'll be--_
+
+Her thoughts were cut off suddenly by a strident voice in Houston's ear.
+"Attention; all-band notice. Robert Bentley Harris, arraigned this
+evening on a charge of illegal use of psychodeviant powers for the
+purpose of compounding a felony, has been found guilty as charged. He
+was therefore sentenced by the Lord Justice of Her Majesty's Court of
+Star Chamber to be banished from Earth forever, such banishment to be
+carried out by the United Nations Penology Service at the Queen's
+pleasure."
+
+The words that were running through Houston's brain, had been
+transmitted easily to Dorrine. For a moment, neither of them made any
+comment. Then Houston glanced at his watch.
+
+_Twenty-one minutes_, he thought bitterly. _What took them so long?_
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+High in the thin ionosphere, seventy miles above the surface of the
+Earth, a fifteen-hundred-mile-an-hour rocket airliner winged its way
+westward across the Atlantic, pushing herself forward on the thin,
+whispering, white-hot jets of her atomic engine. Behind her, the
+outdistanced sun sank slowly below the eastern horizon.
+
+David Houston wasn't watching the sunrise-in-reverse; he was sitting
+quietly in his seat, still trying to puzzle out his queer recall to New
+York. When Hamilton had told him about it over the phone, he'd assumed
+that New York, having been notified that Harris had been captured, had
+decided to send for Houston, now that his job was over.
+
+But now he knew that the order had come through nearly twenty-four hours
+before Harris was captured.
+
+Did someone at UN Headquarters know that Harris was going to be
+captured? Or did someone there suspect that there was something odd
+about Police Operative David Houston?
+
+Or both?
+
+Whatever it was, Houston would have to take his chances; to act
+suspiciously would be a deadly mistake.
+
+A stewardess, clad in the chic BOAC uniform, moved down the aisle,
+quietly informing the passengers that they could have coffee served at
+their seats or take breakfast in the lounge. The atmosphere of the
+plane's interior was filled with the low murmur of a hundred
+conversations against the background of the susurrant mutter of the
+mighty engines.
+
+_Uhhh--uh--uh--dizzy--head hurts--uh--uh--_
+
+The sounds in the plane altered subtly as the faint thought insinuated
+itself on every brain inside the aircraft. None of the Normal passengers
+recognized it for what it was; it was too gentle, too weak, to be
+recognized directly by their minds.
+
+But David Houston recognized it instantly for what it was.
+
+Somewhere on the plane, a Controller had been unconscious. _Had_ been.
+For now, his powerful mind was trying to swim up from the black depths
+of nothingness.
+
+_Uh--uhhhh--uhh--_
+
+The Normal passengers became uneasy, not knowing why they were
+disturbed. To them, it was like a vaguely unpleasant but totally
+unrecognizable nudge from their own subconscious, like some
+long-forgotten and deeply buried memory that had been forced down into
+oblivion and was now trying to obtrude itself on the conscious mind.
+
+_Uhhh--Oooohh--where?--what happened?--_
+
+A fully conscious telepath could project his thoughts along a narrow
+locus, focusing them on a single brain, leaving all other brains
+oblivious to his thoughts. Like a TV broadcasting station, he could
+choose his wavelength and stick to it.
+
+But a half-conscious Controller sprayed his thoughts at random, creating
+mental disturbances in his vicinity. Like a thunderstorm creating radio
+static, there was no selectivity.
+
+Savagely, David Houston did what he had to do. It might be a trap, but
+he had to avoid the carnage that might follow if this went on. He hurled
+a beam of thought, hard-held, at the offending mind of the awakening
+telepath.
+
+_DON'T THINK! RELAX!_
+
+Normally it was impossible for a Controller to take over the mind of
+another Controller, but these were abnormal circumstances; the
+half-conscious man, whoever he was, was weakened mentally by some kind
+of enforced unconsciousness--either a drug or a stun gun. Houston took
+over his mind smoothly and easily.
+
+_Robert Harris!_
+
+Houston recognized the mind as soon as he held it.
+
+He didn't try to force anything on Harris's mind; he simply held it,
+cradling it, helping Harris to regain consciousness easily, bringing him
+up from the darkness gently.
+
+In normal sleep, everyone's mind retains a certain amount of
+self-control and awareness of environment. If it didn't, noise and
+bright lights wouldn't awaken a sleeping person.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In normal sleep, a telepath retained enough control to keep his thoughts
+to himself, even when waking up.
+
+But total anaesthesia brought on a mental blackout from which the victim
+recovered only with effort. And during that time, a Controller's mind
+was violently disturbing to the Normal minds around him, who mistook his
+disordered thoughts for their own.
+
+Like pouring heavy oil on choppy waters, Houston soothed the
+disturbances of Harris's mind, focusing the random broadcasts on his own
+brain.
+
+And while he did that, he probed gently into the weakened mind of the
+prisoner for information.
+
+Harris was a Controller, all right; there was no doubt about that. But
+nowhere in his mind was there any trace of any knowledge of what had
+happened to Sir Lewis Huntley. If Sir Lewis had actually been
+controlled, it hadn't been done by Robert Harris.
+
+Houston wished he'd been able to probe Sir Lewis's mind; he'd have been
+able to get a lot more information out of it than he had in his
+possession now. But that would have been dangerous; if Sir Lewis was a
+Controller himself, and had been acting a part, Houston would have given
+himself away the instant he attempted to touch the baronet's mind. If,
+on the other hand, Sir Lewis had actually been under the control of
+another telepath, any probing into the mind of the puppet would have
+betrayed Houston to the real Controller.
+
+Harris knew nothing. He wasn't acquainted with any other Controllers,
+and had kept his nose clean ever since he'd discovered his latent
+powers. He knew that megalomaniac Controllers were either captured or
+mobbed, and he had no wish to experience either.
+
+The Normals had long since discovered that the only way to overcome a
+Controller was by force of numbers. A Controller could only hold one
+Normal mind at a time. That was why a mob could easily kill a single
+Controller; that was why the Psychodeviant Police had evolved the "net"
+system for arresting a telepath.
+
+Harris, then, had been framed. Or could it be called a frame-up when
+Harris was really guilty of the actual crime? Because the crime he had
+really been accused of was not that of controlling Sir Lewis, but the
+crime of being a telepath. That, and that alone, damned him in the eyes
+of the Normals; the crime of taking over a mind for gain was incidental.
+The stigma lies in what he _was_, not what he did.
+
+Harris himself was in the bottom of the plane, in the baggage section
+near the landing gear. After his trial, still drugged, he had been
+secretly put aboard, to be taken to the Long Island Spaceport in New
+York. It had had to be secret; no Normal would knowingly ride on an
+aircraft which carried a Controller, even if he were drugged into total
+unconsciousness.
+
+With Harris were two PD Police guards. Their low conversation impinged
+on Harris's ears, and was transmitted to Houston's mind.
+
+Suddenly, one of them said: "Hey! He's moving!"
+
+"Better give him another shot, Harry;" said the other, "when those guys
+wake up, they drive you crazy."
+
+Houston could almost feel the sting of the needle as it was inserted
+into the arm of the helpless prisoner.
+
+Slowly, Harris's thoughts, which had begun to become fully coherent,
+again became chaotic, finally sliding off into silence and darkness.
+
+"Are you all right, sir?"
+
+Houston looked up from his intense concentration. The stewardess was
+standing by his seat. He realized that there was a film of perspiration
+on his brow, and that he probably had looked dazed while he was
+concentrating on Harris's mind.
+
+"Sure," he said quickly, "I'm all right. I'm just a little tired. Had to
+get up too early to catch this plane." He rubbed his forehead. "I do
+have a little headache; would you happen to have any aspirin aboard?"
+
+She smiled professionally. "Certainly, sir. I'll get a couple of
+tablets."
+
+As she left for the first-aid cabinet, Houston thought bleakly to
+himself: _Harris was framed. Possibly others have been, too. But by
+whom? And why?_
+
+He could see why a Normal might do such a thing. But why would a
+Controller do it?
+
+There was only one answer. Somewhere, there was a Controller, or a group
+of Controllers who were megalomaniacs _par excellence_. If that were so,
+he--or they--could make the late "Blackjack" Donnely look like a meek,
+harmless, little mouse.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The one part of Continental U.S.A. over which the American Government
+had no jurisdiction was small, areawise, in comparison with its power.
+The District of the United Nations occupied the small area of Manhattan
+Island which ran from 38th Street on the south to 49th Street on the
+north; its western border was Third Avenue, its eastern, the East River.
+From here, the UN ruled Earth.
+
+There were no walls or fences around it; only by looking at street signs
+could anyone tell that they had crossed an international border.
+Crossing Third Avenue from west to east, one found that 45th Street had
+suddenly become Deutschland Strasse; 40th Street became Rue de France;
+47th was the Via Italiano. 43rd Street's sign was painted in Cyrillic
+characters, but beneath it, in English, were the words "Avenue of Mother
+Russia."
+
+Third Avenue was technically One World Drive. Second Avenue was labelled
+as Planetary Peace Drive, and First was United Nations Drive.
+
+But New Yorkers are, and always have been, diehards. Just as The Avenue
+of the Americas had forever remained Sixth Avenue, no matter what the
+maps called it, so had the other streets retained their old names in
+conversation.
+
+Even the International Post Office, after years of wrangling, had given
+up, and letters addressed to _Supreme Headquarters, United Nations
+Police, 45th Street at Second Avenue_, were delivered without comment,
+even though the IPO still firmly held that they were technically
+misaddressed. And, privately, even the IPO officials admitted that the
+numbers were easier to say and remember than the polyglot street names
+that had been tagged on by the General Assembly.
+
+So when David Houston signalled a taxi at Grand Central Station and
+said, "Forty-fifth and Second," the driver simply set his automatic
+controls, leaned back in his seat, and said, "Goin' to see the cops,
+huh?"
+
+When no answer was forthcoming, the driver turned around and took a good
+look at his passenger. "Maybe you're a UN cop yourself, huh?"
+
+Houston shook his head. "Nope. Some kids have been scribbling dirty
+words on my sidewalk, and I'm going to report it to the authorities."
+
+The driver turned back around and looked ahead again. "Jeez! That's
+serious. Hadn't you better take it up with the Secretary General? I
+wouldn't be satisfied with no underlings in a case like that."
+
+"I'm thinking of taking it up with the Atomic Energy Control Board,"
+Houston told him. "I think those kids are using radioactive chalk."
+
+"That's one way for 'em to get blue jeans," said the driver cryptically.
+
+There was silence for a moment as the taxi braked smoothly to a halt,
+guided and controlled by the automatic machinery in the hood.
+
+Then, suddenly, the driver said: "Ship up!" He pointed east, along 45th
+Street, toward Long Island. Far in the distance was a rapidly rising
+vapor trail, pointing vertically toward the sky, the unmistakable sign
+of a spaceship takeoff. They didn't leave often, and it was still an
+unusual sight.
+
+Houston said nothing as he climbed out and paid the driver, tossing in
+an extra tip.
+
+"Thanks, buddy," said the driver. "Watch out for them kids."
+
+Houston didn't answer. He was still watching the vapor trail as the cab
+pulled away.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_There goes Harris_, he was thinking. _An innocent man, guilty of
+nothing more than being born different. And because of that, he's
+labelled as an inhuman monster, not even worthy of being executed.
+Instead, he's taken into space, filled full of hibernene, and chained to
+a floating piece of rock for the rest of his life._
+
+Such was humanity's "humane" way of taking care of the bogey of
+Controllers. Capital punishment had been outlawed all over Earth; it had
+long since been proved that legalized murder, execution by the State,
+solved nothing, helped no one, prevented no crimes, and did infinitely
+more harm than good in the long run.
+
+With the coming of the Controllers, a movement had arisen to bring back
+the old evil of judicial murder, but it had been quickly put down when
+the Penal Cluster plan had been put forth as a more "humane" method.
+
+Hibernene was a drug that had been evolved from the study of animals
+like the bear, which spent its winters in an almost death-like sleep. A
+human being, given a proper dosage of the drug, lapsed into a deep coma.
+The bodily processes were slowed down; the heart throbbed sluggishly,
+once every few minutes; thought ceased. It was the ideal prison for a
+mental offender that ordinary prisons could not hold.
+
+But it wasn't quite enough for the bloodthirsty desire for vengeance
+that the Normals held for the Controllers. There had to be more.
+
+Following Earth in its orbit around the sun, trailing it by some
+ninety-three million miles, were a group of tiny asteroids, occupying
+what is known as the Trojan position. They were invisible from Earth,
+being made of dark rock and none of them being more than fifteen feet in
+diameter. But they had been a source of trouble in some of the early
+expeditions to Mars, and had been carefully charted by the Space
+Commission.
+
+Now a use had been found for them. A man in a spacesuit could easily be
+chained to one of them. With him was a small, sun-powered engine and
+tanks of liquified food concentrates and oxygen. Kept under the
+influence of hibernene, and kept cool by the chill of space, a man could
+spend the rest of his life there--unmoving, unknowing, uncaring, dead as
+far as he and the rest of Mankind were concerned--his slight bodily
+needs tended automatically by machine.
+
+It was a punishment that satisfied both sides of the life-or-death
+argument.
+
+Houston shook off the bleak, black feeling of terrible chill that had
+crept over him and pushed his way into the UN Police building.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The thirteenth floor housed the Psychodeviant Division. As he stood in
+the rising elevator, Houston wondered wryly if the number 13 was good
+luck or bad in this case.
+
+He stepped out of the elevator and headed for the Division Chief's
+office.
+
+Division Chief Reinhardt was a heavy-set, balding man, built like a
+professional wrestler. His cold blue eyes gleamed from beneath shaggy,
+overhanging brows, and his face was almost expressionless except for a
+faint scowl that crossed it from time to time. In spite of the fact that
+a Canadian education had wiped out all but the barest trace of German
+accent, his Prussian training, of the old Junkers school, was still
+evident. He demanded--and got--precision and obedience from his
+subordinates, although he had no use for the strictly military viewpoint
+of obsequiousness towards one's superiors.
+
+He was sitting behind his desk, scowling slightly at some papers on it
+when Houston stepped in.
+
+"You wanted me to report straight to you, Mr. Reinhardt?"
+
+Reinhardt looked up, his heavy face becoming expressionless. "Ah,
+Houston. Yes; sit down. You did a fine job on that London affair; that's
+what I call coming through at the last moment."
+
+"How so?"
+
+"Your orders to return," he said, "were cut before you found your man.
+We have a much more important case for you than some petty pilfering
+Controller. We are after much more dangerous game."
+
+Houston nodded. "I see." Inwardly, he wondered. It was almost as if
+Reinhardt knew that Houston had found out that the recall had come
+early. Houston would have given his right arm at that moment to be able
+to probe Reinhardt's mind. But he held himself back. He had, in the
+past, sent tentative probes toward the Division Chief and found nothing,
+but he didn't know whether it would be safe now or not. It would be
+better to wait.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Reinhardt stood up, walked to the wall, and turned on a display screen.
+He twisted a knob to a certain setting, and a map of Manhattan Island
+sprang onto the screen in glowing color.
+
+"As you know," Reinhardt said pedantically, "no Controller can do a
+perfect job of controlling a normal person. No matter how much he may
+want to make John Smith act naturally, some of the personality of the
+Controller will show up in the actions of John Smith. Am I correct?"
+
+Houston nodded without saying anything. The question was purely
+rhetorical, and the statement was perfectly correct.
+
+"Very well, then," Reinhardt continued, "by means of these
+peculiarities, our psychologists have found that there is widespread,
+but very subtle controlling going on right in the UN General Assembly
+itself! The amazing thing is that they all bear the--shall we
+say--trademark of the same Controller. Whoever he is, he seems to have a
+long-range plan in mind; he wants to change, ever so slightly, certain
+international laws so that he will profit by them. Do you follow?"
+
+"I follow," said Houston.
+
+"Good. It has taken painstaking research and a great deal of
+psychological statistical analysis, but we have found that one
+company--and one company only--benefits by these legal changes. Did you
+ever hear of Lasser & Sons?"
+
+"Sure," said Houston. "They're in the import-export business, with a few
+fingers in shipping and air transport."
+
+"That's them," said Reinhardt. "Someone in that company, presumably
+someone at the top, is a Controller. And he's a very subtle, very
+dangerous man. Unlike the others, there is nothing hasty or overt in his
+plans. But within a few years, if this goes on, he will have more power
+than the others ever dreamed of."
+
+"And my job is to get him?" Houston asked.
+
+Reinhardt nodded. "That's it. Get him. One way or another. You're in
+charge; I don't care how you do it, but this one Controller is more
+dangerous than any other we've come across, so get him."
+
+Houston nodded slowly. "Okay. Can you give me all the data you have so
+far?"
+
+Reinhardt patted a heavy folder on his desk. "It's all here." Then he
+tapped the projected map on the screen. "That's the Lasser
+Building--Church Street at Worth. Somewhere in there is the man we're
+looking for."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+David Houston spent the next six weeks gathering facts, trying to
+determine the identity of the mysterious Controller at Lasser & Sons.
+Slowly, the evidence began to pile up.
+
+At the same time, he worried over his own problem. Who was betraying
+non-criminal Controllers to the PD Police?
+
+In that six-week period, two more men and a woman were arrested--one in
+Spain, one in India, and one in Hawaii.
+
+There weren't very many Controllers on Earth, percentagewise. Of the
+three and a half billion people on Earth, less than an estimated
+one-thousandth of one percent were telepathic. But that made a grand
+total of some thirty-five thousand people.
+
+Spread, as they were, all over the planet, it was rare that one
+Controller ever met another. The intelligent ones didn't use their
+power; they remained concealed, even from each other.
+
+But _someone_, somewhere, was finding them and betraying them to the
+Psychodeviant Police.
+
+As more and more data came in on the Lasser case, Houston began to get
+an idea. If there were a really clever, highly intelligent, megalomaniac
+Controller, wouldn't it be part of his psychological pattern to attempt
+to get rid of the majority of Controllers, those who simply wanted to
+lead normal lives?
+
+And, if so, wasn't it possible that both his cases--the official and the
+unofficial--might lead to the same place: Lasser & Sons?
+
+It began to look as though Houston could kill both his birds at once, if
+he could just figure out when, how, and in what direction to throw the
+stone.
+
+In the middle of the seventh week, a Controller in Manchester, England,
+was mobbed and torn to bits by an irate crowd before the PD Police
+could get to him. There was no doubt in Houston's mind that this one was
+a real megalomaniac; he had taken over another man's brain and forced
+him to commit suicide. The controlled man had taken a Webley automatic,
+put it to his temple, and blown his brains out.
+
+The Controller's mistake was in not realizing what the sudden shock of
+that bullet, transmitted to him telepathically, could do to his own
+mind. In the mental disorder that followed, he was spotted and killed
+easily.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+There was still no word from Dorrine. She had flown back to the States a
+week after Houston had returned, but she had had to get back to England
+after three days. Since then, he had had three letters, nothing more.
+And letters are a damned unsatisfactory way for a telepath to conduct a
+love affair.
+
+The one other factor that entered in was The Group, the small band of
+sane, reasonable telepaths who had begun to build themselves into an
+organization--a sort of Mutual Protective Association.
+
+Personally, Houston didn't think much of the idea; the Group didn't have
+any real organization, and they refused to put one together. It was
+supposed to be democratic, but it sometimes bordered on the anarchic.
+
+He stayed with them more for companionship than any other reason. When
+Dorrine had come back for her short stay, Houston had met with them and
+tried to get them to help him trace down the megalomaniac Controller who
+was doing so much damage, but they'd balked at the idea. Their job, they
+claimed, was to get enough members so that they could protect themselves
+from arrest by the Normals, and then just let things ride.
+
+"After all," Dorrine had said, "things will work themselves out,
+darling; they always do."
+
+"Not unless somebody helps them, they don't," Houston had snapped back.
+"Someone has to do something."
+
+"But, Dave, darling--we _are_ doing something! Don't you see?"
+
+He didn't, but there was no convincing either the Group or Dorrine. She
+was passionately interested in the recruiting work she was doing, and
+she thought that the Group was the answer to every Controller's
+troubles.
+
+And then she had rushed back to England. "I'll be back soon, Dave,"
+she'd said. "I think I have a lead on a girl in Liverpool."
+
+So far, the girl hadn't been found. Controllers didn't like to give
+themselves away to anyone, so they kept a tight screen up most of the
+time.
+
+It seemed as though everyone on Earth was in deadly fear all the time.
+The Normals feared losing their identities to Controllers, and the
+Controllers feared death at the hands of the Normals.
+
+And death or the Penal Cluster were their only choices if they were
+discovered.
+
+Houston worried about the risks Dorrine was taking, but there was
+nothing he could do. She was doing what she thought was right, just as
+he was; how could he argue with that?
+
+Houston went on with his job, putting together facts and rumors and
+statistical data analysis, searching out his quarry.
+
+And, at the end of the eighth week, everything blew high, wide, and
+hellish.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was late evening. A cool wind blew over New York, bringing with it a
+hint of the rain to come. Church Street, in lower Manhattan, was not
+crowded, as it had been in the late afternoon, but neither was it
+entirely deserted. The cafes and bars did a lively business, but the
+tall, many-colored office buildings gaped at the street with blind and
+darkened eyes. Only a few of the windows glowed whitely with fluorescent
+illumination.
+
+In one of the small coffee shops, David Houston sat, smoking a cigarette
+and stirring idly at a cup of cooling coffee.
+
+Across the street was the Lasser Building; high up on the sixtieth
+floor, a whole suite of offices was brightly lit. The rest of the
+building was clothed in blackness.
+
+Who was up there in that suite? Houston wasn't quite sure. He had
+narrowed his list of suspects down to three men: John Sager, Loris
+Pederson, and Norcross Lasser, three top officials in the company. Sager
+and Pederson were both vice-presidents of the firm; Sager was in charge
+of the Foreign Exports department, while Pederson handled the actual
+shipping. Lasser, by virtue of being the grandson of the man who had
+founded the firm, was president of Lasser & Sons, Inc.
+
+Lasser seemed like a poor choice as chief villain of the outfit; he was
+a mild, bland man, quiet and friendly. Besides, his position made him
+an obvious suspect; naturally, the majority stockholder of the firm
+would profit most by the increased power of the company. And, equally
+obviously, a Controller wouldn't want to put himself in such an exposed
+position.
+
+Which made Lasser, in Houston's mind, a hell of a good suspect. If
+anything happened, Lasser could cover by claiming that he, too, had been
+controlled, and the chances were that he could get away with it. A
+Controller never did anything directly; their dirty work was done by
+someone else--a puppet under their mental control. At least, so ran the
+popular misconception. If Lasser were the man, he stood a good chance of
+getting away with it, even if he were caught, provided he played his
+cards right.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+That reasoning still didn't eliminate Sager or Pederson. Either of them
+could be the Controller. And there still remained the possibility that
+some unknown, unsuspected fourth person had the company of Lasser & Sons
+under his thumb.
+
+That was what Houston intended to find out tonight.
+
+He took a sip of his coffee, found it still reasonably hot.
+
+Damn the megalomaniacs, anyway! Houston subconsciously tightened his
+fists. He, personally, had more to fear from the Normals than from
+another Controller. Normals could kill or imprison him, while a
+Controller would have a hard time doing either, directly.
+
+But Houston could understand the Normal man; he could see how fear of a
+Controller could drive a man without the ability into a frenzied panic.
+He could understand, even forgive their actions, born and bred in
+ignorance and fear.
+
+No, the ones he hated were the ones who had conceived and fostered that
+fear--the psychologically unstable megalomaniac Controllers. There were
+only a handful of them--probably not more than a few hundred or a
+thousand. But because of them, every telepath on Earth found his life in
+danger, and every Normal found his life a hell of terror.
+
+Let Dorrine and her do-nothing friends run around the globe recruiting
+members for their precious Group; that was all right for them.
+Meanwhile, David Houston would be doing something on a more basic action
+level.
+
+He glanced at his watch. Almost time.
+
+"How's the deployment?" he whispered in his throat.
+
+"We've got the building surrounded now," said the voice in his ear. "You
+can go in anytime."
+
+"How about the roof?"
+
+"That's taken care of, sir; we've got 'copter that can be on the top of
+the Lasser Building at any time you call. They can land within thirty
+seconds of your signal."
+
+"Okay," Houston said; "I'm going in now. Remember--no matter what I say
+or do, no one is to leave that building if they're conscious. And keep
+your eyes on me; if I act in the least peculiar, handcuff me--but don't
+knock me out.
+
+"And if I'm not back on time, come in anyway."
+
+"Right."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Houston finished his coffee, dropped a coin on the counter, and headed
+for the other side of the street.
+
+The big problem was getting into the building itself. It was ringed with
+alarms; Lasser & Sons didn't want just anybody wandering in and out of
+their building.
+
+So Houston had arranged a roundabout way. The building next to the
+Lasser Building was a good deal smaller, only forty-five stories high. A
+week before, Houston had rented an office on the eighteenth floor of
+the building; on the door, he had already had a sign engraved: Ajax
+Enterprises.
+
+It was a shame the office would never be used.
+
+Houston walked straight to the next-door building and opened the front
+door with his key. Inside, a night watchman lounged behind a desk,
+smoking a blackened briar. He looked up, smiled, and nodded.
+
+"Evening, Mr. Griswold; working late tonight?"
+
+Houston forced a smile he did not feel. "Just doing a little paper
+work," he said.
+
+He took the automatic elevator to the eighteenth floor. He didn't relish
+the idea of walking up to the roof, but taking the elevator would make
+the nightwatchman suspicious.
+
+He didn't bother going to the office; he headed directly for the
+stairway and began his long climb--twenty-seven floors to the roof.
+
+All through it, he kept up a running comment through his throat mike. "I
+wish I weighed about fifty pounds less; carrying two hundred and twenty
+pounds of blubber up these stairs isn't easy."
+
+"Blubber, hooey!" the earphone interrupted. "Any man who's
+six-feet-three has a right to carry that much weight. Actually, you're
+a skinny-looking sort of goop."
+
+Both men were exaggerating; Houston wasn't fat, but his broad, powerful
+frame couldn't be called skinny, either.
+
+When he finally reached the roof, he paused and surveyed the wall of the
+Lasser Building, which towered high above him, spearing an additional
+thirty stories in the air. Up there, the lights on the sixtieth floor
+gleamed in the night.
+
+The air was growing cooler, and the beginnings of a mist were forming.
+Houston hoped it wouldn't start to rain before he got inside.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The forty-sixth floor of the Lasser Building had no windows on this
+side, but there were plenty on the forty-seventh.
+
+Leading up to them was an inviting looking fire escape, but Houston knew
+he didn't dare take that. By law, every fire escape was rigged with a
+fire alarm, in addition to the regular burglar alarm. He'd have to use
+another way.
+
+The Lasser Building was a steel structure, shelled over with a bright
+blue anodized aluminum sheath. Only the day before, Houston, wearing the
+gray coverall of a power-line workman, had checked the wall to find the
+big steel beams beneath the aluminum. He had also installed certain
+other equipment; now he was going to make use of it.
+
+Concealed in the louvres of the air-conditioner intake of the lower
+building was a specially constructed suit and several hundred feet of
+power line which was connected to the main line of the building.
+
+In the darkness, Houston slipped on the suit. It was constructed
+somewhat like a light diving suit or a spacesuit, but without the
+helmet. In the toes, knees, and hands, were powerful electromagnets
+controlled by switches in the fingers of the gloves and powered by the
+current in the long line.
+
+Houston stepped over to the blue aluminum wall, reached out a hand, and
+lowered one finger. Instantly, the powerful magnet anchored his hand to
+the wall, held by the dense magnetic field to the steel beam beneath the
+aluminum sheath. That one magnet alone could support his full body
+weight, and he had six magnets to work with.
+
+Slowly, carefully, David Houston began to crawl up the wall.
+
+Turn on a magnet in the right hand; lift up the left hand and anchor it
+higher; turn on the right hand and lift it even with the left, then
+anchor it again; do the same with both legs; then begin the process all
+over again, turning the magnets off and on in rotation.
+
+Up and up he went. Past the forty-sixth floor, past the forty-seventh,
+the forty-eighth, and the forty-ninth. Not until he reached the fiftieth
+floor did he attempt to open one of the windows.
+
+There was a magnetic lock inside the window, but Houston had taken that,
+too, into account. The powerful magnet in his right glove slid it aside
+easily. Houston lifted the window and stepped inside.
+
+He had ten more floors to go.
+
+He took off the suit and rolled it up into a tight package, then dropped
+it out the window. It landed with a barely audible thump. Houston took a
+deep breath, drew his stun gun, and headed for the stairway.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+On the landing of the sixtieth floor of the Lasser Building, David
+Houston paused for a moment.
+
+"Sounds like you're out of breath," said the voice in his ear.
+
+"You try climbing all that way sometime," Houston whispered. "I'm no
+superman, you know."
+
+"Shucks," said the voice, "you've disillusioned me. What now?"
+
+"I'm going to try to get a little information," Houston told him. "Hold
+on."
+
+On the other side of the door, he could hear faint sound, as if someone
+were moving around, but he could hear no voices.
+
+Carefully, he sent out a probing thought, trying to see if he could
+attune his mind with that of someone inside without betraying himself.
+
+He couldn't detect anything. The sixtieth floor covered a lot of space;
+if whoever was inside was too far away, their thoughts would be too
+faint to pick up unless Houston stepped up his own power, and he didn't
+want to do that.
+
+Cautiously, he reached out a hand and eased open the door.
+
+The hallway was brightly lit, but there was no one in sight. The
+unaccustomed light made Houston blink for a moment before his eyes
+adjusted to it; the hallways and landings below had been pitch dark,
+forcing him to use a penlight to find his way up.
+
+He stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
+
+Now he could hear voices. He stopped to listen. The conversation was
+coming from an office down the hall--if it could be called a
+conversation.
+
+There would be long periods of silence, then a word or two: "But not
+that way." "Until tomorrow." "Vacillates."
+
+There were three different voices.
+
+Houston moved on down the hall, his stun gun ready. A few yards from the
+door, he stopped again, and, very gently, he sent out another
+thought-probe, searching for the minds of those within, carefully
+forging his way.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+And, at that crucial instant, a voice spoke in his ear.
+
+"Houston! What's going on? You haven't said a thing for two full
+minutes!"
+
+"I'm all right!" Houston snapped. Only the force of long training and
+habit kept him from shouting the words aloud instead of keeping them to
+a subvocal whisper.
+
+"All right or not," said the other, "we're coming in in seven minutes,
+as ordered. Meanwhile, there's a news bulletin for you; the British
+division has picked up another Controller--a woman named Dorrine Kent.
+Two in one night ought to be a pretty good bag."
+
+For a moment, Houston's mind was a meaningless blur.
+
+_Dorrine!_
+
+And then another voice broke through his shock.
+
+"Dear me, sir! Calm yourself! You're positively fizzing!"
+
+Houston jerked. Standing in the doorway of the office was Norcross
+Lasser, with a benign smile on his face and a deadly-looking .38
+automatic in his hand. Behind him stood John Sager and Loris Pederson,
+their faces wary.
+
+"Please drop that stun gun, Mr. Cop."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In those few moments, Houston had regained control of himself. He
+realized what had happened. The interruption of his thought-probe had
+startled him just a little, but that little had been enough to warn the
+Controller.
+
+He wondered which of the three men was the actual Controller.
+
+He began to lower his weapon, then, suddenly, with all the force and
+hatred he could muster, he sent a blistering, shocking thought toward
+the man with the gun.
+
+Lasser staggered as though he'd been struck. His gun wavered, and
+Houston fired quickly with his stun gun. At the same time, Lasser's
+automatic went off.
+
+The bullet went wild, and the stun beam didn't do much better. It struck
+Lasser's hand, paralyzing it, but it didn't knock out Lasser.
+
+The mental battle that ensued only took a half second, but at the speed
+of thought, a lot of things can happen in a half second.
+
+Houston realized almost instantaneously that he had made a vast mistake.
+He had badly underestimated the enemy.
+
+There was no need to worry, now, about which one of the men was a
+Controller--_all three of them were!_
+
+As soon as Sager and Pederson realized what had happened, they
+leaped--mentally--into the battle. Lasser, already weakened by the
+unexpected mental blow from Houston, lost consciousness when the others
+let loose their blasts because his mind was still linked with Houston's,
+and he absorbed a great deal of the mental energy meant for Houston's
+brain.
+
+Houston, fully warned by now, held up a denial wall which screened his
+mind from the worst that Sager and Pederson could put out, but he knew
+he couldn't hold out for long.
+
+"Come in--_now!_" he said hoarsely into the microphone.
+
+"Stupid swine!" Sager susurrated sibilantly.
+
+Pederson said nothing aloud, but his brain was blazing with fear and
+hatred. His gun hand jerked towards a holster under his arm. Lasser was
+still crumpling towards the floor.
+
+The entire action had taken less than a second.
+
+Houston tried to fire again with his stun gun, but it required every bit
+of concentration he could sum up to hold off the combined mental
+assaults of Sager and Pederson.
+
+But they, too, were at somewhat of a disadvantage. In order to keep all
+their efforts concentrated on the PD policeman, both Controllers had to
+refrain from putting too much attention on their bodily motions.
+Pederson was still fumbling for his gun, and Sager hadn't yet started
+for his.
+
+Lasser barely touched the floor before his consciousness began to
+return. The resulting fraction of a second of mental static afforded
+Houston a brief respite; it disturbed Pederson just as he was getting
+his fingers on the butt of his weapon.
+
+Both Controllers were focusing their mental energies on Houston's brain,
+and during the brief respite, Houston made one vital mental adjustment.
+He allowed both thought-probes to fuse in a small part of his
+consciousness. They went _through_ him and lashed back at the two
+Controllers.
+
+Both of them had had their minds tuned to Houston's, and in that instant
+they found they, were also attuned to each other.
+
+The resultant of the energy was shocking to Houston, but it was
+infinitely worse for Sager and Pederson, since neither of them had been
+expecting it. Pederson, who had already been slightly distracted, got
+the major brunt of the force. He managed to jerk his gun free, but his
+brain was already lapsing into unconsciousness.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Houston's fingers tightened on his own weapon. It fired once at Lasser,
+who was trying to lift himself from the floor. Then it swept up and
+coughed again, dropping Pederson. His pistol barked once, sending a
+singing ricochet along the hall.
+
+Sager, who had staggered to one side when he and Pederson had
+short-circuited each other, had time to get behind the protection of
+the office door. He couldn't close it because Lasser's and Pederson's
+inert forms blocked the doorway, but at least it afforded protection
+against Houston's stun gun.
+
+His thought came through to Houston: _So the stupid Normals have a
+Controller working for them! Traitor!_
+
+_You're the traitor_, Houston thought coldly. _You and your megalomaniac
+friends. It's madmen like you who have made telepaths hated and feared
+by the Normals._
+
+_And so they should hate and fear us_, came the snarling mental answer.
+_Within a few generations, we will have supplanted them. We will control
+Earth--not they._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The exchange had only taken a fraction of a second. Houston was already
+charging toward the open door, hoping to get inside before Sager could
+reach a weapon.
+
+_You call me a traitor_, Houston thought, _but you have been framing
+innocent Controllers, putting them into the hands of the PD Police_.
+
+_That's a lie!_ the reply came hotly. _We would never betray another
+telepath to the stupid Normals! If a telepath were so bullheaded as to
+get in our way, we'd dispose of him. But it would be Controller
+justice; we wouldn't turn him over to animals!_
+
+In one blazing moment, Houston realized that the Controller was telling
+the truth!
+
+No mental communication can be expressed properly in words. In, behind,
+and around each statement, other, dimmer nuances of thought gleam
+through. Each thought tells the receiver much more than can be put down
+in crude verbal symbols.
+
+Thus, Houston already knew that Lasser, Sager, and Pederson were the
+three top men in a world-wide clique of megalomaniac Controllers. This
+was the top of the madmen's organization; these three were the _creme de
+la creme_ of the Normal human's real enemies.
+
+He knew that there were twelve others scattered over Earth, and he knew
+where and who they were. That brief exchange had brought all the
+information into Houston's own mind as it leaked from the minds of the
+others. He knew it without thinking about how he knew it.
+
+And they were _not_ the ones who had been turning the sane Controllers
+over to the Psychodeviant Police!
+
+Then who was? And why?
+
+Houston was right back where he had started.
+
+But that brief instant of confusion was Houston's downfall. Sager
+instantly realized that he had delivered, inadvertently, a telling blow
+to Houston's mind.
+
+Physically, Houston had been propelling himself toward the open door. At
+the instant of the revelation, he had been part way through it. And at
+that moment, Sager acted.
+
+He slammed all his weight violently against his side of the door,
+knocking Houston off balance as the door swung and struck him. He went
+down, and Sager was on top of him before he struck the floor.
+
+It was the weirdest battle ever fought, but its true worth could only
+have been detected by another telepath. It was intense and brutal.
+
+The men fought both physically and mentally. They struggled for
+possession of the stun gun, at the same time hurling emotion-charged
+shafts of mental energy at each other's brains.
+
+The struggle lasted less than a minute. Somehow, Sager managed to get
+one hand on the gun, twisting it. Houston, trying to keep it out of
+Sager's hand, jerked it up between them.
+
+It coughed once, sending a beam of supersonic energy into the bodies of
+both men.
+
+The effect was the same as if they had both been crowned with baseball
+bats.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Little pinpoints of light against a sea of darkness.
+
+_I'm cold_, Houston thought. _And I'm sick._
+
+He couldn't tell whether his eyes were open or closed--and he didn't
+much care.
+
+He tried to move his arms and legs, found he couldn't, and gave it up.
+
+He blinked.
+
+_My eyes must be open_, he thought, _if I can blink_.
+
+Well, then, if his eyes were open, why couldn't he see anything? All he
+could see were the little pinpoints of light against a background of
+utter blackness.
+
+_Like stars_, he thought.
+
+_Stars? STARS!_
+
+With a sudden rush, total awareness came back to him, and he realized
+with awful clarity where he was.
+
+He was chained, spread-eagled, on an asteroid in the Penal Cluster,
+nearly a hundred million miles from Earth.
+
+It was easy to piece together what had happened. He dimly remembered
+that he had started to wake up once before. It was a vague, confused
+recollection, but he knew what had taken place.
+
+The PD Police, coming in response to his call, had found all four men
+unconscious from the effects of the stun beam. Naturally, all of them
+had been taken into custody; the PD Police had to find out which one of
+the men was the Controller and which the controlled. That could easily
+be tested by waiting until they began to wake up; the resulting mental
+disturbances would easily identify the telepath.
+
+Houston could imagine the consternation that must have resulted when the
+PD men found that all three suspects--_and_ their brother officer--were
+Controllers.
+
+And now here he was--tried, convicted, and sentenced while he was
+unconscious--doomed to spend the rest of his life chained to a rock
+floating in space.
+
+A sudden chill of terror came over him. Why wasn't he asleep? Why wasn't
+he under hibernene?
+
+_It's their way of being funny_, came a bitter thought. _We're supposed
+to be under hibernene, but we're left to die, instead._
+
+For a moment, Houston did not realize that the thought was not his own,
+so well did it reflect his own bitterness. It was bad enough to have to
+live out one's life under the influence of the hibernation drug, but it
+was infinitely worse to be conscious. Under hibernene, he would have
+known nothing; his sleeping mind in his comatose body would never have
+realized what had happened to him. But this way, he would remain fully
+awake while his body used up the air too fast and his stomach became
+twisted with hunger pangs which no amount of intravenous feeding could
+quell. Oh, he'd live, all right--for a few months--but it would be
+absolute hell while he lasted. Insanity and catatonia would come long
+before death.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_That's a nasty thought; I wish you hadn't brought it up._
+
+That wasn't his own thought! There was someone else out here!
+
+_Hell, yes, my friend; we're all out here._
+
+"Where are you?" Houston asked aloud, just to hear his own voice. He
+knew the other couldn't hear the words which echoed so hollowly inside
+the bubble of the spacesuit helmet, but the thought behind them would
+carry.
+
+"You mean with relation to yourself?" came the answer. "I don't know. I
+can see several rocks around me, but I can't tell which one you're on."
+
+Houston could tell now that the other person was talking aloud, too. So
+great was the illusion carried to his own brain that it almost seemed as
+though he could hear the voice with his ears.
+
+"Then there are others around us?" Houston asked.
+
+"Sure. There were three of us: a Hawaiian named Jerry Matsukuo; a girl
+from Bombay, Sonali Siddhartha; and myself, Juan Pedro de Cadiz. Jerry
+and Sonali are taking a little nap. You're the first of your group to
+wake up."
+
+"My group?"
+
+"Certainly, my friend. There are five of you; the other four must still
+be unconscious."
+
+Four? That would be Lasser, Sager, Pederson, and--_and Dorrine!_
+
+Juan Pedro de Cadiz picked up the whole thought-process easily.
+
+"The girl--I'm sorry," he said. "But the other three--of us all, I
+think, they deserve this."
+
+"Juan!" came another thought-voice. "Have our newcomers awakened?"
+
+"Just one of them, my sweet," replied the Spaniard. "Sonali, may I
+present Mr. David Houston. Mr. Houston, the lovely Sonali Siddhartha."
+
+"Juano has a habit of jumping to conclusions, David," said the girl.
+"He's never even seen me, and I'm sure that after three weeks of being
+locked in this prison whatever beauty I may have had has disappeared."
+
+"Your thoughts are beautiful, Sonali," said Juan Pedro, "and with us,
+that is all that counts."
+
+"It is written," said a third voice, "that he who disturbs the slumber
+of his betters will wake somebody up. You people are giving me dreams,
+with your ceaseless mental chatter."
+
+"Ah!" the Spaniard said. "Mr. Matsukuo, may I--"
+
+"I heard, Romeo, I heard," said the Hawaiian. "An ex-cop, eh? I wonder
+if I like you? I'll take a few thousand years to think it over; in the
+meantime, you may treat me as a friend."
+
+"I'll try to live down my reputation," said Houston.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was an odd feeling. Physically, he was alone. Around him, he could
+see nothing but the blackness of space and the glitter of the stars. He
+knew that the sun must be shining on the back of his own personal
+asteroid, but he couldn't see it. As far as his body was concerned,
+there was nothing else in the universe but a chunk of pitted rock and a
+set of chains.
+
+But mentally, he felt snug and warm, safe in the security of good
+friends. He felt--
+
+"David! David! Help me! Oh, David, David, David!"
+
+It was Dorrine, coming up from her slumber. Like a crashing blare of
+static across the neural band, her wakening mind burst into sudden
+telepathic activity.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Gently, Houston sent out his thoughts, soothing her mind as he had
+soothed Harris's mind weeks before. And he noticed, as he did it, that
+the other three were with him, helping. By the time Dorrine was fully
+awake, she was no longer frightened or panicky.
+
+"You're wonderful people," she thought simply, after several minutes.
+
+"To one so beautiful, how else could we be?" asked Juan Pedro.
+
+"Ignore him, Dorrine," said Sonali, "he tells me the same thing."
+
+"But not in the same way, _amiga_!" the Spaniard protested. "Not in the
+same way. The beauty of your mind, Sonali, is like the beauty of a
+mountain lake, cool and serene; the beauty of Dorrine is like the beauty
+of the sun--warm, fiery, and brilliant."
+
+"By my beard!" snorted Matsukuo. "Such blather!"
+
+"I'll be willing to wager my beautiful _hacienda_ in the lovely
+countryside of Aragon against your miserable palm-leaf _nipi_ shack on
+Oahu that you have no beard," said Juan Pedro.
+
+"Hah!" said Matsukuo; "that's all I need now--Castles in Spain."
+
+It was suddenly dizzying for Houston. Here were five people, doomed to
+slow, painful death, talking as though there were nothing to worry
+about. Within minutes, each had learned to know the others almost
+perfectly.
+
+It was more than just the words each used. Talking aloud helped focus
+the thoughts more, but at the same time, thousands of little, personal,
+fringe ideas were present with the main idea transmitted in words.
+Houston had talked telepathically to Dorrine hundreds of times, but
+never before had so much fine detail come through.
+
+Why? Was there something different about space that made mental
+communication so much more complete?
+
+"No, not that, I think," said Matsukuo. "I believe it is because we have
+lost our fear--not of death; we still fear death--but of betrayal."
+
+That was it. They knew they were going to die, and soon. They had
+already been sentenced; nothing further could frighten them. Always
+before, on Earth, they had kept their thoughts to themselves, fearing to
+broadcast too much, lest the Normals find them out. The little, personal
+things that made a human being a living personality were kept hidden
+behind heavy mental walls. The suppression worked subconsciously, even
+when they actually wanted to communicate with another Controller.
+
+But out here, there was nothing to fear on that score. Why should they,
+who were already facing death, be afraid of anything now?
+
+So they opened up--wide. And they knew each other as no group of human
+beings had ever known each other. Every human being has little faults
+and foibles that he may be ashamed of, that he wants to keep hidden from
+others. But such things no longer mattered out here, where they had
+nothing but imminent death and the emptiness of space--and each other.
+
+Physically, they were miserable. To be chained in one position, with
+very little room to move around, for three weeks, as Sonali had been,
+was torture. Sonali had been there longer than the others--for three
+days, there had been no one but herself out there in the loneliness of
+space.
+
+But now, even physical discomfort meant little; it was easy to forget
+the body when the mind was free.
+
+"What of the others?" Dorrine asked. "Where are the ones who were
+sentenced before us?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Houston thought of Robert Harris. What had happened to the young
+Englishman?
+
+"Space is big," said Juan Pedro. "Perhaps they are too far away for our
+thoughts to reach them--or perhaps they are already dead."
+
+"Let's not talk of death." Sonali Siddhartha's thought was soft. "We
+have so many things to do."
+
+"We will have a language session," said Juan Pedro. "_Si?_"
+
+Matsukuo chuckled. "Good! Houston, until you've tried to learn Spanish,
+Hindustani, Arabic, Japanese, and French all at once, you don't know
+what a language session is. We--"
+
+The Hawaiian's thought was suddenly broken off by a shrieking burst of
+mental static.
+
+The effect was similar to someone dropping a handful of broken glass
+into an electric meat grinder right in the middle of a Bach cantata.
+
+It was Sager, coming out of his coma.
+
+Almost automatically, the five contacted his mind to relax him as he
+awoke. They touched his mind--and were repelled!
+
+_Stay out of my mind!_
+
+With almost savage fury, the still half-conscious Sager hurled thoughts
+of hatred and fear at the five minds who had tried to help him. They
+recoiled from the burst of insane emotion.
+
+"Leave him alone," Houston thought sharply. "He's a tough fighter."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+At first, Sager was terrified when he learned what had happened to him.
+Then the terror was mixed with a boiling, seething hatred. A hatred of
+the Normals who had done this to him, and an even more terrible hatred
+for Houston, the "traitor."
+
+The very emptiness of space itself seemed to vibrate with the surging
+violence of his hatred.
+
+"I know," Houston told him, "you'd kill me if you could. But you can't,
+so forget it."
+
+Not even the power of that hatred could touch Houston, protected as he
+was by the combined strength of the other four sane telepaths. He was
+comparatively safe.
+
+Sager snarled like a trapped animal. "You're all insane! Look at you!
+The four of you, siding with a man who has betrayed us to the Normals!
+He--"
+
+What Sager thought of Houston couldn't be put into words, and if it
+could no sane person would want to repeat the mad foulness in those
+words.
+
+"This is unbearable!" Sonali thought softly.
+
+"That's not a mind," said Dorrine, "it's a sewer."
+
+"I suggest," said Matsukuo, "that we do a little probing. Let's find out
+what makes this thing tick."
+
+"Stay out of my mind!" Sager screamed. "You have no right!"
+
+"You seemed to think you had the right to probe into the helpless minds
+of Normals," said Juan Pedro coldly. "We should show you how it feels."
+
+"But they're just animals!" Sager retorted. "I am a Controller!"
+
+"You're a madman," said Matsukuo. "And we must find out what makes you
+mad."
+
+Synchronizing perfectly, five minds began to probe at the walls that
+Sager had built up around his personality. And as they probed, Sager
+retreated behind ever thicker walls, howling in hatred and anguish.
+
+On and on went the five, needling, pressing at every weak spot, trying
+to break him down. Outnumbered and overpowered, it seemed as though
+Sager had no chance.
+
+But his insanity was stronger than they suspected. The barriers he built
+were harder, more opaque, and more impenetrable than any they had ever
+seen. The five pushed on, anyway, but their advance slowed tremendously.
+
+Then, mentally, there was a sudden silence.
+
+_Sager?_ they thought.
+
+No answer.
+
+"That's finished it," said Houston. "He's retreated so far behind those
+mental barriers that he's cut himself off completely."
+
+"He's not dead, is he?" Dorrine asked.
+
+"Dead?" said Juan Pedro. "Not in the sense you mean. But I think he is
+catatonic now; he has lost all touch with the outside. He is as though
+he were still drugged; he is physically helpless, and mentally blanked
+out."
+
+"There's one difference," Matsukuo said analytically. "And that is that,
+although he has cut himself off from us and from the rest of the
+universe, he is still conscious in some little, walled-in compartment of
+his mind. He has no one there but himself--and that, I think, is damned
+poor company."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+They waited then. When Pederson awoke, they were ready for him. His
+hatred took a slightly different form from Sager's, but the effect was
+the same.
+
+And so were the results when the five bore down on him.
+
+Again they waited. Lasser was next.
+
+At first, it looked as though Lasser would go the way of Sager and
+Pederson, ending up as a hopelessly insane catatonic. Like his cohorts
+before him, Lasser retreated under the full pressure of the
+thought-probes of the five, building stronger and stronger walls.
+
+But, quite suddenly, all his defenses crumbled. The mental barriers went
+down, shattered and dissolving. Lasser's whole mind lay bare. Instead of
+fighting and hating, Lasser was begging, pleading for help.
+
+Lasser was not basically insane. His mind was twisted and warped, but
+beneath the outer shell was a personality that had enough internal
+strength to be able to admit that it was wrong and ask for help instead
+of retreating into oblivion.
+
+"This one--I think we can do something with," Matsukuo's thought
+whispered.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Eight bodies, uncomfortable and pain-wracked, floated in space, chained
+to tiny asteroids that drifted slowly in their orbits under the constant
+pull of the sun. Two of them contained minds that were locked
+irrevocably within prisons of their own building, sealed off forever
+from external stimuli, but their suffering was the greater for all that.
+
+The other six, chained though their limbs might be, had minds that were
+free--free, even, of any but the most necessary of internal limitations.
+
+Eight bodies, chained to eight lumps of pitted rock, spun endlessly in
+endless space.
+
+And then the ship came.
+
+The flare of its atomic rocket could be seen for over an hour before it
+reached the Penal Cluster. The six eyed it speculatively. Although only
+two of them were facing the proper direction to see it with their
+physical eyes, the impressions of those two were easily transmitted to
+the other four.
+
+"Another load of captives," whispered Juan Pedro de Cadiz. "How many
+this time, I wonder?"
+
+"How long have we been here?" asked Houston, not expecting any answer.
+
+"Who knows?" It was Lasser. "What we need out here is a clock to tell us
+when we'll die."
+
+"Our oxygen tanks are our clocks," said Sonali. "And they'll notify us
+when the time comes."
+
+"I do believe you morbid-minded people are developing a sense of humor,"
+said Matsukuo, "but I'm not sure I care for the style too much."
+
+The flare of the rocket grew brighter as the decelerating ship
+approached the small cluster of rocks. At last the ship itself took
+form, shining in the eternal blaze of the sun. When the whiteness of the
+rocket blaze died suddenly, the ship was only a few dozen yards from
+Houston's own asteroid.
+
+And then a mental voice came into the minds of the six prisoners.
+
+"How do you feel, Controllers?"
+
+Only Houston recognized that thought-pattern, but his recognition was
+transmitted instantly to the others.
+
+"_Reinhardt!_"
+
+Hermann Reinhardt, Division Chief of the Psychodeviant Police, the one
+man most hated and feared by Controllers, was himself a telepath!
+
+"Naturally," said Reinhardt. "Someone had to take control of the
+situation. I was the only one who was in a position to do it."
+
+His thoughts were neither hard nor cold; it was almost as if he were one
+of them--except for one thing. Only the words of his thoughts came
+through; there were none of the fringe thoughts that the six were used
+to in each other.
+
+"That's true," thought Reinhardt. "You see, we have been at this a good
+deal longer than you." Then he directed his thoughts at members of the
+crew of the spaceship, but they could still be heard by the six
+prisoners. "All right, men, get those people off those rocks. We have to
+make room for another batch."
+
+The airlock in the side of the ship opened, and a dozen spacesuited men
+leaped out. The propulsion units in their hands guided them toward the
+prison asteroids.
+
+"Give them all anaesthetic except Sager and Pederson," Reinhardt
+ordered. "They won't need it." Then, with a note of apology, "I'm sorry
+we'll have to anaesthetize you, but you've been in one position so long
+that moving you will be rather painful. We have to get you to a hospital
+quickly."
+
+The minds of the six prisoners were frantically pounding questions at
+the PD chief, but he gave them no answer. "No; wait until you're
+better."
+
+The spacesuited rescuers went to the "back" of each asteroid and
+injected sleep-gas into the oxygen line that ran from the tank to the
+spacesuit of the prisoner.
+
+Houston could smell the sweetish, pungent odor in his helmet. Just
+before he blacked out, he hurled one last accusing thought at Reinhardt.
+
+"_You're_ the one who's been framing Controllers!"
+
+"Naturally, Houston," came the answer. "How else could I get you out
+here?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Houston woke up in a hospital bed. He was weak and hungry, but he felt
+no pain. As he came up from unconsciousness, he felt a fully awake mind
+guiding him out of the darkness.
+
+It was Reinhardt.
+
+"You're a tough man, Houston," he said mentally. "The others won't wake
+up for a while yet."
+
+He was sitting on a chair next to the bed, holding a smouldering
+cigarette in one hand. He looked strange, somehow, and it took Houston a
+moment to realize that there was a smile on that broad, normally
+expressionless face.
+
+Houston focussed his eyes on the man's face. "I want an explanation,
+Reinhardt," he said aloud. "And it better be a damned good one."
+
+"I give you free access to my mind," Reinhardt said. "See for yourself
+if my method wasn't the best one."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Houston probed. The explanation, if not the best, was better than any
+Houston could have thought of.
+
+When the hatred of the normal-minded people of Earth had been turned
+against the Controllers because of the actions of a few megalomaniacs,
+it had become obvious that legal steps had to be taken to prevent mob
+violence.
+
+It had been Reinhardt himself who had suggested the Penal method to the
+UN government. At first, he had simply thought of it as a method to
+keep the Controllers alive until he could think of something better. But
+when he had discovered, by accident, what a small group of Controllers,
+alone in space, could do, he had set up the present machinery.
+
+As soon as a Controller was spotted, a careful frame-up was arranged.
+Then, when several had been found, they were arrested in quick
+succession and sent to the asteroids.
+
+Always and invariably, they had done what Houston's group had done--the
+sane or potentially sane ones had improved themselves tremendously,
+while the megalomaniacs had lapsed into catatonia.
+
+"Why couldn't it be done on Earth?" Houston asked.
+
+"We tried it," Reinhardt said. "It didn't work. Safe, on Earth,
+surrounded by Normals, a Controller still feels the hatred around him.
+He can't open his mind completely. Only the certain knowledge of
+impending death, and a complete freedom from the hatred of Normals can
+free the mind.
+
+"And that's why you couldn't be told beforehand; if you knew you were
+going to be rescued, you wouldn't open up."
+
+Houston nodded. It made sense. "Where are we now?" he asked.
+
+"Antarctica," said Reinhardt. "We've built an outpost here--almost
+self-sufficient. When you're in better shape physically, I'll show you
+around."
+
+"Do you mean that everyone who's been arrested is here, in Antarctica?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Reinhardt laughed. "No, not by a long shot. Most of us are back out in
+civilization, searching for new, undiscovered Controllers, so that we
+can frame them. And, of course, some of us--the insane ones--have died.
+They will themselves to die when the going gets too tough."
+
+"Searching for recruits? Then the Group that Dorrine was working for
+was--"
+
+Reinhardt shook his head. "No. They were going about it the wrong way,
+just as you thought. We picked up the whole lot of them last week;
+they're occupying the asteroids now."
+
+"What do you do with the insane catatonics?"
+
+"Put them under hibernene and keep them alive. We hope, someday, to
+figure out a method of restoring their sanity. Until then, let them
+sleep."
+
+Houston narrowed his eyes. "How long have you known I was a Controller,
+Reinhardt?"
+
+The Prussian smiled. "Ever since you first tried to probe me.
+Fortunately, my training enabled me to put up a shield that you couldn't
+penetrate; I seemed like a Normal to you.
+
+"I kept you on because I knew you'd be useful in cracking Lasser and his
+gang when the time came. No one else could have done what you did that
+night."
+
+"Thanks," Houston said sincerely. "What's going to happen now? After I
+get well, I mean."
+
+"You'll do what the others have done. A little plastic surgery to change
+your face a trifle, a little record-juggling to give you a new identity,
+and you'll be ready to go back to work for the PD Police.
+
+"If anyone recognizes you, it's easy to take over their minds just long
+enough to make them forget. We allow that much Controlling."
+
+"And then what?" Houston wanted to know. "What happens in the long run?"
+
+"In a way," said Reinhardt, "your friend Sager was right. The
+Controllers will eventually become the rulers of Earth. But not by force
+or trickery. We must just bide our time. More and more of us are being
+born all the time; the Normals are becoming fewer and fewer. Within a
+century, we will outnumber them--we will be the Normals, not they.
+
+"But they'll never know what's going on. The last Normal will die
+without ever knowing that he is in a world of telepaths.
+
+"By the time that comes about, we'll no longer need the Penal Cluster,
+since Controllers will be born into a world where there is no fear of
+non-telepaths."
+
+"I wonder," Houston mused, "I wonder how this ability came about. Why is
+the human race acquiring telepathy so suddenly?"
+
+Reinhardt shrugged. "I can give you many explanations--atomic radiation,
+cosmic rays, natural evolution. But none of them really explains it.
+They just make it easier to live with.
+
+"I think something similar must have happened a few hundred thousand
+years ago, when Cro-Magnon man, our own ancestors, first developed true
+intelligence instead of the pseudo-intelligence, the highly developed
+instincts, of the Neanderthals and other para-men.
+
+"Within a relatively short time, the para-men had died out, leaving the
+Cro-Magnon, with his true intelligence, to rule Earth."
+
+Reinhardt stood up. "Why is it happening? We don't know. Maybe we never
+will know, any more than we know why Man developed intelligence." He
+shrugged. "Perhaps the only explanation we'll ever have is to call it
+the Will of God and let it go at that."
+
+"Maybe that's the best explanation, after all," Houston said.
+
+"Perhaps. Who knows?" Reinhardt crushed his cigarette out in a tray.
+"I'll go now, and let you get some rest. And don't worry; I'll have you
+notified as soon as Dorrine starts to come out of it."
+
+"Thanks--Chief," Houston said as Reinhardt left the room.
+
+David Houston lay back in his bed and closed his eyes.
+
+For the first time in his life, he felt completely at peace--with
+himself, and with the Universe.
+
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Note:
+
+    This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ September 1957.
+    Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
+    copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
+    typographical errors have been corrected without note.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Penal Cluster, by
+Ivar Jorgensen (AKA Randall Garrett)
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PENAL CLUSTER ***
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