Alarm Clock Page 7
Wizow's mouth popped open, agony showing in his eyes. Stan grinnedtightly and eased off on the knob.
"I really should spin this thing up to a proof load," he said. "Mightbe interesting to see what kind of an assembly job they did on you.But we'll just leave you this way. All you've got to do is keep quiet.You're deaf, dumb, and blind, you understand?" He turned on Mauson.
"Now, for you--" His voice trailed off.
The man was sitting like a puppet whose controlling strings had beencut. Stan's blazing fury started to burn down.
These minds, he suddenly realized, had been virtually paralyzed. Hedidn't need anything to tie them down. All he had to do was point hisfinger. They'd jump. He shook his head.
"Funny," he told himself. "All you have to do is be a little forceful.Why didn't somebody tell me about this?" He looked calculatingly atMauson.
"Tell you what we're gonna do," he said rhythmically. "Get your carover here. You know, the shielded job. We don't want anyone snappingat us with flashers." His voice hardened.
"Come on," he ordered, "get on that box. Tell 'em you want that car."
* * * * *
As the car rolled down the street, he leaned forward a little.
"All right, driver," he said peremptorily, "when we get to theFederation Building, swing into the official driveway."
The driver moved his head slightly. Stan sat back, waiting.
He looked at the building fronts as they swept past. When he'd firstcome here, he'd noticed the clean beauty of the city. And he's beenunable to understand the indefinable warning he'd felt. But now--he'dlooked beneath the surface.
The car slowed. A guard was flagging them down at the buildingentrance. Stan touched a window control.
"Stand aside, Guardsman," he ordered. "We're coming in." He flickedthe window control again.
"Keep going, driver," he ordered. "You can let us out inside. Thenfind a place to park, and wait."
Another guard came toward them as the car rolled to a stop.
"Hey," he protested, "this is--"
Stan looked at him coldly.
"Which way to the Guard commander's office?"
The man pointed. "Elevator over there. Fifth floor. But--"
"I didn't ask for a story. Get our driver into a parking space andkeep him there." Stan turned to Mauson.
"All right. Get out."
He shepherded the man into the elevator and out again. In the hall, heglanced around, then walked through a doorway.
A middle-aged guardsman looked at him inquiringly.
"Can I do something for you gentlemen?"
"Yes. We want to see the commander."
The guardsman smiled. "Well, now, perhaps--"
Stan looked at him sternly.
"I've had my quota of runarounds today. I said we want to see thecommander. Now, all you have to do is take us to him. Move!"
The smile faded. For an instant, the man seemed about to rebel. Thenhe turned.
"This way," he said evenly. He led the way through a large room, thentapped at a door on the other side.
"Yes?"
The voice was vaguely familiar to Stan. He frowned, trying to placeit.
"Two men to see you, sir. Seems a little urgent."
"Oh? Well, bring them in."
Stan relaxed. This was getting easier, he thought. Now he could getthese people to take Mauson before a determinator. His statementswould furnish plenty of evidence for a full search of Janzel'sPersonnel files.
He jerked his head at Mauson.
"Inside."
He waited as the man stepped through the door, then followed.
A slender man was standing behind a wide desk.
"Well," he said calmly. "Welcome home, Graham. Glad you could makeit."
"Major Michaels!" Stan forgot everything he had planned to say.
The other smiled. "Let's say Agent Michaels," he corrected. "SpecialCorpsmen don't have actual Guard rank. Most of us got thrown out ofthe Academy in the first couple of years."
He glanced at the guardsman, then flicked a finger out to point atMauson.
"Take this down and put it away somewhere till we need it, deSilva.Graham and I have some talking to do."
"Yes, sir." The middle-aged man turned toward Stan.
"Congratulations, sir." He jerked a thumb at Mauson.
"Come on, you. March."
Michaels held up a hand as Stan opened his mouth.
"Never mind," he said quietly. "DeSilva is quite capable of handlingthat one. Take care of three or four more like him if he had to.Pretty good man." He reached for a box on his desk.
"Here," he said. "Light up. Got a few things to talk about."
"But I've got--"
"It can wait. Wall put the whole story on the tape when you weretalking to him downstairs. We've been sweating you out."
"You've been sweating me out? I had to practically force my way uphere."
"That you did." Michaels took a cigarette from the box, started to putit in his mouth, then pointed it at Stan.
"That's normal procedure. You've heard of the Special Corps forInvestigation, I presume?"
"Yes. But--"
"Ever think of being a corpsman yourself?"
"Of course. You know that--we've talked about it. But I never could--"
"That's right." Michaels waved the cigarette. "We don't haverecruiting offices. All our people have to force their way in. Tellme, do you know anything about the history of this planet?"
Stan clenched his teeth. Somehow, he had lost the initiative in thisinterview. He took a deep breath.
"Look," he said decisively, "I--"
"Later." Michaels shook his head. "You are familiar with this cultureby now, then?"
"Well ... yes. I've read some history ... a little law."
"Good. Saves me a lot of talk. You know, sometimes we run into asituation that can be corrected by a single, deft stroke. Makes thingsvery pleasant. We send in an agent--or two or six. The necessary getsdone, and somebody writes up a nice, neat report." He toyed with thecigarette lighter.
"But this thing isn't like that. We've got a long, monotonous job ofroutine plugging to do. We've got to bust a hard-shelled systemwithout hurting too many of the people within it. And we've been at itfor a while. We think we've made some progress, but we've still got alot of snakes to kill.
"But even bad situations have their good points. At least, this placeis a good training ground for probationers."
"Probationers?"
"Right. Probationers who don't even know they're being tested." Hesmiled.
"People with the qualifications for Senior Agent are hard to get. Mostof them are latent--asleep. We can't expect them to walk in--we haveto find them. Then we have to wake them up. It can be tricky."
He lit his cigarette, eying Stan thoughtfully.
"I suppose you've heard some of the stories that fly around about theCorps. The truth of the matter is, the Senior Agent isn't anysuperman. He's just a normal human being with a couple of extraquirks."
He held up a finger.
"First, he's trouble prone. A nasty situation attracts him much as aflame attracts a moth.
"There are a lot of people like that. Most of them are always gettingthemselves clobbered. The agent usually doesn't."
He held up a second finger.
"Because he has a compensating ability. When he turns on the pressure,people do just as he tells them--most people, that is." He sighed.
"That's the latent ability. Sometimes full control is buried so deeplyit takes something like a major catastrophe to wake the guy up to thefact he can use it." He smiled wryly.
"Oh, he pushes people around once in a while--makes 'em uneasy whenhe's around--makes himself unpopular. But he's got no control. He'sgot to be awakened."
"Yes, but--"
"Uh-uh. It sounds simple, but it isn't." Michaels shook his head.
"You do
n't just snap a finger in front of this fellow. You've got toprovide him with real trouble. Pile it on him--until he gets so muchpressure built up that he snaps himself into action. Makes a placelike this useful."
"I begin to see. You mean all this stuff I've been going through wassort of a glorified alarm clock?"
"Yes. You could put it that way. That, and a trial assignment as ajunior agent. Still want to be a Special Corpsman?"
Stan