What The Left Hand Was Doing, Page 2
Randall Garrett
but its state. What it was previously capable ofdoing only slightly and impermanently, it can now do completely. Thecritical point has been passed.
Roughly--for the analog itself is rough--the same things occurs in thehuman mind. The psionic abilities of the human mind are, to a greater orlesser degree, there to begin with, just as an ice cube has the_ability_ to melt if the proper conditions are met with.
The analogy hardly extends beyond that. Unlike an ice cube, the humanmind is capable of changing the forces outside it--as if the ice couldseek out its own heat in order to melt. And, too, human minds vary intheir inherent ability to absorb understanding. Some do so easily,others do so only in spotty areas, still others cannot reach thecritical point before they break. And still others can never reallyunderstand at all.
No one who had not reached his own critical point could become a "core"member of the S.M.M.R. It was not snobbery on their part; theyunderstood other human beings too well to be snobbish. It was more asthough a Society for Expert Mountain Climbers met each year on the peakof Mount Everest--anyone who can get up there to attend the meeting isautomatically a member.
Spencer Candron sat down in a nearby chair. "All right, so I refrainfrom doing any more damage than I have to. What's the objective?"
Taggert put his palms on his muscular thighs and leaned forward. "JamesCh'ien is still alive."
Candron had not been expecting the statement, but he felt no surprise.His mind merely adjusted to the new data. "He's still in China, then,"he said. It was not a question, but a statement of a deduction. "Thewhole thing was a phony. The death, the body, the funeral. What aboutthe executions?"
"They were real," Taggert said. "Here's what happened as closely as wecan tell:
"Dr. Ch'ien was kidnaped on July 10th, the second day of the conferencein Peiping, at some time between two and three in the morning. He wasreplaced by a double, whose name we don't know. It's unimportant,anyway. The double was as perfect as the Chinese surgeons could makehim. He was probably not aware that he was slated to die; it is morelikely that he was hypnotized and misled. At any rate, he took Ch'ien'splace on the rostrum to speak that afternoon.
"The man who shot him, and the man who threw the flame bomb, wereprobably as equally deluded as to what they were doing as the doublewas. They did a perfect job, though. The impersonator was dead, and hisskin was charred and blistered clear up to the chest--no fingerprints.
"The men were tried, convicted, and executed. The Chinese governmentsent us abject apologies. The double's body was shipped back to theUnited States with full honors, but by the time it reached here, theeye-cone patterns had deteriorated to the point where they couldn't beidentified any more than the fingerprints could. And there were half ahundred reputable scientists of a dozen friendly nations who wereeye-witnesses to the killing and who are all absolutely certain that itwas James Ch'ien who died."
Candron nodded. "So, while the whole world was mourning the fact thatone of Earth's greatest physicists has died, he was being held captivein the most secret and secure prison that the Red Chinese governmentcould put him in."
Taggert nodded. "And your job will be to get him out," he said softly.
Candron said nothing for a moment, as he thought the problem out.Taggert said nothing to interrupt him.
Neither of them worried about being overheard or spied upon. Besidesbeing equipped with hush devices and blanketing equipment, the buildingwas guarded by Reeves and Donahue, whose combined senses of perceptioncould pick up any activity for miles around which might be inimical tothe Society.
"How much backing do we get from the Federal Government?" Candron askedat last.
"We can swing the cover-up afterwards all the way," Taggert told himfirmly. "We can arrange transportation back. That is, the FederalGovernment can. But getting over there and getting Ch'ien out of durancevile is strictly up to the Society. Senator Kerotski and SecretaryGonzales are giving us every opportunity they can, but there's no useapproaching the President until after we've proven our case."
Candron gestured his understanding. The President of the United Stateswas a shrewd, able, just, and ethical human being--but he was not yet amember of the Society, and perhaps would never be. As a consequence itwas still impossible to convince him that the S.M.M.R. knew what it wastalking about--and that applied to nearly ninety per cent of the Federaland State officials of the nation.
Only a very few knew that the Society was an _ex officio_ branch of thegovernment itself. Not until the rescue of James Ch'ien was anaccomplished fact, not until there was physical, logical proof that theman was still alive would the government take official action.
"What's the outline?" Candron wanted to know.
Taggert outlined the proposed course of action rapidly. When he wasfinished, Spencer Candron simply said, "All right. I can take care of myend of it." He stood up. "I'll see you, Brian."
Brian Taggert lay back down on the couch, propped up his feet, andwinked at Candron. "Watch and check, Spence."
Candron went back down the stairs. Mrs. Jesser smiled up at him as heentered the reception room. "Well! That didn't take long! Are youleaving, Mr. Candron?"
"Yes," he said, glancing at the wall clock. "Grab and run, you know.I'll see you soon, Mrs. Jesser. Be an angel."
He went out the door again and headed down the street. Mrs. Jesser hadbeen right; it hadn't taken him long. He'd been in Taggert's office alittle over one minute, and less than half a dozen actual words had beenspoken. The rest of the conversation had been on a subtler level, onewhich was almost completely nonverbal. Not that Spencer Candron was atelepath; if he had been, it wouldn't have been necessary for him tocome to the headquarters building. Candron's talents simply didn't liealong that line. His ability to probe the minds of normal human beingswas spotty and unreliable at best. But when two human beings understandeach other at the level that existed between members of the Society,there is no need for longwinded discourses.
* * * * *
The big stratoliner slowed rapidly as it approached the Peiping People'sAirfield. The pilot, a big-boned Britisher who had two jobs to do atonce, watched the airspeed indicator. As the needle dropped, he came inon a conventional landing lane, aiming for the huge field below. Then,as the needle reached a certain point, just above the landing minimum,he closed his eyes for a fraction of a second and thought, with all themental power at his command: _NOW!_
For a large part of a second, nothing happened, but the pilot knew hismessage had been received.
Then a red gleam came into being on the control board.
"What the hell?" said the co-pilot.
The pilot swore. "I _told_ 'em that door was weak! We've ripped theluggage door off her hinges. Feel her shake?"
The co-pilot looked grim. "Good thing it happened now instead of inmid-flight. At that speed, we'd been torn apart."
"_Blown_ to bits, you mean," said the pilot. "Let's bring her in."
By that time, Spencer Candron was a long way below the ship, fallinglike a stone, a big suitcase clutched tightly in his arms. He knew thatthe Chinese radar was watching the jetliner, and that it had undoubtedlypicked up two objects dropping from the craft--the door and one other.Candron had caught the pilot's mental signal--anything that powerfulcould hardly be missed--and had opened the door and leaped.
But those things didn't matter now. Without a parachute, he had flunghimself from the plane toward the earth below, and his only thought washis loathing, his repugnance, for that too, too solid ground beneath.
He didn't hate it. That would be deadly, for hate implies as muchattraction as love--the attraction of destruction. Fear, too, was out ofthe question; there must be no such relationship as that between thethreatened and the threatener. Only loathing could save him. The earthbeneath was utterly repulsive to him.
And he slowed.
His mind would not accept contact with the ground, and his body wasforced to follow suit. He slowed.
Minutes later,
he was drifting fifty feet above the surface, hisaltitude held steady by the emotional force of his mind. Not until thendid he release the big suitcase he had been holding. He heard it thumpas it hit, breaking open and scattering clothing around it.
In the distance, he could hear the faint moan of a siren. The Chineseradar had picked up two falling objects. And they would find two: onedoor and one suitcase, both of which could be accounted for by the"accident." They would know that no parachute had opened; hence, if theyfound no body, they would be certain that no human being could havedropped from the plane.
The only thing remaining now was to get into the city itself. In thedarkness, it was a little difficult to tell
Roughly--for the analog itself is rough--the same things occurs in thehuman mind. The psionic abilities of the human mind are, to a greater orlesser degree, there to begin with, just as an ice cube has the_ability_ to melt if the proper conditions are met with.
The analogy hardly extends beyond that. Unlike an ice cube, the humanmind is capable of changing the forces outside it--as if the ice couldseek out its own heat in order to melt. And, too, human minds vary intheir inherent ability to absorb understanding. Some do so easily,others do so only in spotty areas, still others cannot reach thecritical point before they break. And still others can never reallyunderstand at all.
No one who had not reached his own critical point could become a "core"member of the S.M.M.R. It was not snobbery on their part; theyunderstood other human beings too well to be snobbish. It was more asthough a Society for Expert Mountain Climbers met each year on the peakof Mount Everest--anyone who can get up there to attend the meeting isautomatically a member.
Spencer Candron sat down in a nearby chair. "All right, so I refrainfrom doing any more damage than I have to. What's the objective?"
Taggert put his palms on his muscular thighs and leaned forward. "JamesCh'ien is still alive."
Candron had not been expecting the statement, but he felt no surprise.His mind merely adjusted to the new data. "He's still in China, then,"he said. It was not a question, but a statement of a deduction. "Thewhole thing was a phony. The death, the body, the funeral. What aboutthe executions?"
"They were real," Taggert said. "Here's what happened as closely as wecan tell:
"Dr. Ch'ien was kidnaped on July 10th, the second day of the conferencein Peiping, at some time between two and three in the morning. He wasreplaced by a double, whose name we don't know. It's unimportant,anyway. The double was as perfect as the Chinese surgeons could makehim. He was probably not aware that he was slated to die; it is morelikely that he was hypnotized and misled. At any rate, he took Ch'ien'splace on the rostrum to speak that afternoon.
"The man who shot him, and the man who threw the flame bomb, wereprobably as equally deluded as to what they were doing as the doublewas. They did a perfect job, though. The impersonator was dead, and hisskin was charred and blistered clear up to the chest--no fingerprints.
"The men were tried, convicted, and executed. The Chinese governmentsent us abject apologies. The double's body was shipped back to theUnited States with full honors, but by the time it reached here, theeye-cone patterns had deteriorated to the point where they couldn't beidentified any more than the fingerprints could. And there were half ahundred reputable scientists of a dozen friendly nations who wereeye-witnesses to the killing and who are all absolutely certain that itwas James Ch'ien who died."
Candron nodded. "So, while the whole world was mourning the fact thatone of Earth's greatest physicists has died, he was being held captivein the most secret and secure prison that the Red Chinese governmentcould put him in."
Taggert nodded. "And your job will be to get him out," he said softly.
Candron said nothing for a moment, as he thought the problem out.Taggert said nothing to interrupt him.
Neither of them worried about being overheard or spied upon. Besidesbeing equipped with hush devices and blanketing equipment, the buildingwas guarded by Reeves and Donahue, whose combined senses of perceptioncould pick up any activity for miles around which might be inimical tothe Society.
"How much backing do we get from the Federal Government?" Candron askedat last.
"We can swing the cover-up afterwards all the way," Taggert told himfirmly. "We can arrange transportation back. That is, the FederalGovernment can. But getting over there and getting Ch'ien out of durancevile is strictly up to the Society. Senator Kerotski and SecretaryGonzales are giving us every opportunity they can, but there's no useapproaching the President until after we've proven our case."
Candron gestured his understanding. The President of the United Stateswas a shrewd, able, just, and ethical human being--but he was not yet amember of the Society, and perhaps would never be. As a consequence itwas still impossible to convince him that the S.M.M.R. knew what it wastalking about--and that applied to nearly ninety per cent of the Federaland State officials of the nation.
Only a very few knew that the Society was an _ex officio_ branch of thegovernment itself. Not until the rescue of James Ch'ien was anaccomplished fact, not until there was physical, logical proof that theman was still alive would the government take official action.
"What's the outline?" Candron wanted to know.
Taggert outlined the proposed course of action rapidly. When he wasfinished, Spencer Candron simply said, "All right. I can take care of myend of it." He stood up. "I'll see you, Brian."
Brian Taggert lay back down on the couch, propped up his feet, andwinked at Candron. "Watch and check, Spence."
Candron went back down the stairs. Mrs. Jesser smiled up at him as heentered the reception room. "Well! That didn't take long! Are youleaving, Mr. Candron?"
"Yes," he said, glancing at the wall clock. "Grab and run, you know.I'll see you soon, Mrs. Jesser. Be an angel."
He went out the door again and headed down the street. Mrs. Jesser hadbeen right; it hadn't taken him long. He'd been in Taggert's office alittle over one minute, and less than half a dozen actual words had beenspoken. The rest of the conversation had been on a subtler level, onewhich was almost completely nonverbal. Not that Spencer Candron was atelepath; if he had been, it wouldn't have been necessary for him tocome to the headquarters building. Candron's talents simply didn't liealong that line. His ability to probe the minds of normal human beingswas spotty and unreliable at best. But when two human beings understandeach other at the level that existed between members of the Society,there is no need for longwinded discourses.
* * * * *
The big stratoliner slowed rapidly as it approached the Peiping People'sAirfield. The pilot, a big-boned Britisher who had two jobs to do atonce, watched the airspeed indicator. As the needle dropped, he came inon a conventional landing lane, aiming for the huge field below. Then,as the needle reached a certain point, just above the landing minimum,he closed his eyes for a fraction of a second and thought, with all themental power at his command: _NOW!_
For a large part of a second, nothing happened, but the pilot knew hismessage had been received.
Then a red gleam came into being on the control board.
"What the hell?" said the co-pilot.
The pilot swore. "I _told_ 'em that door was weak! We've ripped theluggage door off her hinges. Feel her shake?"
The co-pilot looked grim. "Good thing it happened now instead of inmid-flight. At that speed, we'd been torn apart."
"_Blown_ to bits, you mean," said the pilot. "Let's bring her in."
By that time, Spencer Candron was a long way below the ship, fallinglike a stone, a big suitcase clutched tightly in his arms. He knew thatthe Chinese radar was watching the jetliner, and that it had undoubtedlypicked up two objects dropping from the craft--the door and one other.Candron had caught the pilot's mental signal--anything that powerfulcould hardly be missed--and had opened the door and leaped.
But those things didn't matter now. Without a parachute, he had flunghimself from the plane toward the earth below, and his only thought washis loathing, his repugnance, for that too, too solid ground beneath.
He didn't hate it. That would be deadly, for hate implies as muchattraction as love--the attraction of destruction. Fear, too, was out ofthe question; there must be no such relationship as that between thethreatened and the threatener. Only loathing could save him. The earthbeneath was utterly repulsive to him.
And he slowed.
His mind would not accept contact with the ground, and his body wasforced to follow suit. He slowed.
Minutes later,
he was drifting fifty feet above the surface, hisaltitude held steady by the emotional force of his mind. Not until thendid he release the big suitcase he had been holding. He heard it thumpas it hit, breaking open and scattering clothing around it.
In the distance, he could hear the faint moan of a siren. The Chineseradar had picked up two falling objects. And they would find two: onedoor and one suitcase, both of which could be accounted for by the"accident." They would know that no parachute had opened; hence, if theyfound no body, they would be certain that no human being could havedropped from the plane.
The only thing remaining now was to get into the city itself. In thedarkness, it was a little difficult to tell
