been told it,” said Don. He didn’t look at the congested face of the general. “And if we find him and he doesn’t want to return, what then?”
“We’ll worry about that when we’ve found him,” said Penn grimly. Don nodded.
“Is that why Bronson is always with my team? Why other men just like him accompany all field units?” He didn’t press for an answer. “Have you ever wondered why the English stopped using the Press Gang system? They knew it wasn’t humane from the beginning but, for a while, it worked—for a while and up to a point. Maybe we could learn something from that if we tried.”
“You talk like a fool.” Penn slumped back into his chair. “No one press-ganged Klieger. I found him in a third-rate carnival and gave him the chance to help his country. He took that chance. It’s fair to say that we’ve given him far more than he’s given us. After all, Klieger isn’t the only one.”
“That,” said Don, “is the whole point.” He stared directly at the general. “How long is it going to be before others in the Project...sorry, Cartwright House, decide that they’ve had enough?”
“There’ll be no more walking out.” Penn was very positive. “I’ve tripled the security guards and installed gimmicks which makes that impossible.”
It was, of course, a matter of locking the stable door after the horse had been stolen, but Don didn’t point that out. Penn, with his reputation and career in the balance, could only be pushed so far at a time. And, to Penn, his career was all-important. Not even Cartwright House came before that.
Which, thought Don bitterly, was the inevitable result of a military machine based on political manoeuvrings. What a man was, what he could do, that was unimportant against who he knew, what he could do for others. Don himself had no illusions. He was useful but he could be branded, damned, kicked out and made the scapegoat if Penn felt he needed a sacrifice. And time was running out.
“We’ve got to find him.” Penn drummed on the desk. “Gregson, why can’t you find him?”
“You know why. I’ve trailed him and found where he’s been a dozen times. But always too late. To catch him I’ve got to be where he is when he is, or before he gets there. And that’s impossible.”
“This theft.” Penn’s mind veered to the latest scrap of information. “Money I can understand, but why a Ming vase? The guy must be crazy.”
“He isn’t normal, but he isn’t crazy.” Don crushed out his cigarette. “And I’ve an idea that he has a very good reason for wanting that vase. The chances are that he will be collecting other, similar things, how many depends on circumstances.”
“But why?”
“They’re beautiful. To those that appreciate them such objects are beyond price. Klieger must have an intensely artistic streak. He has a reason for wanting to own them and it worries me.”
Penn snorted.
“I need more information.” Don was decisive. “Without it I’m fighting a shadow. I’ve got to go where I can get it.”
“But—”
“I’ve got to. There’s no other way. None in the world.”
* * * *
No one called it a prison. No one even called it a Project because everyone knew that a ‘Project’ was both military and important. So it was called Cartwright House and it was a little harder to get into than Fort Knox and far more difficult to leave than Alcatraz.
Don waited patiently as his identification was checked, double-checked, cleared to a higher level and then checked again. It took time but finally he faced Leon Malchin, tall, thin, burning with frustrated zeal and with the courtesy rank of colonel, which meant nothing until he tried to act like a civilian when he felt the full impact of military discipline.
“General Penn has contacted me,” he said. “I am to offer you every assistance.” He stared at Don through old-fashioned spectacles. “How can I help you?”
“Question,” said Don. “How do normal men catch a clairvoyant?”
“You mean Klieger, of course?”
“Of course.”
“They can’t. They don’t.” Malchin settled back in his chair, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Next question?”
“There is no next question—not yet.” Don took the other chair and proffered his cigarettes. Malchin shook his head and sucked at a brier.
“I am a hunter,” said Don abruptly. “I hunt men. I’m good at it because I have a knack, talent, skill—you name it—for being able to outguess my quarry. You might say that I have a series of lucky hunches. Somehow, I don’t know how, I know what they will do next—where they will be and when. I have never yet failed to get my man.”
“But you haven’t got Klieger.” Malchin nodded as if he had expected this visit for some time. “And you want to know why.”
“I know why. He is a clairvoyant. What I want to know is how. How does he do it? How does he operate? How effective is he?”
“Very effective.” Malchin took his pipe from his mouth and stared into the bowl. “He is, or was, our star resident. He could see further than anyone I have ever investigated—and I have invested psi phenomena all my adult life.”
“Go on.”
“I don’t think you fully realize just what you are up against in Klieger. He isn’t a superman, of course; nothing like that, but he has this one talent. You are, in a sense, a blind man trying to trap a man who can see. Trap him in broad daylight on an open plain. You are also wearing a bell around your neck to attract his attention. Personally I do not think you have a ghost of a chance.”
“How,” Don insisted, “does this talent work?”
“I don’t know.” Malchin anticipated the next question. “You don’t mean that, of course, what you mean is how does he use it. If I knew how it worked I would be a very happy man. He frowned, searching for words. “This is going to be difficult to describe. How could you explain sight to a man born blind, or sound to a man born deaf? And you, at least, could tell how these senses ‘worked’. However—”
Don lit another cigarette, listening to Malchin’s explanations, building pictures in his mind. A piece of rough fabric, each thread of which was a person’s life stretching into the future. Some threads were short, others longer, all meshed and interwoven so that it was almost impossible to follow any single thread. But, with training and skill it could be done. Then events came clear and action could be planned.
A bank where a teller suffered an attack of acute appendicitis just as he was counting out a sheaf of notes—and a man who calmly picked them up as if he had just cashed a cheque.
A store where the takings were left unattended for just that essential few minutes of time.
A penthouse apartment and an officer who sneezed just as the quarry walked past.
An antique shop and an accident to create the necessary diversion.
So simple when you could see exactly what would happen and exactly how to take advantage of it.
How to catch Klieger?
Don jerked upright as the cigarette burned his fingers and became aware of Malchin’s stare.
“I was thinking of your analogy,” he said. “You know, the blind man trying to trap the one who could see. I know how it can be done.”
“Yes?”
“The blind man gets eyes.”
* * * *
They were comfortable. They had soft beds and good food, canned music, television, a library of books and private