their own protection, naturally. The guards, the gimmicks, the restrictions were solely designed to keep unwanted people out. The secrecy was from fear of spies and patriotism was the excuse for all. But the things designed to keep people out worked just as well to keep others in.
And, sometimes, patriotism as an excuse wears a little thin.
“It’s good to see a new face.” Sam Edwards, fifty, built like a boy with the face of a boxer, grinned as he gripped Don’s hand. “You joining the club?”
“He’s just visiting.” A wizened oldster sucked at his teeth as he peered at Don from the depths of an easy chair. “Say, Gregson, if you fancy a little poker later on I guess we could accommodate you.”
He laughed with a wheezy effort then frowned and slammed a hand on his knee.
“Goldarn it! I miss my poker!”
“Telepaths,” whispered Malchin. “Most of them are in permanent rapport with others who are you-know-where. I won’t bother to introduce you around.”
Don nodded, staring uneasily at the assembled ‘residents’. Some were old, a few young, most were middle-aged. They watched him with eyes glinting with secret amusement.
“Oddly enough most of them seem to stick together according to their various talents,” mused Malchin. “You’ve seen the telepaths, in this room are those with telekinetic abilities. Nothing standing in the way of progress as yet, but they are getting on. In here are the clairvoyants.”
There were fifteen of them. Don was surprised at the number, Then he wondered why he was surprised. In the great cross-section of humanity that was the United States every deviation from the norm must have been repeated many times. Shrewdly he guessed that he saw only a part of the whole; that Cartwright House was duplicated many times under many names.
“We have found,” whispered Malchin, “that communal use of their talent greatly aids development of that talent. Klieger was little more than a carnival fortune-teller when he joined us; in ten years he became amazingly proficient.”
“Ten years?”
“That’s what I said. Many of our residents have been here longer than that.”
If there was irony in Malchin’s voice, Don didn’t catch it. But one of the men in the room did. He came forward, hand outstretched, a taut smile on his face.
“Tab Welker,” he said. “Maybe you can settle an argument. In England, from what I hear, a man sentenced to life imprisonment usually gets out in about nine years. Right?”
“It depends on his conduct.” Don felt his skin tighten as he saw what the man was driving at. “A life term in England is about fifteen years. A third remission would make it about what you say.”
“And that’s usually given for nothing short of murder.” Tab nodded. “You know, I’ve been here eight years. One more year to go—maybe!”
“You’re not a prisoner,” said Don. The man laughed.
“Please.” He lifted his hand. “No arguments, no speeches!” He lost his smile. “What do you want?”
“Help,” said Don simply.
He moved about the room, halting by a small table bearing chessmen set on a board. They were of wood lovingly carved with the unfinished look of true hand-production. He lifted a knight and studied it, then met Welker’s eyes.
“Klieger’s?”
“How did you guess?” Tab’s eyes softened as he stared at the chessmen. “Albert loved beautiful things. The thing he missed most while in here was being able to visit the museums. He always said that man’s true achievements were to be found in the things he had made to ornament his life.”
“Things like vases?”
“Paintings, statuary, cameos, he liked them all providing they were well made.”
“A man with artistic appreciation.” Don nodded. “I understand. When did you all decide to help him escape?”
“I... What did you say?”
“You heard what I said.” Don’s eyes locked with those of the other man then, slowly, Welker smiled.
“You’re no fool,” he said. Don returned the smile.
“Now I’ve another question.” He paused, conscious of the men and their watching eyes. “Just what does Klieger hope to gain?”
* * * *
“No!” General Penn slammed his hand down on the arm of the backseat. “No! No!”
Don sighed, staring through the windows at the rain. It dripped from the trees above, pinging on the roof of the car, dewing the glass with a glitter of transient pearls. Further down the road the rear of another car loomed vague through the rain. Behind them would be another. Their own driver was somewhere up ahead probably cursing the odd exigencies of the Service.
“Listen,” said the general, “we’ve got word that they know about Klieger. Don’t ask me how they even guessed he was important to us, but they do. Now it’s a race between us. We daren’t lose.”
“We won’t lose,” said Don. “But we’ll have to do it my way. It’s the only way there is.”
“No.”
“General!” Don released his pent-up temper and frustration m a furious blast of sound. “What other way is there?”
It stopped Penn as he knew it would, but only for a moment.
“I can’t risk it,” he snapped. “Klieger’s only one man, dangerous but still only one. We can handle one man, but can we handle a dozen or more? It’s treasonable even to suggest it.”
Don fumed as he recognized the emotion-loaded semantic symbol. Penn with his mania for security had probably aroused unwelcome attention in the first place. Like now when he had insisted that they meet in a car on a road in the rain for fear of some undetected electronic ear waiting to catch their conversation. For long moments the silence dragged, then Don drew a deep breath.
“Treasonable or not it’s something you have to consider. For one thing the escape was organized. The lights failed—a telepathically controlled rat gnawed a vital cable. A guard was taken sick for no apparent reason and, for a moment, there was a blank spot in the defences. There were other things, all small, not one coincidental. The whole lot could have walked right out.”
“But they didn’t!” Penn pounded the arm of the rear seat. “Only Klieger. That proves something.”
“That he wanted to run to the Reds?” Don shrugged. “Then what’s keeping him? He’s had plenty of time to make contact if that’s what he wanted.”
“What’s your point?” Penn was losing his patience. “Are you trying to tell me that those...freaks back there are holding a gun to my head? They’ll help, you say, but on their terms. Terms! His hand closed into a fist. “Don’t they understand that the country is as good as at war?”
“They want the thing we keep saying we are fighting to protect,” said Don. “They want a little freedom. Is that such an outrageous demand?”
He leaned back, closing his eyes, seeing again the faces of the men back in Cartwright House. Some of them, so Malchin had said, had been there twelve years. A long time. Too long to be willing guinea pigs so that their talents could be trained and developed and exploited. But to the general they weren’t men. They were ‘freaks’; just another weapon to be used, to be protected and hidden, to be destroyed if there was a chance they might fall into enemy hands.
“What?” He opened his eyes, conscious that the general was talking to him. Penn glowered and repeated what he had said. “Can you catch him, even if they won’t help you?”
“I don’t know.”