second floor without being observed. Then he headed for the elevator shafts.
It took him several minutes to jimmy open the elevator door. His mind was sensitive enough to sense the nearness of others, so there was no chance of his being caught red-handed. When he got the door open, he stepped into the shaft, brought his loathing for the bottom into the fore, and floated up to the top floor. From there it was a simple matter to get to the roof, drop down the side, and enter the open window of an officer’s apartment.
He entered a lighted window rather than a darkened one. He wanted to know what he was getting into. He had his gun ready, just in case, but there was no sign of anyone in the room he entered. A quick search showed that the other two rooms were also empty. His mind had told him that there was no one awake in the apartment, but a sleeping man’s mind, filled with dimmed, chaotic thoughts, blended into the background and might easily be missed.
Then Spencer Candron used the telephone, punching the first of the two code numbers he had been given. A connection was made to the room where a twenty-four-hour guard kept watch over James Ch’ien via television pickups hidden in the walls of his prison apartment in the basement.
Candron had listened to recordings of one man’s voice for hours, getting the exact inflection, accent, and usage. Now, he made use of that practice.
“This is General Soong,” he said sharply. “We are sending a Dr. Wan down to persuade the guest. We will want recordings of all that takes place.”
“Yes, sir,” said the voice at the other end.
“Dr. Wan will be there within ten minutes, so be alert.”
“Yes, sir. All will be done to your satisfaction.”
“Excellent,” said Candron. He smiled as he hung up. Then he punched another secret number. This one connected him with the guards outside Ch’ien’s apartment. As General Soong, he warned them of the coming of Dr. Wan. Then he went to the window, stepped out, and headed for the roof again.
* * * *
There was no danger that the calls would be suspected. Those two phones could not be contacted except from inside the Palace, and not even then unless the number was known.
Again he dropped down Elevator Shaft Three. Only Number One was operating this late in the evening, so there was no fear of meeting it coming up. He dropped lightly to the roof of the car, where it stood empty in the basement, opened the escape hatch in the roof, dropped inside, opened the door, and emerged into the first basement. Then he started down the stairs to the subbasement.
The guards were not the least suspicious, apparently. Candron wished he were an honest-to-God telepath, so he could be absolutely sure. The officer at the end of the corridor that led to Ch’ien’s apartment was a full captain, a tough-looking, swarthy Mongol with dark, hard eyes. “You are Dr. Wan?” he asked in a guttural baritone.
“I am,” Candron said. This was no place for traditional politeness. “Did not General Soong call you?”
“He did, indeed, doctor. But I assumed you would be carrying—” He gestured, as though not quite sure what to say.
Candron smiled blandly. “Ah. You were expecting the little black bag, is it not so? No, my good captain; I am a psychologist, not a medical doctor.”
The captain’s face cleared. “So. The persuasion is to be of the more subtle type.”
“Indeed. Only thus can we be assured of his co-operation. One cannot force the creative mind to create; it must be cajoled. Could one have forced the great K’ung Fu-tse to become a philosopher at the point of a sword?”
“It is so,” said the captain. “Will you permit me to search you?”
The affable Dr. Wan emptied his pockets, then permitted the search. The captain casually looked at the identification in the wallet. It was, naturally, in perfect order for Dr. Wan. The identification of Ying Lee had been destroyed hours ago, since it was of no further value.
“These things must be left here until you come out, doctor,” the captain said. “You may pick them up when you leave.” He gestured at the pack of cigarettes. “You will be given cigarettes by the interior guard. Such are my orders.”
“Very well,” Candron said calmly. “And now, may I see the patient?” He had wanted to keep those cigarettes. Now he would have to find a substitute.
The captain unlocked the heavy door. At the far end, two more guards sat, complacently playing cards, while a third stood at a door a few yards away. A television screen imbedded in the door was connected to an interior camera which showed the room within.
The corridor door was closed and locked behind Candron as he walked toward the three interior guards. They were three more big, tough Mongols, all wearing the insignia of lieutenants. This was not a prisoner who could be entrusted to the care of common soldiers; the secret was too important to allow the hoi polloi in on it. They carried no weapons; the three of them could easily take care of Ch’ien if he tried anything foolish, and besides, it kept weapons out of Ch’ien’s reach. There were other methods of taking care of the prisoner if the guards were inadequate.
The two officers who were playing cards looked up, acknowledged Dr. Wan’s presence, and went back to their game. The third, after glancing at the screen, opened the door to James Ch’ien’s apartment. Spencer Candron stepped inside.
It was because of those few seconds—the time during which that door was open—that Candron had called the monitors who watched Ch’ien’s apartment. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered. He needed fifteen seconds in which to act, and he couldn’t do it with that door open. If the monitors had given an alarm in these critical seconds…
But they hadn’t, and they wouldn’t. Not yet.
The man who was sitting in the easy-chair on the opposite side of the room looked up as Candron entered.
James Ch’ien (B.S., M.S., M.I.T., Ph. D., U.C.L.A.) was a young man, barely past thirty. His tanned face no longer wore the affable smile that Candron had seen in photographs, and the jet-black eyes beneath the well-formed brows were cold instead of friendly, but the intelligence behind the face still came through.
As the door was relocked behind him, Candron said, in Cantonese: “This unworthy one hopes that the excellent doctor is well. Permit me to introduce my unworthy self: I am Dr. Wan Feng.”
Dr. Ch’ien put the book he was reading in his lap. He looked at the ceiling in exasperation, then back at Candron. “All right,” he said in English, “so you don’t believe me. But I’ll repeat it again in the hope that I can get it through your skulls.” It was obvious that he was addressing, not only his visitor, but anyone else who might be listening.
“I do not speak Chinese,” he said, emphasizing each word separately. “I can say ‘Good morning’ and ‘Good-by’, and that’s about it. I do wish I could say ‘drop dead,’ but that’s a luxury I can’t indulge. If you can speak English, then go ahead; if not, quit wasting my time and yours. Not,” he added, “that it won’t be a waste of time anyway, but at least it will relieve the monotony.”
Candron knew that Ch’ien was only partially telling the truth. The physicist spoke the language badly, but he understood it fairly well.
“Sorry, doctor,” Candron said in English, “I guess I forgot myself. I am Dr. Wan Feng.”
Ch’ien’s expression didn’t change, but he waved to a nearby chair. “Sit down, Dr. Feng, and tell me what propaganda line you’ve come to deliver now.”
Candron smiled and shook his head slowly. “That was unworthy of you, Dr. Ch’ien. Even though you have succumbed to the Western habit of putting the family name last, you are perfectly aware that ‘Wan,’ not ‘Feng,’ is my family name.”
The physicist didn’t turn a hair. “Force of habit, Dr. Wan. Or, rather, a little retaliation. I was called ‘Dakta Chamis’ for two days,