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 movies. They had games and a swimming pool and even a bowling alley. They wore good clothes and were fit and looked it, but they were intelligent and they knew.
A prison is somewhere you can’t leave when you want to and they were in prison.
For 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,”
