The Randall Garrett Omnibus. Randall Garrett
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pretty closely," Houston said. "Your damned English fogs don't give a man much chance to see anything."
There was a chuckle from the earphone. "Cheer up, Yank; you should have seen it back before 1968. When atomic power replaced coal and oil, our fogs became a devil of a lot cleaner."
The voice was quite clear; at the London headquarters of the UN Psychodeviant Police, there was no need to wear a throat mike, which had a tendency to make the voice sound muffled in spite of the Statistical Information-Bit Samplers which were supposed to clarify the speech coming through them.
"What do you know about 1968?" Houston asked sardonically. "Your mother was still pushing you around in a baby-carriage then."
"In a pram," corrected the Headquarters operator. "That is true, but my dear Aunt Jennifer told me all about it. She was—"
"The hell with your Aunt Jennifer," Houston interrupted suddenly. "Here comes Sir Lewis. Get me cover—fast!"
"Right. Keep us posted."
Sir Lewis Huntley stepped out of the broad door of the bank and turned left. He took a couple of steps and stopped. He didn't look around; he simply took a cigarette out of a silver case, put it in his mouth, and lit it. The glow of the lighter shone yellowly on the brass plate near the door which said: An Affiliate of Westminster Bank, Ltd.
Sir Lewis snapped the light out, drew on the cigarette, and strode on down the street, swinging a blue plastex brief case which contained a thousand pounds in United Nations Bank of England notes.
Houston decided the baronet had not been looking for a tail; he wished he could probe the man's mind to make sure, but he knew that would be fatal. He'd have to play the game and hope for the best.
"He's heading east," Houston whispered. "Doesn't look as if he's going to get a cab."
"Check," said the earphone.
Sir Lewis seemed in no great hurry, but he walked briskly, as though he had a definite destination in mind.
After a little way, he crossed to the south side of Leadenhall Street and kept going east. Houston stayed far enough behind to be above suspicion, but not so far that he ran a chance of losing his man.
"He's turning south on Fenchurch," Houston said a little later. "I wonder where he's going."
"Keep after him," said Headquarters. "Our net men haven't spotted either of you yet. They can hardly see across the street in this damned fog."
Houston kept going.
"What the hell?" he whispered a few minutes later. "He's still following Fenchurch Street! He's doubling back!"
Leadenhall Street, the banking center of the City of London, runs almost due east-and-west; Fenchurch Street makes a forty-five degree angle with it at the western end, running southwest for a bit and then curving toward the west, toward Lombard.
"Houston," said HQ, "touch your left ear."
Houston obediently reached up and scratched his left ear.
"Okay," said HQ. "Bogart's spotted you, but he hasn't spotted Sir Lewis. Bogart's across the street."
"He can't miss Sir Lewis," whispered Houston. "Conservatively dressed—matching coat and trousers of orange nylon tweed—royal blue half-brim bowler—carrying a blue brief case."
There was a pause, then: "Yeah. Bogart's spotted him, and so has MacGruder. Mac's on your side, a few yards ahead."
"Check. How about the rest of the net?"
"Coming, coming. Be patient, old man."
"I am patient," growled Houston. I have to be, he thought to himself, otherwise I'd never stay alive.
"We've got him bracketed now," HQ said. "If we lose him now, he's a magician."
Sir Lewis walked on, seemingly oblivious to the group of men who had surrounded him. He came to the end of Fenchurch Street and looked to his left, towards London Bridge. Then he glanced to his right.
"I think he's looking for a cab," Houston whispered.
"That's what MacGruder says," came the reply. "We've got Arthmore in a cab behind you; he'll pick you up. MacGruder will get another cab, and we have a private car for Bogart."
Sir Lewis flagged a cab, climbed in, and gave an address to the driver. Houston didn't hear it, but MacGruder, a heavy-set, short, balding man, was standing near enough to get the instructions Sir Lewis had given to the driver.
A cab pulled up to the curb near Houston, and he got in.
Arthmore, the driver, was a thin, tall, hawknosed individual who could have played Sherlock Holmes on TV. Once he got into character for a part, he never got out of it unless absolutely necessary. Right now, he was a Cockney cab-driver, and he would play the part to the hilt.
"Where to, guv'nor?" he asked innocently.
"Buckingham Palace," said Houston. "I've got a poker appointment with Prince Charles."
"Blimey, guv'nor," said Arthmore. "You are movin' in 'igh circles! 'Ow's 'Er Majesty these days?"
The turboelectric motor hummed, and the cab shot off into traffic. "According to the report I get on the blinkin' wireless," he continued, "a chap named MacGruder claims that the eminent Sir Lewis 'Untley is 'eaded for Number 37 Upper Berkeley Mews."
"One of these days," said Houston, "all those H's you drop is going to bounce back and hit you in the face."
"Beg pardon, Mr. Yewston?" Arthmore asked blankly.
Houston grinned. "Nothing, cabbie; it's just that you remind me of a cultured, intelligent fellow named Jack Arthmore. The only difference is that Jack speaks the Queen's English."
"Crikey!" said Arthmore. "Wot a coincidence!" He paused, then: "The Queen's English, you say? She 'as to be, don't she?"
"Shut up," said Houston conversationally. "And give me a cigarette," he added.
"There's a package of Players in my shirt pocket," Arthmore said, keeping his hands on the wheel.
Houston fished out a cigarette, lit it, and returned the pack.
Apropos of nothing, Arthmore said: "Reminds me of the time I was workin' for a printer, see? We 'ad to print up a bunch of 'andbills advertisin' a church charity bazaar. Down at the bottom was supposed to be printed 'Under the auspices of St. Bede's-on-Thames.' So I—"
He went on with a long, rambling tale about making a mistake in printing the handbill. Houston paid little attention. He smoked in silence, keeping his eyes on the red glow of the taillight ahead of them.
Neither man mentioned the approaching climax of the chase. Even hardened veterans of the Psychodeviant Police don't look forward to the possibility of having their minds taken over, controlled by some outside force.
It had never happened to Houston, but he knew that Arthmore had been through the experience once. It evidently wasn't pleasant.
"—and the boss was 'oppin' mad," Arthmore was saying, "but, crikey, 'ow was I to know that auspice was spelled A-U-S-P-I-C-E?"
Houston grinned. "Yeah, sure. How're we doing with Sir Lewis?"
"Seems to be headed in the right direction," Arthmore said, suddenly dropping the Cockney accent. "This is the route I'd take if I were headed for Upper Berkeley Mews. He probably hasn't told the driver to change addresses—maybe he won't."
"The victims never do," Houston said. "He probably is actually headed toward Number 37 Upper Berkeley Mews."
"Yeah. Nobody's perfect," said Arthmore.
Forty-five minutes of steady progress through the streets of Greater London brought Sir Lewis Huntley to Upper Berkeley and to the short dead-end street which