The Randall Garrett Omnibus. Randall Garrett
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because of his "deep contrition at having cast aspersions on the spotless character of so great a man."
Donnely was released.
The next evening, "Blackjack" Donnely was shot down at the front door of his own home. There were fifteen bullets in his body; three from a .32, five from a .38, and seven from a .45.
The police investigation was far from thorough; any evidence that may have turned up somehow got lost. It was labelled as "homicide committed by person or persons unknown," and it stayed that way.
Donnely was only the first. In the next two years, four more showed up. Everyone of them, in one way or another, had attempted to gain power or money by mental projection. Everyone of them was a twisted megalomaniac.
Houston looked again at Harris's picture on the front page of the Times. Here was one Controller who neither looked nor acted like a megalomaniac. That wouldn't make much difference to the PD Police; as far as the officials were concerned, the ability to project telepathically and the taint of delusions of grandeur went hand in hand. Controllers were power-mad and criminal by definition.
Fear still ruled the emotional reactions against Controllers, in spite of the protection of the Psychodeviant Police.
But David Houston knew damned good and well that all telepaths were not necessarily insane.
He should know. He was a Controller, himself.
Brrrring!
David Houston tossed the paper on the bed and walked over to the phone. He cut in the circuit, and waited for the phone's TV screen to show the face of his caller. But the screen remained blank.
"Who is it?" Houston asked.
"Is this CHAring Cross 7-8161?" It was a woman's voice, soft and well-modulated.
"No, this is CHElsea 7-8161," Houston said. "You must have dialed C-H-E instead of C-H-A."
"Oh. I'm very sorry. Excuse me." There was a click, and she hung up.
Houston walked back over to the bed and picked up his paper. He looked at it, but he didn't read it. It no longer interested him.
So Dorrine was finally in London, eh? He'd recognized her voice instantly; even years of training couldn't smother the midwestern American of Chicago completely beneath the precise British of the well-educated English girl.
The signal had been agreed upon, just in case his phone was tapped. Even the Psychodeviant Police could be suspected of harboring a Controller—although Houston didn't think it too likely. Nevertheless, he wasn't one to take too many chances.
He glanced at his watch. He had an hour yet. He'd wait five minutes before he phoned headquarters.
He sat down in his chair again and forced himself to relax, smoke a cigarette, and read the paper—the sports section. Perusing the records of the season's cricket matches kept his mind off that picture on the front page. At least, he hoped they would. Let's see, now—Benton was being rated as the finest googly bowler on the Staffordshire Club ...
Everything went fine until he came across a reference to a John Harris, a top-flight batsman for Hambledon; that reminded him of Robert Harris. Houston threw down the paper in disgust and walked over to the phone.
The number was TROwbridge 5-4321, but no one ever bothered to remember it. Simply dial 8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1, and every time a voice at the other end would answer—
"Hamilton speaking."
"Houston here; will I be needed in the next hour or so?"
"Mmmm. Just a second; I'll check the roster. No; your evidence won't be needed personally. You've filed an affidavit. No, I don't think—wait a minute! Yes, there's a return here for you; reservation on the six A.M. jet to New York. Your job here is done, Houston, so you can take the rest of the evening off and relax. Going anywhere in particular?"
"I thought I'd get a bite to eat and take in a movie, maybe, but if I'm due out at six, I'll forego the cinematic diversion. When's the trial?"
"It's scheduled for eleven-thirty this evening. Going to come?"
Houston shook his head. "Not if I'm not needed to give evidence. Those Controllers always give me the creeps."
"They do everybody," said Hamilton. "Well, you caught him; there's no need for you to stick around for the windup. Have a good time."
"Thanks," said Houston shortly, and hung up.
The windup, Houston thought. Sure. That's all it will be. A Controller's trial is a farce. Knock him out with a stun gun and then pump him full of comatol. How can he defend himself if he's unconscious all through the trial?
Houston knew what the average man's answer to that would be: "If a Controller were allowed to remain conscious, he'd take over the judge's mind and get himself freed."
Houston said an obscene word under his breath, jammed his hat on his head, put on his coat, and left his apartment.
With the coming of darkness, the heavy fog had become still denser. The yellow beams of the sodium vapor lamps were simply golden spots hanging in an all-enveloping blackness. Walking the street was a process of moving from one little golden island of light to another, crossing seas of blankness between. The monochromatic yellow shone on the human faces that passed beneath the lamps, robbing them of all color, giving them a dead, grayish appearance beneath the yellow itself.
David Houston walked purposefully along the pavement, his hand jammed deep in his overcoat pockets. One hand held the control box for the little earpiece he wore. He kept moving the band selector, listening for any sign that the Psychodeviant Police were suspicious of a Controller in their midst.
If they were following him, of course, they would use a different scrambler circuit than the one which was plugged into his own unit, but he would be able to hear the gabble of voices, even if he couldn't understand what they were saying.
So far, there hadn't been a sound; if he was being followed, his tailers weren't using the personal intercom units.
He didn't try to elude anyone who might be following. That, in itself, would be a giveaway. Let them watch, if they were watching. They wouldn't see anything but a man going to get himself a bit of dinner.
The Charles II Inn, on Regent Street, near Piccadilly Circus, was a haven of brightness in an otherwise Stygian London. It was one of those "old-fashioned" places—Restoration style of decoration, carried out in modern plastics. The oak panelling looked authentic enough, but it was just a little too glossy to be real.
Houston pushed open the door, stepped inside, removed his hat and coat and shook the dampness from them. As he handed them to the checker, he looked casually around. Dorrine was nowhere in sight, but he hadn't expected her to be. There would be no point in their meeting physically; it might even be downright dangerous.
The headwaiter, clad in the long waistcoat and full trunk-hose of the late Seventeenth Century, bowed punctiliously.
"You're alone, sir?"
"Alone, yes," Houston said. "I'll just be wanting a light supper and a drink or two."
"This way, sir."
Houston followed the man to a small table in the rear of the huge dining room. It was set for two, but the other place was quickly cleared away. Houston ordered an Irish-and-soda from a waiter who was only slightly less elaborately dressed than the headwaiter, and then settled himself down to wait. If he knew Dorrine, she would be on time to the minute.
She came while the waiter was setting the drink on Houston's table. She stepped in through the door, her unmistakable hair glowing a rich red in the illumination of the pseudo-candlelight.
She didn't bother to look around; she knew he would be there.
After a single glance, Houston averted his eyes from her and looked back