The Golden Age Of Science Fiction Vol Iv Part 14

"You. Turn off that gravito unit. Then sit still."

He pushed himself out of the chair as the constraining force was removed.

"Now," he growled, "you can kick it in again. Give it a little power, too, while you're at it." He wheeled around.

"All right," he snapped at Wizow, "turn around. Get into that chair."

He watched as the big body was pressed into the cushions. Wizow's face showed strain. Stan went around Mauson's desk.

"I said a little power." He reached down and gave the gravito control an abrupt twist.

Wizow's mouth popped open, agony showing in his eyes. Stan grinned tightly and eased off on the k.n.o.b.

"I really should spin this thing up to a proof load," he said. "Might be interesting to see what kind of an a.s.sembly job they did on you. But we'll just leave you this way. All you've got to do is keep quiet. You're deaf, dumb, and blind, you understand?" He turned on Mauson.

"Now, for you--" His voice trailed off.

The man was sitting like a puppet whose controlling strings had been cut. Stan's blazing fury started to burn down.

These minds, he suddenly realized, had been virtually paralyzed. He didn't need anything to tie them down. All he had to do was point his finger. They'd jump. He shook his head.

"Funny," he told himself. "All you have to do is be a little forceful. Why didn't somebody tell me about this?" He looked calculatingly at Mauson.

"Tell you what we're gonna do," he said rhythmically. "Get your car over here. You know, the shielded job. We don't want anyone snapping at us with flashers." His voice hardened.

"Come on," he ordered, "get on that box. Tell 'em you want that car."

As the car rolled down the street, he leaned forward a little.

"All right, driver," he said peremptorily, "when we get to the Federation Building, swing into the official driveway."

The driver moved his head slightly. Stan sat back, waiting.

He looked at the building fronts as they swept past. When he'd first come here, he'd noticed the clean beauty of the city. And he's been unable to understand the indefinable warning he'd felt. But now--he'd looked beneath the surface.

The car slowed. A guard was flagging them down at the building entrance. Stan touched a window control.

"Stand aside, Guardsman," he ordered. "We're coming in." He flicked the window control again.

"Keep going, driver," he ordered. "You can let us out inside. Then find a place to park, and wait."

Another guard came toward them as the car rolled to a stop.

"Hey," he protested, "this is--"

Stan looked at him coldly.

"Which way to the Guard commander's office?"

The man pointed. "Elevator over there. Fifth floor. But--"

"I didn't ask for a story. Get our driver into a parking s.p.a.ce and keep him there." Stan turned to Mauson.

"All right. Get out."

He shepherded the man into the elevator and out again. In the hall, he glanced around, then walked through a doorway.

A middle-aged guardsman looked at him inquiringly.

"Can I do something for you gentlemen?"

"Yes. We want to see the commander."

The guardsman smiled. "Well, now, perhaps--"

Stan looked at him sternly.

"I've had my quota of runarounds today. I said we want to see the commander. Now, all you have to do is take us to him. Move!"

The smile faded. For an instant, the man seemed about to rebel. Then he turned.

"This way," he said evenly. He led the way through a large room, then tapped at a door on the other side.

"Yes?"

The voice was vaguely familiar to Stan. He frowned, trying to place it.

"Two men to see you, sir. Seems a little urgent."

"Oh? Well, bring them in."

Stan relaxed. This was getting easier, he thought. Now he could get these people to take Mauson before a determinator. His statements would furnish plenty of evidence for a full search of Janzel's Personnel files.

He jerked his head at Mauson.

"Inside."

He waited as the man stepped through the door, then followed.

A slender man was standing behind a wide desk.

"Well," he said calmly. "Welcome home, Graham. Glad you could make it."

"Major Michaels!" Stan forgot everything he had planned to say.

The other smiled. "Let's say Agent Michaels," he corrected. "Special Corpsmen don't have actual Guard rank. Most of us got thrown out of the Academy in the first couple of years."

He glanced at the guardsman, then flicked a finger out to point at Mauson.

"Take this down and put it away somewhere till we need it, deSilva. Graham and I have some talking to do."

"Yes, sir." The middle-aged man turned toward Stan.

"Congratulations, sir." He jerked a thumb at Mauson.

"Come on, you. March."

Michaels held up a hand as Stan opened his mouth.

"Never mind," he said quietly. "DeSilva is quite capable of handling that one. Take care of three or four more like him if he had to. Pretty good man." He reached for a box on his desk.

"Here," he said. "Light up. Got a few things to talk about."

"But I've got--"

"It can wait. Wall put the whole story on the tape when you were talking to him downstairs. We've been sweating you out."

"You've been sweating me out? I had to practically force my way up here."

"That you did." Michaels took a cigarette from the box, started to put it in his mouth, then pointed it at Stan.

"That's normal procedure. You've heard of the Special Corps for Investigation, I presume?"

"Yes. But--"

"Ever think of being a corpsman yourself?"

"Of course. You know that--we've talked about it. But I never could--"

"That's right." Michaels waved the cigarette. "We don't have recruiting offices. All our people have to force their way in. Tell me, do you know anything about the history of this planet?"

Stan clenched his teeth. Somehow, he had lost the initiative in this interview. He took a deep breath.

"Look," he said decisively, "I--"

"Later." Michaels shook his head. "You are familiar with this culture by now, then?"

"Well ... yes. I've read some history ... a little law."

"Good. Saves me a lot of talk. You know, sometimes we run into a situation that can be corrected by a single, deft stroke. Makes things very pleasant. We send in an agent--or two or six. The necessary gets done, and somebody writes up a nice, neat report." He toyed with the cigarette lighter.

"But this thing isn't like that. We've got a long, monotonous job of routine plugging to do. We've got to bust a hard-sh.e.l.led system without hurting too many of the people within it. And we've been at it for a while. We think we've made some progress, but we've still got a lot of snakes to kill.

"But even bad situations have their good points. At least, this place is a good training ground for probationers."

"Probationers?"

"Right. Probationers who don't even know they're being tested." He smiled.

"People with the qualifications for Senior Agent are hard to get. Most of them are latent--asleep. We can't expect them to walk in--we have to find them. Then we have to wake them up. It can be tricky."

He lit his cigarette, eying Stan thoughtfully.

"I suppose you've heard some of the stories that fly around about the Corps. The truth of the matter is, the Senior Agent isn't any superman. He's just a normal human being with a couple of extra quirks."

He held up a finger.

"First, he's trouble p.r.o.ne. A nasty situation attracts him much as a flame attracts a moth.

"There are a lot of people like that. Most of them are always getting themselves clobbered. The agent usually doesn't."

He held up a second finger.

"Because he has a compensating ability. When he turns on the pressure, people do just as he tells them--most people, that is." He sighed.

"That's the latent ability. Sometimes full control is buried so deeply it takes something like a major catastrophe to wake the guy up to the fact he can use it." He smiled wryly.

"Oh, he pushes people around once in a while--makes 'em uneasy when he's around--makes himself unpopular. But he's got no control. He's got to be awakened."

"Yes, but--"

"Uh-uh. It sounds simple, but it isn't." Michaels shook his head.

"You don't just snap a finger in front of this fellow. You've got to provide him with real trouble. Pile it on him--until he gets so much pressure built up that he snaps himself into action. Makes a place like this useful."

"I begin to see. You mean all this stuff I've been going through was sort of a glorified alarm clock?"

"Yes. You could put it that way. That, and a trial a.s.signment as a junior agent. Still want to be a Special Corpsman?"

Stan looked around the office consideringly, then got to his feet.

"I stood it without knowing what was going on. Even had a little fun once in a while. Maybe I could learn to like it if I knew what I was doing." He shrugged.

"What's next?"

Michaels shoved a stack of papers toward him.

"Administrative details. You just can't get away from them." He took a pen from his desk.

"After you sign all these, I'll get a couple of people in here for witnesses while we give you your oath.

"It's practically painless."