It was to these files that Easly hurried as soon as he was out of the deBloise office complex. It was a slim chance, but Proska just might have been born on Jebinose. If so, Easly would at least have a starting point. In the Planet Center, he found a free computer station and punched in Proska’s name. There were only two people on record with that name. The first was deceased; the second had been born forty-four years before and still resided on the planet.
That was the one—at least the age was right. Easly checked down the list and noted that Cando Proska had attended the Jebinose psi school as a boy but had dropped out at the age of ten. That in itself was strange because people with psi talents are always in demand; even those with the most mediocre abilities are assured a good income for the rest of their lives. Proska must have talent or else he would never have been admitted to the school. Why did he drop out? He had held a routine office job until about fifteen years ago when he quit. No employment since then. Also strange.
That was the end of the record. Not much information, but Easly felt somewhat satisfied. Something had clicked in the back of his mind as he reviewed the information; he couldn’t place it right now—his mind often made correlations without immediately informing him—but he knew from experience not to push it. Sooner or later it would come to the surface.
He decided to take a look at Proska’s home and wrote down the address. It was a nice day so he rented an open flitter and punched in the address. To his surprise, the flitter took him to the outskirts of the city and into the center of an exclusive well-to-do neighborhood. It hovered over a large home of elaborate design and a red light flashed a warning that clearance was required from below before it could land. Easly took a closer look at the grounds and his trained eye picked up traces of a very effective and very expensive protective system.
“Not bad for a guy who’s been out of work for fifteen years,” he muttered.
He was about to start a slow circle for a better look when he noticed another flitter approaching. He took control of his own vehicle and moved off at an unhurried pace. The other flitter was closed with the windows opaqued. He watched it land in front of the Proska house and cursed himself for his carelessness in renting an open flitter. If deBloise had been in that flitter and had recognized him, Easly’s cover was in jeppardy. His policy in a situation such as this was to assume the worst. That being the case, he would have to hurry and make another inquiry and then, possibly, get off-planet immediately.
Easly had obtained another address before leaving the Planet Center, that of Jacob Howell. He now punched that address and gave his flitter full throttle. Howell had been in charge of the Jebinose Psi School at the time Proska had dropped out. Maybe he could supply another piece to the puzzle.
Howell was retired now and lived off his pension in a small apartment in the city. He seemed to be a lonely old man and welcomed Easly openly. Any company, even that of strangers, was better than sitting alone.
Easly decided on a direct approach. “Do you remember a student named Proska, Mr. Howell? About thirty-four years ago, at the age of ten, he dropped out of the Psi School.”
Howell wrinkled his brow. “Proska?”
“Cando Proska.”
Howell nodded. “Yes, I believe I do remember him. The name isn’t familiar but it’s so rare that someone drops out of the school that I believe I know who you mean; Nasty business, that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, little Proska got into an argument with another boy whose name escapes me—it was in the psychokinesis lab, I think—and the other boy died right there on the spot. Proska blamed himself and would not return to the school.”
“What did the other boy die of?”
Howell shrugged. “We don’t know. His parents were from the farm region and were devout members of the Heavenly Bliss sect—we have a lot of them on Jebinose, you know—and they refused to allow an autopsy. It’s part of the Heavenly Bliss canon that the human body not be willfully mutilated. It was known that the boy had some sort of congenital heart defect and that was assumed to be the cause of death. It was probably the excitement of his argument with little Proska that brought it on, but Proska could not be blamed. You couldn’t convince him of that, however. He considered himself responsible and never wanted to come back.”
Easly was interested. “Congenital heart defect? But that’s ancient history! Nobody walks around with that sort of condition anymore!”
“They do when the parents refuse to consent to surgery,” Howell said. “Mutilation, you know. If the same thing happened today there would be an autopsy, Heavenly Bliss sect or no. But we weren’t as well organized then as we are now. I wish we had insisted on an autopsy. Then little Proska would have been spared such a burden of guilt. It was a shame to lose him. I seem to remember that he showed promise.”
Easly’s mind turned this new information over a few times and looked for correlations. None. He rose and thanked Howell for his help. The man virtually insisted that he stay for dinner, or at least for a drink. Easly begged off and left feeling guilty for not repaying the man for his information with a little companionship. But time was too short, and instinct was prodding him to leave Jebinose immediately.
He shrugged it off. He was interested now, too interested to give up just yet. He had a tantalizing feeling that all the pieces were there; all he had to do was arrange them in the proper light. He started laying them out for examination. It was important to Jo to stop, or delay, deBloise and this Mr. Proska might well supply the lever with which she could apply some pressure.
First of all, deBloise was terrified of Proska. Proska was a psi who might possibly have caused the death of a boy at school as a child. He had never returned because of guilt. Why so much guilt? Unless he knew he had killed the other boy!
Could Proska kill with his mind?
Proska had a hold over deBloise and a big, expensive, well-protected house . . . and he hadn’t worked for the past fifteen years. Fifteen years . . . the Integration Bill was passed almost fifteen years ago. . .
The subconscious correlation his mind had made back at the Planet Center suddenly came to the surface: it was fifteen years ago that Junior Finch had been killed on this planet! And it was possible that Proska could kill with his mind . . . and Proska quit work fifteen years ago! And he had a hold over deBloise.
But that didn’t fit. The Vaneks killed Junior; they admitted it openly. And Vaneks never lie. And it was generally conceded that Junior’s death merely increased the margin by which deBloise’s pet Integration Bill was passed. So deBloise had nothing to gain from Junior’s death. Or had he?
Against his better judgment, Easly decided to pay another visit to the alley where Joe, Jr. had been killed. Perhaps the same Vanek would still be there. He would no doubt be as reticent as he had been earlier in the afternoon so Easly made a stop at his hotel room. This time he would be better prepared; all he needed now was the tiniest bit of cooperation from the beggar.
The sun was well below the horizon when he landed in Danzer and he made his way quickly through the darkened streets hoping that he would find the same beggar in the alley.
He did, Easly wanted an older beggar, one who might have known Junior personally.
“Wheels within wheels, bendreth,” the beggar greeted him. “Have you come again to meditate on our friend, Junior Finch?”
Easly nodded. “I would also like to meditate on someone else. His name is Proska.”
The beggar’s eyes remained impassive. “We know Mr. Proska but we do not fear him. We are not completely human and so his power is ineffective against us.”
“What power?” he asked with a start. He hadn’t expected such a direct answer.
“There are many powers in the Great Wheel,” the Vanek said. “Mr. Proska possesses quite an unusual one.”
“Yes, but just what is his power?”
The beggar shrugged. “Wheels within wheels, bendreth.
Easly knew right the
n that he would get little more out of the Vanek without some help. The evening breeze had yet to rise so he had to act now. He withdrew a cigar from his pocket and took his time lighting it. By the time the tip was glowing a bright red, he and the beggar were enveloped in a cloud of aromatic smoke. This was the effect Easly had wanted. He had a tiny vial of gas in his hand. He opened the nozzle and let it stream toward the Vanek. The gas worked as a highly effective tongue-loosener on humans but was not entirely odorless and colorless. Thus the improvised smoke screen. He could only hope the Vanek nervous system was still sufficiently humanoid for the gas to work.
It took only a few seconds for the vial to empty and Easly casually slipped it back into his pocket, allowing himself to breath again.
“What is Proska’s power?” he repeated.
“Wheels within wheels, bendreth,” came the standard reply.
Easly cursed and was about to get to his feet when he noticed the beggar begin to sway.
“I am dizzy, bendreth. I fear it is the smoke you make.”
“I’m very sorry,” Easly said with the slightest trace of a smile. A mild dizziness was the drug’s only side effect. He ground the cigar out in the dirt.
“Maybe you didn’t understand my question,” he said carefully. “I want to know what kind of power Mr. Proska possesses.”
“It is a power of the mind,” the Vanek said, putting a finger to his forehead.
Now we’re getting somewhere, Easly thought with mental relish.
It was fully an hour later when Easly returned to his flitter and took to the air. Even with the help of the gas it had been hard work to pull any concrete information out of the beggar. The Vanek think in such a circumspect manner that you almost have to start thinking like them in order to get the answers you want. But Easly had his answers now and he wasn’t even going to stop at his hotel. First stop was the spaceport.
His expression was grim as he flew through the night. The mystery of Joe’s death and Proska’s diabolical talent had been cleared up. He shuddered at the thought of running into Proska now. The little man couldn’t kill with his mind as Easly had originally suspected. No, what Proska could do was much worse.
At the spaceport, Easly dropped the flitter off at the rental area and headed directly for the shuttle desk. He couldn’t afford to wait for a direct route to the sector in which Ragna was located. His immediate concern was to get off Jebinose; he could worry about getting to Ragna later.
On the way to the shuttle area he passed the subspace communication area and thought it might be a good idea to get a message off to Jo . . . just in case something happened to him. He entered one of the large, glass-enclosed booths, closed the door behind him and seated himself at the console. The information computer informed him that it was midday in Calmer City on Ragna. That would mean there was a good chance of catching Jo in her office. Easly put his identifying card in the slot and gave the desired destination of his call. A staggering price flashed on the screen but he pressed the “Accept” button immediately. This would go on the expense account.
Jo was surprised when she learned that she had a subspace call from Larry Easly. He would make such a call only under emergency conditions so he must have something important to say. Yet in all the time she had known him, Easly had never said anything important unless it was face to face. She started to smile as his face appeared on the screen and then remembered that he could neither see nor hear her—subspace calls were strictly one-way affairs.
“Jo?” he said. “I hope that’s you on the other end. The indicator says it is, but I can’t be sure so please excuse the cryptic nature of what I’m about to say. First of all, as to your father’s end, there’s more here than meets the eye. The man you sent me here to investigate may well be involved, but there’s a new factor: a psi talent who . . . who—”
As Easly’s voice faltered, Jo noticed his face go slack. He swayed in front of the screen, seemingly engaged in a battle to keep his balance. Utterly helpless, Jo had to sit and watch in horror as his eyes rolled up into his head and he sank from view.
Picture transmission was not interrupted, however, and Jo anxiously watched the passers-by, hoping one of them would glance in and realize that something was wrong with Easly. One man did stop and look in the glass. He was small, sallow and balding. His hard little eyes seemed to rest on the spot where Easly had fallen, but he registered no surprise, made no move to help.
He merely smiled and turned away.
V
Jo arrived on Jebinose the next day with Old Pete. She would have liked to have confronted deBloise but he was well on his way to Fed Central for a meeting. She made a call, then hired a flittercab to take them to the offices of the company that leased the sub-space phones to the spaceport.
“Aren’t you going to the hospital first?” Old Pete asked.
“Not yet. I just called them and he’s still in a coma.” Larry was in good hands. As soon as Jo had been sure that he would not be getting up off the floor of the call booth, she had placed a call of her own to the local hospital to have Larry placed in an intensive care unit immediately. Every possible thing that could be done for him was to be done and all bills would be paid by the sector account number she gave them.
They arrived at the offices of the booth leasers. A tall, hawkish man greeted them.
“May I help you?”
“Yes,” Jo said. “I’d like to speak to someone about the call booths you lease.”
The hawkish man’s face brightened. “Ah! You wish to lease some?”
“No. I just want some information.”
“Oh,” the man said with sudden sullenness. He handed Jo a brochure. “All the information you need is in here.”
Jo flipped the brochure back in his face. “Listen, you!” she said. “One of my employees, who happens to be in perfect health, went into a coma in one of your booths and whether or not you find yourself up to your ears in a lawsuit depends on the answers I get from you right now!”
The man was suddenly quite agreeable. “You must mean the unfortunate incident last night. I assure you, our booth had nothing to do with that. Every piece of equipment is of the finest quality and everything is insulated and shielded. Why, we even have a psi shield around each and every—”
“Psi shield?” Jo said with heightened interest. “Why a psi shield?”
“Well, as you know, a telepath can’t read a nontelepath . . . unless the nontelepath is speaking; and then he can only read what’s being verbalized, so it’s not very useful. Unless you want to know what is being said in a soundproof booth.”
“Such as one of your call booths,” Jo added with a nod.
“Correct. So we fit each booth with a psi shield which sort of dampens all psi transmissions.”
“In either direction?” Jo asked. The man paused and considered this. “Yes, come to think of it, it acts as a wall and so interference would be met in either direction.”
“Thank you,” Jo said. “That’s all I want to know.” She wheeled and stalked out to the street. A bewildered Peter J. Paxton followed.
“What was that all about?” he asked as they regained their seats in the flittercab.
“Larry mentioned something about a psi talent before he collapsed. I’m just wondering if maybe Larry was supposed to die in that booth but the shield somehow dulled the effect.”
“You mean a psi killer?” Old Pete scoffed. “That’s a fairy tale!”
Jo was pensive. “Wouldn’t all the psi killers in the galaxy like you to think so? I mean, there’s no way you can prove that a man has been killed by a psionic thrust, and surely no one’s going to admit that he has such an ability because there’s only one way he could know about it: murder.”
“I see your point, Jo, but it’s pretty farfetched. It’s clear that Larry stumbled onto something and deBloise tried to silence him. But I doubt that he’s the victim of a psi killer. I wish he were conscious so we knew what deBloise is up to.”
“I already know deBloise’s plan,” Jo said. “I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet.”
“What do you think it is?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you this much: “I made an all-out effort to obtain the Rako II Leason crystals for Fairgood and the hassa rust for Opsal and it paid off. Both contracts have been landed although the operatives took some steep risks to get them.”
“I can see what a natural supply of Leason crystals will do for Fairgood and I congratulate you for helping them get it—they’ll leave the competition behind in no time. But I’m not familiar with this hassa rust.”
“Hassa is a grain that grows on Lentem; it’s commonly afflicted by a peculiar rust that has turned out to be the pharmacological find of the century. Every known kind of bacterium becomes addicted to the hassa rust should enough of it be ingested by the host; and if you remove the rust from the host’s diet, the bacteria die.”
“Even the enterics?”
Jo nodded. “Every single one in the body. The patient is then reinfected with his everyday, nonpathogenic bacteria and sent on his way, cured.”
“But why do you need a contract?” Old Pete asked. “I’m sure some hotshot botanist could grow his own hassa.”
“It’s been done already,” Jo said. “But no one has had the slightest bit of luck in getting the rust to grow. It seems to be highly sensitive . . . and it grows wild on Lentem.”
Old Pete shook his head in wonder. “I’m proud of you, Jo. In two moves you’ve put two IBA accounts into the top of their respective fields.”