“This is my friend and associate Stanzel,” the man said. An equally elderly woman stepped out of the shadows. She seemed tired but forced herself to stand straight and look determined.
“I don’t want to hurt you, either, boy.” She studied him with unabashed curiosity. “None of us do.”
“So there are still more of you,” Flinx murmured in confusion. “I don’t understand all this. Why do you have to keep persecuting Mother Mastiff and me? And now Pip, too? Why?”
“Everthing will be explained to you,” the woman assured him, “if you’ll just come with us.” She gestured up the alley.
Flinx strode along between them, noting as he did so that neither of them appeared to be armed. That was a good sign but a puzzling one. His stiletto felt cold against his calf. He looked longingly back toward the shop. If only he could have told Mother Mastiff! But, he reminded himself, as long as he returned by bedtime, she wouldn’t worry herself. She was used to his taking off on unannounced explorations.
“Mark me words,” she would declaim repeatedly, “that curiosity of yours will be the death of ye!”
If it didn’t involve striking against Mother Mastiff, though, then what did these people want with him? It was important to them, very important. If not, they wouldn’t have risked an encounter with his deadly pet. Despite their age, he still feared them, if only for the fact that they had apparently managed to capture Pip, a feat beyond the capabilities of most.
But something, an attitude perhaps, marked these people as different from the usual run-of-the-mill marketplace cutthroats. They were different from any people he had ever encountered. Their coolness and indifference combined with their calm professionalism to frighten him.
“They alley opened onto a side street, where an aircar waited. The old man unlocked it and gestured for him to enter. As Flinx started to step into the little cab, he experienced one of those mysterious, unannounced bursts of emotional insight. It was brief, so brief he was unsure he had actually felt it. It wiped out his own fear, leaving him more confused and uncertain than ever.
He might be afraid for Pip and perhaps even a little for himself, but for some unknown reason, these two outwardly relaxed, supremely confident individuals were utterly terrified of him!
Chapter Sixteen
Cruachan studied the readouts carefully. The section of the old warehouse in which they had established them-selves was a poor substitute for the expensively outfitted installation they had laboriously constructed far to the north. He did not dwell on the loss. Years of disappointment had inured him to such setbacks. The machines surrounding him had been hastily assembled and linked together. Wiring was exposed everywhere, further evidence of haste and lack of time to install equipment properly. It would have to do, however.
He was not disappointed. In spite of all their problems, they appeared on the verge of accomplishing what they had intended to do on this world, albeit not in the manner originally planned. It seemed that the presence of the Alaspinian immigrant was going to turn to their ad- vantage. For the first time since they had placed them- selves in orbit around the world, he felt more than merely hopeful. His confidence came from Anders’ and Stanzel’s last report. The subject, accompanying them quietly, seemed reluctantly willing to cooperate, but had thus far displayed no sign of unexpected threatening abilities.
While a potentially lethal act, the taking of the subject’s pet had turned out far more successful than the attempted adjustment of the subject’s adoptive parent. Cruachan now conceded that that had been a mistake. If only their information had included mention of the catalyst creature in the first place! He did not blame the informant, though. It was likely that the minidrag came into the subject’s possession subsequent to the filing of the informant’s report.
He felt like an old tooth, cracked and worn down by overuse and age. But with the semisymbiotic pet now under their control, the subject would have to accede to their wishes. There could no longer be any consideration of at- tempting to influence the boy externally. They would have to implant the electronic synapses intended ‘for his parent in the lad’s own brain. Direct control posed some risks, but as far as Cruachan and his associates could see, they had no other choice. Cruachan was glad the case was nearing conclusion. He was very tired.
It was raining harder than usual for the season when the little aircar pulled up outside the warehouse. Flinx regarded the place with distaste. The section of Drallar out toward the shuttleport was bloated with stark, blocky monuments to bad business and overconsumption, peopled mostly with machines-dark, uninviting, and alien.
He had no thought of changing his mind, of making a break for the nearest side street or half-open doorway. Whoever these people were, they were not ignorant. They had correctly surmised the intensity of his feelings for Pip, which was why they had not bound him and carried no arms.
He still couldn’t figure out what they wanted with him. If they were not lying to him and truly meant him no harm, then of what use could he be to them? If there was .one thing he couldn’t stand, it was unanswered questions. He wanted explanations almost as badly as he wanted to see Pip.
They seemed very sure of themselves. Of course, that no weapons were in evidence did not mean no weapons were around. He could not square their fear of him with the absence of armament. Perhaps, he mused, they were afraid of him because they feared he might reveal what he knew of the kidnaping to the local authorities. Maybe that was what they wanted from. him: a promise to remain silent.
But somehow that didn’t make much sense, either.
“I wish you’d tell me what you want with me,” he said aloud, “and what’s going on.”
“It’s not our place to explain.” The man glanced at his companion and then said, as if unable to suppress his own curiosity, “Have you ever heard of the Meliorate Society?”
Flinx shook his head. “No. I know what the word means, though. What’s it got to do with me?”
“Everything.” He seemed on the verge of saying more, but the old woman shushed him.
The building they entered was surrounded by similarly nondescript edifices. They were off the main shuttleport accessway. Flinx had seen only a few people about from the time they had entered the area. No one was in the dingy hallway.
They rode an elevator to the third floor. His escorts led him through broad, empty corridors, past high-ceilinged storage rooms filled with plasticine crates and drums. Finally, they halted before a small speaker set into the plastic of an unmarked door. Words were exchanged between Flinx’s escort and someone on the other side, and the door opened to admit them.
He found himself in still another room crammed full of bundles and boxes. What set it apart from a dozen similar rooms was the right-hand wall. Stacked against it was an impressive array of electronics. Empty crates nearby hinted at recent and hasty unpacking and setup. The con- soles were powered-up and manned. Their operators spared curious glances for the new arrivals before returning their attention to their equipment. Save for their uniformly grim expressions, they looked like retirees on a holiday outing.
Two people emerged from a door at the rear of the room. They were soon joined by a third-a tall, silver- haired, ruggedly handsome man.’ He carried himself like a born leader, and Flinx concentrated on him immediately. The man smiled down at Flinx. Even though he was close to Mother Mastiff’s age, the man held himself straight. If he was subject to the infirmities of old age, he did a masterful job of concealing them. Vanity or will? Flinx wondered. He sought the man’s emotions and drew the usual blank. Nor could he feel anything of Pip’s presence in the room or nearby.
Even as the tall senior was shaking his hand and mouthing platitudes, Flinx was searching for the most likely escape route. There seemed to be only one exit: the door through which he had entered. He had no idea where the door at the far end of the room led, but suspected that freedom was not one of the possibilities.
“What a great pleasure to finally meet you,
my boy,” the old man was saying. His grip was firm. “We’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to arrive at this meeting. I would rather not have had to proceed in this fashion, but circum- stances conspired to force my hand.”
“It was you, then”-Flinx gestured at the others-“who were responsible for abducting my mother?”
Cruachan relaxed. There was no danger in this skinny, innocent boy. Whatever abilities he might possess remained dormant, awaiting proper instruction and develop- ment. Certainly his attitude was anything but threatening.
“I asked him,” the man who had brought Flinx from the marketplace reported, “if he’d heard of the Society. He said no.”
“No reason for him to,” Cruachan observed. “His life has been restricted, his horizons limited.”
Flinx ignored that appraisal of his limitations. “Where’s Pip?”
“Your pet, I assume? Yes.” The tall man turned and called out toward the rear doorway. The section of wall containing the door creaked as hidden winches pulled it aside. Beyond lay still another of the endless series of storage chambers, packed with the usual containers and drums and crates. On a table in the forefront stood a transparent cube, perhaps a meter square, topped with several small metal tanks. Hoses ran from the tanks into the cube.
To the left of the table stood a nervous-looking old man holding a small, flat control box. His thumb was pressed hard against one of the buttons set in the box. His eyes shifted regularly from the cube to Flinx and back to the cube.
Pip lay in the bottom of the cube, coiled into itself apparently deep in sleep. Flmx took a step forward. Cruachan put out a hand to hold him back.
“Your pet is resting comfortably. The air in the cage has been mixed with a mild soporific. Westhoff is regulating the mixture and flow of gases even as we speak. H you were to try anything foolish, he would increase the flow from the tanks before you could possibly free your pet. You see, the cage has been weld-sealed. There is no latch.
“The adjusted normal atmosphere inside the cube will be completely replaced by the narcoleptic gas, and your pet will be asphyxiated. It would not take long. All West- hoff has to do is press violently on the button his thumb is caressing. If necessary, he will throw his body across it. So you see, there is nothing you could do to prevent him from carrying out his assignment.”
Flinx listened quietly even as he was gauging the distance between himself and the cage. The elderly man holding the control box gazed grimly back at him. Even if be could somehow avoid the hands that would surely reach out to restrain him, he did not see how he could open the cage and free Pip. His stiletto would be useless against the thick pancrylic.
“You’ve made your point,” he said finally. “What do you want from me?”
“Redemption,” Cruachan told him softly.
“I don’t understand.”
“You will eventually, I hope. For now, suffice for you to know that we are interested in your erratic but unarguable abilities: your Talent.”
All Flinx’s preconceived ideas collapsed like sand castles in a typhoon. “You mean you’ve gone through all this, kidnaping Mother Mastiff and now Pip, just because you’re curious about my abilities?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I would have done my best to satisfy you with- out your having to go through all this trouble.”
“It’s not quite that simple. You might say one thing, even believe it, and then your mind might react other- wise.” Crazier and crazier, Flinx thought dazedly. “I don’t
“Just as well,” Cruachan murmured. “You are an emotional telepath, is that not correct?”
“I’m sensitive sometimes to what other people are feeling, if that’s what you mean,” Flinx replied belligerently.
“Nothing else? No precognitive abilities? Telekinesis? True telepathy? Pyrokinesis? Dimensional perceptivity?”
Plinx laughed at him, the sound sharpened by the tension that filled the room. “I don’t even know what those words mean except for telepathy. If by that you mean can I read other people’s minds, no. Only sometimes their feelings. That other stuff, that’s all fantasy, isn’t it?”
“Not entirely,” Cruachan replied softly, “not entirely. “The potentials lie within every human mind, or so we of the Society believe. When awakened, further stimuli, pro- vided through training and other means, can bring such abilities to full life. That was the-“ He paused, his smile returning.
“As I said, someday you will understand everything, I hope. For now, it will be sufficient if you will permit us to run some tests on you. We wish to measure the probable limits of your Talent and test for other possible hidden abilities as yet undeveloped.”
“What kinds of tests?” Flinx regarded the tail man warily.
“Nothing elaborate. Measurements, electroencephalotopography.”
“That sounds elaborate to me.”
“I assure you, there will be no discomfort. If you’ll just come with me ...” He put a fatherly hand on Flinx’s shoulder. Flinx flinched. There should have been a snake there, not an unfamiliar hand.
Cruachan guided him toward the instruments. “I promise you, give us twenty-four hours and you’ll have your pet restored to you unharmed, and you’ll never have to go through this again.”
“I don’t know,” Flinx told him. “I’m still not sure of what you want from me.” It seemed to him that there was an awful lot of instrumentation around for just a few simple tests, and some of it looked almost familiar. Where had he seen that tendriled globe before?
Over a table in a room far to the north, he realized suddenly.
What do I do? he thought frantically. He could not lie down on that table, beneath those waiting tentacles. But if he hesitated, what might they do to Pip out of impatience and anger?
Unexpectedly, as his thoughts were tied in knots and he tried to decide what to do next, a sudden surge of emotion burst into his brain. There was hate and a little fear and a self-righteous anger that bordered on the paranoiac. He looked up at Cruachan. The older man smiled pleasantly down at him, then frowned as he saw the expression that had come over the subject’s face. “Is some- thing wrong?”
Hinx did not reply, methodically searching every face in the room. None of them seemed to be the source of the feelings he was receiving. And they were getting steadily stronger, more intense. They came-they came from- He looked sharply toward the main entrance.
“Nobody move!” snapped a determined voice. The couple who burst through the door, having quietly circum- vented the lock, were complete strangers to Flinx. A middle-aged pair dressed like offworld tourists, each holding a gun bigger than a pistol and longer than a rifle carefully balanced in both hands, they surveyed the startled occupants of the storage chamber.
Flinx did not recognize their weapons. That was un- usual. His learning expeditions through the marketplace had made him familiar with most personal armament. But these were new to him. As new as this couple. They looked unrelentingly average. There was nothing average about the way they moved, however, or gave commands or held those peculiar guns. The Meliorares certainly seemed familiar with them.
“MO Section, Commonwealth Peaceforce,” the man barked. “All of you are under government detention as of this moment.” He grinned crookedly, almost savagely. “The charges against you, the specifics of which I’m sure you’re all quite familiar with, are many and varied. I don’t think I have to go into details.”
Flinx started gratefully toward them. “I don’t know how you people found me, but I’m sure glad to see you.”
“Hold it right there.” The woman shifted her weapon toward him. The expression on her face assured Plinx she was ready to shoot him if he took so much as another half step toward her. He froze, hurt and confused.
There was something new there, partly in her eyes but also in her mind: not so much fear as a kind of twisted hatred, a loathing. The emotion was directed squarely at him. It was so new, so alien and sickening, that he didn’t know how to react. He knew only that hi
s would-be saviors held no more affection for him, and perhaps even less in the way of good intentions) than this insane society of Meliorare people.
His confusion was being replaced by anger, a frantic fury born of frustration and despair, compounded by helplessness and desperation. Through no fault of his own, de- siring only to be left alone, he had become the focal point of forces beyond his control, forces that extended even be- yond his world. And he didn’t know how, couldn’t begin to think how to deal with them.
Through all the confusion came one lucid realization: he wasn’t as grown-up as he had thought.
Near the back room the man named Westhoff had gone unnoticed by the Peaceforcers. He did not linger. Putting aside the control box he commenced a cautious retreat, utilizing crates and containers to make good his escape.
Pressure removed, the button he had been holding down rebounded.
“Over against that empty packing and away from the consoles. All of you,” the woman commanded them, gesturing meaningfully with her gun. Rising from their seats and showing empty hands, the Meliorares hurried to comply with her order.
“Anybody touches a switch,” the other Peaceforcer warned them, “it’ll be the last thing he ever touches.”
The woman threw Flinx a hard look. “Hey, you too. Move it.” Revulsion emanated from her. Disgust and pity washed over Flinx in waves. She was broadcasting them all. Flinx tried to squeeze the degrading emotions out of his mind.
“I’m not with them,” he protested. “I’m not part of this.”
“I’m afraid that you are, boy, whether you like it or not,” she told him. “You’ve caused a lot of trouble. But don’t worry.” She tried to smile. The result was a discomfiting parody. “Everything’s going to be all right. You’re going to be fixed up so you can live a normal life.”