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 paneling 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 at his drink.
And in that same instant, their minds touched.
Dave, darling! I knew you’d be early!
Dorrine!
And then their minds meshed for an instant.
I—(we)—you—LOVE—you—(each other)—me!—us!
Houston looked complacently at his drink while the headwaiter led Dorrine to a table on the far side of the room. She sat down gracefully, smiled at the waiter, and ordered a cocktail. Then she took a magazine from her handbag and began—presumably—to read.
Her thought came: Who is this Richard Harris? He’s not one of our Group.
Houston sipped at his drink. No. An unknown, like the others. I wonder if he’s even a telepath.
What? Her thought carried astonishment. Why, Dave—he’d have to be! How else could he have controlled this Sir Lewis—whatsisname—Huntley?
Well—I’ve got a funny idea, Houston replied. Look at it this way: So far as we know, there are two Groups of telepaths. There’s our own Group. All we want is to be left alone. We don’t read a Normal’s mind unless we have to, and we don’t try to control one unless our lives are threatened. We stay under cover, out of everyone’s way.
Then there are the megalomaniacs. They try, presumably, to gain wealth and power by controlling Normals. And they get caught with monotonous regularity. Right?
The girl caught an odd note in that thought. What do you mean, “monotonous regularity”? she asked.
I mean, Houston thought savagely, why is it they’re all so bloody stupid? Look at this Harris guy; he is supposed to have taken over Sir Lewis’s mind in order to get a thousand pounds. So what did he have Sir Lewis do? Parade all around the city to pick up a PD Police net, and then give his address to a cabman in a loud voice and lead the whole net right to Harris! How stupid can a man get?
It does look pretty silly, Dorrine agreed. Have you got an explanation?
Several, Houston told her. And I don’t know which one is correct.
Let’s have them, the girl thought.
Houston gave them to her. None of them, he knew, was completely satisfactory, but they all made more sense that the theory that Harris had done what the PD Police claimed he’d done.
Theory Number One: The real megalomaniac Controller had taken over Sir Lewis’s mind and made him draw out the thousand pounds and head west on Leadenhall Street. Somehow, the Controller had found out that Sir Lewis was being followed, and had steered him