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diff --git a/19963-0.txt b/19963-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0198d51 --- /dev/null +++ b/19963-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1246 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Stop Look and Dig by George O. Smith + + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no +restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under +the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or +online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license + + + +Title: Stop Look and Dig + +Author: George O. Smith + +Release Date: November 29, 2006 [Ebook #19963] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STOP LOOK AND DIG*** + + + + + +Stop Look and Dig + + +by George O. Smith + + + + +Edition 1, (November 29, 2006) + + + + + + +STOP LOOK AND DIG + + +BY GEORGE O. SMITH + +ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH + + + The enlightened days of mental telepathy and ESP should have made + the world a better place, But the minute the Rhine Institute + opened up, all the crooks decided it was time to go collegiate! + + +Someone behind me in the dark was toting a needle-ray. The impression came +through so strong that I could almost read the filed-off serial number of +the thing, but the guy himself I couldn’t dig at all. I stopped to look +back but the only sign of life I could see was the fast flick of taxicab +lights as they crossed an intersection about a half mile back. I stepped +into a doorway so that I could think and stay out of the line of fire at +the same time. + +The impression of the needle-ray did not get any stronger, and that tipped +me off. The bird was following me. He was no peace-loving citizen because +honest men do not cart weapons with the serial numbers filed off. +Therefore the character tailing me was a hot papa with a burner charge +labelled "Steve Hammond" in his needler. + +I concentrated, but the only impression I could get would have specified +ninety-eight men out of a hundred anywhere. He was shorter than my +six-feet-two and lighter than my one-ninety. I could guess that he was +better looking. I’d had my features arranged by a blocked drop kick the +year before the National Football League ruled the Rhine Institute out +because of our use of mentals and perceptives. I gave up trying--I wanted +details and not an overall picture of a hotbird carrying a burner. + +I wondered if I could make a run for it. + +I let my sense of perception dig the street ahead, casing every bump and +irregularity. I passed places where I could zig out to take cover in front +of telephone poles, and other places where I could zag in to take cover +beyond front steps and the like. I let my perception run up the block and +by the time I got to the end of my range, I knew that block just as well +as if I’d made a practise run in the daytime. + +At this point I got a shock. The hot papa was coming up the sidewalk hell +bent for destruction. He was a mental sensitive, and he had been following +my thoughts while my sense of perception made its trial run up the street. +He was running like the devil to catch up with my mind and burn it down +per schedule. It must have come as quite a shock to him when he realized +that while the mind he was reading was running like hell up the street, +the hard old body was standing in the doorway waiting for him. + +I dove out of my hiding place as he came close. I wanted to tackle him +hard and ask some pointed questions. He saw me as I saw him skidding to an +unbalanced stop, and there was the dull glint of metal in his right hand. +His needle-ray came swinging up and I went for my armpit. I found time to +curse my own stupidity for not having hardware in my own fist at the +moment. But then I had my rod in my fist. I felt the hot scorch of the +needle going off just over my shoulder, and then came the godawful racket +of my ancient forty-five. The big slug caught him high in the belly and +tossed him back. It folded him over and dropped him in the gutter while +the echoes of my cannon were still racketing back and forth up and down +the quiet street. + + + +I had just enough time to dig his wallet, pockets, and billfold before the +whole neighborhood was up and out. Sirens howled in the distance and from +above I could hear the thin wail of a jetcopter. Someone opened a window +and called: "What’s going on out there? Cut it out!" + + [Illustration] + +"Tea party," I called back. "Go invite the cops, Tommy." + +The window slammed down again. He didn’t have to invite the law. It +arrived in three ground cruisers and two jetcopter emergency squads that +came closing in like a collapsing balloon. + +The leader of the squadron was a Lieutenant Williamson whom I’d never met +before. But he knew all about me before the ’copter hit the ground. I +could almost feel his sense of perception frisking me from the skin +outward, going through my wallet and inspecting the Private Operator’s +license and my Weapon-Permit. I found out later that Williamson was a +Rhine Scholar with a Bachelor’s Degree in Perception, which put him head +and shoulders over me. He came to the point at once. + +"Any ideas about this, Hammond?" + +I shook my head. "Nope," I replied. He looked at one of his men. + +The other man nodded. "He’s levelling," he said. + +"Now look, Hammond," said the lieutenant pointedly, "You’re clean and we +know it. But hot papas don’t go out for fun. Why was he trying to burn +you?" + +"I wouldn’t know. I’m as blank as any perceptive when it comes to reading +minds. I was hoping to collect him whole enough to ask questions, but he +forced my hand." I looked to where some of the clean-up squad were tucking +the corpse into a basket. "It was one of the few times I’d have happily +swapped my perception for the ability to read a mind." + +The lieutenant nodded unhappily. "Mind telling me why you were wandering +around in this neighborhood? You don’t belong here, you know." + +"I was doing the job that most private eyes do. I was tailing a gent who +was playing games off the reservation." + +"You’ve gone into this guy’s wallet, of course?" + +I nodded. "Sure. He _was_ Peter Rambaugh, age thirty, and----" + +"Don’t bother. I know the rest. I can add only one item that you may not +know. Rampaugh was a paid hotboy, suspected of playing with Scarmann’s +mob." + +"I’ve had no dealings with Scarmann, Lieutenant." + + + +The Lieutenant nodded absently. It seemed to be a habit with him, probably +to cover up his thinking-time. Finally he said, "Hammond, you’re clean. As +soon as I identified you I took a dig of your folder at headquarters. +You’re a bit rough and fast on that prehistoric cannon of yours, but----" + +"You mean you can dig a folder at central files all the way from here?" + +"I did." + +Here was a _real_ esper for you. I’ve got a range of about two blocks for +good, solid, permanent things like buildings and street-car tracks, but +unfamiliar things get foggy at about a half a block. I can dig lethal +machinery coming in my direction for about a block and a half because I’m +a bit sensitive about such things. I looked at Lieutenant Williamson and +said, "With a range like yours, how come there’s any crime in this town at +all?" + +He shook his head slowly. "Crime doesn’t out until it’s committed," he +said. "You’ll remember how fast we got here after you pulled the trigger. +But you’re clean, Hammond. Just come to the inquest and tell all." + +"I can go?" + +"You can go. But just to keep you out of any more trouble, I’ll have one +of the jetcopters drop you off at home. Mind?" + +"Nope. But isn’t that more than the police are used to doing?" + +He eyed me amusedly. "If I were a mental," he said, "I could read your +mind and know that you were forming the notion of calling on Scarmann and +asking him what-for. But since I’m only a mind-blank esper, all I can do +is to fall back on experience and guesswork. Do I make myself clear?" + +Lieutenant Williamson’s guess-work and experience were us good as mental +sensitivity, but I didn’t think it wise to admit that I had been +considering just exactly how to get to Scarmann. I was quickly and firmly +convoyed home in a jetcopter but once I saw them take off I walked out of +the apartment again. + +I had more or less tacitly agreed not to go looking for Scarmann, but I +had not mentioned taking a dig at the apartment of the dear departed, +Peter Rambaugh. + + + +Rambaugh’s place was uptown and the front door was protected by an eight +tumbler cylinder job that would have taxed the best of esper lockpicks. +But there was a service entrance in back that was not locked and I took +it. The elevator was a self-service job, and Rambaugh’s back door was +locked on a snaplatch that a playful kitten could have opened. I dug the +place for a few minutes and found it clean, so I went in and took a more +careful look. + +The desk was not particularly interesting. Just papers and letters and +unpaid bills. The dresser in the bedroom was the same, excepting for the +bottom drawer. That was filled with a fine collection of needle-rays and +stunguns and one big force blaster that could blow a hole in a brick wall. +None of them had their serial numbers intact. + +But behind a reproduction of a Gainsborough painting was a wall safe that +must have been built before Rhine Institute discovered the key to man’s +latent abilities. Inside of this tin can was a collection of photographs +that must have brought Rambaugh a nice sum in the months when the murder +business went slack. I couldn’t quite dig them clear because I didn’t know +any of the people involved, and I didn’t try too hard because there were +some letters and notes that might lead me into the answer to why Rambaugh +was hotburning for me. + +I fiddled with the dial for about fifteen minutes, watching the tumblers +and the little wheels go around. Then it went click and I turned the +handle and opened the door. I was standing there with both hands deep in +Rambaugh’s safe when I heard a noise behind me. + + + +I whirled and slid aside all in one motion and my hand streaked for my +armpit and came out with the forty five. It was a woman and she was +carrying nothing more lethal than the fountain pen in her purse. She +blanched when she saw my forty-five swinging towards her middle, but she +took a deep breath when I halted it in midair. + +"I didn’t mean to startle you," she apologized. + +"Startle, hell!" I blurted. "You scared me out of my shoes." + +I dug her purse. Beside the usual female junk she had a wallet containing +a couple of charge-account plates, a driver’s license, and a hospital +card, all made out to Miss Martha Franklin. Miss Franklin was about +twenty-four, and she was a strawberry blonde with the pale skin and blue +eyes that goes with the hair. I gathered that she didn’t belong there any +more than I did. + +"I don’t, Mr. Hammond," she said. + +So Martha Franklin was a mental sensitive. + +"I am," she told me. "That’s how I came to be here." + +"I’m esper. You’ll have to explain in words of one syllable because I +can’t read you." + +"I was not far away when you cut loose with that field-piece of yours," +she said flatly. "So I read your intention to come here. I’ve been +following you at mental range ever since." + +"Why?" + +"Because there is something in that safe I want very much." + +I looked at her again. She did not look the type to get into awkward +situations. She colored slightly and said, "One indiscretion doesn’t make +a tramp, Mr. Hammond." + +I nodded. "Want it intact or burned?" I asked. + +"Burned, please," she said, smiling weakly at me for my intention. I +smiled back. + +On my way to Rambaugh’s bedroom I dug the rest of the thug’s safe but +there wasn’t anything there that would give me an inkling of why he was +gunning for me. I came back with one of his needle-rays and burned the +contents of the safe to a black char. I stirred up the ashes with the nose +of the needier and then left it in the safe after wiping it clean on my +handkerchief. + +"Thank you, Mr. Hammond," she said quietly. "Maybe I can answer your +question. Rambaugh was probably after you because of me." + +"Huh?" + +"I’ve been paying Rambaugh blackmail for about four years. This morning I +decided to stop it, and looked your name up in the telephone book. +Rambaugh must have read me do it." + +"Ever think of the police?" I suggested. + +"Of course. But that is just as bad as not paying off. You end up all over +the front pages anyway. You know that." + +"There’s a lot of argument on both sides," I supposed. "But let’s finish +this one over a bar. We’re crowding our luck here. In the eyes of the law +we’re just a couple of nasty break-ins." + +"Yes," she said simply. + + + +We left Rambaugh’s apartment together and I handed Martha into my car and +took off. + +It struck me as we were driving that mental sensitivity was a good thing +in spite of its limitations. A woman without mental training might have +every right to object to visiting a bachelor apartment at two o’clock in +the morning. But I had no firm plans for playing up to Martha Franklin; I +really wanted to talk this mess out and get it squared away. This she +could read, so I was saved the almost-impossible task of trying to +convince an attractive woman that I really had no designs upon her +beautiful white body. I was not at all cold to the idea, but Martha did +not seem to be the pushover type. + +"Thank you, Steve," she said. + +"Thanks for nothing," I told her with a short laugh. "Them’s my +sentiments." + +"I like your sentiments. That’s why I’m here, and maybe we can get our +heads together and figure something out." + +I nodded and went back to my driving, feeling pretty good now. + +A man does not dig his own apartment. He expects to find it the way he +left it. He digs in the mailbox on his way towards it, and he may dig in +his refrigerator to see whether he should stop for beer or whatever else, +because these things save steps. But nobody really expects to find trouble +in his own home, especially when he is coming in at three o’clock in the +morning with a good looking woman. + +They were smart enough to come with nothing deadly in their hands. So I +had no warning until they stepped out from either side of my front door +and lifted me into my living room by the elbows. They hurled me into an +easy chair with a crash. When I stopped bouncing, one of the gorillas was +standing in front of me, about as tall as Washington Monument as seen from +the sidewalk in front. He was looking at my forty-five with careful +curiosity. + +"What gives?" I demanded. + +The crumb in front of me leaned down and gave me a back-and-forth that +yanked my head around. I didn’t say anything, but I thought how I’d like +to meet the buzzard in a dark alley with my gun in my fist. + +Martha said, "They’re friends of Rambaugh, Steve. And they’re a little +afraid of that prehistoric cannon you carry." + +The bird in front of Martha gave her a one-two across the face. That was +enough for me. I came up out of my chair, lifting my fist from the floor +and putting my back and thigh muscles behind it. It should have taken his +head off, but all he did was grunt, stagger back, dig his heels in, and +then come back at me with his head down. I chopped at the bridge of his +nose but missed and almost broke my hand on his hard skull. Then the other +guy came charging in and I flung out a side-chop with my other hand and +caught him on the wrist. + +But Rhine training can’t do away with the old fact that two big tough men +can wipe the floor with one big tough man. I didn’t even take long enough +to muss up my furniture. + +I had the satisfaction of mashing a nose and cracking my hand against a +skull again before the lights went out. When I came back from Mars, I was +sitting on a kitchen chair facing a corner. My wrists and ankles were +taped to the arms and legs of the chair. + +I dug around. They had Martha taped to another chair in the opposite +corner, and the two gorillas were standing in the middle of the room, +obviously trying to think. + +So was I. There was something that smelled about this mess. Peter Rambaugh +was a mental, and he should have been sensitive enough to keep his take +low enough so that it wouldn’t drive Martha into thinking up ways and +means of getting rid of him. Even so, he shouldn’t have been gunning for +me, unless there was a lot more to this than I could dig. + +"What gives?" I asked sourly. + + + +There was no answer. The thug with my forty-five took out the clip and +removed a couple of slugs. + +He went into the kitchen and found my pliers and came back teasing one of +the slugs out of its casing. The other bird lit a cigarette. + +The bird with the cartridge poured the powder from the shell into the palm +of my hand. I knew what was coming but I couldn’t wiggle my fingers much, +let alone turn my hand over to dump out the stuff. The other guy planted +the end of the cigarette between my middle fingers and I had to squeeze +hard to keep the hot end up. My fingers began to ache almost immediately, +and I was beginning to imagine the flash of flame and the fierce wave of +pain that would strike when my tired hand lost its pep and let the +cigarette fall into that little mound of powder. + +"Stop it," said Martha. "Stop it!" + +"What do they want?" I gritted. + +"They won’t think it," she cried. + +The bright red on the end of the cigarette grayed with ash and I began to +wonder how long it would be before a fleck of hot ash would fall. How long +it would take for the ash to grow long and top-heavy and then to fall into +the powder. And whether or not the ash would be hot enough to touch it +off. I struggled to keep my hands steady, but they were trembling. I felt +the cigarette slip a bit and clamped down tight again with my aching +fingers. + +Martha pleaded again: "Stop it! Let us know what you want and we’ll do +it." + +"Anything," I promised rashly. + + + +Even if I managed to hold that deadly fuse tight, it would eventually burn +down to the bitter end. Then there would be a flash, and I’d probably +never hold my hand around a gun butt again. I’d have to go looking for +this pair of lice with my gun in my left. If they didn’t try the same +trick on my other hand. I tried to shut my mind on that notion but it was +no use. It slipped. But the chances were that this pair of close-mouthed +hotboys had considered that idea before. + +"Can you dig ’em Martha?" + +"Yes, but not deep enough. They’re both concentrating on that cigarette +and making mental bets when it will--" + + + +Her voice trailed off. A wisp of ash had dropped and my mental howl must +have been loud enough to scorch their minds. It was enough to stop Martha, +at any rate. But the wisp of ash was cold and nothing happened except my +spine got coldly wet and sweat ran down my face and into my mouth. The +palm of my hand was sweating too, but not enough to wet the little pile of +powder. + +"Look," I said in a voice that sounded like a nutmeg grater, "Rambaugh was +a louse and he tried to kill me first. If it’s revenge you want--why not +let’s talk it over?" + +"They don’t care what you did to Rambaugh," said Martha. + +"They didn’t come here to practice torture," I snapped. "They want +something big. And the only guy I know mixed up with Peter Rambaugh is +Scarmann, himself." + +"Scarmann?" blurted Martha. + +Scarmann was a big shot who lived in a palace about as lush as the Taj +Mahal, in the middle of a fenced-in property big enough to keep him out of +the mental range of most peepers. Scarmann was about as big a louse as +they came but nobody could put a finger on him because he managed to keep +himself as clean as a raygunned needle. I was expecting a clip on the +skull for thinking the things I was thinking about Scarmann, but it did +not come. These guys were used to having people think violence at their +boss. I thought a little harder. Maybe if I made ’em mad enough one of +them would belt me on the noggin and put me out, and then I’d be cold when +that cigarette fell into the gunpowder and ruined my hand. + +I made myself a firm, solid promise that if, as, and when I got out of +this fix I would find Scarmann, shove the nose of my automatic down his +throat through his front teeth and empty the clip out through the top of +his head. + +Then the hotboy behind me lifted the cigarette from my fingers very gently +and squibbed it out in the ashtray, and I got the pitch. + + + +This is the way it is done in these enlightened days. Rhine Institute and +the special talents that Rhine developed should and could have made the +world a better, brighter place to live in. But I’ve heard it said and had +it proved that the minute someone comes up with something good, there are +a lot of buzzards who turn it bad and make it a foul, rotten medium for +their lousy way of life. + +No, in these days of mental telepathy and extra sensory perception, crumbs +do not erase other crumbs. They just grab some citizen and put him in a +box until he is ready to do their dirty work for them. + +Guilt? That would be mine. A crime is a crime and the guy who does it is a +criminal, no matter how he justifies his act of violence. + +The truth? Any court mentalist who waded through that pair of unwashed +minds would find no evidence of any open deal with Steve Hammond. Sure, he +would find violence there, but the Court is more than well aware of the +fact that thinking of an act of violence is not illegal. This Rhine +training has been too recent to get the human race trained into the +niceties of polite mental behavior. Sure, they’d get a few months or maybe +a few years for breaking and entering as well as assault, but after all, +they were friends of Rambaugh and this might well be a matter of +retaliation, even though they thought Rambaugh was an incompetent bungler. + +So if Steve Hammond believed that he could go free with a whole hand by +planning to rub out a man named Scarmann, that would be Steve Hammond’s +crime, not theirs. + +They didn’t take any chances, even though I knew that they could read my +mind well enough to know that I would go through with their nasty little +scheme. They hustled Martha into the kitchen, chair and all, and one of +them stood there with my paring knife touching her soft throat enough to +indent the skin but not enough to draw blood. The other rat untaped me and +stood me on my feet. + +I hurt all over from the pasting I’d taken, so I took a boiling shower and +dressed leisurely. The guy handed me my forty-five, all loaded, as I came +out of the bathroom. The other bird hadn’t moved a muscle out in the +kitchen. His knife was still pressing against Martha’s throat. He was +still standing pat when I passed out of esper range on the street below. + + + +In pre-Rhine days, a citizen in my pinch would holler for the cops because +he couldn’t be sure that the crooks would keep their end of the bargain. +But Rhine training has produced a real "Honor Among Thieves" so that +organized crime can run as fast as organized justice. If I kept my end and +they didn’t keep theirs, the word would get around from their own dirty +minds that they couldn’t keep a bargain. Well, I was going to keep mine +for the same reason, even though I am not a thief. + +That’s the way it’s done these days. You get a good esper like me to knock +off a sharp mental operator like Scarmann. + +The trouble was that I didn’t really want Scarmann, I wanted that pair of +mental sadists up in my apartment who were holding a knife against +Martha’s throat. I wanted them, and I wanted Martha Franklin’s skin to be +happily whole. And if I crossed them now, the only guys that wouldn’t play +ball with me in the future would be the crooks. Them I could do without. + +So if they figured that an esper could take a mental like Scarmann, why +couldn’t an esper take the pair of them? + +All I had to do was to think of something else until I could get my hands +on their throats. Sure, they’d follow my mind as soon as they felt my +mental waves within range, but if I could really find something +interesting enough to occupy my attention--and maybe theirs as well--they +could not identify me. + +So I went back into the lobby of my apartment and dug into the mailbox of +another party, thus identifying myself as the man in three eight four. +Then I punched the elevator button for the Fourth and leaned back against +the elevator and let my mind wander up through the apartments above. + + + +I violated all the laws against Esping Toms as the elevator oozed upwards. +Eventually my sense of perception wandered through my own apartment and I +located her lying on the bed, fully dressed. She’d probably been freed +lest some esper cop get to wondering why there was a woman taped to a +chair in a bachelor’s kitchen. I shut my mind like a clam, but I couldn’t +withdraw my perception too fast. I let it ooze back there like the eyes of +a lecherous old man at a burleycue. + +I left the elevator at the Fourth and walked up the stairs by reflex, +while my mind was positively radiating waves of vulgarity. + +My mind managed to identify her as "The girl on the bed" without thinking +any name. She was a good looking strawberry blonde with a slender waist +and a high bosom and long, slender legs. She was wearing a pair of Dornier +shoes with three inch heels that did things to her ankles. Her nylons were +size eight and one half, medium length, in that dark shade that always +gives me ideas. Her dress was a simple thing that did not have a store +label on it, and so I dug the stitches for a bit and decided that it had +been hand made. Someone was a fine dress-maker because it fitted her +slender body perfectly. Her petticoat was store type. It was simple and +fitted, too, but it had a label from Forresters in the hem. Her bra was a +Graceform, size thirty two, medium cup, but the girl on the bed did not +have much need for molding, shaping, uplifting, padding or pretense. She +was all her and she filled it right to the brim. I let my perception +dawdle on the slender ankles, the lissome waist, and the rounded hips. + +My door key came out by habit-reflex and entered the keyhole while my +sense of perception let them have one last vicarious thrill. The girl on +the bed was an honest allover strawberry blonde. She.... + + + +Then the door swung open and hell went out for breakfast. + +My forty-five bellowed at the light as I slid in and sloped to one side. +The room went dark as I dropped to the floor in front of my bookcase. From +across the room a hitburner seared the door and slashed sidewise, cutting +a smoking swathe across my encyclopedia from A-AUD to CAN-DAN and then +came down as I squirmed aside. It took King Lear right out of Shakespeare +before the beam winked out. It went off just in time to keep me from +sporting a cooked stripe down my face. + +I triggered the automatic again to make a flash in their faces while I dug +the room to locate them in the dark. The needle beam flared out again and +drilled a hole in the bookcase behind me. The other guy made a slashing +motion with his beam to pin me down, but he made a mistake by standing up +to do it. + +I put a slug in his middle that slammed him back against the wall. He hung +there for a moment before he fell to the floor with a dull, limp sound. +His needle beam slashed upward and burned the ceiling before his hand went +limp and let the weapon drop. + +I whirled to dig the other guy in the room just as the throb of a stun-gun +beam moaned over my head. I wondered where they’d got the arsenal, dug the +serial number, and realized that it was mine. It gave me a chuckle. I’m a +pistol man, so the stun-gun that old gorilla-man was toting couldn’t have +had more than one more charge. I tried to dig it but couldn’t. Even a +Doctor Of Perception can’t really dig the number of kilo-watt-seconds in a +meson chamber. + +My accurate esping must have made the other guy desperate, because he made +a dive and let his needle ray burn out a slashing beam that zipped across +over my head. My forty-five blazed twice. He missed but I didn’t, just as +the throb of the stun-gun rang the air again. I whirled to face my +stun-gun coming out of the bedroom door in front of Martha Franklin. + + + +The slug intended for Martha’s body never came out of my gun because her +stun-gun got to me first. It froze me like a hunk of Greek statuary and I +went forward and toppled over until I came on a three-point landing of +elbow, the opposite knee, and the side of my face. + +I was as good as dead. + +My brain was still functioning but nothing else was. I was completely +paralyzed. My heart had stopped breathing and my lungs had stopped +breathing, and I’ve been told that a healthy man can retain consciousness +for maybe a minute or so without a fresh supply of blood to the brain. +Then things get muddy black and you’ve had it for good. My esp was still +functioning, but that would black out with the rest of Steve Hammond. + +There was no physical pain. They could have drilled me with a blunt +two-by-four and I’d not have felt it. + +Then because I couldn’t stare Death in the face, I shut my mind on the +fact and esped my late girl friend. She was standing there with my +stun-gun in her hand with a smile on her beautiful puss and that vibrant +body swaying gently. I wanted to vomit and I would have if I’d not been +frozen solid. That beautiful body presided over by that vicious brain made +me sick. + +Her smile faded as I began to realize the truth. Her story was thin. +Rambaugh, a mental, would have been able to play his blackmail game to the +fine degree; he would have known when Martha’s patience was about to grow +short--if Martha’s story were true. No blackmailer pushed his victim to +the breaking point. And Rambaugh wouldn’t have gone for me if this had +just been a plain case of blackmail. + +No, by thinking deeply, Martha Franklin had engineered the death of +Rambaugh and she’d almost engineered the rubbing-out of Scarmann. A +mental, Martha Franklin. A high-grade mental, capable of controlling her +thoughts so that her cohorts could be led by the mind into doing her dirty +work. + +My mind chuckled. I’d be gone before they caught up with Martha, but +they’d catch up all right. She’d leave the apartment positively radiating +her act of violence and then the cops would have a catch. And you should +see how a set of Court Mentalists go to work on a guilty party these days. +Once they get the guy that pulled the trigger on the witness stand, in +front of a jury consisting of mixed mentals and espers, with no holds +barred, the court record gets a full load of the killer’s life, +adventures, habits, and attitude; just before the guilty party heads for +the readjustment chamber. + + + +Things were growing blacker. Waves of darkness clouded my mind and I found +it hard to think straight. My esper sense faded first and as it faded I +let it run once more over Martha’s attractiveness and found my darkening +mind wishing that she were the girl I’d believed her to be instead of the +female louse she was. It could have been fun. + +But now I was about to black out from stun-gun paralysis, and Martha was +headed for the readjustment chamber where they’d reduce her mental +activity to the level of a menial, sterilize her, and put her to work in +an occupation that no man or woman with a spark of intelligence, ambition, +or good sense would take. + +She would live and die a half-robot, alone and ignored, her attractiveness +lost because of her own lack-luster mind. + +And I’d been willing to go out and plug Scarmann for her. + +Hah! + +And then she was at my side. I perceived her dimly, inconstantly, through +the waves of blackness and unreality that were like the half-dreams that +we have when lying a-doze. She levered my frozen body over on its hard +back and went to work on my chest. Her arms went around me and she +squeezed. Air whooshed into my dead lungs, and then she was beating my +breastbone black and blue with her small fists. Beat. Beat-beat. Beat. I +couldn’t feel a thing but I could dig the fact that she was hurting her +hands as she beat on my chest in a rhythm that matched the beat of her own +heart. + +I dug her own heartbeat for her, and she read my mind and matched the beat +perfectly. + +Then I felt a thump inside of me and dug my own heart. It throbbed once, +sluggishly. It struggled, slowly. Then it throbbed to the beat of her +hands and the blackening waves went away. My frozen body relaxed and I +came down to rest on the floor like a melting lump of sugar. + +Martha dropped on top of my body and pressed me down. Her arms were around +my chest as she forced air into my lungs. She beat my ribs sore when my +heart faltered, and squeezed me when my breathing slowed. I felt the life +coming back into me; it came in like the tide, with a fringe of +needles-and-pins that flowed inward from fingers and toes and scalp. + +Martha pressed me down on the carpet and kissed me, full, open mouthed, +passionate. It stirred my blood and my mind and I took a deep, shuddering +breath. + +I looked up into her soft blue eyes and said, "Thanks--slut!" + +She kissed me again, pressing me down and writhing against me and +obviously getting a kick out of my reaction. + +Then I came alive and threw her off with no warning. I sat up, and swung a +roundhouse right that clipped her on the jaw and sent her rolling over and +over. Her eyes glazed for a moment but she came out of it and looked +pained and miserable. + +"You promised," she said huskily. + +"Promised?" + +"To kill Scarmann." + +"Yeah?" + +"You thought how you’d kill Scarmann for me, Steve." + +"Someday," I said flatly, "I may kill Scarmann, but it won’t be for you!" + +She tried to claw me but I clipped her again and this time I made it +stick. She went out cold and she was still out like a frozen herring by +the time Lieutenant Williamson arrived with his jetcopter squad to take +her away. + +The last time I saw Martha Franklin, she was still trying to convince +twelve Rhine Scholars and True that any woman with a body as beautiful as +hers couldn’t possibly have committed any crime. She was good at it, but +not that good. + +Funny. Mental sensitives always think they’re so damn superior to anyone +else. + + + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STOP LOOK AND DIG*** + + + +CREDITS + + +November 29, 2006 + + Project Gutenberg Edition + Greg Weeks + Joshua Hutchinson + Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + +A WORD FROM PROJECT GUTENBERG + + +This file should be named 19963-0.txt or 19963-0.zip. + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + + + http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/9/9/6/19963/ + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one — the old editions will be +renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one +owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and +you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission +and without paying copyright royalties. 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