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diff --git a/25166-h/25166-h.htm b/25166-h/25166-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7e871a5 --- /dev/null +++ b/25166-h/25166-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1754 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of What The Left Hand Was Doing, by Darrell T. Langart. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + a {text-decoration:none; color:blue;} + a:visited {color:gray;} + body {margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%;} + h1,h2,h3 {text-align: center; clear: both;} + h2+p {text-indent:0;} + h3 {margin:0 auto 0 auto;} + hr {width:65%; margin:2em auto 2em auto; clear:both; text-align:center;} + hr.full {width: 100%;} + hr.minor {width: 45%; margin:1em auto 1em auto; clear:both;} + p {margin-top:.75em; text-align:justify; margin-bottom:.75em; text-indent:1.5em;} + .b {font-weight:bold;} + .bbox {border:solid 1px; padding:1em; margin:2em 10% 2em 10%;} + .blockquot{margin-left:15%; margin-right:20%;} + .c {text-align:center;} + .caption {font-weight:bold; font-size:75%;} + .figcenter {margin:auto; text-align:center;} + .figright {float:right; clear:right; margin:1em 0 1em 1em; padding:0; text-align:center;} + .i {font-style:italic;} + .mt2 {margin-top:2em;} + .pagenum {position:absolute; left:95%; font-style:normal; font-size:smaller; text-align:right; text-indent:0;} + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align:left;} + .poem br {display:none;} + .poem .stanza {margin:1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display:block; margin-left:0em; padding-left:3em; text-indent:-3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display:block; margin-left:2em; padding-left:3em; text-indent:-3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display:block; margin-left:4em; padding-left:3em; text-indent:-3em;} + .sf50 {font-size:50%;} + .sf75 {font-size:75%;} + .u {text-decoration:underline;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's What The Left Hand Was Doing, by Gordon Randall Garrett + +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 www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: What The Left Hand Was Doing + +Author: Gordon Randall Garrett + +Release Date: April 25, 2008 [EBook #25166] +Last updated: January 31, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHAT THE LEFT HAND WAS DOING *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, LN Yaddanapudi and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 598px;"> +<img src="images/img-title.png" width="598" height="416" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></p> + +<h1>WHAT THE LEFT HAND … WAS DOING<br /> + +<span class='sf75'>By DARRELL T. LANGART</span><br /> + +<span class='sf50'>Illustrated by Freas</span></h1> + +<div class="blockquot i" style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:2em;'> +There is no lie so totally convincing as something the other fellow +already knows-for-sure is the truth. And no cover-story so +convincing…</div> + +<p>The building itself was unprepossessive enough. It was an old-fashioned, +six-floor, brick structure that had, over the years, served first as a +private home, then as an apartment building, and finally as the +headquarters for the organization it presently housed.</p> + +<p>It stood among others of its kind in a lower-middle-class district of +Arlington, Virginia, within howitzer range of the capitol of the United +States, and even closer to the Pentagon. The main door was five steps up +from the sidewalk, and the steps were flanked by curving balustrades of +ornamental ironwork. The entrance itself was closed by a double door +with glass panes, beyond which could be seen a small foyer. On both +doors, an identical message was blocked out in neat gold letters: <i>The +Society For Mystical and Metaphysical Research, Inc.</i></p> + +<p>It is possible that no more nearly perfect cover, no more misleading +front for a secret organization ever existed in the history of man. It +possessed two qualities which most other cover-up titles do not have. +One, it was so obviously crackpot that no one paid any attention to it +except crackpots, and, two, it was perfectly, literally true.</p> + +<p>Spencer Candron had seen the building so often that the functional +beauty of the whole setup no longer impressed him as it had several +years before. Just as a professional actor is not impressed by being +allowed backstage, or as a multimillionaire considers expensive luxuries +as commonplace, so Spencer Candron thought of nothing more than his own +personal work as he climbed the five steps and pushed open the +glass-paned doors.</p> + +<p>Perhaps, too, his matter-of-fact attitude was caused partially by the +analogical resemblance between himself and the organization. Physically, +Candron, too, was unprepossessing. He was a shade less than five eight, +and his weight fluctuated between a hundred and forty and a hundred and +forty-five, depending on the season and his state of mind. His face +consisted of a well-formed snub nose, a pair of introspective gray eyes, +a rather wide, thin-lipped mouth that tended to smile even when relaxed, +a high, smooth forehead, and a firm cleft chin, plus the rest of the +normal equipment that normally goes to make up a face. The skin was +slightly tanned, but it was the tan of a man who goes to the beach on +summer weekends, not that of an outdoorsman. His hands were strong and +wide and rather large; the palms were uncalloused and the fingernails +were clean and neatly trimmed. His hair was straight and light brown, +with a pronounced widow's peak, and he wore it combed back and rather +long to conceal the fact that a thin spot had appeared on the top rear +of his scalp. His clothing was conservative and a little out of style, +having been bought in 1981, and thus three years past being up-to-date.</p> + +<p>Physically, then, Spencer Candron, was a fine analog of the Society. He +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> +looked unimportant. On the outside, he was just another average man +whom no one would bother to look twice at.</p> + +<p>The analogy between himself and the S.M.M.R. was completed by the fact +that his interior resources were vastly greater than anything that +showed on the outside.</p> + +<p>The doors swung shut behind him, and he walked into the foyer, then +turned left into the receptionist's office. The woman behind the desk +smiled her eager smile and said, “Good morning, Mr. Candron!"</p> + +<p>Candron smiled back. He liked the woman, in spite of her semifanatic +overeagerness, which made her every declarative sentence seem to end +with an exclamation point.</p> + +<p>“Morning, Mrs. Jesser,” he said, pausing at the desk for a +moment. “How have things been?”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jesser was a stout matron in her early forties who would have been +perfectly happy to work for the Society for nothing, as a hobby. That +she was paid a reasonable salary made her job almost heaven for her.</p> + +<p>“Oh, just <i>fine</i>, Mr. Candron!” she said. “Just +<i>fine</i>!” Then her voice lowered, and her face took on a serious, +half conspiratorial expression. “Do you know what?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Candron, imitating her manner. “What?”</p> + +<p>“We have a gentleman … he came in yesterday … a +<i>very</i> nice man … and very intelligent, too. And, you know +what?”</p> + +<p>Candron shook his head. “No,” he repeated. “What?”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jesser's face took on the self-pleased look of one who has +important inside knowledge to impart. “He has actual photographs … +three-D, full-color <i>pho</i>tographs … of the con<i>trol</i> room of a flying +saucer! And one of the Saucerites, too!"</p> + +<p>“Really?” Candron's expression was that of a man who was +both impressed and interested. “What did Mr. Balfour say?”</p> + +<p>“Well—” Mrs. Jesser looked rather miffed. “I +don't really <i>know</i>! But the gentleman is supposed to be back +to<i>mor</i>row! With some <i>more</i> pictures!”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Candron. “Well. That's really fine. I +hope he has something. Is Mr. Taggert in?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, Mr. Candron! He said you should go on up!” She +waved a plump hand toward the stairway. It made Mrs. Jesser happy to +think that she was the sole controller of the only way, except for the +fire escape, that anyone could get to the upper floors of the building. +And as long as she thought that, among other things, she was useful to +the Society. Someone had to handle the crackpots and lunatic-fringe +fanatics that came to the Society, and one of their own kind could do +the job better than anyone else. As long as Mrs. Jesser and Mr. Balfour +were on duty, the Society's camouflage would remain intact.</p> + +<p>Spencer Candron gave Mrs. Jesser a friendly gesture with one hand and +then headed up the stairs. He would rather not have bothered to take the +stairway all the way up to the fifth floor, but Mrs. Jesser had sharp +ears, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> +and she might wonder why his foot-steps were not heard all the way up. +Nothing—but <i>nothing</i>—must ever be done to make Mrs. Jesser +wonder about anything that went on here.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>The door to Brian Taggert's office was open when Candron finally reached +the fifth floor. Taggert, of course, was not only expecting him, but had +long been aware of his approach.</p> + +<p>Candron went in, closed the door, and said, “Hi, Brian,” to +the dark-haired, dark-eyed, hawk-nosed man who was sprawled on the couch +that stood against one corner of the room. There was a desk at the other +rear corner, but Brian Taggert wasn't a desk man. He looked like a +heavy-weight boxer, but he preferred relaxation to exercise.</p> + +<p>But he did take his feet from the couch and lift himself to a sitting +position as Candron entered. And, at the same time, the one resemblance +between Taggert and Candron manifested itself—a warm, truly human +smile.</p> + +<p>“Spence,” he said warmly, “you look as though you were +bored. Want a job?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Candron, “but I'll take it. Who do I +kill?”</p> + +<p>“Nobody, unless you absolutely have to,” said Taggert.</p> + +<p>Spencer Candron understood. The one thing that characterized the real +members of The Society for Mystical and Metaphysical Research—not +the "front” members, like Balfour and Mrs. Jesser, not the +hundreds of "honorable” members who constituted the crackpot +portion of the membership, but the real core of the group—the +thing that characterized them could be summed up in one word: +<i>understanding</i>. Without that one essential property, no human mind can +be completely free. Unless a human mind is capable of understanding the +only forces that can be pitted against it—the forces of other +human minds—that mind cannot avail itself of the power that lies +within it.</p> + +<p>Of course, it is elementary that such understanding must also apply to +oneself. Understanding of self must come before understanding of others. +<i>Total</i> understanding is not necessary—indeed, utter totality is +very likely impossible to any human mind. But the greater the +understanding, the freer the mind, and, at a point which might be called +the “critical point,” certain abilities inherent in the +individual human mind become controllable. A change, not only in +quantity, but in quality, occurs.</p> + +<p>A cube of ice in a glass of water at zero degrees Celsius exhibits +certain properties and performs certain actions at its surface. Some of +the molecules drift away, to become one with the liquid. Other molecules +from the liquid become attached to the crystalline ice. But, the ice +cube remains essentially an entity. Over a period of time, it may change +slowly, since dissolution takes place faster than crystallization at the +corners of the cube. Eventually, the cube will become a sphere, or +something very closely approximating it. But the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> +change is slow, and, once it reaches that state, the situation becomes +static.</p> + +<p>But, if you add heat, more and more and more, the ice cube will change, +not only its shape, but its state. What it was previously capable of +doing only slightly and impermanently, it can now do completely. The +critical point has been passed.</p> + +<p>Roughly—for the analog itself is rough—the same things +occurs in the human mind. The psionic abilities of the human mind are, +to a greater or lesser degree, there to begin with, just as an ice cube +has the <i>ability</i> to melt if the proper conditions are met with.</p> + +<p>The analogy hardly extends beyond that. Unlike an ice cube, the human +mind is capable of changing the forces outside it—as if the ice +could seek out its own heat in order to melt. And, too, human minds vary +in their inherent ability to absorb understanding. Some do so easily, +others do so only in spotty areas, still others cannot reach the +critical point before they break. And still others can never really +understand at all.</p> + +<p>No one who had not reached his own critical point could become a +“core” member of the S.M.M.R. It was not snobbery on their +part; they understood other human beings too well to be snobbish. It was +more as though a Society for Expert Mountain Climbers met each year on +the peak of Mount Everest—anyone who can get up there to attend +the meeting is automatically a member.</p> + +<p>Spencer Candron sat down in a nearby chair. “All right, so I +refrain from doing any more damage than I have to. What's the +objective?”</p> + +<p>Taggert put his palms on his muscular thighs and leaned forward. +“James Ch’ien is still alive.”</p> + +<p>Candron had not been expecting the statement, but he felt no surprise. +His mind merely adjusted to the new data. “He’s still in +China, then,” he said. It was not a question, but a statement of a +deduction. “The whole thing was a phony. The death, the body, the +funeral. What about the executions?”</p> + +<p>“They were real,” Taggert said. “Here’s what +happened as closely as we can tell:</p> + +<p>“Dr. Ch’ien was kidnaped on July 10th, the second day of the +conference in Peiping, at some time between two and three in the +morning. He was replaced by a double, whose name we don’t know. +It’s unimportant, anyway. The double was as perfect as the Chinese +surgeons could make him. He was probably not aware that he was slated to +die; it is more likely that he was hypnotized and misled. At any rate, +he took Ch’ien’s place on the rostrum to speak that +afternoon.</p> + +<p>“The man who shot him, and the man who threw the flame bomb, were +probably as equally deluded as to what they were doing as the double +was. They did a perfect job, though. The impersonator was dead, and his +skin was charred and blistered clear up to the chest—no +fingerprints.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> +“The men were tried, convicted, and executed. The Chinese +government sent us abject apologies. The double’s body was shipped +back to the United States with full honors, but by the time it reached +here, the eye-cone patterns had deteriorated to the point where they +couldn’t be identified any more than the fingerprints could. And +there were half a hundred reputable scientists of a dozen friendly +nations who were eye-witnesses to the killing and who are all absolutely +certain that it was James Ch’ien who died.”</p> + +<p>Candron nodded. “So, while the whole world was mourning the fact +that one of Earth’s greatest physicists has died, he was being +held captive in the most secret and secure prison that the Red Chinese +government could put him in.”</p> + +<p>Taggert nodded. “And your job will be to get him out,” he +said softly.</p> + +<p>Candron said nothing for a moment, as he thought the problem out. +Taggert said nothing to interrupt him.</p> + +<p>Neither of them worried about being overheard or spied upon. Besides +being equipped with hush devices and blanketing equipment, the building +was guarded by Reeves and Donahue, whose combined senses of perception +could pick up any activity for miles around which might be inimical to +the Society.</p> + +<p>“How much backing do we get from the Federal Government?” +Candron asked at last.</p> + +<p>“We can swing the cover-up afterwards all the way,” Taggert +told him firmly. “We can arrange transportation back. That is, the +Federal Government can. But getting over there and getting Ch’ien +out of durance vile is strictly up to the Society. Senator Kerotski and +Secretary Gonzales are giving us every opportunity they can, but +there’s no use approaching the President until after we’ve +proven our case.”</p> + +<p>Candron gestured his understanding. The President of the United States +was a shrewd, able, just, and ethical human being—but he was not +yet a member of the Society, and perhaps would never be. As a +consequence it was still impossible to convince him that the S.M.M.R. +knew what it was talking about—and that applied to nearly ninety +per cent of the Federal and State officials of the nation.</p> + +<p>Only a very few knew that the Society was an <i>ex officio</i> branch of the +government itself. Not until the rescue of James Ch’ien was an +accomplished fact, not until there was physical, logical proof that the +man was still alive would the government take official action.</p> + +<p>“What’s the outline?” Candron wanted to know.</p> + +<p>Taggert outlined the proposed course of action rapidly. When he was +finished, Spencer Candron simply said, “All right. I can take care +of my end of it.” He stood up. “I’ll see you, +Brian.”</p> + +<p>Brian Taggert lay back down on the couch, propped up his feet, and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> +winked at Candron. “Watch and check, Spence.”</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/img-15a.png" width="600" height="264" alt="" title="" /></div> + +<p>Candron went back down the stairs. Mrs. Jesser smiled up at him as he +entered the reception room. “Well! That didn’t take long! +Are you leaving, Mr. Candron?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said, glancing at the wall clock. “Grab and +run, you know. I’ll see you soon, Mrs. Jesser. Be an angel.”</p> + +<p>He went out the door again and headed down the street. Mrs. Jesser had +been right; it hadn’t taken him long. He’d been in +Taggert’s office a little over one minute, and less than half a +dozen actual words had been spoken. The rest of the conversation had +been on a subtler level, one which was almost completely nonverbal. Not +that Spencer Candron was a telepath; if he had been, it wouldn’t +have been necessary for him to come to the headquarters building. +Candron’s talents simply didn’t lie along that line. His +ability to probe the minds of normal human beings was spotty and +unreliable at best. But when two human beings understand each other at +the level that existed between members of the Society, there is no need +for longwinded discourses.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/img-15b.png" width="300" height="441" alt="" title="" /></div> + +<p>The big stratoliner slowed rapidly as it approached the Peiping +People’s Airfield. The pilot, a big-boned Britisher who had two +jobs to do at once, watched the airspeed indicator. As the needle +dropped, he came in on a conventional landing lane, aiming <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> +for the huge field below. Then, as the needle reached a certain point, +just above the landing minimum, he closed his eyes for a fraction of a +second and thought, with all the mental power at his command: <i>NOW!</i></p> + +<p>For a large part of a second, nothing happened, but the pilot knew his +message had been received.</p> + +<p>Then a red gleam came into being on the control board.</p> + +<p>“What the hell?” said the co-pilot.</p> + +<p>The pilot swore. “I <i>told</i> ’em that door was weak! +We’ve ripped the luggage door off her hinges. Feel her +shake?”</p> + +<p>The co-pilot looked grim. “Good thing it happened now instead of +in mid-flight. At that speed, we’d been torn apart.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Blown</i> to bits, you mean,” said the pilot. +“Let’s bring her in.”</p> + +<p>By that time, Spencer Candron was a long way below the ship, falling +like a stone, a big suitcase clutched tightly in his arms. He knew that +the Chinese radar was watching the jetliner, and that it had undoubtedly +picked up two objects dropping from the craft—the door and one +other. Candron had caught the pilot’s mental signal—anything +that powerful could hardly be missed—and had opened the door and +leaped.</p> + +<p>But those things didn’t matter now. Without a parachute, he had +flung himself from the plane toward the earth below, and his only +thought was his loathing, his repugnance, for that too, too solid ground +beneath.</p> + +<p>He didn’t hate it. That would be deadly, for hate implies as much +attraction as love—the attraction of destruction. Fear, too, was +out of the question; there must be no such relationship as that between +the threatened and the threatener. Only loathing could save him. The +earth beneath was utterly repulsive to him.</p> + +<p>And he slowed.</p> + +<p>His mind would not accept contact with the ground, and his body was +forced to follow suit. He slowed.</p> + +<p>Minutes later, he was drifting fifty feet above the surface, his +altitude held steady by the emotional force of his mind. Not until then +did he release the big suitcase he had been holding. He heard it thump +as it hit, breaking open and scattering clothing around it.</p> + +<p>In the distance, he could hear the faint moan of a siren. The Chinese +radar had picked up two falling objects. And they would find two: one +door and one suitcase, both of which could be accounted for by the +“accident.” They would know that no parachute had opened; +hence, if they found no body, they would be certain that no human being +could have dropped from the plane.</p> + +<p>The only thing remaining now was to get into the city itself. In the +darkness, it was a little difficult to tell exactly where he was, but +the lights of Peiping weren’t far away, and a breeze was carrying him +toward it. He wanted to be in just the right place before he set foot on +the ground.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> +By morning, he would be just another one of the city’s millions.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>Morning came three hours later. The sun came up quietly, as if its sole +purpose in life were to make a liar out of Kipling. The venerable old +Chinese gentleman who strolled quietly down Dragon Street looked as +though he were merely out for a placid walk for his morning +constitutional. His clothing was that of a middle-class office worker, +but his dignified manner, his wrinkled brown face, his calm brown eyes, +and his white hair brought respectful looks from the other passers-by on +the Street of the Dragon. Not even the thirty-five years of Communism, +which had transformed agrarian China into an industrial and +technological nation that ranked with the best, had destroyed the +ancient Chinese respect for age.</p> + +<p>That respect was what Spencer Candron relied on to help him get his job +done. Obvious wealth would have given him respect, too, as would the +trappings of power; he could have posed as an Honorable Director or a +People’s Advocate. But that would have brought unwelcome attention as +well as respect. His disguise would never stand up under careful +examination, and trying to pass himself off as an important citizen +might bring on just such an examination. But an old man had both respect +and anonymity.</p> + +<p>Candron had no difficulty in playing the part. he had known many elderly +chinese, and he understood them well. even the emotional control of the +oriental was simple to simulate; candron knew what “emotional +control” <i>really</i> meant.</p> + +<p>You don’t control an automobile by throwing the transmission out +of gear and letting the engine run wild. Suppressing an emotion is not +controlling it, in the fullest sense. “Control” implies +guidance and use.</p> + +<p>Peiping contained nearly three million people in the city itself, and +another three million in the suburbs; there was little chance that the +People’s Police would single out one venerable oldster to +question, but Candron wanted an escape route just in case they did. He +kept walking until he found the neighborhood he wanted, then he kept his +eyes open for a small hotel. He didn’t want one that was too +expensive, but, on the other hand, he didn’t want one so cheap +that the help would be untrustworthy.</p> + +<p>He found one that suited his purpose, but he didn’t want to go in +immediately. There was one more thing to do. He waited until the shops +were open, and then went in search of second-hand luggage. He had enough +money in his pockets to buy more brand-new expensive luggage than a man +could carry, but he didn’t want luggage that looked either +expensive or new. When he finally found what he wanted, he went in +search of clothing, buying a piece at a time, here and there, in widely +scattered shops. Some of it was new, some of it was secondhand, all of +it fit both the body and the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> +personality of the old man he was supposed to be. Finally, he went to +the hotel.</p> + +<p>The clerk was a chubby, blandly happy, youngish man who bowed his head +as Candron approached. There was still the flavor of the old politeness +in his speech, although the flowery beauty of half a century before had +disappeared.</p> + +<p>“Good morning, venerable sir; may I be of some assistance?”</p> + +<p>Candron kept the old usages. “This old one would be greatly honored if +your excellent hostelry could find a small corner for the rest of his +unworthy body,” he said in excellent Cantonese.</p> + +<p>“It is possible, aged one, that this miserable hovel may provide +some space, unsuited though it may be to your honored presence,” +said the clerk, reverting as best he could to the language of a +generation before. “For how many people would you require +accommodations?”</p> + +<p>“For my humble self only,” Candron said.</p> + +<p>“It can, I think, be done,” said the clerk, giving him a +pleasant smile. Then his face took on an expression of contrition. +“I hope, venerable one, that you will not think this miserable +creature too bold if he asks for your papers?”</p> + +<p>“Not at all,” said Candron, taking a billfold from his +inside coat pocket. “Such is the law, and the law of the People of +China is to be always respected.”</p> + +<p>He opened the billfold and spread the papers for the clerk’s +inspection. They were all there—identification, travel papers, +everything. The clerk looked them over and jotted down the numbers in +the register book on the desk, then turned the book around. “Your +chop, venerable one.”</p> + +<p>The “chop” was a small stamp bearing the ideograph which +indicated the name Candron was using. Illiteracy still ran high in China +because of the difficulty in memorizing the tens of thousands of +ideographs which made up the written language, so each man carried a +chop to imprint his name. Officially, China used the alphabet, spelling +out the Chinese words phonetically—and, significantly, they had +chosen the Latin alphabet of the Western nations rather than the +Cyrillic of the Soviets. But old usages die hard.</p> + +<p>Candron imprinted the ideograph on the page, then, beside it, he wrote +“Ying Lee” in Latin characters.</p> + +<p>The clerk’s respect for this old man went up a degree. He had +expected to have to put down the Latin characters himself. “Our +humble establishment is honored by your esteemed presence, Mr. +Ying,” he said. “For how long will it be your pleasure to +bestow this honor upon us?”</p> + +<p>“My poor business, unimportant though it is, will require it least +one week; at the most, ten days.” Candron said, knowing full well +that twenty-four hours would be his maximum, if everything went well.</p> + +<p>“It pains me to ask for money in advance from so honorable a gentleman +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> +as yourself,” said the clerk, “but such are the rules. It +will be seven and a half yuan per day, or fifty yuan per week.”</p> + +<p>Candron put five ten-yuan notes on the counter. Since the readjustment +of the Chinese monetary system, the yuan had regained a great deal of +its value.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>A young man who doubled as bellhop and elevator operator took Candron up +to the third floor. Candron tipped him generously, but not +extravagantly, and then proceeded to unpack his suitcase. He hung the +suits in the closet and put the shirts in the clothes chest. By the time +he was through, it looked as though Ying Lee was prepared to stay for a +considerable length of time.</p> + +<p>Then he checked his escape routes, and found two that were satisfactory. +Neither led downward to the ground floor, but upward, to the roof. The +hotel was eight stories high, higher than any of the nearby buildings. +No one would expect him to go up.</p> + +<p>Then he gave his attention to the room itself. He went over it +carefully, running his fingers gently over the walls and the furniture, +noticing every detail with his eyes. He examined the chairs, the low +bed, the floor—everything.</p> + +<p>He was not searching for spy devices. He didn’t care whether there +were any there or not. He wanted to know that room. To know it, become +familiar with it, make it a part of him.</p> + +<p>Had there been any spy devices, they would have noticed nothing unusual. +There was only an old man there, walking slowly around the room, +muttering to himself as though he were thinking over something important +or, perhaps, merely reminiscing on the past, mentally chewing over his +memories.</p> + +<p>He did not peer, or poke, or prod. He did not appear to be looking for +anything. He picked up a small, cheap vase and looked at it as though it +were an old friend; he rubbed his hand over the small writing desk, as +though he had written many things in that familiar place; he sat down in +a chair and leaned back in it and caressed the armrests with his palms +as though it were an honored seat in his own home. And, finally, he +undressed, put on his nightclothes, and lay down on the bed, staring at +the ceiling with a soft smile on his face. After ten minutes or so, his +eyes closed and remained that way for three-quarters of an hour.</p> + +<p>Unusual? No. An old man must have his rest. There is nothing unusual +about an old man taking a short nap.</p> + +<p>When he got up again, Spencer Candron was thoroughly familiar with the +room. It was home, and he loved it.</p> + +<p>Nightfall found the honorable Mr. Ying a long way from his hotel. He +had, as his papers had said, gone to do business with a certain Mr. Yee, +had haggled over the price of certain goods, and had been unsuccessful +in establishing a mutual price. Mr. Yee <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> +was later to be able to prove to the People’s Police that he had +done no business whatever with Mr. Ying, and had had no notion whatever +that Mr. Ying’s business connections in Nanking were totally +nonexistent.</p> + +<p>But, on that afternoon, Mr. Ying had left Mr. Yee with the impression +that he would return the next day with, perhaps, a more amenable +attitude toward Mr. Yee’s prices. Then Mr. Ying Lee had gone to a +restaurant for his evening meal.</p> + +<p>He had eaten quietly by himself, reading the evening edition of the +Peiping <i>Truth</i> as he ate his leisurely meal. Although many of the +younger people had taken up the use of the knife and fork, the venerable +Mr. Ying clung to the chopsticks of an earlier day, plied expertly +between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He was not the only +elderly man in the place who did so.</p> + +<p>Having finished his meal and his newspaper in peace, Mr. Ying Lee +strolled out into the gathering dusk. By the time utter darkness had +come, and the widely-spaced street lamps of the city had come alive, the +elderly Mr. Ying Lee was within half a mile of the most important group +of buildings in China.</p> + +<p>The Peiping Explosion, back in the sixties, had almost started World War +Three. An atomic blast had leveled a hundred square miles of the city +and started fires that had taken weeks to extinguish. Soviet Russia had +roared in its great bear voice that the Western Powers had attacked, and +was apparently on the verge of coming to the defense of its Asian +comrade when the Chinese government had said irritatedly that there had +been no attack, that traitorous and counterrevolutionary Chinese agents +of Formosa had sabotaged an atomic plant, nothing more, and that the +honorable comrades of Russia would be wise not to set off anything that +would destroy civilization. The Russian Bear grumbled and sheathed its +claws.</p> + +<p>The vast intelligence system of the United States had reported that (A) +the explosion had been caused by carelessness, not sabotage, but the +Chinese had had to save face, and (B) the Soviet Union had no intention +of actually starting an atomic war at that time. If she had, she would +have shot first and made excuses afterwards. But she <i>had</i> hoped to make +good propaganda usage of the blast.</p> + +<p>The Peiping Explosion had caused widespread death and destruction, yes; +but it had also ended up being the fastest slum-clearance project on +record. The rebuilding had taken somewhat more time than the clearing +had taken, but the results had been a new Peiping—a modern city in +every respect. And nowhere else on Earth was there one hundred square +miles of <i>completely</i> modern city. Alteration takes longer than starting +from scratch if the techniques are available; there isn’t so much +dead wood to clear away.</p> + +<p>In the middle of the city, the Chinese government had built its +equivalent of the Kremlin—nearly a third <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> +of a square mile of ultra-modern buildings designed to house every +function of the Communist Government of China. It had taken slave labor +to do the job, but the job had been done.</p> + +<p>A little more than half a mile on a side, the area was surrounded by a +wall that had been designed after the Great Wall of China. It stood +twenty-five feet high and looked very quaint and picturesque.</p> + +<p>And somewhere inside it James Ch’ien, American-born physicist, was +being held prisoner. Spencer Candron, alias Mr. Ying Lee, had to get him +out.</p> + +<p>Dr. Ch’ien was important. The government of the United States knew +he was important, but they did not yet know <i>how</i> important he was.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>Man had already reached the Moon and returned. The Martian expedition +had landed safely, but had not yet returned. No one had heard from the +Venusian expedition, and it was presumed lost. But the Moon was being +jointly claimed by Russian and American suits at the United Nations, +while the United Nations itself was trying to establish a claim. The +Martian expedition was American, but a Russian ship was due to land in +two months. The lost Venusian expedition had been Russian, and the +United States was ready to send a ship there.</p> + +<p>After nearly forty years, the Cold War was still going on, but now the +scale had expanded from the global to the interplanetary.</p> + +<p>And now, up-and-coming China, defying the Western Powers and arrogantly +ignoring her Soviet allies, had decided to get into the race late and +win it if she could.</p> + +<p>And she very likely could, if she could exploit the abilities of James +Ch’ien to the fullest. If Dr. Ch’ien could finish his work, +travel to the stars would no longer be a wild-eyed idea; if he could +finish, spatial velocities would no longer be limited to the confines of +the rocket, nor even to the confines of the velocity of light. Man could +go to the stars.</p> + +<p>The United States Federal Government knew—or, at least, the most +responsible officers of that government knew—that +Ch’ien’s equations led to interstellar travel, just as +Einstein’s equations had led to atomic energy. Normally, the +United States would never have allowed Dr. Ch’ien to attend the +International Physicists Conference in Peiping. But diplomacy has its +rules, too.</p> + +<p>Ch’ien had published his preliminary work—a series of highly +abstruse and very controversial equations—back in ’80. The +paper had appeared in a journal that was circulated only in the United +States and was not read by the majority of mathematical physicists. Like +the work of Dr. Fred Hoyle, thirty years before, it had been laughed at +by the majority of the men in the field. Unlike Hoyle’s work, it +had never received any publicity. Ch’ien’s paper had +remained buried.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> +In ’81, Ch’ien had realized the importance of his work, +having carried it further. He had reported his findings to the proper +authorities of the United States Government, and had convinced that +particular branch of the government that his work had useful validity. +But it was too late to cover up the hints that he had already published.</p> + +<p>Dr. James Ch’ien was a friendly, gregarious man. He liked to go to +conventions and discuss his work with his colleagues. He was, in +addition, a man who would never let anything go once he had got hold of +it, unless he was convinced that he was up a blind alley. And, as far as +Dr. Ch’ien was concerned, that took a devil of a lot of +convincing.</p> + +<p>The United States government was, therefore, faced with a dilemma. If +they let Ch’ien go to the International Conferences, there was the +chance that he would be forced, in some way, to divulge secrets that +were vital to the national defense of the United States. On the other +hand, if they forbade him to go, the Communist governments would suspect +that Ch’ien knew something important, and they would check back on +his previous work and find his publications of 1980. If they did, and +realized the importance of that paper, they might be able to solve the +secret of the interstellar drive.</p> + +<p>The United States government had figuratively flipped a coin, and the +result was that Ch’ien was allowed to come and go as he pleased, +as though he were nothing more than just another government physicist.</p> + +<p>And now he was in the hands of China.</p> + +<p>How much did the Chinese know? Not much, evidently; otherwise they would +never have bothered to go to the trouble of kidnaping Dr. James +Ch’ien and covering the kidnaping so elaborately. They +<i>suspected</i>, yes: but they couldn’t <i>know</i>. They knew that the +earlier papers meant something, but they didn’t know what—so +they had abducted Ch’ien in the hope that he would tell them.</p> + +<p>James Ch’ien had been in their hands now for two months. How much +information had they extracted by now? Personally, Spencer Candron felt +that they had got nothing. You can force a man to work; you can force +him to tell the truth. But you can <i>not</i> force a man to create against +his will.</p> + +<p>Still, even a man’s will can be broken, given enough time. If Dr. +Ch’ien weren’t rescued soon…</p> + +<p><i>Tonight</i>, Candron thought with determination. <i>I’ll get +Ch’ien tonight.</i> That was what the S.M.M.R. had sent him to do. +And that’s what he would—<i>must</i>—do.</p> + +<p>Ahead of him loomed the walls of the Palace of the Great Chinese +People’s Government. Getting past them and into the inner court +was an act that was discouraged as much as possible by the Special +Police guard which had charge of those walls. They were brilliantly +lighted and heavily guarded. If Candron tried to levitate himself over, +he’d most likely be shot down in midair. They might be baffled +afterwards, when <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> +they tried to figure out how he had come to be flying around up there, +but that wouldn’t help Candron any.</p> + +<p>Candron had a better method.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>When the automobile carrying the People’s Minister of Finance, the +Honorable Chou Lung, went through the Gate of the Dog to enter the inner +court of the Palace, none of the four men inside it had any notion that +they were carrying an unwanted guest. How could they? The car was a +small one; its low, streamlined body carried only four people, and there +was no luggage compartment, since the powerful little vehicle was +designed only for maneuvering in a crowded city or for fast, short trips +to nearby towns. There was simply no room for another passenger, and +both the man in the car and the guards who passed it through were so +well aware of that fact that they didn’t even bother to think +about it. It never occurred to them that a slight, elderly-looking +gentleman might be hanging beneath the car, floating a few inches off +the ground, holding on with his fingertips, and allowing the car to pull +him along as it moved on into the Palace of the Great Chinese +People’s Government.</p> + +<p>Getting into the subterranean cell where Dr. James Ch’ien was +being held was a different kind of problem. Candron knew the interior of +the Palace by map only, and the map he had studied had been admittedly +inadequate. It took him nearly an hour to get to the right place. Twice, +he avoided a patrolling guard by taking to the air and concealing +himself in the darkness of an overhead balcony. Several other times, he +met men in civilian clothing walking along the narrow walks, and he +merely nodded at them. He looked too old and too well-dressed to be +dangerous.</p> + +<p>The principle that made it easy was the fact that no one expects a lone +man to break into a heavily guarded prison.</p> + +<p>After he had located the building where James Ch’ien was held, he +went high-flying. The building itself was one which contained the living +quarters of several high-ranking officers of the People’s +Government. Candron knew he would be conspicuous if he tried to climb up +the side of the building from the outside, but he managed to get into +the second floor without being observed. Then he headed for the elevator +shafts.</p> + +<p>It took him several minutes to jimmy open the elevator door. His mind +was sensitive enough to sense the nearness of others, so there was no +chance of his being caught red-handed. When he got the door open, he +stepped into the shaft, brought his loathing for the bottom into the +fore, and floated up to the top floor. From there it was a simple matter +to get to the roof, drop down the side, and enter the open window of an +officer’s apartment.</p> + +<p>He entered a lighted window rather than a darkened one. He wanted to +know what he was getting into. He had his gun ready, just in case, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> +but there was no sign of anyone in the room he entered. A quick search +showed that the other two rooms were also empty. His mind had told him +that there was no one awake in the apartment, but a sleeping man’s +mind, filled with dimmed, chaotic thoughts, blended into the background +and might easily be missed.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/img-24.png" width="500" height="495" alt="" title="" /></div> + +<p>Then Spencer Candron used the telephone, punching the first of the two +code numbers he had been given. A connection was made to the room where +a twenty-four-hour guard kept watch over James Ch’ien via +television pickups hidden in the walls of his prison apartment in the +basement.</p> + +<p>Candron had listened to recordings of one man’s voice for hours, +getting the exact inflection, accent, and usage. Now, he made use of +that practice.</p> + +<p>“This is General Soong,” he said sharply. “We are sending a Dr. Wan down +to persuade the guest. We will want recordings of all that takes place.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> +“Yes, sir,” said the voice at the other end.</p> + +<p>“Dr. Wan will be there within ten minutes, so be alert.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir. All will be done to your satisfaction.”</p> + +<p>“Excellent,” said Candron. He smiled as he hung up. Then he +punched another secret number. This one connected him with the guards +outside Ch’ien’s apartment. As General Soong, he warned them +of the coming of Dr. Wan. Then he went to the window, stepped out, and +headed for the roof again.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>There was no danger that the calls would be suspected. Those two phones +could not be contacted except from inside the Palace, and not even then +unless the number was known.</p> + +<p>Again he dropped down Elevator Shaft Three. Only Number One was +operating this late in the evening, so there was no fear of meeting it +coming up. He dropped lightly to the roof of the car, where it stood +empty in the basement, opened the escape hatch in the roof, dropped +inside, opened the door, and emerged into the first basement. Then he +started down the stairs to the subbasement.</p> + +<p>The guards were not the least suspicious, apparently. Candron wished he +were an honest-to-God telepath, so he could be absolutely sure. The +officer at the end of the corridor that led to Ch’ien’s +apartment was a full captain, a tough-looking, swarthy Mongol with dark, +hard eyes. “You are Dr. Wan?” he asked in a guttural +baritone.</p> + +<p>“I am,” Candron said. This was no place for traditional +politeness. “Did not General Soong call you?”</p> + +<p>“He did, indeed, doctor. But I assumed you would be +carrying—” He gestured, as though not quite sure what to +say.</p> + +<p>Candron smiled blandly. “Ah. You were expecting the little black +bag, is it not so? No, my good captain; I am a psychologist, not a +medical doctor.”</p> + +<p>The captain’s face cleared. “So. The persuasion is to be of +the more subtle type.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed. Only thus can we be assured of his co-operation. One +cannot force the creative mind to create; it must be cajoled. Could one +have forced the great K’ung Fu-tse to become a philosopher at the +point of a sword?”</p> + +<p>“It is so,” said the captain. “Will you permit me to +search you?”</p> + +<p>The affable Dr. Wan emptied his pockets, then permitted the search. The +captain casually looked at the identification in the wallet. It was, +naturally, in perfect order for Dr. Wan. The identification of Ying Lee +had been destroyed hours ago, since it was of no further value.</p> + +<p>“These things must be left here until you come out, doctor,” +the captain said. “You may pick them up when you leave.” He +gestured at the pack of cigarettes. “You will be given cigarettes +by the interior guard. Such are my orders.”</p> + +<p>“Very well,” Candron said calmly. “And now, may I see +the patient?” He had wanted to keep those cigarettes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +Now he would have to find a substitute.</p> + +<p>The captain unlocked the heavy door. At the far end, two more guards +sat, complacently playing cards, while a third stood at a door a few +yards away. A television screen imbedded in the door was connected to an +interior camera which showed the room within.</p> + +<p>The corridor door was closed and locked behind Candron as he walked +toward the three interior guards. They were three more big, tough +Mongols, all wearing the insignia of lieutenants. This was not a +prisoner who could be entrusted to the care of common soldiers; the +secret was too important to allow the <i>hoi polloi</i> in on it. They +carried no weapons; the three of them could easily take care of +Ch’ien if he tried anything foolish, and besides, it kept weapons +out of Ch’ien’s reach. There were other methods of taking +care of the prisoner if the guards were inadequate.</p> + +<p>The two officers who were playing cards looked up, acknowledged Dr. +Wan’s presence, and went back to their game. The third, after +glancing at the screen, opened the door to James Ch’ien’s +apartment. Spencer Candron stepped inside.</p> + +<p>It was because of those few seconds—the time during which that +door was open—that Candron had called the monitors who watched +Ch’ien’s apartment. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have +bothered. He needed fifteen seconds in which to act, and he +couldn’t do it with that door open. If the monitors had given an +alarm in these critical seconds…</p> + +<p>But they hadn’t, and they wouldn’t. Not yet.</p> + +<p>The man who was sitting in the easy-chair on the opposite side of the +room looked up as Candron entered.</p> + +<p>James Ch’ien (B.S., M.S., M.I.T., Ph. D., U.C.L.A.) was a young +man, barely past thirty. His tanned face no longer wore the affable +smile that Candron had seen in photographs, and the jet-black eyes +beneath the well-formed brows were cold instead of friendly, but the +intelligence behind the face still came through.</p> + +<p>As the door was relocked behind him, Candron said, in Cantonese: +“This unworthy one hopes that the excellent doctor is well. Permit +me to introduce my unworthy self: I am Dr. Wan Feng.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Ch’ien put the book he was reading in his lap. He looked at +the ceiling in exasperation, then back at Candron. “All +right,” he said in English, “so you don’t believe me. +But I’ll repeat it again in the hope that I can get it through +your skulls.” It was obvious that he was addressing, not only his +visitor, but anyone else who might be listening.</p> + +<p>“I do not speak Chinese,” he said, emphasizing each word +separately. “I can say ‘Good morning’ and +‘Good-by’, and that’s about it. I <i>do</i> wish I could +say ‘drop dead,’ but that’s a luxury I can’t +indulge. If you can speak English, then go ahead; if not, quit wasting +my time and yours. Not,” he added, “that it won’t be a +waste of time anyway, but at least it will relieve the monotony.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> +Candron knew that Ch’ien was only partially telling the truth. The +physicist spoke the language badly, but he understood it fairly well.</p> + +<p>“Sorry, doctor,” Candron said in English, “I guess I +forgot myself. I am Dr. Wan Feng.”</p> + +<p>Ch’ien’s expression didn’t change, but he waved to a +nearby chair. “Sit down, Dr. Feng, and tell me what propaganda +line you’ve come to deliver now.”</p> + +<p>Candron smiled and shook his head slowly. “That was unworthy of +you, Dr. Ch’ien. Even though you have succumbed to the Western +habit of putting the family name last, you are perfectly aware that +‘Wan,’ not ‘Feng,’ is my family name.”</p> + +<p>The physicist didn’t turn a hair. “Force of habit, Dr. Wan. +Or, rather, a little retaliation. I was called ‘Dakta +Chamis’ for two days, and even those who could pronounce the name +properly insisted on ‘Dr. James.’ But I forget myself. I am +supposed to be the host here. Do sit down and tell me why I should give +myself over to Communist China just because my grandfather was born here +back in the days when China was a republic.”</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>Spencer Candron knew that time was running out, but he had to force +Ch’ien into the right position before he could act. He wished +again that he had been able to keep the cigarettes. Ch’ien was a +moderately heavy smoker, and one of those drugged cigarettes would have +come in handy now. As it was, he had to handle it differently. And that +meant a different approach.</p> + +<p>“No, Dr. Ch’ien,” he said, in a voice that was +deliberately too smooth, “I will not sit down, thank you. I would +prefer that you stand up.”</p> + +<p>The physicist’s face became a frozen mask. “I see that the +doctorate you claim is not for studies in the field of physics. +You’re not here to worm things out of me by discussing my work +talking shop. What is it, <i>Doctor</i> Wan?”</p> + +<p>"I am a psychologist.” Candron said. He knew that the monitors watching +the screens and listening to the conversation were recording everything. +He knew that they shouldn't be suspicious yet. But if the real General +Soong should decide to check on what his important guest was doing....</p> + +<p>"A psychologist,” Ch'ien repeated in a monotone. “I see."</p> + +<p>"Yes. Now, will you stand, or do I have to ask the guards to lift you to +your feet?"</p> + +<p>James Ch'ien recognized the inevitable, so he stood. But there was a +wary expression in his black eyes. He was not a tall man; he stood +nearly an inch shorter than Candron himself.</p> + +<p>"You have nothing to fear, Dr. Ch'ien,” Candron said smoothly. “I merely +wish to test a few of your reactions. We do not wish to hurt you.” He +put his hands on the other man's shoulders, and positioned him. “There," +he said. “Now. Look to the left."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Hypnosis, eh?” Ch'ien said with a grim smile. “All right. Go ahead.” He +looked to his left.</p> + +<p>"Not with your head,” Candron said calmly. “Face me and look to the left +with your eyes."</p> + +<p>Ch’ien did so, saying: “I’m afraid you’ll have +to use drugs after all, Dr. Wan. I will not be hypnotized.”</p> + +<p>“I have no intention of hypnotizing you. Now look to the +right.”</p> + +<p>Ch’ien obeyed.</p> + +<p>Candron’s right hand was at his side, and his left hand was toying +with a button on his coat. “Now up,” he said.</p> + +<p>Dr. James Ch’ien rolled his eyeballs upward.</p> + +<p>Candron had already taken a deep breath. Now he acted. His right hand +balled into a fist and arced upwards in a crashing uppercut to +Ch’ien’s jaw. At almost the same time, he jerked the button +off his coat, cracked it with his fingers along the special fissure +line, and threw it to the floor.</p> + +<p>As the little bomb spewed forth unbelievable amounts of ultra-finely +divided carbon in a dense black cloud of smoke, Candron threw both arms +around the collapsing physicist, ignoring the pain in the knuckles of +his right hand. The smoke cloud billowed around them, darkening the room +and obscuring the view from the monitor screens that were watching them. +Candron knew that the guards were acting now; he knew that the big +Mongols outside were already inserting the key in the door and inserting +their nose plugs; he knew that the men in the monitor room had hit an +alarm button and had already begun to flood the room with sleep gas. But +he paid no attention to these things.</p> + +<p>Instead, he became homesick.</p> + +<p>Home. It was a little place he knew and loved. He could no longer stand +the alien environment around him; it was repugnant, repelling. All he +could think of was a little room, a familiar room, a beloved room. He +knew the cracks in its ceiling, the feel of the varnish on the homely +little desk, the touch of the worn carpet against his feet, the very +smell of the air itself. And he loved them and longed for them with all +the emotional power that was in him.</p> + +<p>And suddenly the darkness of the smoke-filled prison apartment was gone.</p> + +<p>Spencer Candron stood in the middle of the little hotel room he had +rented early that morning. In his arms, he held the unconscious figure +of Dr. James Ch’ien.</p> + +<p>He gasped for breath, then, with an effort, he stooped, allowed the limp +body of the physicist to collapse over his shoulder, and stood straight +again, carrying the man like a sack of potatoes. He went to the door of +the room and opened it carefully. The hall was empty. Quickly, he moved +outside, closing the door behind him, and headed toward the stair. This +time, he dared not trust the elevator shaft. The hotel only boasted one +elevator, and it might be used at any time. Instead, he allowed his +dislike for the stair treads <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> +to adjust his weight to a few pounds, and then ran up them two at a +time.</p> + +<p>On the roof of the hotel, he adjusted his emotional state once more, and +he and his sleeping burden drifted off into the night, toward the sea.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>No mind is infinitely flexible, infinitely malleable, infinitely capable +of taking punishment, just as no material substance, however +constructed, is capable of absorbing the energies brought to bear +against it indefinitely.</p> + +<p>A man can hate with a virulent hatred, but unless time is allowed to +dull and soothe that hatred, the mind holding it will become corroded +and cease to function properly, just as a machine of the finest steel +will become corroded and begin to fail if it is drenched with acid or +exposed to the violence of an oxidizing atmosphere.</p> + +<p>The human mind can insulate itself, for a time, against the destructive +effects of any emotion, be it hatred, greed, despondency, contentment, +happiness, pleasure, anger, fear, lust, boredom, euphoria, +determination, or any other of the myriads of “ills” that +man’s mind—and thus his flesh—is heir to. As long as a +mind is capable of changing from one to another, to rotate its crops, so +to speak, the insulation will remain effective, and the mind will remain +undamaged. But any single emotional element, held for too long, will +break down the resistance of the natural insulation and begin to damage +the mind.</p> + +<p>Even that least virulent of emotions, love, can destroy. The hot, +passionate love between new lovers must be modified or it will kill. +Only when its many facets can be shifted around, now one and now the +other coming into play, can love be endured for any great length of +time.</p> + +<p>Possibly the greatest difference between the sane and the unsane is that +the sane know when to release a destructive force before it does more +than minimal damage; to modify or eliminate an emotional condition +before it becomes a deadly compulsion; to replace one set of concepts +with another when it becomes necessary to do so; to recognize that point +when the mind must change its outlook or die. To stop the erosion, in +other words, before it becomes so great that it cannot be repaired.</p> + +<p>For the human mind cannot contain any emotion, no matter how weak or how +fleeting, without change. And the point at which that change ceases to +be <i>con</i>structive and becomes, instead, <i>de</i>structive—<i>that</i> is the +ultimate point beyond which no human mind can go without forcing a +change—<i>any</i> change—in itself.</p> + +<p>Spencer Candron knew that. To overuse the psionic powers of the human +mind is as dangerous as overusing morphine or alcohol. There are limits +to mental powers, even as there are limits to physical powers.</p> + +<p><i>Psychokinesis</i> is defined as the ability of a human mind to move, no +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> +matter how slightly, a physical object by means of psionic application +alone. In theory, then, one could move planets, stars, even whole +galaxies by thought alone. But, in physical terms, the limit is easily +seen. Physically, it would be theoretically possible to destroy the sun +if one had enough atomic energy available, but that would require the +energy of another sun—or more. And, at that point, the Law of +Diminishing Returns comes into operation. If you don’t want a bomb +to explode, but the only way to destroy that bomb is by blowing it up +with another bomb of equal power, where is the gain?</p> + +<p>And if the total mental power required to move a planet is greater than +any single human mind can endure—or even greater than the total mental +endurance of a thousand planetsfull of minds, is there any gain?</p> + +<p>There is not, and can never be, a system without limits, and the human +mind is a system which obeys that law.</p> + +<p>None the less, Spencer Candron kept his mind on flight, on repulsion, on +movement, as long as he could. He was perfectly willing to destroy his +own mind for a purpose, but he had no intention of destroying it +uselessly. He didn’t know how long he kept moving eastward; he had +no way of knowing how much distance he had covered nor how long it had +taken him. But, somewhere out over the smoothly undulating surface of +the Pacific, he realized that he was approaching his limit. And, a few +seconds later, he detected the presence of men beneath the sea.</p> + +<p>He knew they were due to rise an hour before dawn, but he had no idea +how long that would be. He had lost all track of time. He had been +keeping his mind on controlling his altitude and motion, and, at the +same time, been careful to see whether Dr. Ch’ien came out of his +unconscious state. Twice more he had had to strike the physicist to keep +him out cold, and he didn’t want to do it again.</p> + +<p>So, when he sensed the presence of the American submarine beneath the +waves, he sank gratefully into the water, changing the erosive power of +the emotion that had carried him so far, and relaxing into the simple +physical routine of keeping both himself and Ch’ien afloat.</p> + +<p>By the time the submarine surfaced a dozen yards away, Spencer Candron +was both physically and mentally exhausted. He yelled at the top of his +lungs, and then held on to consciousness just long enough to be rescued.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>“The official story,” said Senator Kerotski, “is that +an impostor had taken Dr. Ch’ien’s place before he ever left +the United States—” He grinned. “At least, the +substitution took place before the delegates reached China. So the +‘assassination’ was really no assassination at all. +Ch’ien was kidnaped here, and a double put in his place in +Peiping. That absolves both us and the Chinese Government of any +complicity. We save face for <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> +them, and they save face for us. Since he turned up here, in the States, +it’s obvious that he couldn’t have been in China.” He +chuckled, but there was no mirth in it. “So the cold war still +continues. We know what they did, and—in a way—they know +what we did. But not how we did it.”</p> + +<p>The senator looked at the other two men who were with him on the fifth +floor office of the <i>Society for Mystical and Metaphysical Research</i>. +Taggert was relaxing on his couch, and Spencer Candron, just out of the +hospital, looked rather pale as he sat in the big, soft chair that +Taggert had provided.</p> + +<p>The senator looked at Candron. “The thing I don’t understand +is, why was it necessary to knock out Ch’ien? He’ll have a +sore jaw for weeks. Why didn’t you just tell him who you were and +what you were up to?”</p> + +<p>Candron glanced at Taggert, but Taggert just grinned and nodded.</p> + +<p>“We couldn’t allow that,” said Candron, looking at +Senator Kerotski. “Dr. James Ch’ien has too much of a +logical, scientific mind for that. We’d have ruined him if +he’d seen me in action.”</p> + +<p>The senator looked a little surprised. “Why? We’ve convinced +other scientists that they were mistaken in their observations. Why not +Ch’ien?”</p> + +<p>“Ch’ien is too good a scientist,” Candron said. +“He’s not the type who would refuse to believe something he +saw simply because it didn’t agree with his theories. Ch’ien +is one of those dangerous in-betweens. He’s too brilliant to be +allowed to go to waste, and, at the same time, too rigid to change his +manner of thinking. If he had seen me teleport or levitate, he +wouldn’t reject it—he’d try to explain it. And that +would have effectively ruined him.”</p> + +<p>“Ruined him?” The senator looked a little puzzled.</p> + +<p>Taggert raised his heavy head from the couch. “Sure, Leo,” +he said to the senator. “Don’t you see? We <i>need</i> +Ch’ien on this interstellar project. He absolutely <i>must</i> dope out +the answer somehow, and no one else can do it as quickly.”</p> + +<p>“With the previous information,” the senator said, “we +would have been able to continue.”</p> + +<p>“Yeah?” Taggert said, sitting up. “Has anyone been +able to dope out Fermat’s Last Theorem without Fermat? No. So why +ruin Ch’ien?”</p> + +<p>“It would ruin him,” Candron broke in, before the senator +could speak. “If he saw, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that +levitation and teleportation were possible, he would have accepted his +own senses as usable data on definite phenomena. But, limited as he is +by his scientific outlook, he would have tried to evolve a scientific +theory to explain what he saw. What else could a scientist <i>do</i>?”</p> + +<p>Senator Kerotski nodded, and his nod said: “I see. He would have +diverted his attention from the field of the interstellar drive to the +field of psionics. And he would have wasted years trying to explain an +inherently <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> +nonlogical area of knowledge by logical means.”</p> + +<p>“That’s right,” Candron said. “We would have set +him off on a wild goose chase, trying to solve the problems of psionics +by the scientific, the logical, method. We would have presented him with +an unsolvable problem.”</p> + +<p>Taggert patted his knees. “We would have given him a problem that +he could not solve with the methodology at hand. It would be as though +we had proved to an ancient Greek philosopher that the cube <i>could</i> be +doubled, and then allowed him to waste his life trying to do it with a +straight-edge and compass.”</p> + +<p>“We know Ch’ien’s psychological pattern,” +Candron continued. “He’s not capable of admitting that there +is any other thought pattern than the logical. He would try to solve the +problems of psionics by logical methods, and would waste the rest of his +life trying to do the impossible.”</p> + +<p>The senator stroked his chin. “That’s clear,” he said +at last. “Well, it was worth a cracked jaw to save him. +We’ve given him a perfectly logical explanation of his rescue and, +simultaneously, we’ve put the Chinese government into absolute +confusion. They have no idea of how you got out of there, +Candron.”</p> + +<p>“That’s not as important as saving Ch’ien,” +Candron said.</p> + +<p>“No,” the senator said quickly, “of course not. After +all, the Secretary of Research needs Dr. Ch’ien—the +man’s important.”</p> + +<p>Spencer Candron smiled. “I agree. He’s practically +indispensable—as much as a man can be.”</p> + +<p>“He’s the Secretary’s right hand man,” said +Taggert firmly.</p> + +<p class='b c mt2'>THE END</p> + +<div class='bbox'> +<h3>Transcriber’s Notes and Errata</h3> + +<p>This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction, February 1960. +Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright +on this publication was renewed.</p> + +<p>One instance each of ‘secondhand’ and +‘second-hand’ occur in the text.</p> +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of What The Left Hand Was Doing, by +Gordon Randall Garrett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHAT THE LEFT HAND WAS DOING *** + +***** This file should be named 25166-h.htm or 25166-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/1/6/25166/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, LN Yaddanapudi and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +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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