WHAT THE LEFT HAND . .. WAS DOING By DARRELL T. LANGART Illustrated by Freas _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. .. . _ [Illustration] The building itself was unprepossessive enough. It was an old-fashioned, six-floor, brick structure that had, over the years, served first as aprivate home, then as an apartment building, and finally as theheadquarters for the organization it presently housed. It stood among others of its kind in a lower-middle-class district ofArlington, Virginia, within howitzer range of the capitol of the UnitedStates, and even closer to the Pentagon. The main door was five steps upfrom the sidewalk, and the steps were flanked by curving balustrades ofornamental ironwork. The entrance itself was closed by a double doorwith glass panes, beyond which could be seen a small foyer. On bothdoors, an identical message was blocked out in neat gold letters: _TheSociety For Mystical and Metaphysical Research, Inc. _ It is possible that no more nearly perfect cover, no more misleadingfront for a secret organization ever existed in the history of man. Itpossessed two qualities which most other cover-up titles do not have. One, it was so obviously crackpot that no one paid any attention to itexcept crackpots, and, two, it was perfectly, literally true. Spencer Candron had seen the building so often that the functionalbeauty of the whole setup no longer impressed him as it had severalyears before. Just as a professional actor is not impressed by beingallowed backstage, or as a multimillionaire considers expensive luxuriesas commonplace, so Spencer Candron thought of nothing more than his ownpersonal work as he climbed the five steps and pushed open theglass-paned doors. Perhaps, too, his matter-of-fact attitude was caused partially by theanalogical 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 andforty-five, depending on the season and his state of mind. His faceconsisted 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 thenormal equipment that normally goes to make up a face. The skin wasslightly tanned, but it was the tan of a man who goes to the beach onsummer weekends, not that of an outdoorsman. His hands were strong andwide and rather large; the palms were uncalloused and the fingernailswere clean and neatly trimmed. His hair was straight and light brown, with a pronounced widow's peak, and he wore it combed back and ratherlong to conceal the fact that a thin spot had appeared on the top rearof 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. Physically, then, Spencer Candron, was a fine analog of the Society. Helooked unimportant. On the outside, he was just another average manwhom no one would bother to look twice at. The analogy between himself and the S. M. M. R. Was completed by the factthat his interior resources were vastly greater than anything thatshowed on the outside. The doors swung shut behind him, and he walked into the foyer, thenturned left into the receptionist's office. The woman behind the desksmiled her eager smile and said, "Good morning, Mr. Candron!" Candron smiled back. He liked the woman, in spite of her semifanaticovereagerness, which made her every declarative sentence seem to endwith an exclamation point. "Morning, Mrs. Jesser, " he said, pausing at the desk for a moment. "Howhave things been?" Mrs. Jesser was a stout matron in her early forties who would have beenperfectly happy to work for the Society for nothing, as a hobby. Thatshe was paid a reasonable salary made her job almost heaven for her. "Oh, just _fine_, Mr. Candron!" she said. "Just _fine_!" Then her voicelowered, and her face took on a serious, half conspiratorial expression. "Do you know what?" "No, " said Candron, imitating her manner. "What?" "We have a gentleman . .. He came in yesterday . .. A _very_ nice man . .. And very intelligent, too. And, you know what?" Candron shook his head. "No, " he repeated. "What?" Mrs. Jesser's face took on the self-pleased look of one who hasimportant inside knowledge to impart. "He has actual photographs . .. Three-D, full-color _pho_tographs . .. Of the con_trol_ room of a flyingsaucer! And one of the Saucerites, too!" "Really?" Candron's expression was that of a man who was both impressedand interested. "What did Mr. Balfour say?" "Well--" Mrs. Jesser looked rather miffed. "I don't really _know_! Butthe gentleman is supposed to be back to_mor_row! With some _more_pictures!" "Well, " said Candron. "Well. That's really fine. I hope he hassomething. Is Mr. Taggert in?" "Oh, yes, Mr. Candron! He said you should go on up!" She waved a plumphand toward the stairway. It made Mrs. Jesser happy to think that shewas 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 longas she thought that, among other things, she was useful to the Society. Someone had to handle the crackpots and lunatic-fringe fanatics thatcame to the Society, and one of their own kind could do the job betterthan anyone else. As long as Mrs. Jesser and Mr. Balfour were on duty, the Society's camouflage would remain intact. Spencer Candron gave Mrs. Jesser a friendly gesture with one hand andthen headed up the stairs. He would rather not have bothered to take thestairway all the way up to the fifth floor, but Mrs. Jesser had sharpears, and she might wonder why his foot-steps were not heard all theway up. Nothing--but _nothing_--must ever be done to make Mrs. Jesserwonder about anything that went on here. * * * * * The door to Brian Taggert's office was open when Candron finally reachedthe fifth floor. Taggert, of course, was not only expecting him, but hadlong been aware of his approach. Candron went in, closed the door, and said, "Hi, Brian, " to thedark-haired, dark-eyed, hawk-nosed man who was sprawled on the couchthat stood against one corner of the room. There was a desk at the otherrear corner, but Brian Taggert wasn't a desk man. He looked like aheavy-weight boxer, but he preferred relaxation to exercise. But he did take his feet from the couch and lift himself to a sittingposition as Candron entered. And, at the same time, the one resemblancebetween Taggert and Candron manifested itself--a warm, truly humansmile. "Spence, " he said warmly, "you look as though you were bored. Want ajob?" "No, " said Candron, "but I'll take it. Who do I kill?" "Nobody, unless you absolutely have to, " said Taggert. Spencer Candron understood. The one thing that characterized the realmembers 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 themembership, but the real core of the group--the thing that characterizedthem could be summed up in one word: _understanding_. Without that oneessential property, no human mind can be completely free. Unless a humanmind is capable of understanding the only forces that can be pittedagainst it--the forces of other human minds--that mind cannot availitself of the power that lies within it. Of course, it is elementary that such understanding must also apply tooneself. Understanding of self must come before understanding of others. _Total_ understanding is not necessary--indeed, utter totality is verylikely impossible to any human mind. But the greater the understanding, the freer the mind, and, at a point which might be called the "criticalpoint, " certain abilities inherent in the individual human mind becomecontrollable. A change, not only in quantity, but in quality, occurs. A cube of ice in a glass of water at zero degrees Celsius exhibitscertain properties and performs certain actions at its surface. Some ofthe molecules drift away, to become one with the liquid. Other moleculesfrom the liquid become attached to the crystalline ice. But, the icecube remains essentially an entity. Over a period of time, it may changeslowly, since dissolution takes place faster than crystallization at thecorners of the cube. Eventually, the cube will become a sphere, orsomething very closely approximating it. But the change is slow, and, once it reaches that state, the situation becomes static. 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 ofdoing only slightly and impermanently, it can now do completely. Thecritical point has been passed. Roughly--for the analog itself is rough--the same things occurs in thehuman mind. The psionic abilities of the human mind are, to a greater orlesser degree, there to begin with, just as an ice cube has the_ability_ to melt if the proper conditions are met with. The analogy hardly extends beyond that. Unlike an ice cube, the humanmind is capable of changing the forces outside it--as if the ice couldseek out its own heat in order to melt. And, too, human minds vary intheir inherent ability to absorb understanding. Some do so easily, others do so only in spotty areas, still others cannot reach thecritical point before they break. And still others can never reallyunderstand at all. 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; theyunderstood other human beings too well to be snobbish. It was more asthough a Society for Expert Mountain Climbers met each year on the peakof Mount Everest--anyone who can get up there to attend the meeting isautomatically a member. Spencer Candron sat down in a nearby chair. "All right, so I refrainfrom doing any more damage than I have to. What's the objective?" Taggert put his palms on his muscular thighs and leaned forward. "JamesCh'ien is still alive. " 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. "Thewhole thing was a phony. The death, the body, the funeral. What aboutthe executions?" "They were real, " Taggert said. "Here's what happened as closely as wecan tell: "Dr. Ch'ien was kidnaped on July 10th, the second day of the conferencein Peiping, at some time between two and three in the morning. He wasreplaced by a double, whose name we don't know. It's unimportant, anyway. The double was as perfect as the Chinese surgeons could makehim. He was probably not aware that he was slated to die; it is morelikely that he was hypnotized and misled. At any rate, he took Ch'ien'splace on the rostrum to speak that afternoon. "The man who shot him, and the man who threw the flame bomb, wereprobably as equally deluded as to what they were doing as the doublewas. They did a perfect job, though. The impersonator was dead, and hisskin was charred and blistered clear up to the chest--no fingerprints. "The men were tried, convicted, and executed. The Chinese governmentsent us abject apologies. The double's body was shipped back to theUnited States with full honors, but by the time it reached here, theeye-cone patterns had deteriorated to the point where they couldn't beidentified any more than the fingerprints could. And there were half ahundred reputable scientists of a dozen friendly nations who wereeye-witnesses to the killing and who are all absolutely certain that itwas James Ch'ien who died. " Candron nodded. "So, while the whole world was mourning the fact thatone of Earth's greatest physicists has died, he was being held captivein the most secret and secure prison that the Red Chinese governmentcould put him in. " Taggert nodded. "And your job will be to get him out, " he said softly. Candron said nothing for a moment, as he thought the problem out. Taggert said nothing to interrupt him. Neither of them worried about being overheard or spied upon. Besidesbeing equipped with hush devices and blanketing equipment, the buildingwas guarded by Reeves and Donahue, whose combined senses of perceptioncould pick up any activity for miles around which might be inimical tothe Society. "How much backing do we get from the Federal Government?" Candron askedat last. "We can swing the cover-up afterwards all the way, " Taggert told himfirmly. "We can arrange transportation back. That is, the FederalGovernment can. But getting over there and getting Ch'ien out of durancevile is strictly up to the Society. Senator Kerotski and SecretaryGonzales are giving us every opportunity they can, but there's no useapproaching the President until after we've proven our case. " Candron gestured his understanding. The President of the United Stateswas a shrewd, able, just, and ethical human being--but he was not yet amember of the Society, and perhaps would never be. As a consequence itwas still impossible to convince him that the S. M. M. R. Knew what it wastalking about--and that applied to nearly ninety per cent of the Federaland State officials of the nation. Only a very few knew that the Society was an _ex officio_ branch of thegovernment itself. Not until the rescue of James Ch'ien was anaccomplished fact, not until there was physical, logical proof that theman was still alive would the government take official action. "What's the outline?" Candron wanted to know. Taggert outlined the proposed course of action rapidly. When he wasfinished, Spencer Candron simply said, "All right. I can take care of myend of it. " He stood up. "I'll see you, Brian. " Brian Taggert lay back down on the couch, propped up his feet, andwinked at Candron. "Watch and check, Spence. " [Illustration] Candron went back down the stairs. Mrs. Jesser smiled up at him as heentered the reception room. "Well! That didn't take long! Are youleaving, Mr. Candron?" "Yes, " he said, glancing at the wall clock. "Grab and run, you know. I'll see you soon, Mrs. Jesser. Be an angel. " He went out the door again and headed down the street. Mrs. Jesser hadbeen right; it hadn't taken him long. He'd been in Taggert's office alittle over one minute, and less than half a dozen actual words had beenspoken. The rest of the conversation had been on a subtler level, onewhich was almost completely nonverbal. Not that Spencer Candron was atelepath; if he had been, it wouldn't have been necessary for him tocome to the headquarters building. Candron's talents simply didn't liealong that line. His ability to probe the minds of normal human beingswas spotty and unreliable at best. But when two human beings understandeach other at the level that existed between members of the Society, there is no need for longwinded discourses. * * * * * [Illustration] The big stratoliner slowed rapidly as it approached the Peiping People'sAirfield. The pilot, a big-boned Britisher who had two jobs to do atonce, watched the airspeed indicator. As the needle dropped, he came inon a conventional landing lane, aiming 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 themental power at his command: _NOW!_ For a large part of a second, nothing happened, but the pilot knew hismessage had been received. Then a red gleam came into being on the control board. "What the hell?" said the co-pilot. The pilot swore. "I _told_ 'em that door was weak! We've ripped theluggage door off her hinges. Feel her shake?" The co-pilot looked grim. "Good thing it happened now instead of inmid-flight. At that speed, we'd been torn apart. " "_Blown_ to bits, you mean, " said the pilot. "Let's bring her in. " By that time, Spencer Candron was a long way below the ship, fallinglike a stone, a big suitcase clutched tightly in his arms. He knew thatthe Chinese radar was watching the jetliner, and that it had undoubtedlypicked up two objects dropping from the craft--the door and one other. Candron had caught the pilot's mental signal--anything that powerfulcould hardly be missed--and had opened the door and leaped. But those things didn't matter now. Without a parachute, he had flunghimself from the plane toward the earth below, and his only thought washis loathing, his repugnance, for that too, too solid ground beneath. He didn't hate it. That would be deadly, for hate implies as muchattraction as love--the attraction of destruction. Fear, too, was out ofthe question; there must be no such relationship as that between thethreatened and the threatener. Only loathing could save him. The earthbeneath was utterly repulsive to him. And he slowed. His mind would not accept contact with the ground, and his body wasforced to follow suit. He slowed. Minutes later, he was drifting fifty feet above the surface, hisaltitude held steady by the emotional force of his mind. Not until thendid he release the big suitcase he had been holding. He heard it thumpas it hit, breaking open and scattering clothing around it. In the distance, he could hear the faint moan of a siren. The Chineseradar had picked up two falling objects. And they would find two: onedoor and one suitcase, both of which could be accounted for by the"accident. " They would know that no parachute had opened; hence, if theyfound no body, they would be certain that no human being could havedropped from the plane. The only thing remaining now was to get into the city itself. In thedarkness, it was a little difficult to tell exactly where he was, butthe lights of Peiping weren't far away, and a breeze was carrying himtoward it. He wanted to be in just the right place before he set foot onthe ground. By morning, he would be just another one of the city's millions. * * * * * Morning came three hours later. The sun came up quietly, as if its solepurpose in life were to make a liar out of Kipling. The venerable oldChinese gentleman who strolled quietly down Dragon Street looked asthough he were merely out for a placid walk for his morningconstitutional. 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 onthe Street of the Dragon. Not even the thirty-five years of Communism, which had transformed agrarian China into an industrial andtechnological nation that ranked with the best, had destroyed theancient Chinese respect for age. That respect was what Spencer Candron relied on to help him get his jobdone. Obvious wealth would have given him respect, too, as would thetrappings of power; he could have posed as an Honorable Director or aPeople's Advocate. But that would have brought unwelcome attention aswell as respect. His disguise would never stand up under carefulexamination, and trying to pass himself off as an important citizenmight bring on just such an examination. But an old man had both respectand anonymity. Candron had no difficulty in playing the part. He had known many elderlyChinese, and he understood them well. Even the emotional control of theOriental was simple to simulate; Candron knew what "emotional control"_really_ meant. You don't control an automobile by throwing the transmission out of gearand letting the engine run wild. Suppressing an emotion is notcontrolling it, in the fullest sense. "Control" implies guidance anduse. Peiping contained nearly three million people in the city itself, andanother three million in the suburbs; there was little chance that thePeople's Police would single out one venerable oldster to question, butCandron wanted an escape route just in case they did. He kept walkinguntil he found the neighborhood he wanted, then he kept his eyes openfor a small hotel. He didn't want one that was too expensive, but, onthe other hand, he didn't want one so cheap that the help would beuntrustworthy. He found one that suited his purpose, but he didn't want to go inimmediately. There was one more thing to do. He waited until the shopswere open, and then went in search of second-hand luggage. He had enoughmoney in his pockets to buy more brand-new expensive luggage than a mancould carry, but he didn't want luggage that looked either expensive ornew. When he finally found what he wanted, he went in search ofclothing, buying a piece at a time, here and there, in widely scatteredshops. Some of it was new, some of it was secondhand, all of it fit boththe body and the personality of the old man he was supposed to be. Finally, he went to the hotel. The clerk was a chubby, blandly happy, youngish man who bowed his headas Candron approached. There was still the flavor of the old politenessin his speech, although the flowery beauty of half a century before haddisappeared. "Good morning, venerable sir; may I be of some assistance?" Candron kept the old usages. "This old one would be greatly honored ifyour excellent hostelry could find a small corner for the rest of hisunworthy body, " he said in excellent Cantonese. "It is possible, aged one, that this miserable hovel may provide somespace, unsuited though it may be to your honored presence, " said theclerk, reverting as best he could to the language of a generationbefore. "For how many people would you require accommodations?" "For my humble self only, " Candron said. "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, venerableone, that you will not think this miserable creature too bold if he asksfor your papers?" "Not at all, " said Candron, taking a billfold from his inside coatpocket. "Such is the law, and the law of the People of China is to bealways respected. " He opened the billfold and spread the papers for the clerk's inspection. They were all there--identification, travel papers, everything. Theclerk looked them over and jotted down the numbers in the register bookon the desk, then turned the book around. "Your chop, venerable one. " The "chop" was a small stamp bearing the ideograph which indicated thename Candron was using. Illiteracy still ran high in China because ofthe difficulty in memorizing the tens of thousands of ideographs whichmade up the written language, so each man carried a chop to imprint hisname. Officially, China used the alphabet, spelling out the Chinesewords phonetically--and, significantly, they had chosen the Latinalphabet of the Western nations rather than the Cyrillic of the Soviets. But old usages die hard. Candron imprinted the ideograph on the page, then, beside it, he wrote"Ying Lee" in Latin characters. The clerk's respect for this old man went up a degree. He had expectedto have to put down the Latin characters himself. "Our humbleestablishment is honored by your esteemed presence, Mr. Ying, " he said. "For how long will it be your pleasure to bestow this honor upon us?" "My poor business, unimportant though it is, will require it least oneweek; at the most, ten days. " Candron said, knowing full well thattwenty-four hours would be his maximum, if everything went well. "It pains me to ask for money in advance from so honorable a gentlemanas yourself, " said the clerk, "but such are the rules. It will be sevenand a half yuan per day, or fifty yuan per week. " Candron put five ten-yuan notes on the counter. Since the readjustmentof the Chinese monetary system, the yuan had regained a great deal ofits value. * * * * * A young man who doubled as bellhop and elevator operator took Candron upto the third floor. Candron tipped him generously, but notextravagantly, and then proceeded to unpack his suitcase. He hung thesuits in the closet and put the shirts in the clothes chest. By the timehe was through, it looked as though Ying Lee was prepared to stay for aconsiderable length of time. Then he checked his escape routes, and found two that were satisfactory. Neither led downward to the ground floor, but upward, to the roof. Thehotel was eight stories high, higher than any of the nearby buildings. No one would expect him to go up. Then he gave his attention to the room itself. He went over itcarefully, running his fingers gently over the walls and the furniture, noticing every detail with his eyes. He examined the chairs, the lowbed, the floor--everything. He was not searching for spy devices. He didn't care whether there wereany there or not. He wanted to know that room. To know it, becomefamiliar with it, make it a part of him. 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 importantor, perhaps, merely reminiscing on the past, mentally chewing over hismemories. He did not peer, or poke, or prod. He did not appear to be looking foranything. He picked up a small, cheap vase and looked at it as though itwere an old friend; he rubbed his hand over the small writing desk, asthough he had written many things in that familiar place; he sat down ina chair and leaned back in it and caressed the armrests with his palmsas though it were an honored seat in his own home. And, finally, heundressed, put on his nightclothes, and lay down on the bed, staring atthe ceiling with a soft smile on his face. After ten minutes or so, hiseyes closed and remained that way for three-quarters of an hour. Unusual? No. An old man must have his rest. There is nothing unusualabout an old man taking a short nap. When he got up again, Spencer Candron was thoroughly familiar with theroom. It was home, and he loved it. Nightfall found the honorable Mr. Ying a long way from his hotel. Hehad, 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 unsuccessfulin establishing a mutual price. Mr. Yee was later to be able to proveto the People's Police that he had done no business whatever with Mr. Ying, and had had no notion whatever that Mr. Ying's businessconnections in Nanking were totally nonexistent. But, on that afternoon, Mr. Ying had left Mr. Yee with the impressionthat he would return the next day with, perhaps, a more amenableattitude toward Mr. Yee's prices. Then Mr. Ying Lee had gone to arestaurant for his evening meal. He had eaten quietly by himself, reading the evening edition of thePeiping _Truth_ as he ate his leisurely meal. Although many of theyounger people had taken up the use of the knife and fork, the venerableMr. Ying clung to the chopsticks of an earlier day, plied expertlybetween the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He was not the onlyelderly man in the place who did so. Having finished his meal and his newspaper in peace, Mr. Ying Leestrolled out into the gathering dusk. By the time utter darkness hadcome, and the widely-spaced street lamps of the city had come alive, theelderly Mr. Ying Lee was within half a mile of the most important groupof buildings in China. The Peiping Explosion, back in the sixties, had almost started World WarThree. An atomic blast had leveled a hundred square miles of the cityand started fires that had taken weeks to extinguish. Soviet Russia hadroared in its great bear voice that the Western Powers had attacked, andwas apparently on the verge of coming to the defense of its Asiancomrade when the Chinese government had said irritatedly that there hadbeen no attack, that traitorous and counterrevolutionary Chinese agentsof Formosa had sabotaged an atomic plant, nothing more, and that thehonorable comrades of Russia would be wise not to set off anything thatwould destroy civilization. The Russian Bear grumbled and sheathed itsclaws. The vast intelligence system of the United States had reported that (A)the explosion had been caused by carelessness, not sabotage, but theChinese had had to save face, and (B) the Soviet Union had no intentionof actually starting an atomic war at that time. If she had, she wouldhave shot first and made excuses afterwards. But she _had_ hoped to makegood propaganda usage of the blast. The Peiping Explosion had caused widespread death and destruction, yes;but it had also ended up being the fastest slum-clearance project onrecord. The rebuilding had taken somewhat more time than the clearinghad taken, but the results had been a new Peiping--a modern city inevery respect. And nowhere else on Earth was there one hundred squaremiles of _completely_ modern city. Alteration takes longer than startingfrom scratch if the techniques are available; there isn't so much deadwood to clear away. In the middle of the city, the Chinese government had built itsequivalent of the Kremlin--nearly a third of a square mile ofultra-modern buildings designed to house every function of the CommunistGovernment of China. It had taken slave labor to do the job, but the jobhad been done. A little more than half a mile on a side, the area was surrounded by awall that had been designed after the Great Wall of China. It stoodtwenty-five feet high and looked very quaint and picturesque. And somewhere inside it James Ch'ien, American-born physicist, was beingheld prisoner. Spencer Candron, alias Mr. Ying Lee, had to get him out. Dr. Ch'ien was important. The government of the United States knew hewas important, but they did not yet know _how_ important he was. * * * * * Man had already reached the Moon and returned. The Martian expeditionhad landed safely, but had not yet returned. No one had heard from theVenusian expedition, and it was presumed lost. But the Moon was beingjointly claimed by Russian and American suits at the United Nations, while the United Nations itself was trying to establish a claim. TheMartian expedition was American, but a Russian ship was due to land intwo months. The lost Venusian expedition had been Russian, and theUnited States was ready to send a ship there. After nearly forty years, the Cold War was still going on, but now thescale had expanded from the global to the interplanetary. And now, up-and-coming China, defying the Western Powers and arrogantlyignoring her Soviet allies, had decided to get into the race late andwin it if she could. And she very likely could, if she could exploit the abilities of JamesCh'ien to the fullest. If Dr. Ch'ien could finish his work, travel tothe stars would no longer be a wild-eyed idea; if he could finish, spatial velocities would no longer be limited to the confines of therocket, nor even to the confines of the velocity of light. Man could goto the stars. The United States Federal Government knew--or, at least, the mostresponsible officers of that government knew--that Ch'ien's equationsled to interstellar travel, just as Einstein's equations had led toatomic energy. Normally, the United States would never have allowed Dr. Ch'ien to attend the International Physicists Conference in Peiping. Butdiplomacy has its rules, too. Ch'ien had published his preliminary work--a series of highly abstruseand very controversial equations--back in '80. The paper had appeared ina journal that was circulated only in the United States and was not readby the majority of mathematical physicists. Like the work of Dr. FredHoyle, thirty years before, it had been laughed at by the majority ofthe men in the field. Unlike Hoyle's work, it had never received anypublicity. Ch'ien's paper had remained buried. In '81, Ch'ien had realized the importance of his work, having carriedit further. He had reported his findings to the proper authorities ofthe United States Government, and had convinced that particular branchof the government that his work had useful validity. But it was too lateto cover up the hints that he had already published. Dr. James Ch'ien was a friendly, gregarious man. He liked to go toconventions and discuss his work with his colleagues. He was, inaddition, a man who would never let anything go once he had got hold ofit, unless he was convinced that he was up a blind alley. And, as far asDr. Ch'ien was concerned, that took a devil of a lot of convincing. The United States government was, therefore, faced with a dilemma. Ifthey let Ch'ien go to the International Conferences, there was thechance that he would be forced, in some way, to divulge secrets thatwere vital to the national defense of the United States. On the otherhand, if they forbade him to go, the Communist governments would suspectthat Ch'ien knew something important, and they would check back on hisprevious work and find his publications of 1980. If they did, andrealized the importance of that paper, they might be able to solve thesecret of the interstellar drive. The United States government had figuratively flipped a coin, and theresult was that Ch'ien was allowed to come and go as he pleased, asthough he were nothing more than just another government physicist. And now he was in the hands of China. How much did the Chinese know? Not much, evidently; otherwise they wouldnever have bothered to go to the trouble of kidnaping Dr. James Ch'ienand covering the kidnaping so elaborately. They _suspected_, yes: butthey couldn't _know_. They knew that the earlier papers meant something, but they didn't know what--so they had abducted Ch'ien in the hope thathe would tell them. James Ch'ien had been in their hands now for two months. How muchinformation had they extracted by now? Personally, Spencer Candron feltthat they had got nothing. You can force a man to work; you can forcehim to tell the truth. But you can _not_ force a man to create againsthis will. Still, even a man's will can be broken, given enough time. If Dr. Ch'ienweren't rescued soon. .. . _Tonight_, Candron thought with determination. _I'll get Ch'ientonight. _ That was what the S. M. M. R. Had sent him to do. And that's whathe would--_must_--do. Ahead of him loomed the walls of the Palace of the Great ChinesePeople's Government. Getting past them and into the inner court was anact that was discouraged as much as possible by the Special Police guardwhich had charge of those walls. They were brilliantly lighted andheavily guarded. If Candron tried to levitate himself over, he'd mostlikely be shot down in midair. They might be baffled afterwards, whenthey tried to figure out how he had come to be flying around up there, but that wouldn't help Candron any. Candron had a better method. * * * * * When the automobile carrying the People's Minister of Finance, theHonorable Chou Lung, went through the Gate of the Dog to enter the innercourt of the Palace, none of the four men inside it had any notion thatthey were carrying an unwanted guest. How could they? The car was asmall one; its low, streamlined body carried only four people, and therewas no luggage compartment, since the powerful little vehicle wasdesigned only for maneuvering in a crowded city or for fast, short tripsto nearby towns. There was simply no room for another passenger, andboth the man in the car and the guards who passed it through were sowell 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 mightbe hanging beneath the car, floating a few inches off the ground, holding on with his fingertips, and allowing the car to pull him alongas it moved on into the Palace of the Great Chinese People's Government. Getting into the subterranean cell where Dr. James Ch'ien was being heldwas a different kind of problem. Candron knew the interior of the Palaceby 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 avoideda patrolling guard by taking to the air and concealing himself in thedarkness of an overhead balcony. Several other times, he met men incivilian clothing walking along the narrow walks, and he merely noddedat them. He looked too old and too well-dressed to be dangerous. The principle that made it easy was the fact that no one expects a loneman to break into a heavily guarded prison. After he had located the building where James Ch'ien was held, he wenthigh-flying. The building itself was one which contained the livingquarters of several high-ranking officers of the People's Government. Candron knew he would be conspicuous if he tried to climb up the side ofthe building from the outside, but he managed to get into the secondfloor without being observed. Then he headed for the elevator shafts. It took him several minutes to jimmy open the elevator door. His mindwas sensitive enough to sense the nearness of others, so there was nochance of his being caught red-handed. When he got the door open, hestepped into the shaft, brought his loathing for the bottom into thefore, and floated up to the top floor. From there it was a simple matterto get to the roof, drop down the side, and enter the open window of anofficer's apartment. He entered a lighted window rather than a darkened one. He wanted toknow what he was getting into. He had his gun ready, just in case, butthere was no sign of anyone in the room he entered. A quick searchshowed that the other two rooms were also empty. His mind had told himthat there was no one awake in the apartment, but a sleeping man's mind, filled with dimmed, chaotic thoughts, blended into the background andmight easily be missed. [Illustration] Then Spencer Candron used the telephone, punching the first of the twocode numbers he had been given. A connection was made to the room wherea twenty-four-hour guard kept watch over James Ch'ien via televisionpickups hidden in the walls of his prison apartment in the basement. Candron had listened to recordings of one man's voice for hours, gettingthe exact inflection, accent, and usage. Now, he made use of thatpractice. "This is General Soong, " he said sharply. "We are sending a Dr. Wan downto persuade the guest. We will want recordings of all that takes place. " "Yes, sir, " said the voice at the other end. "Dr. Wan will be there within ten minutes, so be alert. " "Yes, sir. All will be done to your satisfaction. " "Excellent, " said Candron. He smiled as he hung up. Then he punchedanother secret number. This one connected him with the guards outsideCh'ien's apartment. As General Soong, he warned them of the coming ofDr. Wan. Then he went to the window, stepped out, and headed for theroof again. * * * * * There was no danger that the calls would be suspected. Those two phonescould not be contacted except from inside the Palace, and not even thenunless the number was known. Again he dropped down Elevator Shaft Three. Only Number One wasoperating this late in the evening, so there was no fear of meeting itcoming up. He dropped lightly to the roof of the car, where it stoodempty in the basement, opened the escape hatch in the roof, droppedinside, opened the door, and emerged into the first basement. Then hestarted down the stairs to the subbasement. The guards were not the least suspicious, apparently. Candron wished hewere an honest-to-God telepath, so he could be absolutely sure. Theofficer at the end of the corridor that led to Ch'ien's apartment was afull captain, a tough-looking, swarthy Mongol with dark, hard eyes. "Youare Dr. Wan?" he asked in a guttural baritone. "I am, " Candron said. This was no place for traditional politeness. "Didnot General Soong call you?" "He did, indeed, doctor. But I assumed you would be carrying--" Hegestured, as though not quite sure what to say. Candron smiled blandly. "Ah. You were expecting the little black bag, isit not so? No, my good captain; I am a psychologist, not a medicaldoctor. " The captain's face cleared. "So. The persuasion is to be of the moresubtle type. " "Indeed. Only thus can we be assured of his co-operation. One cannotforce the creative mind to create; it must be cajoled. Could one haveforced the great K'ung Fu-tse to become a philosopher at the point of asword?" "It is so, " said the captain. "Will you permit me to search you?" The affable Dr. Wan emptied his pockets, then permitted the search. Thecaptain casually looked at the identification in the wallet. It was, naturally, in perfect order for Dr. Wan. The identification of Ying Leehad been destroyed hours ago, since it was of no further value. "These things must be left here until you come out, doctor, " the captainsaid. "You may pick them up when you leave. " He gestured at the pack ofcigarettes. "You will be given cigarettes by the interior guard. Suchare my orders. " "Very well, " Candron said calmly. "And now, may I see the patient?" Hehad wanted to keep those cigarettes. Now he would have to find asubstitute. The captain unlocked the heavy door. At the far end, two more guardssat, complacently playing cards, while a third stood at a door a fewyards away. A television screen imbedded in the door was connected to aninterior camera which showed the room within. The corridor door was closed and locked behind Candron as he walkedtoward the three interior guards. They were three more big, toughMongols, all wearing the insignia of lieutenants. This was not aprisoner who could be entrusted to the care of common soldiers; thesecret was too important to allow the _hoi polloi_ in on it. Theycarried no weapons; the three of them could easily take care of Ch'ienif he tried anything foolish, and besides, it kept weapons out ofCh'ien's reach. There were other methods of taking care of the prisonerif the guards were inadequate. The two officers who were playing cards looked up, acknowledged Dr. Wan's presence, and went back to their game. The third, after glancingat the screen, opened the door to James Ch'ien's apartment. SpencerCandron stepped inside. It was because of those few seconds--the time during which that door wasopen--that Candron had called the monitors who watched Ch'ien'sapartment. Otherwise, he wouldn't have bothered. He needed fifteenseconds in which to act, and he couldn't do it with that door open. Ifthe monitors had given an alarm in these critical seconds. .. . But they hadn't, and they wouldn't. Not yet. The man who was sitting in the easy-chair on the opposite side of theroom looked up as Candron entered. 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 smilethat Candron had seen in photographs, and the jet-black eyes beneath thewell-formed brows were cold instead of friendly, but the intelligencebehind the face still came through. As the door was relocked behind him, Candron said, in Cantonese: "Thisunworthy one hopes that the excellent doctor is well. Permit me tointroduce my unworthy self: I am Dr. Wan Feng. " Dr. Ch'ien put the book he was reading in his lap. He looked at theceiling in exasperation, then back at Candron. "All right, " he said inEnglish, "so you don't believe me. But I'll repeat it again in the hopethat I can get it through your skulls. " It was obvious that he wasaddressing, not only his visitor, but anyone else who might belistening. "I do not speak Chinese, " he said, emphasizing each word separately. "Ican say 'Good morning' and 'Good-by', and that's about it. I _do_ wish Icould say 'drop dead, ' but that's a luxury I can't indulge. If you canspeak 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 leastit will relieve the monotony. " Candron knew that Ch'ien was only partially telling the truth. Thephysicist spoke the language badly, but he understood it fairly well. "Sorry, doctor, " Candron said in English, "I guess I forgot myself. I amDr. Wan Feng. " Ch'ien's expression didn't change, but he waved to a nearby chair. "Sitdown, Dr. Feng, and tell me what propaganda line you've come to delivernow. " 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 puttingthe family name last, you are perfectly aware that 'Wan, ' not 'Feng, ' ismy family name. " 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 eventhose who could pronounce the name properly insisted on 'Dr. James. ' ButI forget myself. I am supposed to be the host here. Do sit down and tellme why I should give myself over to Communist China just because mygrandfather was born here back in the days when China was a republic. " * * * * * Spencer Candron knew that time was running out, but he had to forceCh'ien into the right position before he could act. He wished again thathe had been able to keep the cigarettes. Ch'ien was a moderately heavysmoker, and one of those drugged cigarettes would have come in handynow. As it was, he had to handle it differently. And that meant adifferent approach. "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. " The physicist's face became a frozen mask. "I see that the doctorate youclaim is not for studies in the field of physics. You're not here toworm things out of me by discussing my work talking shop. What is it, _Doctor_ Wan?" "I am a psychologist. " Candron said. He knew that the monitors watchingthe screens and listening to the conversation were recording everything. He knew that they shouldn't be suspicious yet. But if the real GeneralSoong should decide to check on what his important guest was doing. .. . "A psychologist, " Ch'ien repeated in a monotone. "I see. " "Yes. Now, will you stand, or do I have to ask the guards to lift you toyour feet?" James Ch'ien recognized the inevitable, so he stood. But there was awary expression in his black eyes. He was not a tall man; he stoodnearly an inch shorter than Candron himself. "You have nothing to fear, Dr. Ch'ien, " Candron said smoothly. "I merelywish to test a few of your reactions. We do not wish to hurt you. " Heput his hands on the other man's shoulders, and positioned him. "There, "he said. "Now. Look to the left. " "Hypnosis, eh?" Ch'ien said with a grim smile. "All right. Go ahead. " Helooked to his left. "Not with your head, " Candron said calmly. "Face me and look to the leftwith your eyes. " Ch'ien did so, saying: "I'm afraid you'll have to use drugs after all, Dr. Wan. I will not be hypnotized. " "I have no intention of hypnotizing you. Now look to the right. " Ch'ien obeyed. Candron's right hand was at his side, and his left hand was toying witha button on his coat. "Now up, " he said. Dr. James Ch'ien rolled his eyeballs upward. Candron had already taken a deep breath. Now he acted. His right handballed into a fist and arced upwards in a crashing uppercut to Ch'ien'sjaw. At almost the same time, he jerked the button off his coat, crackedit with his fingers along the special fissure line, and threw it to thefloor. As the little bomb spewed forth unbelievable amounts of ultra-finelydivided carbon in a dense black cloud of smoke, Candron threw both armsaround the collapsing physicist, ignoring the pain in the knuckles ofhis right hand. The smoke cloud billowed around them, darkening the roomand obscuring the view from the monitor screens that were watching them. Candron knew that the guards were acting now; he knew that the bigMongols outside were already inserting the key in the door and insertingtheir nose plugs; he knew that the men in the monitor room had hit analarm button and had already begun to flood the room with sleep gas. Buthe paid no attention to these things. Instead, he became homesick. Home. It was a little place he knew and loved. He could no longer standthe alien environment around him; it was repugnant, repelling. All hecould think of was a little room, a familiar room, a beloved room. Heknew the cracks in its ceiling, the feel of the varnish on the homelylittle desk, the touch of the worn carpet against his feet, the verysmell of the air itself. And he loved them and longed for them with allthe emotional power that was in him. And suddenly the darkness of the smoke-filled prison apartment was gone. Spencer Candron stood in the middle of the little hotel room he hadrented early that morning. In his arms, he held the unconscious figureof Dr. James Ch'ien. He gasped for breath, then, with an effort, he stooped, allowed the limpbody of the physicist to collapse over his shoulder, and stood straightagain, carrying the man like a sack of potatoes. He went to the door ofthe room and opened it carefully. The hall was empty. Quickly, he movedoutside, closing the door behind him, and headed toward the stair. Thistime, he dared not trust the elevator shaft. The hotel only boasted oneelevator, and it might be used at any time. Instead, he allowed hisdislike for the stair treads to adjust his weight to a few pounds, andthen ran up them two at a time. On the roof of the hotel, he adjusted his emotional state once more, andhe and his sleeping burden drifted off into the night, toward the sea. * * * * * No mind is infinitely flexible, infinitely malleable, infinitely capableof taking punishment, just as no material substance, howeverconstructed, is capable of absorbing the energies brought to bearagainst it indefinitely. A man can hate with a virulent hatred, but unless time is allowed todull and soothe that hatred, the mind holding it will become corrodedand cease to function properly, just as a machine of the finest steelwill become corroded and begin to fail if it is drenched with acid orexposed to the violence of an oxidizing atmosphere. The human mind can insulate itself, for a time, against the destructiveeffects 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'smind--and thus his flesh--is heir to. As long as a mind is capable ofchanging from one to another, to rotate its crops, so to speak, theinsulation will remain effective, and the mind will remain undamaged. But any single emotional element, held for too long, will break down theresistance of the natural insulation and begin to damage the mind. 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 theother coming into play, can love be endured for any great length oftime. Possibly the greatest difference between the sane and the unsane is thatthe sane know when to release a destructive force before it does morethan minimal damage; to modify or eliminate an emotional conditionbefore it becomes a deadly compulsion; to replace one set of conceptswith another when it becomes necessary to do so; to recognize that pointwhen the mind must change its outlook or die. To stop the erosion, inother words, before it becomes so great that it cannot be repaired. For the human mind cannot contain any emotion, no matter how weak or howfleeting, without change. And the point at which that change ceases tobe _con_structive and becomes, instead, _de_structive--_that_ is theultimate point beyond which no human mind can go without forcing achange--_any_ change--in itself. Spencer Candron knew that. To overuse the psionic powers of the humanmind is as dangerous as overusing morphine or alcohol. There are limitsto mental powers, even as there are limits to physical powers. _Psychokinesis_ is defined as the ability of a human mind to move, nomatter how slightly, a physical object by means of psionic applicationalone. In theory, then, one could move planets, stars, even wholegalaxies by thought alone. But, in physical terms, the limit is easilyseen. Physically, it would be theoretically possible to destroy the sunif one had enough atomic energy available, but that would require theenergy of another sun--or more. And, at that point, the Law ofDiminishing Returns comes into operation. If you don't want a bomb toexplode, but the only way to destroy that bomb is by blowing it up withanother bomb of equal power, where is the gain? And if the total mental power required to move a planet is greater thanany single human mind can endure--or even greater than the total mentalendurance of a thousand planetsfull of minds, is there any gain? There is not, and can never be, a system without limits, and the humanmind is a system which obeys that law. None the less, Spencer Candron kept his mind on flight, on repulsion, onmovement, as long as he could. He was perfectly willing to destroy hisown mind for a purpose, but he had no intention of destroying ituselessly. He didn't know how long he kept moving eastward; he had noway of knowing how much distance he had covered nor how long it hadtaken him. But, somewhere out over the smoothly undulating surface ofthe Pacific, he realized that he was approaching his limit. And, a fewseconds later, he detected the presence of men beneath the sea. He knew they were due to rise an hour before dawn, but he had no ideahow long that would be. He had lost all track of time. He had beenkeeping his mind on controlling his altitude and motion, and, at thesame time, been careful to see whether Dr. Ch'ien came out of hisunconscious state. Twice more he had had to strike the physicist to keephim out cold, and he didn't want to do it again. So, when he sensed the presence of the American submarine beneath thewaves, he sank gratefully into the water, changing the erosive power ofthe emotion that had carried him so far, and relaxing into the simplephysical routine of keeping both himself and Ch'ien afloat. By the time the submarine surfaced a dozen yards away, Spencer Candronwas both physically and mentally exhausted. He yelled at the top of hislungs, and then held on to consciousness just long enough to be rescued. * * * * * "The official story, " said Senator Kerotski, "is that an impostor hadtaken Dr. Ch'ien's place before he ever left the United States--" Hegrinned. "At least, the substitution took place before the delegatesreached China. So the 'assassination' was really no assassination atall. 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. Wesave face for 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. " Hechuckled, but there was no mirth in it. "So the cold war stillcontinues. We know what they did, and--in a way--they know what we did. But not how we did it. " The senator looked at the other two men who were with him on the fifthfloor office of the _Society for Mystical and Metaphysical Research_. Taggert was relaxing on his couch, and Spencer Candron, just out of thehospital, looked rather pale as he sat in the big, soft chair thatTaggert had provided. The senator looked at Candron. "The thing I don't understand is, why wasit necessary to knock out Ch'ien? He'll have a sore jaw for weeks. Whydidn't you just tell him who you were and what you were up to?" Candron glanced at Taggert, but Taggert just grinned and nodded. "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. " The senator looked a little surprised. "Why? We've convinced otherscientists that they were mistaken in their observations. Why notCh'ien?" "Ch'ien is too good a scientist, " Candron said. "He's not the type whowould refuse to believe something he saw simply because it didn't agreewith his theories. Ch'ien is one of those dangerous in-betweens. He'stoo brilliant to be allowed to go to waste, and, at the same time, toorigid to change his manner of thinking. If he had seen me teleport orlevitate, he wouldn't reject it--he'd try to explain it. And that wouldhave effectively ruined him. " "Ruined him?" The senator looked a little puzzled. Taggert raised his heavy head from the couch. "Sure, Leo, " he said tothe senator. "Don't you see? We _need_ Ch'ien on this interstellarproject. He absolutely _must_ dope out the answer somehow, and no oneelse can do it as quickly. " "With the previous information, " the senator said, "we would have beenable to continue. " "Yeah?" Taggert said, sitting up. "Has anyone been able to dope outFermat's Last Theorem without Fermat? No. So why ruin Ch'ien?" "It would ruin him, " Candron broke in, before the senator could speak. "If he saw, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that levitation andteleportation were possible, he would have accepted his own senses asusable data on definite phenomena. But, limited as he is by hisscientific outlook, he would have tried to evolve a scientific theory toexplain what he saw. What else could a scientist _do_?" Senator Kerotski nodded, and his nod said: "I see. He would havediverted his attention from the field of the interstellar drive to thefield of psionics. And he would have wasted years trying to explain aninherently nonlogical area of knowledge by logical means. " "That's right, " Candron said. "We would have set him off on a wild goosechase, trying to solve the problems of psionics by the scientific, thelogical, method. We would have presented him with an unsolvableproblem. " Taggert patted his knees. "We would have given him a problem that hecould not solve with the methodology at hand. It would be as though wehad proved to an ancient Greek philosopher that the cube _could_ bedoubled, and then allowed him to waste his life trying to do it with astraight-edge and compass. " "We know Ch'ien's psychological pattern, " Candron continued. "He's notcapable of admitting that there is any other thought pattern than thelogical. He would try to solve the problems of psionics by logicalmethods, and would waste the rest of his life trying to do theimpossible. " The senator stroked his chin. "That's clear, " he said at last. "Well, itwas worth a cracked jaw to save him. We've given him a perfectly logicalexplanation of his rescue and, simultaneously, we've put the Chinesegovernment into absolute confusion. They have no idea of how you got outof there, Candron. " "That's not as important as saving Ch'ien, " Candron said. "No, " the senator said quickly, "of course not. After all, the Secretaryof Research needs Dr. Ch'ien--the man's important. " Spencer Candron smiled. "I agree. He's practically indispensable--asmuch as a man can be. " "He's the Secretary's right hand man, " said Taggert firmly. THE END +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note and Errata | | | | 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. | | | | One instance each of 'secondhand' and 'second-hand' occur in | | the text. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+