“I never thought I’d hear myself saying a thing like this,” he told Pitman, but you might as well pull the trigger right now and get it over with. I don’t need to tell you the reason, do I?”
“There isn’t much reasoning going on in that skull of yours at the moment,” Pitman said, beginning to sound exasperated. “The Dorrinians are a highly ethical people who revere life above all else. Would we be having this long and increasingly tedious conversation if I were a murderer?”
“Ethical?” Jerome glanced meaningfully at the shotgun. “Do tell me all about ethics.”
Pitman consulted his gold watch, sighed and replaced it in his pocket. “I don’t like doing this, Ray, because I know it hurts—but you give me no option.”
Jerome saw that the doctor’s blue eyes were again developing their inhuman, laser-like quality. He had time for one spasm of alarm…
The pain was a flower unfolding in his brain with time-lapse rapidity. And with it there was knowledge, wordlessly received knowledge, interlaced with his own memories. The rigid Dorrinian ethic lays down that transfers may only be effected into the bodies of Terrans who are soon to die of incurable disease…Birkett was a cancer patient…the basic mind–matter interaction is control of the biological processes in one’s own body…after a successful transfer a Dorrinian eradicates all the ailments he has inherited…family doctors are in a good position to select suitable target bodies, sometimes without their owners ever realizing they are seriously ill, as was the case with Arthur Starzynski…therefore key Dorrinians living on Earth are often small-town medics…the danger of a transfer failure is ever present…it could lead to extensive loss of life if buildings were set alight, something the Dorrinian ethic cannot countenance…the danger is obviated by introducing a Dorrinian-developed chemical into the target’s system…the chemical is in turn absorbed by the target’s clothing, making the garments into heat barriers…inward reflection of the heat also ensures complete destruction of the corpse, concealing the significant factor of common illness…Pitman administered the chemical in the form of cachous if the target was fond of candy…two failed transfers in a row…bad sign…ominous…Prince Belzor…
Jerome was abruptly returned to the world of blurry sunlight. Gasping, he forced his eyes to range in on Pitman, shrinking him into sharp focus. Pitman was leaning forward and staring intently at Jerome, but his eyes had lost their mesmeric power. For the first time since Jerome had met him he looked troubled, uncertain.
“Were you followed here, Ray?” he said.
“I don’t believe…How would I know?”
“Think back over the journey,” Pitman said urgently. Did you notice a…?” He stopped speaking, mouth down-curved in shock, and pitched forward as an invisible something hit him with an impact which made the entire boat shudder. An instant later the sound of a gunshot rolled out across the lake, drawing squawks of protest from birds.
Jerome let go of the oars and gripped the side of the boat, which was wallowing in reaction to the crashing sprawl of Pitman’s body. He gaped at the doctor, at the back of his jacket where a ragged hole pulsed crimson, and he struggled to put the evidence together. The evidence said that somebody on the shore of the lake had just shot Pitman with a rifle—but the evidence had to be suspect because too many terrible and unprecedented things had already occurred that day. Jerome scanned the lakeside near his house, the area from which the shot seemed to have come, but was unable to see anything out of the ordinary. Feeling curiously numb, he slid down on to his knees, wondering how he would tend the fallen doctor, and in the instant of lowering his head he felt rather than heard a rushing in the air. It was a fluttery disturbance of the atmosphere, with a hint of power to it, quickly followed by the sound of another shot.
Jerome threw himself to the floor of the boat, appalled by the realization that the gunman—in defiance of all the laws of a formerly sane continuum—had also tried to kill him.
Pitman gave a burbling sigh and one of his hands groped towards Jerome. Spurred by irrational hope, Jerome squirmed a half-circle, keeping below the rowlocks, until he could look into Pitman’s face. All notions about the doctor somehow being fit enough to use his unearthly powers to effect a miracle immediately fled Jerome’s mind. Pitman’s mouth was open, the teeth uniformly red, spanned by a swelling diaphragm of blood.
“You can’t die,” Jerome whispered. “This is all your fault.”
Pitman’s eyelids flickered and the crimson hymen ruptured into gory tatters on his chin. “Sorry…the Prince is…too…” The barely audible words faded and were lost.
“Prince? Prince?” Jerome could hear his own voice rising to an hysterical whine. “I’ve nothing to do with any Prince. You’ve got to tell somebody that.”
He grasped Pitman’s shoulder, gave it a single shake and snatched his hand away, newly educated on the subject of death. There was no sound except for the patient lapping of small waves around the boat. Jerome rolled on to his back and stared into the sky as questions seethed in his mind. Did the person who had murdered Pitman positively want to kill him as well, or had the second shot merely been prompted by some gangsterish idea of doing a tidy job and silencing a witness? Was it likely that the assassin, believing the second shot had hit Jerome, had already fled? That one could be resolved quickly enough, by raising his head and peering over the side of the boat—but visualizing the possible consequences led him to the most important question of all. Was he going to get out of the situation alive?
The answer is NO!
Jerome flinched as the message impacted with his consciousness. There was a moment of fear and confusion—then came the knowledge that he was dealing with a second telepath. And with that knowledge was the understanding that the newcomer’s personality was vastly different from that of Pitman. The doctor had been a mysterious and threatening figure, but he had also—and Jerome could appreciate it more in retrospect—projected regret for what he felt he had to do. That undercurrent of emotion had lent him a certain humanity, a quality which was totally lacking in the mental imprint of his slayer. During the brief psychic contact Jerome had sensed a chilling self-interest, an arrogance and amorality, an utter ruthlessness. There had also been the disturbing suggestion of a potency which far outweighed Pitman’s, of an inhuman power which a superstitious person might describe as satanic.
As the word formed in Jerome’s mind he caught a memory-glimpse of a pale face and a contemptuous smile, a pike-jawed smile which showed only the bottom teeth. The man he had encountered at the filling station! Jerome identified the second telepath, knowing himself to be correct, and in the same moment felt a new kind of darkness gather round him. He knew now that throughout the confrontation with Pitman his despair had never been absolute. There had always been that scintilla of hope, of belief that an oldster with a three-piece suit and a Santa Claus complexion could not actually pull the trigger—but the man from the filling station came into a different category altogether. With him there could be no reprieve.
That is CORRECT!
Again the communication sledged into Jerome with near-physical force, serving as a carrier for other patterns which impressed themselves directly upon his brain. He was compelled to view himself through the eyes of his adversary—weak, cowardly, contemptible, ignorant, insignificant. There was no hatred for Jerome in that other mind, for the simple reason that he was too unimportant. He was nothing more than a temporary inconvenience.