“This ray had the effect of giving the six passengers and the bus driver in the vehicle it touched enormous strength and virtual indestructibility. This became evident when, late yesterday afternoon, Benjamin Farr, one of the passengers on the bus, attempted to board a fast freight three miles outside of Stockton.
“He fell under the wheels. The Medical Examiner has stated that at least five sets of wheels passed over the boy. He died of a crushed throat. Though his body, except for the throat, was virtually unmarked, the wreck of the freight train tied up east-west traffic on four sets of tracks for nearly five hours.
“Of the six passengers and the bus driver, the following are now in custody — Stanley H. Weaver, the bus driver. He is being held at Loma for experimental work with the permission of the authorities. Miss Jennilou Caswell, Civil Service stenographer, under guard at her apartment. Mrs. Harry Thompson, widow, now at the General Hospital.
“Still at large are Addison McGoran, hired killer, and a young man and young woman whose names, up to the moment of this broadcast, are not yet known. Following are the descriptions of McGoran and the other two. If you should see anyone meeting this description, please phone the police immediately. Warning. These three people may be dangerous. McGoran certainly is.”
Bill Dorvan gingerly turned the dial, shutting off the radio. He gave Shirley a weak smile. “Now we’re news, baby.”
“What will we do, Bill?”
“I say, let’s go to Loma. Maybe they know what they’re doing. I’m sure the cops won’t.”
Tom Bellbight slouched into Dickinson’s office. This time he got immediate attention. “Well?” said Dickinson.
“Hardness tests show no fluctuation. He can stand heat that would blister you or me. Much less susceptible to fatigue. I’ve rigged up a few special tests. Whatever it is, it isn’t fading a bit. We checked the samples and my guess is right. Acceleration of electron orbits. I don’t know what to do next.”
“If they can only round up those three, the heat will be off us, Tom. The old lady is suing. So’s the bus company. That’s the only two so far.”
The communication box buzzed. Dickinson pushed the switch down, said, “I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed. What! Send them right in.”
He grinned at Bellbight. “Two of the missing three. A Mr. Dorvan and a Miss Sanger.”
“We’ll clamp onto them,” Bellbight said, “and run them through the same tests I’ve been giving Weaver.”
“Shall we tell the police?”
“I think so. They won’t want them. They don’t want people who can walk out of their cells like tanks going through a barracks.”
“Why haven’t you been running the tests on the Caswell girl?”
Tom Bellbight, surprisingly, flushed. “She’s a little unraveled at the edges. Tough on her, you know.”
“Don’t tell me that such a confirmed misogynist—”
“Just call me an amateur psychiatrist, Dick. Jennilou was in one of those graves open at both ends, commonly called a rut. The walking dead. This is shocking her out of it. She might turn out to be a person.”
Dickinson assumed an official glare. “Which is more important, Tom? Getting Loma into the clear on this thing or your personal social experiment.”
Bellbight yawned. “A long time ago, Dick, I decided that I was a rebel. The only way I could acquire immunity from people who like to give orders was to acquire specialized knowledge. Ever since then I’ve done exactly as I please. Take it or leave it. Is that too blunt?”
The girl opened the door and Shirley Sanger and Bill Dorvan came into the office. They walked with care. Dorvan rubbed his stubbed chin apologetically. “Need anything lifted or bent?”
“We can’t tell you how much we appreciate your coming here like this and we can’t tell you how sorry we are that this happened,” Dickinson said.
“In some funny way, maybe it’s a good thing,” Shirley said, glancing at Bill Dorvan.
“At least,” said Bellbight, “life hasn’t been dull for you. My name is Bellbight. You two deserve facts. As of the moment, after working with the driver, Mr. Weaver, I can say that there is no diminution of this new aspect. I am at a loss as to what can be done through laboratory means to alter it.”
Dorvan swallowed hard. “That seems straight enough. It gives a guy a pretty — lonesome feeling.”
“Like we were from Mars or something,” Shirley said.
“You are willing to cooperate?” asked Dickinson.
“We’re here, aren’t we?” Shirley said sharply.
“Fine. You’ll report to Tom Bellbight here. You’ll be given rooms in the lab workers’ annex.”
“How about this McGoran guy?” Bill asked.
“No clue as to where he might be so far. But he’ll give himself away. You can be sure of that,” Dickinson answered.
“Do you remember the dark girl on the bus?” Bellbight asked.
Shirley nodded. “Shy kid. Pretty prim. Scared. Say this must be pretty rugged for her.”
“It is. I’d like to have you sort of become a mother hen. She’ll be better off around another woman similarly affected. I’ll talk her into coming over here.”
Ad McGoran sat in the room he had rented in Bell City and grinned as he read the newspapers, heard the speculation over the radio. They were stupid, all of them. That talk about the beard being a giveaway. He stroked his smooth chin. His face was pink and slightly sore. It had meant three hours of work with a hand mirror but he had plucked out every last hair.
And all that stuff about giving himself away. Nonsense! All he had to do was keep his head. No sudden movements. Touch everything gently. Don’t let anyone brush against his rock-hard body in a crowd.
He left the room to eat and buy newspapers. And his mind was busy. There were so many possibilities. Single-handed he could take over an armored bank car or break through the wall of any building. But that made money too easy. There should be something bigger and better.
Power was the answer. There was a purpose behind all this. If he went after the dough they’d get to work on him. Big guns and gas and possibly electric shock. No, the thing was evident. Take over from the inside. Fix it so that his superiority would be recognized.
But that couldn’t be done alone. He thought back over the people in the bus. The driver was good material. And that guy with the hangover. He looked sore at the world. The big blonde would join him too. Not the timid little black-haired one who had sat in front of him. Four of them could do it. Take over — declare that a new type of human was going to be boss from now on — threaten political assassinations — carry out a few to put the fear of God in the others.
The kid was dead and the old lady was too bossy. It had to be the driver and the one with the hangover and the blonde. The paper said that all three were at Loma. And so the idea was to get to them during the night. A little conference — it wouldn’t take long to make them understand.
The four of them — that was the picture. Ad McGoran would be the boss — the big boss. And the blonde was nice. Sanger — that was her name. He could take over and the other two would follow orders and the blonde would be beside him. No petty thefts. No bank jobs. Start right at the top.
Mrs. Thompson caught the lip of the beer can between the fingernails of her thumb and first finger and stripped it off delicately. She drained the can and frowned. Didn’t seem to be any body to the beer any more. More like a gas than a liquid. Hardly able to feel it on her tongue.
When the beer was finished she crumpled the can like a paper cup and threw it in the general direction of the white enamel wastebasket in her hospital room.
The nurse came in, only half able to conceal her distaste. She said distantly, “You have visitors, Mrs. Thompson.”