“A traveler,” said the alien, his voice grating harshly in the darkness. “I need lodging and food.”
The farmer’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he peered from the doorway. “Where are you from? Come into the light, here, let me get a look at you.”
The alien stepped closer, concentrating all his psi-power on the farmer’s mind, blurring his perception of the minute imperfections of his disguise. It was far harder than he had expected, it required all his concentration, and he had none left to probe the farmer’s mind. No problem, though, he thought as he waited, trembling. That would come later.
The farmer blinked, and nodded, finally. “Well, all right then,” he grumbled. “I suppose we can find some food for you. Come on in.” And he stepped back for the alien to enter.
Secretary of Medical Affairs Benjamin Towne slammed his cane down on the floor with a snarl, and eased himself back in his seat, staring angrily around the small Federal Security Commission anteroom. His aide, a Cabinet attache standing near the door, retrieved the cane and handed it back to Towne with a polite murmur, then regretted his action instantly when the secretary began whacking it against his palm, short staccato slaps that rang out ominously in the small room. The secretary was not in the habit of waiting; he did not like it in the least, and made no effort to conceal his feelings. His little green cat eyes roved around the. room in sharp disapproval, resting momentarily on the neat auto- desk, on the cool gray walls, on the vaguely disturbing watercolor on the wall—one of those nauseating Psi-High experimentals that the snob critics seemed to think were so wonderful. The secretary growled and blinked at the morning sunlight streaming through the muted glass panels of the northeast wall. Far below, the second morning rush hour traffic buzzed through the city with frantic nervousness.
The secretary tapped his cane on the floor, glancing up at his aide. “That Sanders girl,” he snapped. “Give me her file again.”
The aide opened a large briefcase, produced a thick bundle of papers in a manila folder. Towne took them, and glanced through the papers, chewing his lower lip. “How about Dr. Abrams and the rest of the Hoffman Center crowd that are involved? Were they questioned?”
The aide nodded in embarrassment. “We tried, but they ran us around in circles.”
Towne’s scowl deepened. “Did you give him the treatment?”
“Dr. Abrams just didn’t scare. He said if you wanted to call a full-scale Congressional investigation of his work with the Psi-Highs, and then serve him with a subpoena, he’ll testify; otherwise, he said, you’d better stay off the Hoffman Center’s back.”
“Stubborn old goat,” Ben Towne grumbled. “He knows I haven’t got anything that would stand up in a Congressional probe.” The secretary went back to the Sanders file, still tapping the floor with the cane. “Where is that Roberts? I can’t wait here all day!”
The aide glanced down at Benjamin Towne with some curiosity. It was easy to see how the man had gained and held a Cabinet seat, and a powerful voice in the government, even though he opposed the President’s views in regard to the training of Psi-High citizens. There was something overwhelming about his appearance—the heavy jaw and grim mouth line, the shock of sandy hair that fell over his forehead, the burning green eyes, the stout, well-muscled withered left leg and the grotesque twisted foot, and he looked away in embarrassment. What was so awe-inspiring about a crippled man who accumulated great power? Towne certainly had done that. Some said that Ben Towne was the most powerful politician in the country since Senator Dan Fowler had died. Some even said that he was the greatest man, but that was something quite different indeed. And some said he was the most dangerous man in the Western Hemisphere, bar none. The aide shivered. That was none of his business. If he went probing that line too far, they’d be calling him Psi-High, and he liked his job too much to risk that.
The inner door opened, and a tall man with prematurely gray hair strode in, followed by a girl in her early twenties. “Sorry to hold you up, Mr. Secretary,” the man said. “No, no, don’t get up—we can talk right here.”
Towne had made no effort to rise. He glared at the Federal Security chief, and then his eyes drifted angrily to the girl. “I said I wanted a private conference, Roberts. I don’t want one of these brain-picking snoopers in the same room with me.”
Bob Roberts shook his head as the girl turned to leave. “Sit down, Jean. Mr. Secretary, this is Jean Sanders. If you want to talk to me about the search for this alien, I want her to sit in.”
Ben Towne slowly set the papers down on the floor. “Record this, if you please,” he said to his aide. His eyes turned to Roberts. “I understand the alien slipped out of your hands again yesterday,” he said with vicious smoothness. “A pity.”
Roberts reddened. “That’s right. He slipped away clean.”
“No pictures, no identifications, no nothing, eh?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Towne’s voice was deadly. “Mr. Roberts, we both know that an unidentified creature totally alien to this planet made a landing three weeks ago and has been at large in this country, completely at large, ever since, and your Federal Security people haven’t even gotten near him. I want to know why.”
“I’d suggest that if you read our reports—”
“Look, man, I didn’t come here for insolence!” Towne slammed the cane down with a clatter.
“You’re answerable to the Congress and Cabinet of the North American States for every wretched thing you do, and I’m ready to bring charges of criminal negligence!”
“Criminal negligence!”
The Security chief stared at him. “Mr. Secretary, we’ve thrown everything we have into this search. The creature has played us for fools, every step of the way! We didn’t even, get a look at his ship; it blew up right in our faces! Do you realize what we’re fighting here?”
“I realize quite well,” said Towne, frostily.
“You’re fighting an alien creature who has slipped into our population, somehow, and just vanished. There’s no guessing why he’s here, what he wants, or what he’s doing; there’s no guessing anything about him, what powers he might have, what nature of beast he might be, or anything else. The very fact that he has sneaked in like a thief in the night suggests that his intentions are not benign, and until he is caught and interrogated, somehow, the potential threat of his presence is simply staggering. So what have you guardians of the nation done? For three weeks you’ve fumbled and alibied without even turning up a warm trail. You don’t even have a coherent description of him.”
“We’re fighting a telepath,” Roberts said softly.
“An alien with telepathic powers such as we’ve never dreamed of. That’s what we’re fighting. And we’re not winning, either.”
The girl across the room stirred uneasily. Ben Towne’s green eyes shot over to her viciously. “And you’re using freaks like her to help hunt for him, I suppose. Or to help hide him, for all I know. If he’s a telepath, then he’s one of their kind.”