“The Kalla and the Shen were unsatisfactory. Their egocentricity was not deep enough. They admitted too quickly that there might be room in the universe for more than one race. We’ll never admit that. There must be an enemy! And when all other dutiful enemies fail us through lack of resistance our enemy becomes our brother.
“Go now — I talk too much. Here are your orders. Move slowly. When you are certain of secrecy in that twin world I will order you to set up a technical service there and perform the necessary tests. Then we shall build the labs underground.”
Lofta walked slowly to the tube, his face thoughtful. He stepped into the carrier, lay down and pressed the series of buttons for the trip pattern. The curved lid closed quickly and the carrier moved into the tube, gathering speed. The whine of the wind came quietly to his ears.
So lost was he in thought over what the Chief had said that when the carrier nudged gently to rest at the Center Agent Station of which he was monitor he became aware of his surroundings with a start of surprise.
The guards took him into the identity lab and he submitted quietly to the retinagram, body heat analysis, cerebral measurement and reflex index. Each test was graded as a series of magnetized areas on the test plate. At the lab exit the test plate was slipped along with his own permanent master plate into the grader. The yellow light which flashed indicated no slightest degree of deviation.
Lofta went to his own office and sat with his face in his hands for quite a long time.
Martha Kaynan knew that it had been a bit stupid to accept the Raymonds’ invitation. She knew that she would have very little in common with them. Quinn French’s phone call had come an hour after she had received the wire from Fran Raymond. Hearing Quinn’s voice on the phone it was almost possible to forget that he was definitely an unwholesome type.
But the way things had been going lately — maybe the trip would do some good.
She was a small girl with brown hair that sometimes glinted red in the sunlight. Her eyes were a soft and smoky aqua and her mouth had a childish look. A careless observer might think her a quite low-pressure little girl, possibly a bit dull. But the careless observer missed the lift of the chin, the directness of the eyes, the squared shoulders, the determined walk.
There had been a series of perfectly innocuous young men who would make fine husbands — for someone else. Each idea that this might be love had melted under close scrutiny. At one time she had thought it would be Quinn French. But he turned out to be a bit easy to read. And now she accepted the invitation because the one who had looked the best of the lot had suddenly begun to bore her.
She didn’t know what she wanted and the knowledge at twenty-six was beginning to disturb her. She had a small income and to supplement it she modeled, wrote ten-cent-a-line poetry that was a shade too precious and reviewed the cinema for a quarterly which had but recently acknowledged the existence of such a medium.
Lately she had found herself taking stock too often. The inventory was always unsatisfactory. A smallish girl with a rounded and nearly perfect figure — health and fastidiousness and a knack of making light conversation. The world was full of a number of things. Why then for the past three — no, four years had everything been so absolutely and excruciatingly dull?
And for a time she had thought that this week on the Texas coast might be just as dull as everything else. Quinn had picked her up at the Harlingen Airport in his convertible. Aside from the fact that his driving had become considerably slower and more sane she could see no difference in him. Maybe just a tiny, tiny touch more maturity. But after all a full year had passed and even the Quinn Frenches of this world have a tendency to grow up.
When she saw Mrs. Raymond she understood a bit more of Quinn’s affection for this duo. Fran Raymond was both statuesque and exotic. Her husband was dark and slight and not particularly good looking. She sensed that it was intended that her role was that of diverter of the suspicion of Jerry Raymond. So be it.
But on this second morning, as she let the sun bake her, she was conscious of being intrigued by some sort of mystery involving the Raymonds and Quinn French. They acted as though they had some enormous secret. And, during the first dinner at the rather pathetic little shack they called a house she had sensed that they seemed almost to be talking to each other without saying a word. Of course that was absurd. Maybe Quinn had known the pair of them for longer than he had let on.
And once over coffee Quinn had looked at her while she was wondering about their relationship and as he had done so an absolutely frightful pain had driven right through her head. It had made her gasp and for some strange reason Quinn had immediately looked quite guilty. Maybe the fool was taking up yogi or hypnotism or something.
Anyway it was damn poor hospitality, no matter how you looked at it. She couldn’t help but feel that they were wishing the week was over and that Martha Kaynan would go home.
She rolled up onto one elbow and looked back up toward the house. Quinn had most uncleverly stuck the nose of the car right into a sand dune when he had driven her to the house. He was by the car. The chrome made bright glints in the sun. She shaded her eyes just in time to see Quinn reach over casually, brush the sand away from the front bumper and just as casually lift the entire front of the car and swing it over to one side and let it down.
Martha lay back on the sand quickly. She told herself that she hadn’t seen any such a thing. A mirage — or the sun was affecting her mind.
When he had gone she went up quite casually and examined the tire marks. The results made her feel extremely dizzy. It was then that she heard the voices of Fran and Jerry from inside the house. They were talking together and Martha was immediately quite certain that it was some Oriental tongue.
Quinn was far down the beach. She walked rapidly after him. When she called to him he stopped and turned.
“Quinn,” she said firmly. “I demand to know what this is all about.”
“About? All about what?”
“I thought I knew you pretty well, Quinn. What have you been doing in the past year?”
“Nothing very unusual.”
She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “No? Where did you learn to make my head hurt just by staring at me? That’s twice you’ve done it and I don’t like it. It feels like a nasty hand grubbing away inside my head. And who are these friends of yours?
“I heard them talking a foreign language and it wasn’t any language I ever heard before. And I saw you pick up the front end of an automobile with one hand. Quinn, I think you’ve been messing around with one of those nasty thought-control cults and I want to know all about it. Immediately!”
Amro studied the girl’s face. There was something so violent and possessive about her anger that he wanted to laugh. Those eyes were a most unusual shade. They’d give the substitution crews a lot of trouble duplicating them.
“Baby, you’d better get out of this hot sun,” he said. “It can make you imagine all sorts of things.”
“The sun doesn’t bother me a bit,” she said.
He watched her fall, then picked her up in his arms. As he carried her into the house to put her on the couch she stirred and glared up at him.
“You did that to me, Quinn French, and don’t try to deny it. There’s something queer about the three of you. My great grandmother used to tell me about people who sold their souls to the devil. What have you done to yourself, Quinn?”