“You did nothing,” Leo said. He set the suitcase down. “Damn that Chew-Z,” he said, to both of them, the suitcase and the girl. “It’s made everything confused; I don’t know what the hell’s going on. You’re not Zoe—you don’t even know who she is. And you—you’re not Dr. Smile, and you didn’t call Barney, and he wasn’t talking to Roni Fugate; it’s all just a drug-induced hallucination. It’s my own fears about Palmer Eldritch being read back to me, this trash about him being under Prox influence, and you, too. Who ever heard of a suitcase being dominated by minds from an alien star-system?” Highly indignant, he walked away from them.
I know what’s going on, he realized. This is Palmer’s way of gaining domination over my mind; this is a form of what they used to call brainwashing. He’s got me running scared. Carefully measuring his steps, he continued on without looking back.
It was a near-fatal mistake. Something—he caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye—launched itself at his legs; he leaped aside and it passed him, circling back at once as it reoriented itself, and picked him up again as its prey.
“The rats can’t see you,” the girl called, “but the glucks can! You better run!”
Without clearly seeing it—he had seen enough—he ran.
And what he had seen he could not blame on Chew-Z. Because it was not an illusion, not a device of Palmer Eldritch’s to terrorize him. The gluck, whatever it was, did not originate on Terra nor from a Terran mind.
Behind him, leaving the suitcase, the girl ran, too.
“What about me?” Dr. Smile called anxiously.
No one came back for him.
On the vidscreen the image of Felix Blau said, “I’ve processed the material you gave me, Mr. Mayerson. It adds up to a convincing case that your employer Mr. Bulero—who is also a client of mine—is at present on a small artificial satellite orbiting Earth, legally titled Sigma 14-B. I have consulted the records of ownership and it appears to belong to a rocket-fuel manufacturer in St. George, Utah.” He inspected the papers before him. “Robard Lethane Sales. Lethane is their trade-name for their brand of—”
“Okay,” Barney Mayerson said. “I’ll contact them.” How in God’s name had Leo Bulero gotten there?
“There is one further item of possible interest. Robard Lethane Sales incorporated the same day, four years ago, as Chew-Z Manufacturers of Boston. It seems more than a coincidence to me.”
“What about getting Leo off the satellite?”
“You could file a writ of mandamus with the courts demanding—”
“Too much time,” Barney said. He had a deep, ill sense of personal responsibility for what had happened. Evidently Palmer Eldritch had set up the news conference with the ‘pape reporters as a pretext by which to lure Leo to the Lunar demesne—and he, precog Barney Mayerson, the man who could perceive the future, had been taken in, had expertly done his part to get Leo there.
Felix Blau said, “I can supply you with about a hundred men, from various offices of my organization. And you ought to be able to raise fifty more from P. P. Layouts. You could try to invest the satellite.”
“And find him dead.”
“True.” Blau appeared to pout. “Well, you could go to Hepburn-Gilbert and plead for UN assistance. Or try to contact—and this sticks in the craw even worse—contact Palmer or whatever’s taking Palmer’s place, and deal directly with it. See if you can buy Leo back.”
Barney cut the circuit. He at once dialed for an outplan line, saying, “Get me Mr. Palmer Eldritch on Luna. It’s an emergency; I’d like you to hurry it up, miss.”
As he waited for the call to be put through, Roni Fugate said from the far end of the office, “Apparently we’re not going to have time to sell out to Eldritch.”
“It does look that way.” How smoothly it had all been handled; Eldritch had let his adversary do the work. And us, too, he realized, Roni and I; he’ll probably get us the same way. In fact Eldritch could indeed be waiting for our flight to the satellite; that would explain his supplying Leo with Dr. Smile.
“I wonder,” Roni said, fooling with the clasp of her blouse, “if we want to work for a man that clever. If it is a man. It looks more and more to me as if it’s not actually Palmer who came back but one of them; I think we’re going to have to accept that. The next thing we can look forward to is Chew-Z flooding the market. With UN sanction.” Her tone was bitter. “And Leo, who at least is one of us and who just wants to make a few skins, will be dead or driven out—” She stared straight ahead in fury.
“Patriotism,” Barney said.
“Self-preservation. I don’t want to find myself, some morning, chewing away on the stuff, doing whatever you do when you chew it instead of Can-D. Going—not to Perky Pat land; that’s for sure.”
The vidphone operator said, “I have a Miss Zoe Eldritch on the line, sir. Will you speak to her?”
“Okay,” Barney said, resigned.
A smartly dressed woman, sharp-eyed, with heavy hair pulled back in a bun, gazed at him in miniature. “Yes?”
“This is Mayerson at P. P. Layouts. What do we have to do to get Leo Bulero back?” He waited. No response. “You do know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” he said.
Presently she said, “Mr. Bulero arrived here at the demesne and was taken sick. He’s resting in our infirmary. When he’s better—”
“May I dispatch an official company physician to examine him?”
“Of course.” Zoe Eldritch did not bat an eye.
“Why didn’t you notify us?”
“It just now occurred. My father was about to call. It seems to be nothing more than a reaction to the change of gravity; actually it’s very common with older persons who arrive here. We haven’t tried to approximate Earth gravity as Mr. Bulero has at his satellite, Winnie-the-Pooh Acres. So you see it’s really quite simple.” She smiled slightly. “You’ll have him back sometime later today at the very latest. Did you suspect something else?”
“I suspect,” Barney said, “that Leo is not on Luna any longer. That he’s on an Earth-satellite called Sigma 14-B which belongs to a St. George firm that you own. Isn’t that the case? And what we’ll find in your infirmary at the demesne will not be Leo Bulero.”
Roni stared at him.
“You’re welcome to see for yourself,” Zoe said stonily. “It is Leo Bulero, at least as far as we know. It’s what arrived here with the homeopape reporters.”
“I’ll come to the demesne,” Barney said. And knew he was making a mistake. His precog ability told him that. And, at the far end of the office, Roni Fugate hopped to her feet and stood rigid; her ability had picked it up, too. Shutting off the vidphone he turned to her and said, “P. P. Layouts employee commits suicide. Correct? Or some such wording. The ‘papes tomorrow morning.”
“The exact wording—” Roni began.
“I don’t care to hear the exact wording.” But it would be by exposure, he knew. Man’s body found on pedestrian ramp at noon; dead from excessive solar radiation. Downtown New York somewhere. At whatever spot the Eldritch organization had dropped him off. Would drop him off.
He could have done without his precog faculty, in this. Since he did not intend to act on its foresight.
What disturbed him the most was the pic on the ‘pape page, a close-up view of his sun-shriveled body.
At the office door he stopped and simply stood.
“You can’t go,” Roni said.
“No.” Not after previewing the pic. Leo, he realized, will have to take care of himself. Returning to his desk he reseated himself.
“The only problem,” Roni said, “is that if he does get back he’s going to be hard to explain the situation to. That you didn’t do anything.”
“I know.” But that was not the only problem; in fact that was barely an issue at all.
Because Leo would probably not be getting back.