"Such as what?"
"Fear of being identified too soon. At this stage, they don't want to be recognized and pursued. They need time to do whatever they've come here to do."
"Since you're so well-informed," commented Jameson, ' Perhaps you can reveal their purpose in coming."
"God alone knows; but it's a dirty one. Why else should they try do it on the sly? An honest.motive warrants an open approach."
"You may be making the very same mistake that you've just tied onto me," said Jameson. "You're weighing them up in human terms. That's not a good way of judging alien purposes, is it?"
Harper sniffed his contempt. "In so far as their actions affect us, we must look at them from our own viewpoint. It may well be that they are justifiably rated as the greatest adventurers and biggest patriots in Venusian history. But if their loyal shenanigans are going to cost me a toenail, they're a trio of prize stinkers so far as I'm concerned."
"I agree with you there."
"All right. Now that old geezer at the filling station cannot possibly finger them for the murder of Alderson. The most he can do with respect to that is point suspiciously. His evidence wouldn't hang them in a month of Sundays" He leaned forward, gaze intent. "But what he can do is exactly what we're trying to get him to do right now. He can look at three pictures, give the nod and start the hunt. There's only one sure way to prevent him, and that is by closing his trap for keeps before it's too late."
"That's clear enough reasoning," said Jameson, "but it has one major flaw."
"What is it?"
"All the news.channels have publicized details of both the Alderson and Whittingham killings. Everyone from coast to coast knows that you're wanted for the latter, and suspected of the former. The three fugitives know that they fit in this picture and that, in any event, your witness's description of them would fit a thousand others. There's nothing whatever in the news to suggest the remotest likelihood of a witness being shown photographs dug out of confidential files in Washington. So why should they deduce that possibility?"'
"Because I shot down the Whittingham girl."
"I don't understand," confessed Jameson, frowning.
"Look, I've given you the facts as I saw them. They picked up that girl for some reason or other — probably because the opportunity presented itself, and they wanted to try their technique. Anyway, they turned her into another of their own kind. She ceased to be Jocelyn Whittingham, but continued to masquerade as such. Don't ask me how it was done because I don't know, and can't guess."
"Well?"
"The big question now is: were they able to learn and remember that girl's Earth-identity? Or was it something they failed to record — either because they viewed it as of no consequence, or because it — was incomprehensible to them?"
"Go on," Jameson encouraged.
"If they don't know her identity, the news of her death will mean nothing to them. It will look just like any other sordid murder, and they won't realize that they're linked with it in any way. But if they do know her identity—"
"For crime's sake, don't keep me in suspense," pleaded Jameson.
"The killing will get them onto their roller skates and going at top speed. They'll want to know why she was killed. They can see with half an eye that real knowledge of their presence will inevitably be linked with that space-expedition, and they'll be eager to find out whether there's time to break the linkage by cutting a couple of throats."
"Including yours."
"Yes. I'm the sacrificial goat. The news-channels have shouted my name and address all over the shop, and invited them to come and get me — if they can. It won't be a quick death, either."
"What makes you say that?"
"So far as I can guess, they've one weapon, and one only — but it's a formidable one. They can double as human beings, without possibility of detection except by some freak like myself. It's of the greatest importance to them to find out how I did it; they can't counter, a menace without knowing the nature of it. They will have to get the truth out of me in any way it can be done. Otherwise, there's no telling how many more people can tag them, or when the next moment will be their last. Their lives wouldn't be worth living."
"Telepaths aren't ten a penny," Jameson pointed out. "You've said so yourself."
"But they don't know that. They're left guessing, in circumstances where no guess is too farfetched. To them, it might well be that every red-haired human can smell them — and there are a deuce of a lot of redheads around. They've got to know how it's done."
"You're no carrot-top," said Jameson, "but if someday we find you lying around without your scalp we'll consider it fair evidence of your veracity."
"Thanks," conceded Harper. "You boys have a good time over my body. Enjoy a few hearty laughs, while there remains something to snicker about. Won't be long before you'll wish you were me!"
"You know I was only ribbing. I—"
He grabbed the phone before it had time to give a proper whirr, held it to his ear. Harper came to his feet, looking anticipatory.
"Same as before," Jameson told him, replacing the instrument and reaching for his hat. "They want us over at once. We might as well have stayed there in the first place."
"Something has broken," declared Harper, as they hustled outside and clambered into the car. "If those pics had proved to be duds, they'd have said so, with acid for sauce. They wouldn't drag us ten blocks merely to tell us the check proved a flop."
8. Conscripted
There were only two men waiting this time. One had stem, leathery features famous throughout the world: General Conway, tall, gray-haired, distinguished. The other one was Benfield, now decidedly grim.
"So!" rumbled General Conway, fixing Harper with a cold eye. "You are the mind-reader?"
"Putting it that way makes me seem like a vaudeville act," said Harper, far from overawed.
"Quite probably," agreed the general, thinking it wasn't so far removed, either. He examined the other carefully, from the shoes up, letting his gaze linger longest on a pair of thick and exceedingly hairy wrists. His mental diagnosis was not flattering: it determined the subject to be a powerful and presumably intelligent man, who would have the misfortune to look like an ape when in officer's uniform. Too broad, squat and hirsute to fit the part of a captain or colonel.
Harper said informatively, "That's nothing; you ought to see me naked. I resemble a curly rug. Hence the word rugged."
The general stiffened authoritatively. Jameson looked appalled. Benfield was too preoccupied to have any reaction.
"If you know what is in my mind, there's little need to speak," declared General Conway. "What does it tell you?"
"An awful ruckus has started," replied Harper, without hesitation. "And I'm certified sane."
The other nodded. "Your witness has confirmed that the men in that car were the same three who set out for Venus about eighteen months ago. The F.B.I, is following their trail forward and backward, and already has found two more witnesses who say the same." He rested on a table-edge, folded his arms, gazed steadily at his listener. "This is a most serious business."
"It'll get worse," Harper promised, "if that is any consolation."
"This is a poor time for levity," reproved the general. "We are treating the matter with the importance it deserves. All forces of law and order in the west are combining in an effort to trace that Thunderbug back to its starting-point, in the hope that the ship may be located in that area. A forward trace is also being made, despite the fact that it's likely to prove futile, the machine having been abandoned by this time."