Langston had technicolor delusions; inanimate objects came alive in his hands; THEY were persecuting him, out to get him ... what a relief it was to know he wasn't going insane! The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Telenizer, by Don Thompson This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Telenizer Author: Don Thompson Illustrator: VIDMER Release Date: May 28, 2010 [EBook #32574] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TELENIZER *** Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net The Telenizer By DON THOMPSON Illustrated by VIDMER [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction March 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When I saw the blood dripping from the tap in the bathtub, I knew that someone had a telenosis beam on me, and I breathed a very audible sigh of relief. During the past few days, I had begun to wonder if I was really cracking up. When you start seeing visions of a bearded gent with a halo, or having vague but wonderful dreams about some sort of perfect world, feeling intense loyalties to undefined ideals, and experiencing sudden impulses, sometimes cruel and sometimes kind—you know that something's wrong. At least I do. If he—whoever he was—had just kept up the slow, subtle pace he'd maintained for the past two or three days, he would have had me in a little while. For whatever he wanted. But now, he'd overplayed his hand. I knew, at least, what was going on. Who was doing it, or why, I still didn't know —nor whether I could stand it, even knowing. The thick, bright red blood dripping steadily from the water tap in the bath tub wasn't so bad. I stood before the mirror, with my softly humming razor in my hand, and I watched the blood ooze from the tap, quiver as it grew heavy and pregnant, then pull itself free and fall with a dull plonk to the enamel as another drop began to form. That wasn't so bad. But my sigh of relief became a gurgle of almost hysterical apprehension as I braced myself for what might come, with the telenizer knowing that I was aware. There was something I could do—should do—but my mind refused to focus. It bogged down in a muck of unreasoning terror and could only scream Why? Why? Why? The drops of blood from the water tap increased both in size and rapidity, as I watched. Heavy, red, marble-sized tears followed one another from the tap, plonk, plonk, plonk, splashing in the tub and on the floor. Faster and faster, and then the drip became a flow, a gush, as though the vein of some giant creature had been slashed. The tub filled rapidly, and blood flowed like a crimson waterfall over the edge and across the floor toward me. I heard a tiny howling, and looked down. I screamed and threw the soft, brown, fuzzy, squirming puppy-thing that had been a razor into the advancing tide of blood. The fuzzy thing shattered when it hit the blood, and each of the thousand pieces became another tiny puppy-thing that grew and grew, yapping and swimming in the blood. The tide was now rising about my shoes. I backed away from the mirror, trembling violently. I forced myself to slosh through the thick blood into the bedroom, groping for a bottle of whisky on the bureau. "What the hell are you doing here?" the boss asked when I opened his office door and peeked in. "You're supposed to be in Palm Beach. Well, damn it, come on in!" I clung to the door firmly as I maneuvered myself through the opening. And when I closed the door, I leaned back against it heavily. I could see the boss—Carson Newell, managing editor of Intergalaxy News Service—half rising from behind his big desk across the room; but he was pretty dim and I couldn't get him to stay in one place. His voice was clear enough, though: "Must be mighty important to bring you back from.... Damn it, Langston, are you drunk?" I grinned then, and said, "Carshon. Carton. Old boy. Do you know that telenosis therapy is no sonofabitchin' good on alcoholics?" Carson Newell sat back down, frowning. I stumbled to a chair by the corner of his desk and gripped the arms tightly. "Telenosis therapy," I repeated, "is just no—" "Snap out of it," Newell barked. "It's no good on dumb animals, either, and you're probably out of range by now, anyway." He took a small bottle from his desk and tossed a yellow Anti-Alch pill across the desk to me. I popped it into my mouth. It didn't take long to work. A few minutes later, still weak and a little trembly, I said, "Would have thought of that myself, if I hadn't been so damn drunk." The boss grunted. "Now what's this business about telenosis?" "Somebody's been using it on me," I said. "Maliciously. Damn near drowned in a lake of blood from a water faucet." "Couldn't have been DTs?" "I'm serious. It's been going on for three or four days now. Not the blood. That's what gave it away. But other things." "You've been working pretty hard lately," Newell reminded me. "Which is why I'm on vacation and all nice and relaxed. Or at least, I was. No, it's not that. Listen, Carson, I admit that I'm no technical expert on telenosis. But a long time ago—seven or eight years ago, I guess—I did a feature series on it. I learned a little bit. Enough to save my life this time." Newell shrugged. "Okay. You probably know more about it than I do. I just know it's damned restricted stuff." He paused thoughtfully. "Any missing telenizer equipment would cause a helluva fuss, and there hasn't been any fuss." "No machines in Palm Beach or vicinity that somebody on the inside could be using illegally?" And then I answered that question myself: "No ... I doubt it. The machines are used only in the larger hospitals." "Don't suppose you have any hunches?" I shook my head slowly, frowning. "You couldn't really call it a hunch. Just a bare possibility. But I noticed on a news report the other day that Isaac Grogan—you know, 'the Millionaire Mayor of Memphis,' released about a month ago, bribery and corruption sentence—anyway, he's taken up temporary residence in Palm Beach." The boss rubbed his chin. "As I recall, you did an exposé series on him four or five years ago. Corroborated by official investigation, and Grogan was later sentenced. You thinks he's after revenge?" I raised a hand warningly. "Now, hold on—I said it was a bare possibility. All I know is that Grogan hates my guts—or might think he has some reason to. I know that Grogan is in Palm Beach, and that I've been under telenosis attack. There's no necessary connection at all." "No," Newell said. "But it's something to start on." He looked at his wrist watch. "Tell you what. It's nearly noon now. Let's go out for lunch, and while I'm thinking, you can tell me all you remember about telenosis." It's altogether possible that you may have no more than barely heard of telenosis—its technical details are among the most closely guarded secrets of our time. So I'll go over some of the high spots of what I told Newell. Mind you, I'm no authority on the subject, and it has been a full seven years since I have done any research on it. However, I learned all I know from Dr. Homer Reighardt, who, at the time, was the world's outstanding authority. Telenosis, nowadays, is confined almost exclusively to use in psychiatric hospitals and corrective institutions. It's used chiefly on neurotics. In cases of extreme dementia, it's worthless. In fact, the more normal you are, the more effective the telenosis. Roughly—without going into any of the real technicalities—it's this way: Science has known for a long time that electrical waves emanate from the brain. The waves can be measured on an electroencaphalograph, and vary with the physiological and psychological condition of the individual. Extreme paranoia, for example, or epilepsy, or alcoholism are accompanied by violent disturbances of the waves. Very interesting, but.... It wasn't until 2037 that Professor Martin James decided that these brain waves are comparable to radio waves, and got busy inventing a device to listen in on them. The result, of course, was telenosis. The machine that James came up with, after twenty years of work, could not only listen in on a person's thoughts, which are carried on the brain waves, but it could transmit messages to the brain from the outside. "Unless the waves are in a state of disturbance caused by alcohol or insanity or some such thing?" Newell commented. I nodded. "The word 'telenosis' comes from 'hypnosis,' doesn't it?" "Yes, but not very accurately," I said. "In hypnosis, you need some sort of visual or auditory accompaniment. With telenosis, you can gain control of a person's mind directly, through the brain waves." "You say 'gain control of a person's mind,'" Newell said. "Do you mean that if you tell someone who is under telenosis to do something, he's got to do it?" "Not necessarily," I said. "All you can do with telenosis is transmit thoughts to a person—counting visual and auditory sensations as thoughts. If you can convince him that the thoughts you're sending are his thoughts ... then you can make him do almost anything. But if he knows or suspects he's being telenized—" "I'm with you," Newell interrupted. "He still gets the thoughts—visions and sounds or what have you—but he doesn't have to obey them." I nodded. My mind was skipping ahead to more immediate problems. "Don't you suppose we ought to notify Central Investigation Division right away? This is really a problem for them." But Newell was there ahead of me. "So was the Memphis affair," he said. I raised my eyebrows. "Meaning," the boss continued, "that I'd like to give your hunch a play first." "But it's not even a hunch," I objected. "How?" "Well, by having you interview Grogan, for instance...." I opened my mouth and almost shook my head, but Newell hurried on. "Look, Earl, it's been a long time since Intergalaxy has scored a good news beat. Not since the Memphis exposé, in fact. Remember that? Remember how good it felt to have your name on articles published all over the world? Remember all the extra cash? The fame?" I grunted. "Now before you say anything," Newell said, "remember that when you started on that case you didn't have a thing more concrete to go on than you have right now—just a half a hunch. Isn't that right? Admit it!" "M'm." "Well, isn't it worth a chance? What can we lose?" "Me, maybe. But...." The boss said nothing more. He knew that if he let me do the talking, I'd soon argue myself into it. Which I did. Five minutes later, I shrugged. "Okay. What, specifically, do you have in mind?" "Let's go back to the office," Newell said. It was just a short walk. Or, I should say, it would have been a short walk, if we had walked. But New York was one of the very last cities to convert to the "level" transportation system. It had been one hell of an engineering feat, but for Amerpean ingenuity and enterprise nothing is impossible, so the job had finally been tackled and completed just within the past year. And the novelty of the ambulator bands on pedestrian levels was still strong for native New Yorkers. So instead of leaving the restaurant on the vehicle level, where we happened to be, and taking an old fashioned sidewalk stroll to the IGN building, Newell insisted on taking the escalator up to the next level and then gliding along on an amband. That's just the sort of person he is. When we got back up to his office, he asked, "Isn't there some sort of defense against telenosis? I mean, other than alcohol or insanity?" I thought for a moment. "Shouldn't be too hard to devise one. All you need is something to set up interference vibrations on the same band as the brain waves you're guarding." "Sounds simple as hell. Could one of our men do it?" "A telenosis technician at one of the hospitals could do it quicker," I suggested. "Without the sanction of C.I.D.? I doubt that." "That's right," I agreed. "Okay. I'll run down to Technology and see what we can work out. It may take two or three days—" "I'll see that it gets top priority. I want you to get back to Palm Beach as soon as you can." As I was getting up to leave, Newell said, "Say, by the way, how's that health cult in Palm Beach—Suns-Rays Incorporated? Anything on that?" Suns-Rays Incorporated was one of the chief reasons I was taking my vacation in Palm Beach, Fla., instead of in Sacramento, Calif., my home town. Carson Newell had heard about this crackpot religious group that was having a convention in Palm Beach, and he couldn't see why one of his reporters shouldn't combine business and pleasure. And maybe that tells you a little more of the sort of person he is. "It's a complete fraud," I told him. "They worship a glorified sunlamp and take regular treatments. Same time, they follow a strict diet and system of exercises—have their own little spot on one of the beaches. Guaranteed to cure what ails you." "Who's the head?" Newell asked. "How many are there?" "About twenty-five or thirty members, I'd say. That's not counting the few curiosity-seekers, like me. And nobody in particular seems to be in charge right now. I guess the big boss died, and they're holding this confab to elect a new one. Supposed to have the elections today, come to think of it. There's a great big scoop I missed." "Any real news value in it?" I shook my head. "Feature story, maybe, but it's pretty run-of-the-mill stuff, even at that." "Well, stay with it," Newell said. "Just in case nothing pops on this telenosis deal. And get that defense mech as soon as possible." "Do I get a real vacation after this is all over?" I asked, knowing what the answer would be. "Scram," Newell replied. "I'm a busy man. Get going!" Late afternoon of the next day, my defense mechanism was ready. They had taken a reading of my brain wave with a makeshift electroencaphalograph, and then a couple of electronics boys had tinkered around until they had a gadget that would throw out vibrations on exactly my wave-band. Of course, not having any telenosis equipment, we weren't able to make a real check of the contraption's effectiveness. I had to take the technologists' word that it would work. Frankly, I didn't feel any too well defended as I hopped the five o'clock stratoliner back to Palm Beach. The defense mech was enclosed in a black case that looked like a portable radio or a portable typewriter or a small suitcase. When you opened the lid, there was a flat surface having only one dial—for volume. The vibrations had a radius of about three-quarters of a mile. It was after six when I got back to my hotel. I had Grogan's address, and he wasn't too far from where I was staying— but Grogan is not the sort of person on whom you make a business call after business hours. My confidence in the defense mech hadn't grown, but I knew of another sure-fire defense, so after dinner I went to the bar to start setting it up. But I lugged the thirty-pound portable along, anyway, wishing that it looked a little more like a briefcase instead of a typewriter or a radio. Not that it really mattered, though. I could have carried an open bird cage with a live and screaming Calypsian grimp, odor and all, and still not have attracted any attention—because it wouldn't have been any more unusual than some of the guests at the hotel. For a student of interplanetary biology, this would be a perfect observation post. There aren't many forms of extraterrestrial life that can accommodate themselves to Earth's conditions, but there are spots that go out of their way to provide suitable conditions for anything that comes along, and this was one of them. In the two weeks I had been here, I had seen only one Calypsian dominant, and he didn't happen to have a grimp with him. But there were a pair of Uranian galgaque—squat, gray, midget honeymooners—who smelled just as bad. They left a few days after I got here. Then there had been at least half a dozen flimsy, ethereal little Venusians at one time or another, dragging themselves around and looking unhappy as hell. None of them stayed more than a few days, and they spent most of their time in the water. I noticed one or two hairy, apelike dominants from Jupiter's third moon, and a few of the snaky, scaly, six-limbed creatures from the second. In addition, there was a group of Vega VI dominants who were hard to distinguish from humans if you didn't look closely enough to notice their complete hairlessness and the absence of neck. And of course there were the inevitable Martians—giant, big-chested, spindly-limbed, red-hued parodies of humanity; friendly, good-natured and alert. But I don't really suppose they should be classed among the oddities of the place. As one of my colleagues commented in a national publication not long ago: "The only place a Martian is a novelty any more is on Mars." I fully expect the 2080 census to show a Martian population on Earth more than double that of the home planet. So far, the Martians seem to be the only extraterrestrials who've really taken root here. And that's a problem, too. But how the hell did I get off on that? I was finishing my second martini, sitting in a booth with my feet propped on the seat opposite me and catching snatches of a conversation between an Earth girl and a Vega VI Romeo at a nearby table. It was pretty unsavory conversation, and I guess I was shaking my head sternly when a shadow fell over me. "Another of the same," I said, looking up—but it wasn't the waiter. It was an enormous, red-skinned, balloon-chested, white-togaed Martian, and his little wrinkled face was smiling like I was long-lost Uncle Eddie whom he hadn't seen for forty years. When he threw open his long, spindly arms and screeched a loud, "Ahh!" I was beginning to think maybe I was. "Mr. Langston!" he shrilled. "How gladly to see you! Where been? We missing you colossal!" Then he slapped one fragile hand against his protruding chest, looked up at the ceiling and squeaked: "Clean living and Suns-Rays Incorporated!" He looked at me again, smiling. "Huh?" I said. "Oh, yeah. Sure as hell. Clean living and Suns-Rays etcetera. Damn right. Pull up a chair, Blek, old boy." As far as I'm concerned, one Martian looks pretty much like another; but now I recognized this one. There was only one extraterrestrial in the little screwball health-cult with which I had become rather loosely acquainted in the past two weeks, and this was him. I moved my feet and Zan Matl Blekeke sat down, exuding sunshine and clean living all over the place. We ordered drinks. He was elated as blazes about something, and I decided I might as well let him tell me about it—and knowing the typical Martian's haphazard use of the English language, I regarded the prospect as something of a challenge. Zan Blekeke started right in telling me about it in his shrill, piping tones: "Ah, Mr. Langston, wrong time go. Where been? Should have been meeting. I derelicted resident. Ha! Expected, yups?" I replied, "Nups. Let's start over again. Something pretty damn important?" He nodded. "SRI meeting? Yesterday?" He nodded again, smiling to beat hell. I thought for a moment, then tried a shot in the dark, illogical as it was. "You lost your home? Derelicted resident?" He looked like I'd stepped on his sore corn. I tried again. "You don't mean you were kicked out of the group?" He winced. "Oohhh, nooo! Opposition. Opposition." "You mean there was too much opposition to your being kicked out, so you weren't?" He slumped in his seat and regarded me balefully. With the pathos of a squeaky hinge, he said: "Head man. Top dog. Derelicted resident. Boss. Wheel. Me. Zan Blekeke." And if I didn't get it now, I just didn't deserve to know. But I got it. "You were elected president?" I said. Zan Blekeke nodded gratefully. "Yus and so. Undeserving awful, but...." He heaved his chest in resignation. "No. Not at all," I protested. "Why, I think that's wonderful. You're just the man for the job! Have another drink." We ordered more drinks, and the Martian continued: "Membership obviousless that whatsoever I closest intimute of Dear Late Doctor—" here he raised his eyes again and clapped a hand to his chest before he finished—"I should wallow in step-tracks." "Why, absolutely," I agreed emphatically. "No question about it." From talking to some of the SRI members after meetings or at beach sessions, I had gained the definite impression that Zan Blekeke had been a sort of a servant to "Dear Late Doctor," and would continue to be a servant to whoever was elected in his place. But instead, they had elected the Martian himself. Logical, in a cockeyed way. This was the first time I'd ever really talked to him. I'd seen him at the few meetings of SRI I had attended, but he had seemed pretty quiet there, letting others do most of the talking. He was in charge of administering the daily Sun-Ray treatments, which I had taken once or twice myself just for the experience; but on those occasions, he had been very cold and professional. Closest intimute of Dear Late Doctor.... I had never been able to find out much about the Doctor. He was too sacred a subject for any of the members to even talk about. Of course, I hadn't tried very hard, because I wasn't especially interested in this assignment—I was supposed to be on vacation. Now that a successor had been chosen, I wondered if the show was over and everyone could go home. I asked Blekeke about it. "Not while yet," he replied. "Colonial could be. All live one. Dear Late Doctor—" hand to heart, face to Heaven, Amen —"often told wanted colossal." It wasn't too clear, but I nodded anyway. Frankly, my interest in the whole thing was at a very low ebb. With the drinks and the effort of untangling Blekeke's twisted English, I was becoming listless and sleepy. But he insisted on knowing where I had been when the meeting was held. I told him I'd had to hurry back to New York for a conference with my publisher. He said, "Ah, yes. Writer." He pointed to the defense mech on the seat beside me. "That typer?" "Huh? Oh, no ... that's a portable radio. Carry it around with me, in case the conversation gets dull." I was at the point where I didn't care much what I said. He must have taken it as a gentle hint, because in a little while he got up and left, shrilling: "So gladly seeing you. Wanted know." I nodded and waved a limp hand at him. As I was passing the desk on the way up to my room, the clerk called, "Mr. Langston, Mr. Langston. Long distance call for you, sir. I was just ringing your room. You can take it in a booth there, if you wish, sir." I nodded and walked to the row of vp booths. Closing the door, I sat down in front of the screen and picked up the mike. The visiphone screen lighted and the speaker crackled. The chubby face and shoulders of Carson Newell took form and floated on the plate. "Wanted to be sure you got the latest dope on Grogan before you see him," Newell said. "Just now got the report." "Go ahead," I said. "Well, then—" The boss looked up from his note pad. "About how long had the telenosis been on you? How many days?" "H'm. Don't know. It's hard to tell, if it's handled right. Weird nightmares, daydreams, absent-mindedness, sudden impulses, optical illusions—it can be telenosis, and it can be just you. I'd say three or four days, but—" "Wouldn't necessarily prove anything, anyway," Newell broke in. "Here's the report on Grogan. Been out of Corrective for a little more than a month now. Went directly to Memphis. Cleared up business affairs there, then went to Palm Beach for vacation. Arrived late Tuesday afternoon—four days ago. Took a suite in Space Verge hotel with four quote secretaries unquote, and has refused to see anyone. No unusually large baggage. No unusual activities reported. So much for that." He turned a page of the note pad and went on: "Corrective Institute record: responded favorably to treatment. Occupational training in administrative accounting. Special courses in business and political ethics. Now get this—it's the one thing that gives your hunch any credibility at all. Three months intermittent telenosis therapy for slight paranoiac tendencies. Response favorable. Dismissed from C.I. after five years, three weeks and six days. Classification: Apparent cure, but possibility of relapse." We were both quiet for a while, looking at each other. Then I said, "Well, I'll see him tomorrow. Remember, it's nothing but a hunch—not even that." "Be careful, dammit," Newell cautioned. ... I woke up sometime in the early morning, before it was light, with a clicking noise in my ears. I lay there in bed, gazing into the darkness, wondering, yet knowing, what would happen if the defense mech should break down—if a tube should give out, or if some little coil should prove defective. The clicking stopped after a while, but it was a long time before I got back to sleep. I had no trouble getting an interview with Grogan. I'd known I wouldn't. It was a simple matter of calling his suite and telling the loose-mouthed, scar-cheeked "secretary" who answered that Earl Langston would like to make an appointment with Isaac Grogan for, say, 10:30. "Grogan ain't seein' nobody," the secretary growled. "Ask him," I said. The face vanished and reappeared on the screen a few moments later. "Okay. Come up anytime you're ready." "Fifteen minutes," I said, and replaced the mike. I turned up the volume of the defense mech as high as it would go, and left it in my room when I left. The same hideous secretary, with the loose jowels and the deep, livid scar on his right cheek, met me at the door of Grogan's suite. "Th' boss'll see you in th' library," the bodyguard rumbled, and led me to the room. The door closed, but did not click behind me. Isaac Grogan was slouched on a sofa, hands in his pockets, looking at the floor. I stood for a moment, looking at him. He had changed only a little in five years. He was a big man with a broad, pleasant face and thick black hair. A deep dimple divided his chin. The last time I'd seen him, he had been getting a little paunchy, and there had been wrinkles developing in his neck and bags under his eyes. But that had been from strain and worry, and he looked a lot better now. "You're looking well," I told him. "What the hell do you want?" Grogan said quietly. "Why can't you leave me alone? I don't want any trouble." "Neither do I." And suddenly I felt very awkward. What the hell did I want? Just exactly what had I expected to accomplish with this visit? I didn't really know. I cleared my throat. "I've got one question, Grogan. Maybe two. Then I'll leave." He looked at me. "Do you still blame me for what happened in Memphis?" I asked. Grogan shifted his position and gave a sort of half-laugh. "Langston, I've never liked you, and I don't now. But I can't say that I blame you for the Memphis mess—if I ever did. Now, what's your other question?" "Telenosis," I said. He waited, looking straight at me. "Well? What about it?" "According to your C.I. record," I said, "you had three months of intermittent telenosis therapy." He shrugged. "That's right. Lots of people do. You still haven't asked your question." "Yes, I have," I replied. "I'll leave now. Thanks for your time." The gorilla-secretary was opening the front door for me, when Grogan spoke again. "Langston." I turned around. Grogan was standing in the door of the library. "Langston," he repeated. "I don't know what your angle is. I don't know why you came here, or whether you got what you wanted. Furthermore, I don't care much. Five years ago is not today, Langston. I've changed. Just the same, I don't believe I want to see you again. I don't like you. Okay?" I said, "Okay," and left. Back in my hotel room, I first turned down the volume of the defense mech, then sat down at the visiphone and put in a call to New York. The pudgy image of Carson Newell appeared. "I'm stumped," I told him. "What's the matter? Did you see Grogan?" "Yeah. Just now." "Well?" "Nothing. I'm stumped. He's completely changed. If there was ever a case of full and complete correction, I'd say Grogan is it." Newell tapped his fingertips together, then shrugged impatiently. "Well, hell, I don't think we're getting anywhere on this. I'll turn it over to the C.I.D. and let them worry about it." "So what happens now?" I asked. "What am I supposed to do?" "Take a vacation. But hang on to that defense mech. Stay in Palm Beach and contact me pronto if anything happens. Buzz me at least once a day, even if anything doesn't happen." He started to put down the mike, then lifted it again. "How's the SRI?" "Oh, that. I'll whip out a story on it in a couple of days." "No hurry. Find out all you can about it. Give you something to do while you're waiting around." He put down the mike and faded from the screen. So I promptly did my damnedest to forget all about Isaac Grogan and telenosis. I spent the rest of the day at the beach, sprawled out on the hot sand with the defense mech beside me and an army of people—humans and aliens— surrounding me. Only once, at about four o'clock, did the defense mech start going click-click-click. I timed it. It lasted three minutes and then quit. When I got back to the hotel, at about five, a man fell into step with me as soon as I entered the lobby. "Name's Maxwell," he told me. "C.I.D. I'm one of your bodyguards for a while." "How many others do I rate?" I asked. He was a tall, heavily built young man in his middle twenties. He carried a briefcase. We headed for the elevator. "Only one," he replied, "but he'll stay pretty much out of sight. He'll join us in your room after a while. We have to ask you a lot of questions." The other bodyguard, who slipped into my room without knocking twenty minutes later, was shorter, thinner and older. He was bald except for a gray fringe, and his name was Johnson. The C.I.D. men spent a half-hour checking for hidden mikes and cameras before they said much of anything. Then they plopped down on the edge of the bed, and the young man opened his briefcase. The older one said, "Have your dinner sent up here. We'll get started on some of these questions right away." The questions were both exhaustive and exhausting. The older man, Johnson, fired the questions, and Maxwell wrote down the answers, occasionally inserting an inquiry of his own. They wanted to know everything—not only about my telenosis experiences and my knowledge of and contacts with Isaac Grogan, but everything I had done, said or thought during the past two weeks, everyone I had met and talked to, and everything we had talked about. At the end of three and a half hours, I felt completely pumped out, and Maxwell had a sheaf of notes the size of a best- seller. Johnson said, "Well, I guess that'll do for a starter. We'll have another session tomorrow." He took the notes from Maxwell and put them in Maxwell's briefcase. He stood up. "I'll have these transcribed and maybe check around a little. I'll meet you here at six-thirty tomorrow night." "What about—" I started. He cut me off: "Maxwell will stay with you. He's not to let you out of his sight. In case anyone asks, he's your brother-in-law from Sacramento." I couldn't help laughing—but it was an admiring laugh. "You fellows are nothing if not thorough. Does my real brother- in-law, John Maxwell of Sacramento, know about this?" I was curious. It was Maxwell who answered. "Your brother-in-law received a long-distance emergency call from you at noon today, telling him to join you immediately. Vision-reception was fuzzy, but he recognized your voice and took the first strato. I changed places with him in Denver, where I happened to be stationed, and he was smuggled back home. He's with his family, but he'll have to stay in for a few days." I shook my head. "It's marvelous. Thoroughness personified. Say, I'll bet you fellows even thought of getting defense mechanisms ... but where are they?" Johnson and Maxwell looked at each other, jaws hanging. "Well, I'll be damned!" Johnson said bitterly. "Thoroughness personified! Son of a...." He slapped his hat on his bald head and dashed out the door without looking back. Maxwell grimaced. He got up from the bed and walked to an easy chair and sat down again. "Well, Irvin Johnson will take care of that little detail. But it's going to take time...." "It would have taken time anyway—a day or so—even if you'd thought of it first thing," I said. "Besides, there's no danger until they find your wave-band, and that takes time, too." But he remained disconsolate. Not because of the danger, but simply because they'd overlooked an angle. Under a system in which the agents are given maximum responsibility for details and planning, that would count heavily against them on their records. I almost felt guilty for reminding them. I said, "John, look—if all else fails, there's one sure quick defense. Alcohol. I would say that under the circumstances, since you're supposed to be protecting me, we should keep you as well defended as possible." "M'm?" "You do drink, don't you?" I asked. "Like a fish," Maxwell said, lunging to his feet. When we were back in the room, Maxwell said: "Hell, I don't see that telenoshis is such a damn menash to society, if all you have to do is get drunk." "You want a nation of alcoholics?" I said. I sat down on the bed and untied my shoes. "Anyway, whasha difference? D. T. horrors or 'noshis horrors? Whash worse?" Maxwell grunted. We both had to sleep in the same bed, and Maxwell was a restless sleeper. I had finally crept into the lower depths of slumber, where it was warm and snug, when he poked me sharply in the ribs. "What's that?" he demanded. He was sitting up. "What's what?" "Listen!" I heard it. Click-click-click.... "What time is it?" I asked. My eyes were still closed, and I was damned if I was going to open them. "Three fifty-seven. But what is—" "Defense mech," I said. "Right on time. Every twelve hours. Tries to get me. Now go sleep." I rolled over and shut my eyes even tighter—but I couldn't get all the way back to sleep. Not back down to the warm, dark depths. It was a long time before Maxwell even lay back down, and he rolled and twisted for the rest of the night. At six o'clock, he fell into a deep, quiet slumber, and I was wide awake, damn him. So I got up and dressed. I found a news magazine I hadn't read, and occupied myself with it for an hour. Practically the entire issue was devoted to an analysis of the Martian immigration. It went way back into history and discussed the folklore fear that humans had for centuries about a Martian invasion. And it pointed out that something very like a Martian invasion was taking place right now. One particular article concluded with what I considered an unnecessarily grim warning that unless something were done soon to check the flow of immigrants, Earth would soon be overrun with Martians. Other articles in the magazine went into the causes and implications of the migration. One of the writers pointed out that Mars is a dying planet. In only a few thousand years, it will be too cold, too dry and too airless to support life. The development of interplanetary travel a century earlier had provided the inhabitants with a means of escape. They could survive on Earth; now they could get to Earth; so they came to Earth. One full article was devoted to the debates and pending legislation in World Council on the subject, but I didn't take the time to read it. I was fairly familiar with the current controversy, having followed the daily news reports, and besides, the reading was giving me a headache. At seven o'clock, I considered going down for breakfast, but it occurred to me that it would be another black mark against Maxwell if I should be seen without him. Forgetting about the defense mech was enough for one case. So I ordered breakfast brought up to the room. While I was waiting, and since I was sitting near it anyway, I flicked the TV switch and tuned in on the morning's news. Nothing earthshaking: a factory explosion in St. Louis; political unrest in India; death of a Vegan millionaire; speech in The World Council by Delegate Machavowski of Eurasia in support of the Bagley-Dalton bill to establish a yearly immigration quota of ten thousand from all planets, one thousand from Mars; protest reply by a Martian sociologist at Yale; spacecruiser crashed on Calypso, twenty killed. And so on and so on. My attention was held momentarily by the Martian question, since I was freshly informed on it. While the two views of the issue did nothing to settle it in my mind, they did serve to remind me of my Martian friend, Zan Matl Blekeke, and the fact that I was supposed to be digging up a feature story on Suns-Rays Incorporated. "What's on the agenda for today?" my pseudo-brother-in-law asked as I was finishing my coffee a half-hour later. He rolled out of bed, yawned and scratched his head vigorously. His hair was rumpled, but he looked rested, and I envied him to beat hell. "You mean it's up to me?" I asked. "Sure. You just go on with your normal everyday existence and ignore me, like I'm nothing but a shadow." He was still stretching lazily. "Well, for the first thing, I'm going to see that we get a cot in here. There isn't room in that bed for both of us." Maxwell grinned as he buttoned his shirt. "D'I kick you out of bed? Sorry. Should have warned you." "Do you eat breakfast?" I asked him. "Hell, yes. Like a wolf." "Well, let's go down and get you some breakfast while I figure out my agenda for today." I wasn't sure what I wanted to do—start working on that SRI feature, I supposed, so I could get it out of the way and either relax or concentrate on this telenosis business, which I was supposed to be forgetting about. I had most of the dope I needed for the story—atmosphere, first hand experience.... Everything, it occurred to me, but the essential facts. For instance, I would need to know more about Zan Blekeke himself—simple biographical data that shouldn't take too long to gather. A harder job would be finding out about "Dear Late Doctor." So far I didn't even know what his name was. And if none of the SRI members would talk about him.... As Maxwell and I sat at a breakfast room table, I made a mental checklist of the points I would have to work on. I was staring out the window at the flowers staging a color-riot in the garden, when suddenly Maxwell said: "Say, Earl, about how long does it take to find out a guy's brain wave band?" "Huh? What do you mean?" I looked at him. He was shoveling pancakes into his mouth like a fireman stoking a furnace. He shrugged and swallowed. "You said there was no danger from telenosis until they found my wave band. Well, last night I had the damnedest nightmares, and I was just wondering—" "Relax," I said. "Ever been telenized?" "Not that I know of." "Got nothin' to worry about, then. If you had been telenized, it's just possible they could have gotten your band number from the Telenosis Bureau. Which, by God, come to think of it, is where they probably got mine. But without that, or an electroencaphalograph, it'd take weeks, at least." "But can't it influence a lot of people at once? I mean, like mass hypnosis?" "Sure be hell if it could," I said. "But I don't think it can. I don't know why not, but I definitely remember old Doc Reighardt saying it'd never been done." He seemed to feel better. He finished his breakfast in relative silence. I was able to map out a general procedure for gathering all of the necessary SRI information. First step was to get hold of Zan Blekeke again and have him tell me his life history. I shuddered at the prospect, but it had to be done. "We're going to East Emerson beach," I told John Maxwell. On the way, aboard a third-level bus, I asked him, "SRI ever been investigated by you people?" "Damn if I know. Why?" "Never mind. Save me a lot of trouble, maybe, if it had. Just a thought." We found the SRI cultists at their usual place on the beach. It was a stretch on the far south end, a rough, gravelly portion quite a bit beyond the army of regular bathers. As we approached, threading our way through the maze of umbrellas, tablecloths and people, people, people in practically all stages of nudity, I noticed that a makeshift rope fence enclosed the little group of SRIs where they were sprawled out doing their relaxing exercises. That was something new—the fence, I mean. I started to crawl through the ropes, and one of the nearby recliners jumped to his feet, stood in front of me and made pushing motions with his hands. "I'm sorry, sirs, but this is a meeting of The Suns-Rays Incorporated religious group. You are requested not to enter." Now, he knew better than to say a silly thing like that to me. His name was Monte Bingham, and he knew damn well who I was, and I told him so. "I'm practically an ex-officio member in good standing myself," I said. "Wake up, you goof." Monte Bingham turned slowly around and looked toward the big Martian, Zan Blekeke, who was sitting up with his spindly legs outstretched near the center of the enclosure. Blekeke got to his feet and waddled toward us, waving Bingham aside. He was not smiling. He stood glaring at us. "Whose?" he said with a swift, half-gesture toward Maxwell. "Whose?" I repeated. "He's mine. I mean, he's my brother-in-law, John Maxwell, come to visit me from Sacramento. He's okay. What's going on? I just wanted to make an appointment to talk with you." Blekeke heaved his big round bare chest. "Trying still disciple in," he replied. "How's that? Discipline, you mean?" "Yups. Laters out. Strangers out. No excepting. Can't." "Yeah, but you know me, and John here—" "Brother law oaks, but both laters. See hall hour halfish. Talk then. Treatment, yups?" I said, "Well, I guess that'll be okay. Hour and a half, at the hall, huh?" Blekeke said, "Yups," and turned away. He took two steps and stopped. I saw his spine stiffen. His head turned slowly toward the water's edge where two dogs were running circles around each other, not far from the enclosure. As the dogs moved, Blekeke's head moved with them, back and forth and back again.... Suddenly one of the dogs, the smaller one—a black and white spaniel with flapping ears—turned and raced through the SRI compound, bounding gracelessly over the sprawled bodies of SRI members. The larger German shepherd gave two woofs and leaped playfully in pursuit. They passed within about ten feet of Blekeke. When the German shepherd barked, I heard a thin, drawn-out squeak, like a mouse with his tail caught in a trap, come from Blekeke. He turned around with incredible speed and took a half-step in our direction. His face was distorted as though in pain, and for an instant I thought he had stepped on a jagged piece of glass or something. But then I recognized the expression on his face. It was not pain. It was terror. I noticed now that he was trembling violently. He twirled again and started in the opposite direction, stopped and turned swiftly around once more. He acted as though he were surrounded on all sides by invisible Martian-eaters. The dogs paused at the edge of the enclosure for a moment to stand on their hind legs and exchange playful blows; then they raced off together toward the more densely populated beach area. Blekeke's face suddenly relaxed, and with a final shudder he controlled the trembling. He was muttering: "Doggie, doggie, doggie" when he lowered his eyes to us, and he gave a little start as if he hadn't known we were standing there. "Hall. Hour halfish," he said after a moment's pause. Then he turned and walked rapidly back into the midst of the prostrate SRI members and lay down. Maxwell and I exchanged glances and walked away. I felt, all of a sudden, rather sad and depressed. When we had gone a respectable distance, I said, "Poor devil! Fear of dogs. It must be awful." "Fear of dogs? Cynophobia? You think that's what it was?" "Well, sure," I replied. "Only thing it could be." Maxwell said, "First case I've ever seen of it." "Me, too." It was still not quite ten o'clock. We killed the next hour and a half basking in the Sun and taking occasional dips in the water. We had to go one at a time, because one of us had to stay and guard the defense mech. At 11:30 we kept our appointment with Blekeke. He was alone in the SRI hall, a long, low, metal building located a half-mile down the beach from the general bathing area. The hall had once been a storage warehouse of some kind—I have no idea what kind. But that had been a long time ago; and it was now used exclusively for SRI meetings. There was another building near it, the ramshackle, rambling mansion of a long-dead millionaire, which had been appropriated by the SRI as housing quarters for the members who did not care to stay in rooms or hotels in town. And most of them didn't. Maxwell was interested in the house, but I couldn't tell him anything about it. I had never been in it, whereas I had been in the hall several times. Of course, there was nothing much to explain about the hall—it was practically bare. The Sun Ray stood like an altar at one end. About thirty-five folding chairs were lined up in rows facing the Ray. That was all. Blekeke was doing something to the lamp part of the Ray when we came in—tightening the bulb, apparently. It was a very simple contraption. Nothing but a padded, white-sheeted reclining table suspended over the full length of which was the lamp. The thing was operated by a bank of controls wired up a few feet away from the table. "Infra-red heat lamp," Maxwell whispered. "Sure," I said. "But don't say so." Blekeke saw us and jumped down from the platform and greeted us with open arms, apologizing for his rude behavior on the beach. I told him to forget about it; that I just wanted to ask him a few questions so I could write up my story about SRI—give him a little free publicity. Blekeke beamed. Said he'd be glad to help all he could. But before I had a chance to ask any questions, he was blabbering: "Give treatment. New, improve. Much healthier. Give try." And he was pushing us toward the machine. I was not the least bit interested in taking a treatment, and I tried to tell him so, as kindly as I could. But he was insistent. Finally we agreed to take the treatment, hoping he would get it out of his system. I handed the defense mech to Maxwell and lay down. Couldn't tell a damn bit of difference. Ten minutes of warmth and dozy relaxation, and that's it. You don't feel a bit different after it's over than you did before. Unless you're a good cultist, and convince yourself by auto-suggestion that all your bodily ills have been miraculously— if temporarily—baked out. After Maxwell had been given the treatment, I tried again to get Blekeke pinned down to answering some of my questions, but it was no good. He was obliging, cooperative and friendly as hell, but his heart just wasn't in it. He had to tell us about the improvements in the Ray, and when I threw specific questions at him, he always managed to answer with some reference to the Ray and start all over again—and it was all pure gibberish. I gave up. We parted with mutual benedictions, and John Maxwell and I walked away, toward the one-track road leading to the old mansion. "What do you do in a situation like this?" I asked him. He shrugged. "Try somebody else." We walked up the front steps of the mansion, and I punched the doorbell. It was no go there, either. The cultist who opened the door, whom I remembered as a shoe salesman from Boise, informed us firmly and none too politely that no one could enter without the explicit and written permission of President Matl Blekeke. He showed no sign of recognizing me. He slammed the door. I gave emphatic utterance to an unprintable word and said, "Let's go back to town." Johnson showed up in the room promptly at six-thirty, as he had promised, again slipping in without knocking. He threw his briefcase and his hat on the bed and pulled up a chair to the cardtable where Maxwell and I were playing chess. "How about the defense mechs?" Maxwell asked. "Hospital in New York is working on 'em," Johnson said. "Promised they'd have 'em ready tomorrow morning. I'm going up tonight, after I get through here, so I can pick 'em up right away." "Quick work," I said. "Any new developments on this end? I've been too busy today getting things organized to keep an eye on you." "Every twelve hours Langston's defense mech starts clicking," Maxwell said. "Four o'clock this morning and four o'clock this afternoon." "So he's not giving up on you, anyway," Johnson said. "We know he's still around. What else? Anything new come up?" I shrugged. "Spent the whole day on a wild goose chase—from my point of view. Trying to dig up information for my feature about Suns-Rays Incorporated." Johnson nodded. "No luck, huh?" I told him about the so-called interview with Blekeke that morning, and how in the afternoon I had tried to contact those SRI members who I knew had been living in town. That had been futile, too; all of them had moved to the house on the beach. Then Maxwell and I had spent a couple of hours in the library, checking reference books for some mention of SRI or any of its members. With no results. Johnson recognized...