Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (131 page)

In a short time a flood of
Calls
hit the streets. Simultaneously a long chain of small-town papers took the same news off their wire service, broke into a rash of two-inch head-lines.

Space Platform In Sky.

Ours or Theirs?

Late in the following morning Harrison ploughed doggedly through routine work. At one side of his office Rider sat with columnar legs stretched straight out and read slowly and carefully through a wad of typed sheets.

The wad was the fruit of legwork done by many men. It traced, with a few gaps, the hour by hour movements of one William Jones known to be not the real William Jones. He’d been seen wandering around Northwood like a rubbernecking tourist. He’d been seen repeatedly on the main street and examining its shops. He’d been seen in a supermarket around the time a customer’s purse had been stolen. He’d eaten meals in cafes and restaurants, drunk beer in bars and taverns.

Ashcroft, Jackson and another teller remembered a Joneslike stranger making idle inquiries in the bank the week preceding the robbery. Letheren and his guards recalled the mirror-image of William Jones hanging around when they made the previous collection. Altogether, the tediously gathered report covered most of the suspect’s time in Northwood, a period amounting to days.

Finishing his perusal, Rider closed his eyes, mulled the details over and over while his mind sought a lead. While he was doing this a muted radio sat on a ledge yammered steadily, squirting across the office the reduced voice of an indignant commentator.

"The whole world now knows that someone has succeeded in establishing an artificial satellite up in the sky. Anyone with a telescope or good binoculars can see it for himself at midnight. Why, then, does authority insist on pretending the thing doesn’t exist? If potential enemies are responsible, let us be told as much—the enemies already know it, anyway. If we are responsible, if this is our doing, let us be told as much—the enemies already are grimly aware of it. Why must we be denied information possessed by possible foes? Does somebody think we’re a bunch of irresponsible children? Who are these brasshats who assign to themselves the right to decide what we may be told or not told? Away with them! Let the government speak!”

“Yeah,” commented Harrison, glancing up from his work, “I’m with him there. Why don’t they say outright whether it’s ours or theirs? Some of those guys down your way have a grossly exaggerated idea of their own importance. A hearty kick in the pants would do them a lot--” He shut up, grabbed the phone. “Northwood police.” A weird series of expressions crossed his lean features as he listened. Then he racked the phone, said, “It gets nuttier every minute.”

“What’s it this time?”

“Those seeds. The laboratory can’t identify them.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. They can’t be expected to know absolutely everything.”

“They know enough to know when they’re stuck,” Harrison gave back. “So they sent them to some firm in New York where they know everything knowable about seeds. They’ve just got a reply.”

“Saying what?”

“Same thing—not identifiable. New York went so far as to squeeze out the essential oils and subject remaining solids to destructive distillation. Result: the seeds just aren’t known.” He emitted a loud sniff, added, “They want us to send them another dozen so they can make them germinate. They want to see what comes up.”

“Forget it,” advised Rider. “We don’t have any more seeds and we don’t know where to find ’em.”

But we do have something darned peculiar,’ Harrison persisted. “With those seeds we sent a pink, transparent wrapper, remember? At the time I thought it was just a piece of colored cellophane. The lab say’s it isn’t. They say it’s organic, cellular and veined, and appears a subsection of the skin of an unknown fruit.”

"... A tactic long theorized and believed to be in secret development
,"
droned the radio. “Whoever achieves it first thereby gains a strategic advantage from the military viewpoint. ”

“Sometimes,” said Harrison, “I wonder what’s the use of getting born.”

His desk-box squawked and announced, “Fellow named Burge Kimmelman waiting for you, chief.”

“Send him in.”

Kimmelman entered. He was dapper, self-assured, seemed to regard his rush to the aid of the law as a welcome change from the daily routine. He sat, crossed his legs, made himself at home and told his story.

“It was the craziest thing, captain. For a start. I never give rides to strangers. But I stopped and picked up this fellow and still can’t make out why I did it.”

“
Where
did you pick him up?” asked Rider.

“About half a mile this side of Seeger’s filling station. He was waiting by the roadside and first thing I knew I’d stopped and let him get in. I took him into Northwood, dropped him, pushed straight on to the city. I was in a hurry and moved good and fast. When I got there I walked out the car park and darned if he wasn’t right there on the other side of the street.” He eyed them, seeking comment.

“Go on,” Rider urged.

“I picked on him then and there, wanting to know how he’d beaten me to it. He acted like he didn’t know what I was talking about.” He made a gesture of bafflement. “I’ve thought it over a dozen times since and can take it no further. I
know
I gave a lift to that guy or his twin brother. And it wasn’t his twin brother because if he’d had one he’d have guessed my mistake and said so. But he said nothing. Just behaved offishly polite like you do when faced with a lunatic.”

“When you were giving him this ride,” asked Harrison, “did he make any informative remarks? Did he mention his family, his occupation, destination, or anything like that? Did he tell you where he’d come from?”

“Not a word worth a cent. So far as I know he dropped straight out of the sky.”

“So did everything else concerned with this case,” remarked Harrison, feeling sour again. “Unidentifiable seeds and unknown fruit-skins and— He stopped, let his mouth hang open, popped his eyes.

"... A vantage-point from which every quarter of the world would be within effective range,” gabbled the radio. “With such a base for guided missiles it would be possible for one nation to implement its policies in a manner that
—”

Getting to his feet, Rider crossed the room, switched off the radio, said, “Mind waiting outside, Mr. Kimmelman?” When the other had gone, he continued with Harrison, “Well, make up your mind whether or not you’re going to have a stroke.” Harrison shut his mouth, opened it again, but no sound came out. His eyes appeared to have protruded too far to retract. His right hand made a couple of meaningless gestures and temporarily that was the most he could manage.

Resorting to the phone, Rider got his call through, said, “O’Keefe, how’s the artificial satellite business down there?”

“You called just to ask that? I was about to phone you myself.”

“What about?”

“Eleven of those bills have come in. The first nine came from two cities. The last pair were passed in New York. Your man is moving around. Bet you ten to one in coconuts that if he takes another bank it’ll be in the New York area.”

“That’s likely enough. Forget him for a moment. I asked you about this satellite rumpus. What’s the reaction from where you’re sitting?”

“The place is buzzing like a disturbed beehive. Rumor is rife that professional astronomers saw and reported the thing nearly a week before the news broke. If that’s true, somebody in authority must have tried to suppress the information.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask me,” shouted O’Keefe. “How do I know why others do things that make neither rhyme nor reason?”

“You think they should say whether it’s ours or theirs seeing that the truth is bound to emerge sooner or later?”

“Of course. Why are you harping on this subject, Eddie? What’s it got to do with you, anyway?”

“I’ve been made vocal by an idea that has had the reverse effect on Harrison. He’s struck dumb.”

“What idea?”

“That this artificial satellite may not be an artificial satellite. Also that authority has said nothing because experts are unwilling to commit themselves one way or the other. They can’t say something unless they’ve something to say, can they?”

“I’ve got something to say,” O’Keefe declared. “And that’s to advise you to tend your own business. If you’ve finished helping Harrison, quit lazing around and come back.”

“Listen, I don’t call long-distance for the fun of it. There’s a thing up in the sky and nobody knows what it is.
At the same time
another thing is down here loping around and imitating people, robbing banks, dropping debris of alien origin, and nobody knows what that is, either. Two plus two makes four. Add it up for yourself.”

“Eddie, are you cracked?”

“I’ll give you the full details and leave you to judge.” He recited them swiftly, ended, “Use all your Treasury pull to get the right people interested. This case is far too big to be handled by us alone. You’ve got to find the ones with enough power and influence to cope. You’ve got to kick ’em awake.”

He cut off, glanced at Harrison who promptly got his voice back and said, “I can’t believe it. It’s too farfetched for words. The day I tell the mayor a Martian did it will be the day Northwood gets a new chief. He’ll take me away to have my head examined.”

“Got a better theory?”

“No. That’s the hell of it.”

Shrugging expressively, Rider took the phone again, made a call to Acme Paint Company. That done, he summoned Kimmelman.

“There’s a good chance that you’ll be wanted here tomorrow and perhaps for two or three days. I’ve just consulted your employers and they say you’re to stay with us.”

“Suits me,” agreed Kimmelman, not averse to taking time off with official approval. “I’d better go book in at an hotel.”

“Just one question first. This character you picked up—was he carrying any luggage?”

“No.”

“Not even a small bag or a parcel?”

“He’d nothing except what was in his pockets,” said Kimmelman, positively.

A gleam showed in Rider’s eyes. “Well, that may help.”

The mob that invaded Northwood at noon next day came in a dozen cars by devious routes and successfully avoided the attention of the press. They crammed Harrison’s office to capacity.

Among them was a Treasury top-ranker, a general, an admiral, a Secret Service chief, a Military Intelligence brasshat, three area directors of the F.B.I., a boss of the Counter Espionage Service, all their aides, secretaries and technical advisers, plus a bunch of assorted scientists including two astronomers, one radar expert, one guided missiles expert and a slightly bewildered gentleman who was an authority on ants.

They listened in silence, some interested, some skeptical, while Harrison read them a complete report of the case. He finished, sat down, waited for comment.

A gray-haired, distinguished individual took the lead, said, “Personally, I’m in favor of your theory that you’re chasing somebody not of this world. I don’t presume to speak for others who may think differently. However, it seems to me futile to waste any time debating the matter. It can be settled one way or the other by catching the culprit. That, therefore, is our only problem. How are we going to lay hands on him?”

“That won’t be done by the usual methods,” said an F.B.I. director. “A guy who can double as anyone, and do it well enough to convince even at close range, isn’t going to be caught easily. We can hunt down a particular identity if given enough time. I don’t see how we can go after somebody who might have
any
identity.”

“Even an alien from another world wouldn’t bother to steal money unless he had a real need for it,” put in a sharp-eyed individual. “The stuff’s no use elsewhere in the cosmos. So it’s safe to accept that he did have need of it. But money doesn’t last forever no matter who is spending it. When he has splurged it all, he’ll need some more. He’ll try robbing another bank. If every bank in this country were turned into a trap, surely one of them would snap down on him.”

“How’re you going to trap somebody who so far as you know is your best and biggest customer?” asked the F.B.I. director. He put on a shy grin, added, “Come to that, how do you know that the fellow in question isn’t
me?”

Nobody liked this last suggestion. They fidgeted uneasily, went quiet as their minds desperately sought a solution some place.

Rider spoke up. “Frankly, I think it a waste of time to search the world for somebody who has proved his ability to adopt two successive personalities and by the same token can adopt two dozen or two hundred. I’ve thought about this until I’ve gone dizzy and I can’t devise any method of pursuing and grabbing him. He’s far too elusive.”

“It might help if we could learn precisely how he does it,” interjected a scientist. “Have you any evidence indicative of his technique?”

“No, sir.”

“It looks like hypnosis to me,” said the scientist.

“You may be right,” Richer admitted. “But so far we’ve no proof of it.” He hesitated, went on, “As I see it, there’s only one way to catch him.”

“How?”

“It’s extremely unlikely that he’s come here for keeps. Besides, there’s that thing in the sky. What’s it waiting for? My guess is that it’s waiting to take him back whenever he’s ready to go.”

“So—?” someone prompted.

“To take him back that sphere has got to swing in from several thousands of miles out. That means it has to be summoned when wanted. He’s got to talk to its crew, if it has a crew. Or, if crewless, he’s got to pull it in by remote control. Either way, he must have some kind of transmitter.”

“If transmission-time is too brief to enable us to tune in, take cross-bearings and get there—” began an objector.

Rider waved him down. “I’m not thinking of that. We know he came to Northwood without luggage. Kimmelman says so. Mrs. Bastico says so. Numerous witnesses saw him at various times but he was never seen to carry anything other than the cash-bag. Even if an alien civilization can produce electronic equipment one-tenth the size and weight of anything we can turn out, a long-range transmitter would still be far too bulky to be hidden in a pocket.”