The Mindwarpers Read online

  “Of course I’m all right. I feel topnotch.”

  “Not a little bit headachy or feverish?”

  “Why on earth do you ask me that?” he demanded.

  “You’re flushed, as I’ve told you. And you’re not your usual self. I can sense it every time. I’ve lived with you long enough to know when you’re down in the dumps.”

  “Oh, stop picking on me!” he snapped. He felt contrite immediately and added, “Sorry, Honey, I’ve had a tough day. I’ll go wash and freshen up.”

  He went to the bathroom, his mind brooding over the knowledge that all this had happened before. A nervy homecoming, awkward questions from Dorothy, evasions on his part, flight to the bathroom. It couldn’t go on evening after evening, week after week—assuming that he remained free for any length of time. And there were doubts about that.

  Stripping to the waist, he examined his elbow. It still bore a blue-black patch and felt a little stiff but was less sore. The bump on his head had gone down considerably; when he’d taken that tumble he couldn’t have hit so hard after all.

  In a short time he joined the family for dinner. They sat around the table and ate in unaccustomed silence. Even the pup was subdued. Over the house lay a dark shadow that all could sense but none could see. After a while the strain became too much. They broke the silence with brief remarks and equally short responses. But that conversation was forced and artificial and they knew it.

  In bed that night Dorothy lay restlessly for most of an hour, turning first to one side and then the other, before she whispered, “Rich, are you awake?”

  “Yes,” he admitted, knowing that he could not fool her by pretending to be asleep.

  “How about taking a week off from work?”

  “My vacation isn’t due just yet.”

  “Couldn’t you ask them for a week in advance?”

  “Why?”

  “You need the break. It would do you good.”

  “Now look here—” He stopped, choking off his irritation as an idea struck him. Then he finished, “I’ll see how I feel about it in the morning. Let’s try to get to sleep now, shall we? It’s late enough already.”

  Her hand reached out and patted his.

  Over breakfast she renewed the subject. “Grab yourself a spell of time off, Rich. Others do it often enough, whenever they feel wound up. Why shouldn’t you? You’re not the only original Cast Iron Man.”

  “I’m not wound up either.”

  “I don’t want you to be. A well-earned rest could make all the difference.”

  “Difference between what?” he asked.

  “Having and not having something to worry about,” she gave back. “I know your job means a lot to you but it isn’t everything. Health comes first.”

  “Nobody’s ever been killed by work.”

  “That’s exactly what Jeff Anderson told his wife, remember?”

  He winced and said, “Jeff’s stroke wasn’t necessarily brought on by overwork. It was just one of those things.”

  “Maybe it was,” she admitted. “And maybe it wasn’t.”

  “Listen who’s talking,” he said, jocularly. “You accuse me of worrying too much but you’re doing plenty yourself.”

  “Rich, we’re married. We’re supposed to consider each other. If we don’t, who will?”

  “All right.” He left the table, found his hat and briefcase, kissed her near the front door. “I’ll think it over on the train.

  With that, he departed.

  He stuck it out for four more days, fending off the curious and the querulous at work, righting a delaying action with Dorothy each night. On the first evening the big man followed him home again. The other three evenings he switched routes and lost the unwelcome tracker. Since each route was longer and consumed more time, he got home late. That meant more innocent questions from Dorothy, more evasions that served only to add to her uneasiness. He could see that Dorothy’s worry was growing and that she was doing her best to conceal the fact.

  At work the going was rough. In spite of all his efforts to appear perfectly normal his subtle change of character was evident to colleagues on familiar terms with him.-His sudden lapses leading to minor blunders, his occasional moments of being slow on the uptake, caused confreres to look at him askance. A few addressed him with unusual solicitude, in the manner of men concerned for the sick or soon to be sick.

  The fourth day was by far the worst. A tall, sharp-eyed, loose-limbed character named Reardon appeared in the plant and hung around the green area most of the time, especially those parts near where Bransome was working. Bransome’s abnormal sensitivity told him that this newcomer was keeping watch upon him though at no time could he catch him doing so openly. But since nobody could roam the plant witout the backing of top authority, it meant that the snooping must have official approval.

  Surely the hunters couldn’t have picked up the trail so swiftly, after twenty long, long years? Could it be that already they had managed to identify the culprit and were keeping him under constant surveillance pending production of enough evidence to provide legal proof? The matter preyed so much on his mind that he couldn’t resist sounding Potter on the subject during the lunch break.

  “Who’s this Reardon fellow who seems able to live without working?”

  “Some kind of investigator, I think.”

  “That so? Who or what is he supposed to be investigating?”

  “Darned if I know,” said Potter, little caring. “I’ve seen him around before, some time back. About eighteen months ago.”

  “He wasn’t in our area. I’ve never set eyes on him in my life until recently.”

  “He was loafing around in the red area,” asserted Potter, “so you might not have noticed him. He arrived soon after Henderson took off. Everyone thought he was Henderson’s replacement but he wasn’t. He just hung around for a couple of weeks, doing nothing and saying nothing, then went back to wherever he came from. Maybe his job is to tour all the defense plants and make sure nobody is wasting time shooting craps. Maybe somebody in Washington thinks we’d all become incurable crap-shooters unless a beady eye is put upon us from time to time.”

  “Some investigator,” opined Bransome doubtfully. “Meanders all over the place chain-smoking and voicing not a word. Never asks any questions.”

  “You want questions?”

  “No.”

  “Then what are you griping about?”

  “It gives me the fidgets to have some snooper breathing down my neck.”

  “Doesn’t bother me,” said Potter, radiating virtue. “I’ve got a clear conscience.”

  Bransome stared hard at him, firmed his lips, and that was the end of the conversation.

  He knew he could not stand another day of this, with remarks like Potter’s jolting his brain, with Reardon’s sharp, inquisitive gaze always near at hand, with the big man to be avoided on the way home and Dorothy to be faced each evening and night. A desperate resolve mounted within him: the time had come to make a break.

  When work ceased he went straight to the personnel office, found Markham and said, “I hate to come at you without warning but I’d like to take a week off, without pay, starting tomorrow.”

  “Why without pay?”

  “I don’t want to cut into my vacation time.”

  Markham registered sympathy. “Trouble at home? Kids ill or something?”

  “No, nothing like that.” He sought around for a plausible pretext. It seemed as if he were doomed to spend the rest of his years mouthing deceptions, finding excuses, seeking pretexts. “It’s a difficulty with relatives. I’d like to go visiting some distance away and try to clear matters up.”

  “This is rather irregular,” said Markham, pursing his lips.

  “I know. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t imperative.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t.” He pondered a moment, picked up the phone, switched through to Cain and chatted briefly. Then he said to Bransome, “Cain doesn’t object an
d that means Laidler can’t object, either. It’s all right with me. You’ll be back a week from tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I’ll have it noted on your card.”

  “Thanks a lot. I appreciate it.”

  He went out just as Reardon came in. A sidewise glance as he passed the window showed Reardon talking to Markham. For some reason he quickened his pace.

  A casual acquaintance who happened to be going his way gave him a lift in an asthmatic car and took him most of the way home. That enabled him to evade the big man again and arrive on time. Perhaps his luck was about to change. He had come to the state of imagining things a lot better when they ceased to grow worse.

  The family responded with alacrity to his slight perking up. It showed how deeply they must have been affected by his gloom. The kids shrilled, the pup gyrated and wet the carpet. Dorothy smiled, glanced at the clock and bustled around the kitchen.

  “I’m going away, Honey.”

  She paused, saucepan in hand. “You mean you’re taking a holiday as I suggested?”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t snatch a vacation all by myself, without you and the kids. That wouldn’t be a holiday at all. This is the next best thing.”

  “What is it then?”

  “I’m going on business, just for a week. It’ll be quite a change and as good as a rest.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. That’s just what you need.” She put down the pan and capped it with a lid. “Where are they sending you, dear?”

  Where?

  Up to this moment he hadn’t thought of it, not even for the purpose of having a ready reply. All that had been in his mind was to get away from here and from the plant, away to some place devoid of trackers and questioners, a temporary hideout where he could sit in peace, review his predicament and try to concoct a satisfactory solution.

  Where?

  She was awaiting his reply and becoming conscious of the delay.

  “Burleston,” he said. He did not know why he said it. The hated name popped out of his mouth of its own accord.

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s a small place in the Midwest.”

  “Oh, is it? Why—”

  He continued hurriedly to stall further questions, knowing the most natural one would be what state Burleston was in. “I’ll be there only two or three days. I don’t plan to fly. I’ll go by train, lolling back in my seat and enjoying the scenery. Just a lazy bum.” He forced a grin and hoped it looked convincing. “The trip will be boring, all by myself. Wish you could come along.”

  “What, and leave the children to themselves? Or take them away from school for a week? Don’t be silly!” She carried on with kitchen work, her spirits visibly improved. “You make the most of your trip to Burleston, Rich. Eat well, sleep well and don’t worry about anything. You’ll come back fighting fit.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” he said, showing false meekness.

  Come back to what? There was only the dangerous rut to which he could return. Obviously it would be a waste of time to jump out of it unless he could stay out.

  So within this coming week he must, if possible, find a new, anonymous life some place where official eyes would not watch his every move, where feet would not follow in the steps of his own. It would not be enough merely to achieve that much: he must also devise a method of spiriting Dorothy and the children out of one home and into another, suddenly and without trace. To do that he would have to give Dorothy the facts so far denied to her but that prospect could be faced after other problems had been solved—if it were possible to find a complete solution.

  One alternative was to abandon his family and thus deprive searchers of a point of contact.

  He could not do that, risky though it might be to cling to them. He would not do it unless forced by circumstances utterly beyond his control.

  Sentence of death would be such a circumstance.

  FOUR:

  IN THE morning he left home by taxi, taking one suitcase and traveling light. Dorothy stood in the driveway by the family car, smiling goodbye and making ready to take the children to school. The kids jigged up and down upon the lawn and waved him away. It occurred to him with a touch of panic that if he were picked up during the next few days this might well be the last time he’d ever see them thus. Peering through the cab’s rear window he drank in the view until a corner cut them off from sight.

  The cab made a brief stop at the local bank while he withdrew a modest sum. A larger amount would make things easier for him but harder for Dorothy if events proved against their earlier reunion. He had to strike a compromise between his immediate needs and her future ones. They had saved assiduously without piling up enough to splurge.

  From there he went to the station. The cab rolled away and left him warily seeking familiar faces. There weren’t any around just then, for which he was profoundly thankful. He was going to town an hour later than usual and that saved him from the inquisitiveness of fellow commuters.

  The train took him away. He arrived in town without untoward incident, and became as lost in scurrying millions as a grain in a truckload of sand. There was no plan in his mind other than that of ridding himself of all followers while he sought a means of coping with his woes. He had the vague idea that the past cannot easily catch up with one who moves around, therefore the essential thing was to keep moving, erratically, without foreseeable system.

  More or less aimlessly he tramped along crowded sidewalks, his suitcase hanging at his side, until suddenly he found himself at the main-line station. Then and only then did he realize that some independent and unhampered portion of his mind had steered him here, having decided his route from the start. It seemed strange, he thought, that a confused and apprehensive brain could retain a small section capable of calm thought and ready command. Since he was little given to self-examination it did not occur to him that a basically emotional problem can swirl over but never drown a basically analytical mind.

  Anyway, he obeyed the inward order or instinct or whatever it was. Entering the station he went to a ticket window and gazed owl-eyed at the clerk as it dawned upon him that he must now declare his destination. One could not ask for a ticket to somewhere safe, beyond reach of the law. One must name a place of one’s choice, any place, even the first one that comes to mind. Indeed, his mouth opened to form the word but he bit it back in the nick of time: the same word he had voiced to Dorothy when called upon to answer without thinking.

  The other portion of his mind, the part remaining craftily alert, held the word back. If they come looking for you, it argued, they’ll trace you to town and rake the train and bus stations for someone who remembers the item they wish to learn. They’ll talk to this clerk visit—and say too much. Don’t take a chance on him. hundreds of people per day he may have an excellent memory and find some obscure reason to recall your visit—and say too much. Don’t take a chance on him. Don’t take a chance on anyone. All the characters rotting in jails are the stupid ones who accepted unnecessary risks.

  Bransome bought a ticket to a big city three-quarters of the way to where he really wanted to go. Pocketing the ticket, he picked up his case, turned around and almost bumped into a tall, lean man with crew-cut hair and gimlet eyes.

  “Well now, Mr. Bransome,” said Reardon pleasantly but showing no great surprise. “Giving yourself a vacation?”

  “With official permission,” informed Bransome, making a gigantic effort to control himself. “People do take time off once in a while.”

  “Of course,” approved Reardon. “Sure they do.” He looked with pointed interest at the other’s case, his air being that of one able to see right inside anything at which he gazed. “Have yourself a good time.”

  “That is my intention.” Then resentment sparked and Bransome demanded, “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “The same as yourself.” Reardon gave a half-smile. “I’m going somewhere. We wouldn’t happen to be going the same way, would we?”<
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  “I’ve no idea,” Bransome riposted, “not knowing your destination.”

  “Oh, well, what does it matter?” said Reardon, refusing to bite. He eyed the station clock, edged toward the ticket window. “Have to hurry. Be seeing you sometime.”

  “Maybe,” said Bransome, showing no ecstasy at the prospect.

  He made for his train, relieved and yet not relieved at getting rid of Reardon. His mind was jumpier than a cat at a fireworks display. Meeting the fellow here seemed too much for coincidence. He had a swift, wary look around as he passed through the gates. There was no sign of Reardon at that moment.

  Ten minutes passed before the train pulled out; he spent the time edgily expecting unwanted company. If Reardon were trailing him and had documentary authority to prove his right to twist the arm of the ticket clerk, it would be easy for him to demand a ticket as issued to the previous buyer and board the same train. The last thing Bransome wanted was the snoop’s face on the opposite seat, with several hours of conversation to be handled cagily, endless pointed remarks and penetrating questions to be fended off. He kept anxious watch through the window but eventually the train moved out with nothing to show that Reardon had caught it.

  Reaching the terminal after an uneventful trip, Bransome walked haphazardly around the city and kept surreptitious watch behind him but failed to spot a follower of any kind. He treated himself to an indifferent meal, mooched about a little longer and returned to the station. So far as he could tell nobody had tracked him thus far and nobody was hanging around the station entrance in expectation of his reappearance.

  At the ticket window he said, “I want to get to Burleston.”

  “No rail service to that place,” replied the clerk. “Nearest station is Hanbury, twenty-four miles away. A bus will take you from Hanbury to Burleston.”

  “All right. Fix me up for Hanbury. What time is the next train?”

  “You’re in luck. Two minutes from now. Track Nine—and you’d better hustle.”

  Grabbing his ticket, Bransome galloped across the waiting room and through the gate to Track Nine. He made it nicely; the train started to move before he was settled in his seat. That gave him much satisfaction; he felt that the speed of his departure must have shaken off pursuit if indeed he really was being pursued.