The Ming Vase and Other Science Fiction Stories. E.C. Tubb
There must be a purpose behind what Klieger did. Find the reason for his leaving and we’ll find the purpose.”
“Isn’t that what you went to find out?” Penn made no effort to hide his sarcasm.
“Yes. I didn’t fail.”
“Then—?”
“He stole a rare vase of the Ming Dynasty,” said Don. “Find out why and you have the answer.”
* * * *
Max Earlman lay supine on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The hotel room was warm, littered with the personal effects of the three men. Against one wall a large-scale map of the city hung slightly out of true, the grid pattern of streets marked with a host of colored pins. Beyond the windows the early evening had softened the harsh outlines of the concrete jungle, turning even the garish illuminations into things of glowing beauty.
Bronson stirred where he sat at a table, the thin reek of gun oil harsh to Earlman’s nostrils. He lit a cigarette to kill the odour and stared distastefully at the other man.
“Do you have to do that?” Smoke plumed from the cigarette as Max gestured towards the pistol Bronson was cleaning. Bronson continued with his business.
“What gives with you, Bronson?” Earlman swung to his feet, nerves taut with irritation. “You walk and eat and sleep and I guess you can make noises, too, if you put your mind to it, but are you really a man?”
Metal clicked with deadly precision as Bronson reassembled the gun. He tucked it into its holster, drew it with a fantastic turn of speed, and returned it again.
Earlman jerked forward, anger burning in the deep, bruised-looking eyes. He turned as Don entered the room. He looked tired.
“No luck?” Max knew the answer. Don shook hiss head.
“We’re still on our own.” Crossing the room he stood before the map, studying the clusters of coloured pins. “Have you got them all?”
“Every single one.” Earlman blew smoke at the map. “If anyone ever tells me this city has no culture, I’ll tear them apart. The place is lousy with art galleries, museums, exhibitions, antique shops, displays, missions and what have you. I’ve marked them all.” He looked sideways at Gregson’s bleak face. “There are a lot, Don. Too many.”
“We can whittle them down.” Don sighed, feeling the tension of the past few weeks building up inside, the tautness of the past few days stretching his nerves. He forced himself to relax, taking deep breaths, forgetting the urgency and Penn’s hysterical demands.
“Cut out foreign films, contemporary art, modernist paintings, exhibitions of abstract design. Eliminate the stamp collections, trade missions, engineering displays. Concentrate on the old, the rare, the beautiful.”
“How close should I go?”
“Close. Keep the unusual, the short-term, the items loaned from private collections.”
Earlman nodded and busied himself with the coloured pins and a sheaf of catalogues. Don turned and stared out of the window.
Below him the city sprawled, scar-like streets slashing between soaring anthills of concrete, the whole glittering with light. Somewhere in the city another man probably stood staring from a window—a mild man with a love of artistic things. A man who, until recently, had lived a law-abiding existence and who, suddenly, had broken the conditioning of a lifetime to rob and steal and run.
Why?
Frustration, yes, all the ‘residents’ of Cartwright House were frustrated, but they had remained when they could have fled. Only Klieger had run and had kept running. Now he was somewhere in the city, his talent warning him of approaching danger, showing him how to dodge and move and avoid so as to remain free.
Free in order to do what?
Don sighed, wondering for the thousandth time just how it must feel to be a clairvoyant. How to catch a man who was.
The others could have helped but Penn had blocked that. With a dozen other clairvoyants Don could have covered the field and trapped Klieger by sheer weight of numbers. No one man, no matter how gifted, could have beaten such odds.
Now he was on his own.
It had begun to rain and the window glittered with reflected light so that his eyes constantly changed focus from the window to the city beyond them back to the window. Then he stopped trying to focus and just stood there, eyes wide, thoughts travelling unfamiliar paths.
How?
How did he know when and where to catch a wanted man? What was it that made him just that little different from other men? All his life Don had had that edge. He could guess—if it was guessing—and those guesses had been right. So, was it guessing? Or did he know?
His record had backed his application to the C.I.A. That same record of unbroken success had paved his way into the Special Detachment. He was a man-hunter who always found his man. And he didn’t know how he did it.
As Malchin didn’t know how the ‘residents’ at Cartwright House used their talents.
* * * *
Even whittled down the list was too long. Earlman gestured towards the map, smoke drifting from the cigarette dangling from his lips, pointing to the varicoloured pins.
“I can’t get it closer than this, Don. From here on it’s pure guesswork.”
“Not quite.” Don scanned the list. “I learned something about Klieger back at Cartwright House. He is an artistic type. My guess is that he’s been visiting the museums and art galleries all along.”
“Then we’ve got him!” Earlman was jubilant. “All we need do is cover these places and he’ll walk right into our hands.”
Don raised his eyebrows and Max suddenly sobered.
“No. Every cop in the city has his photograph and description. All routes from the metropolis are covered. All field units are on the hunt. If it was as easy as that, we’d have had him by now.” He gestured towards the map. “Then why all this?”
“Concentration of effort.” Don sat on the edge of a bed. “The cops can’t spot him until they see him, and he makes certain they don’t. Mostly he’s just one man in a crowd and that’s the best disguise there is. Never forget, Max, he can ‘see’ our traps and so avoid them.”
“Then it’s hopeless.” Savagely Earlman stamped on his cigarette. “No matter what we do, where we go, he won’t be there. Have I wasted my time, Don?”
“No.”
“But—”
“It’s between him and me now,” said Don. “Up until now I’ve tackled this like a slightly abnormal operation. I’ve depended on outside help and even tried to get special assistance but that wasn’t the way to do it. Now I’ve got to use his weakness against him.” He looked down at the list in his hand.
“All right, both of you get out, I want to be alone.”
Bronson didn’t move.
“You heard the man!” Earlman jerked open the door. “Out!”
Slowly Bronson rose to his feet. His eyes shone as he stared at Don.
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Gregson tiredly. “You can wait outside if you want.”
Alone he untied his shoes, loosened his tie and slipped off his jacket. Killing the lights he lay back on the bed, eyes towards the window with its glitter of reflected light. Deliberately he relaxed.
For him it was a normal procedure, this quiet relaxation while his mind digested the thousand odd items of assembled fact to come up with a guess that wasn’t a guess because it was always right. But now he had to do more than that. Now he had to pit himself against a man who could ‘see’ the future