Get Off the Unicorn (32 page)

“Nonsense, this office is thoroughly shielded and I'm
not
a pre-cog!”

“Before you guys took the guesswork out of it, there were such things as hunches,” Pennstrak suggested.

For op Owen's peace of mind and Lester's pose of misogyny, it was neither Building 18 nor Buhler Street nor Apartment 44. It was Apartment 1E, deep in the center of Q Block. No one had entered nor left it—by normal means—since Gil Gracie and two other finders had made a precise fix. Gil handed op Owen the master key obtained from the dithering super.

“My Gawd,” Pennstrak said in a voice muted with shocked surprise as they swung open the door. “Like an oriental bazaar.”

“Indiscriminate pilfering on a wholesale basis,” op Owen corrected, glancing around at the rich brilliant velvet drapes framing the dingy window to the wildly clashing pillows thrown on the elegant Empire loveseat. A marble-topped table was a jumble of pretty vases, silver boxes, and goblets. Priceless china held decaying remains of food. Underneath the table were jaggedly opened, empty cans bearing the label of an extremely expensive caterer. Two empty champagne bottles pointed green, blind eyes in their direction. A portable color ‘caster was piled with discarded clothing; a black-lace sheer body stocking draped in an obscene posture across the inactive screen. “A magpie's nest rather,” he sighed, “and I'd hazard that Maggie is very young and has been poor all her life until . . .” He met Pennstrak's sympathetic gaze. “Until our educational program gave her the hints she needed to unlock her special Talent.”

“Gillings is going to have to work with you on this, Dave,” Pennstrak said reluctantly as he reached for the intercom at his belt. “But first he's going to have to apologize”

Op Owen shook his head vigorously. “I want his cooperation, Julian, grudged or willing.
When
he really believes in Talent, then he will apologize voluntarily . . . and obliquely,” he couldn't resist adding.

To op Owen's consternation, Gillings arrived noisily in the cowlike lab copter, sirens going, lights flashing.

“Don't bother now,” op Owen advised Pennstrak, for he could see the City Manager forming a furious reprimand. “She might have been warned by the finders' activity anyhow.”

“Well, she's certainly been warned off now,” Pennstrak stalked off, to confer with one of his aides just as Gillings strode into the corridor with his technicians.

According op Owen and Gracie the merest nod, Gillings began issuing crisp orders. He knew his business, op Owen thought, and he evidently trusted
these
technicians, for he didn't bother to crowd into the tiny apartment to oversee them.

“As soon as your men have prints and a physical profile, Commissioner, we'd like to run the data through our computer. There's the chance that the girl did take advantage of the open Talent test the Center has been advertising.”

“You mean you don't
know
who it is
yet
?”

“I found the coat since I
knew
what it looked like,” Gil Gracie said, bristling at Gillings' manner.

“Then where is it?” Gillings gestured peremptorily to the sable-less apartment.

“These are the shoes, Commissioner,” said one of his team, presenting the fragile jeweled footwear, now neatly sealed in clear plastic. “Traces of dirt, dust, fleck of nail enamel and from the ‘scope imprint, I'd say they were too big for her.”

Gillings stared at the shoes disinterestedly. “No sign of the dress?”

“Still looking.”

“Odd that you people can't locate a girl with bare feet in a sable coat and a bright blue silk gown?”

“No odder than it is for your hundreds of patrolmen throughout the city, Commissioner, to overlook a girl so bizarrely dressed,” op Owen said with firm good humor. “When you ‘saw' the coat, Gil, where was it?”

“Thrown across the loveseat, one arm hanging down to the floor. I distinguished the edge of the sill and the tree outside, the first folds of the curtain, and the wall heating unit. I called in, you sent over enough finders so that we were able to eliminate the similarities. It took us nearly an hour . . .”

“Were you keeping an ‘eye' on the coat all the time?” Gillings demanded in a voice so devoid of expression that his contempt was all the more obvious.

Gil flushed, bit his lip, and only partially inhibited by op Owen's subtle warning, snapped back, “Try keeping your physical eye on an object for an hour!”

“Get some rest, Gil,” op Owen suggested gently. He waited until the finder had turned the corner. “If you are as determined to find this criminal as you say you are, Commissioner Gillings, then do not destroy the efficiency of my staff by such gratuitous criticism. In less than four hours, on the basis of photographs of the stolen objects, we located this apartment . . .”

“But not the criminal, who is still in possession of a sable coat which you found once but have now unaccountably lost.”

“That's enough, Gillings,” said Pennstrak, who had rejoined them. “Thanks to your arrival, the girl must know she's being sought and is shielding.”

Pennstrak gestured toward the dingy windows of the flat, through which the vanes of the big copter were visible. A group of children, abandoning the known objects of the development play-yard, had gathered at a respectful but curiosity-satisfying distance.

“Considering the variety of her accomplishments,” op Owen said, not above using Pennstrak's irritation with his Commissioner to advantage, “I'm sure she knew of the search before the Commissioner's arrival, Julian. Have any of these items been reported, Commissioner?”

“That console was. Two days ago. It was on ‘find,' too.”

“She has been growing steadily bolder, then,” op Owen went on, depressed by Gillings' attitude. And depressed that such a Talent had emerged twisted, perverted, selfish. Why? Why? “If your department ever gets the chronology of the various thefts, we'd appreciate the copy.”

“Why?” Gillings turned to stare at op Owen, surprised and irritated.

“Talent takes time to develop—in ordinary persons. It does not, like the ancient goddess Athena, spring full-grown from the forehead. This girl could not, for instance, have lifted that portable set the first time she used her Talent. The more data we have on . . . the lecture is ill-timed.”

Gillings' unspoken “you said it” did reach op Owen, whose turn it was to stare in surprise.

“Well, your ‘finders' are not novices,” the Commissioner said aloud. “If they traced the coat once, why not again?”

“Every perceptive we have is searching,” op Owen assured him. “But, if she was able to leave this apartment after Gil found the coat, taking it with her because it obviously is not here, she also is capable of shielding herself and that coat. And, until she slips that guard, I doubt we'll find it or her.”

 

The report on the laboratory findings was exhaustive. There was a full set of prints, foot and finger. None matched those on file in the city records, or Federal or Immigration. She had not been tested at the Center. Long coarse black hair had been found. Skin flakes analyzed suggested an olive complexion. Thermo-photography placed her last appearance in the room at approximately the time the four “finders” fixed on her apartment, thus substantiating op Owen's guess. The thermal prints also revealed that she was of slender build, approximately five-four, weighing 105 pounds. Stains on a kitchen knife proved her to possess blood type O. No one else had occupied the apartment within the eight-day range of the thermography used.

From such records, the police extrapolator made a rough sketch of Maggie O as she was called for want of a better name. The sketch was taken around the neighborhood with no success. People living in Block Q didn't bother people who didn't bother them.

It was Daffyd op Owen who remembered the children crowding the police copter. From them he elicited the information that she was new in the building. (The records indicated that the apartment should be vacant.) She was always singing, dancing to the wall-'caster, and changing her clothes. Occasionally she'd play with them and bring out rich food to eat, promising they could have such good things if they'd think hard about them. While the children talked, Daffyd “saw” Maggie's face reflected in their minds. The police extrapolator had been far short of the reality. She was not much older than the children she had played with. She had not been pretty by ordinary standards but she had been so “different” that her image had registered sharply. The narrow face, the brilliant eyes, slightly slanted above sharp cheekbones, the thin, small mouth, and the pointed chin were unusual even in an area of ethnic variety.

This likeness and a physical description were circulated quickly to be used at all exits to the city and all transportation facilities. It was likely she'd try to slip out during the day-end exodus.

The south and west airstrips had been under a perceptive surveillance since the search had been inaugurated. Now every facility was guarded.

Gil Gracie “found” the coat again.

“She must have it in a suitcase,” he reported on the police-provided hand unit from his position in the main railroad concourse. “It's folded and surrounded by dark. It's moving up and down. But there're so many people. So many suitcases. I'll circulate. Maybe the find'll fix itself.”

Gillings gave orders to his teams on the master unit which had been set up in the Center's control room to coordinate the operations.

“You better test Gil for pre-cog,” Charlie muttered to op Owen after they'd contacted all the sensitives. “He
asked
for the station.”

“You should've told me sooner, Charlie. I'd've teamed him with a sensitive.”

“Lookit that,” Charlie exclaimed, pointing to a wildly moving needle on one of the remotes.

Les was beside it even as the audio for the Incident went on.

“Not that track! Oh! Watch out! Baggage. On the handcart! Watch out. Move, man. Move! To the right. The right! Ahhhh.” The woman's voice choked off in an agonized cry.

Daffyd pushed Charlie out of the way, to get to the speaker.

“Gil this is op Owen. Do not pursue. Do not pursue that girl! She's aware of you. Gil, come in. Answer me, Gil. . . . Charlie, keep trying to raise him. Gillings, contact your men at the station. Make them stop Gil Gracie.”

“Stop him? Why?”

“The pre-cog. The baggage on the handcart,” shouted Daffyd, signaling frantically to Lester to explain in detail. He raced for the emergency stairs, up the two flights, and slammed out onto the roof. Gasping for breath, he clung to the high retaining wall and projected his mind to Gil's.

He knew the man so well, trained Gil when an employer brought in the kid who had a knack for locating things. Op Owen could see him ducking and dodging through the trainward crowds, touching suitcases, ignoring irate or astonished carriers; every nerve, every ounce of him receptive to the “feel” of a dense, dark sable fur. And so single-minded that Daffyd could not “reach” him.

But op Owen knew the instant the loaded baggage cart swerved and crushed the blindly intent Talent against an I-beam. He bowed his head, too fully cognizant that a double tragedy had occurred. Gil was lost . . . and so now was the girl.

 

There was no peace from his thoughts even when he returned to the shielded control room. Lester and Charlie pretended to be very busy. Gillings was. He directed the search of the railway station, arguing with the stationmaster that the trains were to be held and that was that! The drone of his voice began to penetrate op Owen's remorse.

“All right, then, if the Talents have cleared it and there's no female of the same height and weight, release that train. Someone tried the johns, didn't they? No, Sam, you can detain anyone remotely suspicious. That girl is clever, strong, and dangerous. There's no telling what else she could do. But she damn well can't change her height, weight, and blood type!”

“Daffyd. Daffyd.” Lester had to touch him to get his attention. He motioned op Owen toward Charlie, who was holding out the hand unit.

“It's Coles, sir.”

Daffyd listened to the effusively grateful store manager. He made the proper responses, but it wasn't until he had relinquished the hand unit to Charlie that the man's excited monologue made sense.

“The coat, the dress, and the necklace have reappeared on the store dummy,” op Owen said. He cleared his throat and repeated it loud enough to be heard.

“Returned?” Gillings echoed. “Just like that? Why, the little bitch! Sam, check the ladies' rooms in that station. Wait, isn't there a discount dress store in that station? Have them check for missing apparel. I want an itemized list of what's gone, and an exact duplicate from their stock shown to the sensitives. We've got her scared and running now.”

“Scared and running now.” Gillings' smug assessment rang ominously in Daffyd's mind. He had a sudden flash. Superimposed over a projection of Maggie's thin face was the image of the lifeless store dummy, elegantly reclad in the purloined blue gown and dark fur. “Here, take them back. I don't want them anymore. I didn't mean to kill him. I didn't mean to. See, I gave back what you wanted. Now leave me alone!”

Daffyd shook his head. Wishful thinking. Just as futile as the girl's belated gesture of penance. Too much too soon. Too little too late.

“We don't want her scared,” he said out loud. “She was scared when she toppled that baggage cart.”

“She
killed
a man when she toppled that baggage cart, op Owen!” Gillings was all but shouting.

“And if we're not very careful, she'll kill others.”

“If you think I'm going to velvet glove a homicidal maniac . . .”

A shrill tone issuing from the remote unit forced Gillings to answer. He was about to reprimand the caller but the message got his stunned attention.