What The Left Hand Was Doing

: What The Left Hand ... Was Doing

There is no lie so totally convincing as something the other

fellow already knows-for-sure is the truth. And no cover-story so

convincing....







The building itself was unprepossessive enough. It was an old-fashioned,

six-floor, brick structure that had, over the years, served first as a

private home, then as an apartment building, and finally as the

headquarters for the organizat on it presently housed.



It stood among others of its kind in a lower-middle-class district of

Arlington, Virginia, within howitzer range of the capitol of the United

States, and even closer to the Pentagon. The main door was five steps up

from the sidewalk, and the steps were flanked by curving balustrades of

ornamental ironwork. The entrance itself was closed by a double door

with glass panes, beyond which could be seen a small foyer. On both

doors, an identical message was blocked out in neat gold letters: The

Society For Mystical and Metaphysical Research, Inc.



It is possible that no more nearly perfect cover, no more misleading

front for a secret organization ever existed in the history of man. It

possessed two qualities which most other cover-up titles do not have.

One, it was so obviously crackpot that no one paid any attention to it

except crackpots, and, two, it was perfectly, literally true.



Spencer Candron had seen the building so often that the functional

beauty of the whole setup no longer impressed him as it had several

years before. Just as a professional actor is not impressed by being

allowed backstage, or as a multimillionaire considers expensive luxuries

as commonplace, so Spencer Candron thought of nothing more than his own

personal work as he climbed the five steps and pushed open the

glass-paned doors.



Perhaps, too, his matter-of-fact attitude was caused partially by the

analogical resemblance between himself and the organization. Physically,

Candron, too, was unprepossessing. He was a shade less than five eight,

and his weight fluctuated between a hundred and forty and a hundred and

forty-five, depending on the season and his state of mind. His face

consisted of a well-formed snub nose, a pair of introspective gray eyes,

a rather wide, thin-lipped mouth that tended to smile even when relaxed,

a high, smooth forehead, and a firm cleft chin, plus the rest of the

normal equipment that normally goes to make up a face. The skin was

slightly tanned, but it was the tan of a man who goes to the beach on

summer weekends, not that of an outdoorsman. His hands were strong and

wide and rather large; the palms were uncalloused and the fingernails

were clean and neatly trimmed. His hair was straight and light brown,

with a pronounced widow's peak, and he wore it combed back and rather

long to conceal the fact that a thin spot had appeared on the top rear

of his scalp. His clothing was conservative and a little out of style,

having been bought in 1981, and thus three years past being up-to-date.



Physically, then, Spencer Candron, was a fine analog of the Society. He

looked unimportant. On the outside, he was just another average man

whom no one would bother to look twice at.



The analogy between himself and the S.M.M.R. was completed by the fact

that his interior resources were vastly greater than anything that

showed on the outside.



The doors swung shut behind him, and he walked into the foyer, then

turned left into the receptionist's office. The woman behind the desk

smiled her eager smile and said, "Good morning, Mr. Candron!"



Candron smiled back. He liked the woman, in spite of her semifanatic

overeagerness, which made her every declarative sentence seem to end

with an exclamation point.



"Morning, Mrs. Jesser," he said, pausing at the desk for a moment. "How

have things been?"



Mrs. Jesser was a stout matron in her early forties who would have been

perfectly happy to work for the Society for nothing, as a hobby. That

she was paid a reasonable salary made her job almost heaven for her.



"Oh, just fine, Mr. Candron!" she said. "Just fine!" Then her voice

lowered, and her face took on a serious, half conspiratorial expression.

"Do you know what?"



"No," said Candron, imitating her manner. "What?"



"We have a gentleman ... he came in yesterday ... a very nice man ...

and very intelligent, too. And, you know what?"



Candron shook his head. "No," he repeated. "What?"



Mrs. Jesser's face took on the self-pleased look of one who has

important inside knowledge to impart. "He has actual photographs ...

three-D, full-color photographs ... of the control room of a flying

saucer! And one of the Saucerites, too!"



"Really?" Candron's expression was that of a man who was both impressed

and interested. "What did Mr. Balfour say?"



"Well--" Mrs. Jesser looked rather miffed. "I don't really know! But

the gentleman is supposed to be back tomorrow! With some more

pictures!"



"Well," said Candron. "Well. That's really fine. I hope he has

something. Is Mr. Taggert in?"



"Oh, yes, Mr. Candron! He said you should go on up!" She waved a plump

hand toward the stairway. It made Mrs. Jesser happy to think that she

was the sole controller of the only way, except for the fire escape,

that anyone could get to the upper floors of the building. And as long

as she thought that, among other things, she was useful to the Society.

Someone had to handle the crackpots and lunatic-fringe fanatics that

came to the Society, and one of their own kind could do the job better

than anyone else. As long as Mrs. Jesser and Mr. Balfour were on duty,

the Society's camouflage would remain intact.



Spencer Candron gave Mrs. Jesser a friendly gesture with one hand and

then headed up the stairs. He would rather not have bothered to take the

stairway all the way up to the fifth floor, but Mrs. Jesser had sharp

ears, and she might wonder why his foot-steps were not heard all the

way up. Nothing--but nothing--must ever be done to make Mrs. Jesser

wonder about anything that went on here.



* * * * *



The door to Brian Taggert's office was open when Candron finally reached

the fifth floor. Taggert, of course, was not only expecting him, but had

long been aware of his approach.



Candron went in, closed the door, and said, "Hi, Brian," to the

dark-haired, dark-eyed, hawk-nosed man who was sprawled on the couch

that stood against one corner of the room. There was a desk at the other

rear corner, but Brian Taggert wasn't a desk man. He looked like a

heavy-weight boxer, but he preferred relaxation to exercise.



But he did take his feet from the couch and lift himself to a sitting

position as Candron entered. And, at the same time, the one resemblance

between Taggert and Candron manifested itself--a warm, truly human

smile.



"Spence," he said warmly, "you look as though you were bored. Want a

job?"



"No," said Candron, "but I'll take it. Who do I kill?"



"Nobody, unless you absolutely have to," said Taggert.



Spencer Candron understood. The one thing that characterized the real

members of The Society for Mystical and Metaphysical Research--not the

"front" members, like Balfour and Mrs. Jesser, not the hundreds of

"honorable" members who constituted the crackpot portion of the

membership, but the real core of the group--the thing that characterized

them could be summed up in one word: understanding. Without that one

essential property, no human mind can be completely free. Unless a human

mind is capable of understanding the only forces that can be pitted

against it--the forces of other human minds--that mind cannot avail

itself of the power that lies within it.



Of course, it is elementary that such understanding must also apply to

oneself. Understanding of self must come before understanding of others.

Total understanding is not necessary--indeed, utter totality is very

likely impossible to any human mind. But the greater the understanding,

the freer the mind, and, at a point which might be called the "critical

point," certain abilities inherent in the individual human mind become

controllable. A change, not only in quantity, but in quality, occurs.



A cube of ice in a glass of water at zero degrees Celsius exhibits

certain properties and performs certain actions at its surface. Some of

the molecules drift away, to become one with the liquid. Other molecules

from the liquid become attached to the crystalline ice. But, the ice

cube remains essentially an entity. Over a period of time, it may change

slowly, since dissolution takes place faster than crystallization at the

corners of the cube. Eventually, the cube will become a sphere, or

something very closely approximating it. But the change is slow, and,

once it reaches that state, the situation becomes static.



But, if you add heat, more and more and more, the ice cube will change,

not only its shape, but its state. What it was previously capable of

doing only slightly and impermanently, it can now do completely. The

critical point has been passed.



Roughly--for the analog itself is rough--the same things occurs in the

human mind. The psionic abilities of the human mind are, to a greater or

lesser degree, there to begin with, just as an ice cube has the

ability to melt if the proper conditions are met with.



The analogy hardly extends beyond that. Unlike an ice cube, the human

mind is capable of changing the forces outside it--as if the ice could

seek out its own heat in order to melt. And, too, human minds vary in

their inherent ability to absorb understanding. Some do so easily,

others do so only in spotty areas, still others cannot reach the

critical point before they break. And still others can never really

understand at all.



No one who had not reached his own critical point could become a "core"

member of the S.M.M.R. It was not snobbery on their part; they

understood other human beings too well to be snobbish. It was more as

though a Society for Expert Mountain Climbers met each year on the peak

of Mount Everest--anyone who can get up there to attend the meeting is

automatically a member.



Spencer Candron sat down in a nearby chair. "All right, so I refrain

from doing any more damage than I have to. What's the objective?"



Taggert put his palms on his muscular thighs and leaned forward. "James

Ch'ien is still alive."



Candron had not been expecting the statement, but he felt no surprise.

His mind merely adjusted to the new data. "He's still in China, then,"

he said. It was not a question, but a statement of a deduction. "The

whole thing was a phony. The death, the body, the funeral. What about

the executions?"



"They were real," Taggert said. "Here's what happened as closely as we

can tell:



"Dr. Ch'ien was kidnaped on July 10th, the second day of the conference

in Peiping, at some time between two and three in the morning. He was

replaced by a double, whose name we don't know. It's unimportant,

anyway. The double was as perfect as the Chinese surgeons could make

him. He was probably not aware that he was slated to die; it is more

likely that he was hypnotized and misled. At any rate, he took Ch'ien's

place on the rostrum to speak that afternoon.



"The man who shot him, and the man who threw the flame bomb, were

probably as equally deluded as to what they were doing as the double

was. They did a perfect job, though. The impersonator was dead, and his

skin was charred and blistered clear up to the chest--no fingerprints.



"The men were tried, convicted, and executed. The Chinese government

sent us abject apologies. The double's body was shipped back to the

United States with full honors, but by the time it reached here, the

eye-cone patterns had deteriorated to the point where they couldn't be

identified any more than the fingerprints could. And there were half a

hundred reputable scientists of a dozen friendly nations who were

eye-witnesses to the killing and who are all absolutely certain that it

was James Ch'ien who died."



Candron nodded. "So, while the whole world was mourning the fact that

one of Earth's greatest physicists has died, he was being held captive

in the most secret and secure prison that the Red Chinese government

could put him in."



Taggert nodded. "And your job will be to get him out," he said softly.



Candron said nothing for a moment, as he thought the problem out.

Taggert said nothing to interrupt him.



Neither of them worried about being overheard or spied upon. Besides

being equipped with hush devices and blanketing equipment, the building

was guarded by Reeves and Donahue, whose combined senses of perception

could pick up any activity for miles around which might be inimical to

the Society.



"How much backing do we get from the Federal Government?" Candron asked

at last.



"We can swing the cover-up afterwards all the way," Taggert told him

firmly. "We can arrange transportation back. That is, the Federal

Government can. But getting over there and getting Ch'ien out of durance

vile is strictly up to the Society. Senator Kerotski and Secretary

Gonzales are giving us every opportunity they can, but there's no use

approaching the President until after we've proven our case."



Candron gestured his understanding. The President of the United States

was a shrewd, able, just, and ethical human being--but he was not yet a

member of the Society, and perhaps would never be. As a consequence it

was still impossible to convince him that the S.M.M.R. knew what it was

talking about--and that applied to nearly ninety per cent of the Federal

and State officials of the nation.



Only a very few knew that the Society was an ex officio branch of the

government itself. Not until the rescue of James Ch'ien was an

accomplished fact, not until there was physical, logical proof that the

man was still alive would the government take official action.



"What's the outline?" Candron wanted to know.



Taggert outlined the proposed course of action rapidly. When he was

finished, Spencer Candron simply said, "All right. I can take care of my

end of it." He stood up. "I'll see you, Brian."



Brian Taggert lay back down on the couch, propped up his feet, and

winked at Candron. "Watch and check, Spence."






Candron went back down the stairs. Mrs. Jesser smiled up at him as he

entered the reception room. "Well! That didn't take long! Are you

leaving, Mr. Candron?"



"Yes," he said, glancing at the wall clock. "Grab and run, you know.

I'll see you soon, Mrs. Jesser. Be an angel."



He went out the door again and headed down the street. Mrs. Jesser had

been right; it hadn't taken him long. He'd been in Taggert's office a

little over one minute, and less than half a dozen actual words had been

spoken. The rest of the conversation had been on a subtler level, one

which was almost completely nonverbal. Not that Spencer Candron was a

telepath; if he had been, it wouldn't have been necessary for him to

come to the headquarters building. Candron's talents simply didn't lie

along that line. His ability to probe the minds of normal human beings

was spotty and unreliable at best. But when two human beings understand

each other at the level that existed between members of the Society,

there is no need for longwinded discourses.



* * * * *






The big stratoliner slowed rapidly as it approached the Peiping People's

Airfield. The pilot, a big-boned Britisher who had two jobs to do at

once, watched the airspeed indicator. As the needle dropped, he came in

on a conventional landing lane, aiming for the huge field below. Then,

as the needle reached a certain point, just above the landing minimum,

he closed his eyes for a fraction of a second and thought, with all the

mental power at his command: NOW!



For a large part of a second, nothing happened, but the pilot knew his

message had been received.



Then a red gleam came into being on the control board.



"What the hell?" said the co-pilot.



The pilot swore. "I told 'em that door was weak! We've ripped the

luggage door off her hinges. Feel her shake?"



The co-pilot looked grim. "Good thing it happened now instead of in

mid-flight. At that speed, we'd been torn apart."



"Blown to bits, you mean," said the pilot. "Let's bring her in."



By that time, Spencer Candron was a long way below the ship, falling

like a stone, a big suitcase clutched tightly in his arms. He knew that

the Chinese radar was watching the jetliner, and that it had undoubtedly

picked up two objects dropping from the craft--the door and one other.

Candron had caught the pilot's mental signal--anything that powerful

could hardly be missed--and had opened the door and leaped.



But those things didn't matter now. Without a parachute, he had flung

himself from the plane toward the earth below, and his only thought was

his loathing, his repugnance, for that too, too solid ground beneath.



He didn't hate it. That would be deadly, for hate implies as much

attraction as love--the attraction of destruction. Fear, too, was out of

the question; there must be no such relationship as that between the

threatened and the threatener. Only loathing could save him. The earth

beneath was utterly repulsive to him.



And he slowed.



His mind would not accept contact with the ground, and his body was

forced to follow suit. He slowed.



Minutes later, he was drifting fifty feet above the surface, his

altitude held steady by the emotional force of his mind. Not until then

did he release the big suitcase he had been holding. He heard it thump

as it hit, breaking open and scattering clothing around it.



In the distance, he could hear the faint moan of a siren. The Chinese

radar had picked up two falling objects. And they would find two: one

door and one suitcase, both of which could be accounted for by the

"accident." They would know that no parachute had opened; hence, if they

found no body, they would be certain that no human being could have

dropped from the plane.



The only thing remaining now was to get into the city itself. In the

darkness, it was a little difficult to tell exactly where he was, but

the lights of Peiping weren't far away, and a breeze was carrying him

toward it. He wanted to be in just the right place before he set foot on

the ground.



By morning, he would be just another one of the city's millions.



* * * * *



Morning came three hours later. The sun came up quietly, as if its sole

purpose in life were to make a liar out of Kipling. The venerable old

Chinese gentleman who strolled quietly down Dragon Street looked as

though he were merely out for a placid walk for his morning

constitutional. His clothing was that of a middle-class office worker,

but his dignified manner, his wrinkled brown face, his calm brown eyes,

and his white hair brought respectful looks from the other passers-by on

the Street of the Dragon. Not even the thirty-five years of Communism,

which had transformed agrarian China into an industrial and

technological nation that ranked with the best, had destroyed the

ancient Chinese respect for age.



That respect was what Spencer Candron relied on to help him get his job

done. Obvious wealth would have given him respect, too, as would the

trappings of power; he could have posed as an Honorable Director or a

People's Advocate. But that would have brought unwelcome attention as

well as respect. His disguise would never stand up under careful

examination, and trying to pass himself off as an important citizen

might bring on just such an examination. But an old man had both respect

and anonymity.



Candron had no difficulty in playing the part. He had known many elderly

Chinese, and he understood them well. Even the emotional control of the

Oriental was simple to simulate; Candron knew what "emotional control"

really meant.



You don't control an automobile by throwing the transmission out of gear

and letting the engine run wild. Suppressing an emotion is not

controlling it, in the fullest sense. "Control" implies guidance and

use.



Peiping contained nearly three million people in the city itself, and

another three million in the suburbs; there was little chance that the

People's Police would single out one venerable oldster to question, but

Candron wanted an escape route just in case they did. He kept walking

until he found the neighborhood he wanted, then he kept his eyes open

for a small hotel. He didn't want one that was too expensive, but, on

the other hand, he didn't want one so cheap that the help would be

untrustworthy.



He found one that suited his purpose, but he didn't want to go in

immediately. There was one more thing to do. He waited until the shops

were open, and then went in search of second-hand luggage. He had enough

money in his pockets to buy more brand-new expensive luggage than a man

could carry, but he didn't want luggage that looked either expensive or

new. When he finally found what he wanted, he went in search of

clothing, buying a piece at a time, here and there, in widely scattered

shops. Some of it was new, some of it was secondhand, all of it fit both

the body and the personality of the old man he was supposed to be.

Finally, he went to the hotel.



The clerk was a chubby, blandly happy, youngish man who bowed his head

as Candron approached. There was still the flavor of the old politeness

in his speech, although the flowery beauty of half a century before had

disappeared.



"Good morning, venerable sir; may I be of some assistance?"



Candron kept the old usages. "This old one would be greatly honored if



your excellent hostelry could find a small corner for the rest of his

unworthy body," he said in excellent Cantonese.



"It is possible, aged one, that this miserable hovel may provide some

space, unsuited though it may be to your honored presence," said the

clerk, reverting as best he could to the language of a generation

before. "For how many people would you require accommodations?"



"For my humble self only," Candron said.



"It can, I think, be done," said the clerk, giving him a pleasant smile.

Then his face took on an expression of contrition. "I hope, venerable

one, that you will not think this miserable creature too bold if he asks

for your papers?"



"Not at all," said Candron, taking a billfold from his inside coat

pocket. "Such is the law, and the law of the People of China is to be

always respected."



He opened the billfold and spread the papers for the clerk's inspection.

They were all there--identification, travel papers, everything. The

clerk looked them over and jotted down the numbers in the register book

on the desk, then turned the book around. "Your chop, venerable one."



The "chop" was a small stamp bearing the ideograph which indicated the

name Candron was using. Illiteracy still ran high in China because of

the difficulty in memorizing the tens of thousands of ideographs which

made up the written language, so each man carried a chop to imprint his

name. Officially, China used the alphabet, spelling out the Chinese

words phonetically--and, significantly, they had chosen the Latin

alphabet of the Western nations rather than the Cyrillic of the Soviets.

But old usages die hard.



Candron imprinted the ideograph on the page, then, beside it, he wrote

"Ying Lee" in Latin characters.



The clerk's respect for this old man went up a degree. He had expected

to have to put down the Latin characters himself. "Our humble

establishment is honored by your esteemed presence, Mr. Ying," he said.

"For how long will it be your pleasure to bestow this honor upon us?"



"My poor business, unimportant though it is, will require it least one

week; at the most, ten days." Candron said, knowing full well that

twenty-four hours would be his maximum, if everything went well.



"It pains me to ask for money in advance from so honorable a gentleman

as yourself," said the clerk, "but such are the rules. It will be seven

and a half yuan per day, or fifty yuan per week."



Candron put five ten-yuan notes on the counter. Since the readjustment

of the Chinese monetary system, the yuan had regained a great deal of

its value.



* * * * *



A young man who doubled as bellhop and elevator operator took Candron up

to the third floor. Candron tipped him generously, but not

extravagantly, and then proceeded to unpack his suitcase. He hung the

suits in the closet and put the shirts in the clothes chest. By the time

he was through, it looked as though Ying Lee was prepared to stay for a

considerable length of time.



Then he checked his escape routes, and found two that were satisfactory.

Neither led downward to the ground floor, but upward, to the roof. The

hotel was eight stories high, higher than any of the nearby buildings.

No one would expect him to go up.



Then he gave his attention to the room itself. He went over it

carefully, running his fingers gently over the walls and the furniture,

noticing every detail with his eyes. He examined the chairs, the low

bed, the floor--everything.



He was not searching for spy devices. He didn't care whether there were

any there or not. He wanted to know that room. To know it, become

familiar with it, make it a part of him.



Had there been any spy devices, they would have noticed nothing unusual.

There was only an old man there, walking slowly around the room,

muttering to himself as though he were thinking over something important

or, perhaps, merely reminiscing on the past, mentally chewing over his

memories.



He did not peer, or poke, or prod. He did not appear to be looking for

anything. He picked up a small, cheap vase and looked at it as though it

were an old friend; he rubbed his hand over the small writing desk, as

though he had written many things in that familiar place; he sat down in

a chair and leaned back in it and caressed the armrests with his palms

as though it were an honored seat in his own home. And, finally, he

undressed, put on his nightclothes, and lay down on the bed, staring at

the ceiling with a soft smile on his face. After ten minutes or so, his

eyes closed and remained that way for three-quarters of an hour.



Unusual? No. An old man must have his rest. There is nothing unusual

about an old man taking a short nap.



When he got up again, Spencer Candron was thoroughly familiar with the

room. It was home, and he loved it.



Nightfall found the honorable Mr. Ying a long way from his hotel. He

had, as his papers had said, gone to do business with a certain Mr. Yee,

had haggled over the price of certain goods, and had been unsuccessful

in establishing a mutual price. Mr. Yee was later to be able to prove

to the People's Police that he had done no business whatever with Mr.

Ying, and had had no notion whatever that Mr. Ying's business

connections in Nanking were totally nonexistent.



But, on that afternoon, Mr. Ying had left Mr. Yee with the impression

that he would return the next day with, perhaps, a more amenable

attitude toward Mr. Yee's prices. Then Mr. Ying Lee had gone to a

restaurant for his evening meal.



He had eaten quietly by himself, reading the evening edition of the

Peiping Truth as he ate his leisurely meal. Although many of the

younger people had taken up the use of the knife and fork, the venerable

Mr. Ying clung to the chopsticks of an earlier day, plied expertly

between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He was not the only

elderly man in the place who did so.



Having finished his meal and his newspaper in peace, Mr. Ying Lee

strolled out into the gathering dusk. By the time utter darkness had

come, and the widely-spaced street lamps of the city had come alive, the

elderly Mr. Ying Lee was within half a mile of the most important group

of buildings in China.



The Peiping Explosion, back in the sixties, had almost started World War

Three. An atomic blast had leveled a hundred square miles of the city

and started fires that had taken weeks to extinguish. Soviet Russia had

roared in its great bear voice that the Western Powers had attacked, and

was apparently on the verge of coming to the defense of its Asian

comrade when the Chinese government had said irritatedly that there had

been no attack, that traitorous and counterrevolutionary Chinese agents

of Formosa had sabotaged an atomic plant, nothing more, and that the

honorable comrades of Russia would be wise not to set off anything that

would destroy civilization. The Russian Bear grumbled and sheathed its

claws.



The vast intelligence system of the United States had reported that (A)

the explosion had been caused by carelessness, not sabotage, but the

Chinese had had to save face, and (B) the Soviet Union had no intention

of actually starting an atomic war at that time. If she had, she would

have shot first and made excuses afterwards. But she had hoped to make

good propaganda usage of, the blast.



The Peiping Explosion had caused widespread death and destruction, yes;

but it had also ended up being the fastest slum-clearance project on

record. The rebuilding had taken somewhat more time than the clearing

had taken, but the results had been a new Peiping--a modern city in

every respect. And nowhere else on Earth was there one hundred square

miles of completely modern city. Alteration takes longer than starting

from scratch if the techniques are available; there isn't so much dead

wood to clear away.



In the middle of the city, the Chinese government had built its

equivalent of the Kremlin--nearly a third of a square mile of

ultra-modern buildings designed to house every function of the Communist

Government of China. It had taken slave labor to do the job, but the job

had been done.



A little more than half a mile on a side, the area was surrounded by a

wall that had been designed after the Great Wall of China. It stood

twenty-five feet high and looked very quaint and picturesque.



And somewhere inside it James Ch'ien, American-born physicist, was being

held prisoner. Spencer Candron, alias Mr. Ying Lee, had to get him out.



Dr. Ch'ien was important. The government of the United States knew he

was important, but they did not yet know how important he was.



* * * * *



Man had already reached the Moon and returned. The Martian expedition

had landed safely, but had not yet returned. No one had heard from the

Venusian expedition, and it was presumed lost. But the Moon was being

jointly claimed by Russian and American suits at the United Nations,

while the United Nations itself was trying to establish a claim. The

Martian expedition was American, but a Russian ship was due to land in

two months. The lost Venusian expedition had been Russian, and the

United States was ready to send a ship there.



After nearly forty years, the Cold War was still going on, but now the

scale had expanded from the global to the interplanetary.



And now, up-and-coming China, defying the Western Powers and arrogantly

ignoring her Soviet allies, had decided to get into the race late and

win it if she could.



And she very likely could, if she could exploit the abilities of James

Ch'ien to the fullest. If Dr. Ch'ien could finish his work, travel to

the stars would no longer be a wild-eyed idea; if he could finish,

spatial velocities would no longer be limited to the confines of the

rocket, nor even to the confines of the velocity of light. Man could go

to the stars.



The United States Federal Government knew--or, at least, the most

responsible officers of that government knew--that Ch'ien's equations

led to interstellar travel, just as Einstein's equations had led to

atomic energy. Normally, the United States would never have allowed Dr.

Ch'ien to attend the International Physicists Conference in Peiping. But

diplomacy has its rules, too.



Ch'ien had published his preliminary work--a series of highly abstruse

and very controversial equations--back in '80. The paper had appeared in

a journal that was circulated only in the United States and was not read

by the majority of mathematical physicists. Like the work of Dr. Fred

Hoyle, thirty years before, it had been laughed at by the majority of

the men in the field. Unlike Hoyle's work, it had never received any

publicity. Ch'ien's paper had remained buried.



In '81, Ch'ien had realized the importance of his work, having carried

it further. He had reported his findings to the proper authorities of

the United States Government, and had convinced that particular branch

of the government that his work had useful validity. But it was too late

to cover up the hints that he had already published.



Dr. James Ch'ien was a friendly, gregarious man. He liked to go to

conventions and discuss his work with his colleagues. He was, in

addition, a man who would never let anything go once he had got hold of

it, unless he was convinced that he was up a blind alley. And, as far as

Dr. Ch'ien was concerned, that took a devil of a lot of convincing.



The United States government was, therefore, faced with a dilemma. If

they let Ch'ien go to the International Conferences, there was the

chance that he would be forced, in some way, to divulge secrets that

were vital to the national defense of the United States. On the other

hand, if they forbade him to go, the Communist governments would suspect

that Ch'ien knew something important, and they would check back on his

previous work and find his publications of 1980. If they did, and

realized the importance of that paper, they might be able to solve the

secret of the interstellar drive.



The United States government had figuratively flipped a coin, and the

result was that Ch'ien was allowed to come and go as he pleased, as

though he were nothing more than just another government physicist.



And now he was in the hands of China.



How much did the Chinese know? Not much, evidently; otherwise they would

never have bothered to go to the trouble of kidnaping Dr. James Ch'ien

and covering the kidnaping so elaborately. They suspected, yes: but

they couldn't know. They knew that the earlier papers meant something,

but they didn't know what--so they had abducted Ch'ien in the hope that

he would tell them.



James Ch'ien had been in their hands now for two months. How much

information had they extracted by now? Personally, Spencer Candron felt

that they had got nothing. You can force a man to work; you can force

him to tell the truth. But you can not force a man to create against

his will.



Still, even a man's will can be broken, given enough time. If Dr. Ch'ien

weren't rescued soon....



Tonight, Candron thought with determination. I'll get Ch'ien

tonight. That was what the S.M.M.R. had sent him to do. And that's what

he would--must--do.



Ahead of him loomed the walls of the Palace of the Great Chinese

People's Government. Getting past them and into the inner court was an

act that was discouraged as much as possible by the Special Police guard

which had charge of those walls. They were brilliantly lighted and

heavily guarded. If Candron tried to levitate himself over, he'd most

likely be shot down in midair. They might be baffled afterwards, when

they tried to figure out how he had come to be flying around up there,

but that wouldn't help Candron any.



Candron had a better method.



* * * * *



When the automobile carrying the People's Minister of Finance, the

Honorable Chou Lung, went through the Gate of the Dog to enter the inner

court of the Palace, none of the four men inside it had any notion that

they were carrying an unwanted guest. How could they? The car was a

small one; its low, streamlined body carried only four people, and there

was no luggage compartment, since the powerful little vehicle was

designed only for maneuvering in a crowded city or for fast, short trips

to nearby towns. There was simply no room for another passenger, and

both the man in the car and the guards who passed it through were so

well aware of that fact that they didn't even bother to think about it.

It never occurred to them that a slight, elderly-looking gentleman might

be hanging beneath the car, floating a few inches off the ground,

holding on with his fingertips, and allowing the car to pull him along

as it moved on into the Palace of the Great Chinese People's Government.



Getting into the subterranean cell where Dr. James Ch'ien was being held

was a different kind of problem. Candron knew the interior of the Palace

by map only, and the map he had studied had been admittedly inadequate.

It took him nearly an hour to get to the right place. Twice, he avoided

a patrolling guard by taking to the air and concealing himself in the

darkness of an overhead balcony. Several other times, he met men in

civilian clothing walking along the narrow walks, and he merely nodded

at them. He looked too old and too well-dressed to be dangerous.



The principle that made it easy was the fact that no one expects a lone

man to break into a heavily guarded prison.



After he had located the building where James Ch'ien was held, he went

high-flying. The building itself was one which contained the living

quarters of several high-ranking officers of the People's Government.

Candron knew he would be conspicuous if he tried to climb up the side of

the building from the outside, but he managed to get into the second

floor without being observed. Then he headed for the elevator shafts.



It took him several minutes to jimmy open the elevator door. His mind

was sensitive enough to sense the nearness of others, so there was no

chance of his being caught red-handed. When he got the door open, he

stepped into the shaft, brought his loathing for the bottom into the

fore, and floated up to the top floor. From there it was a simple matter

to get to the roof, drop down the side, and enter the open window of an

officer's apartment.



He entered a lighted window rather than a darkened one. He wanted to

know what he was getting into. He had his gun ready, just in case, but

there was no sign of anyone in the room he entered. A quick search

showed that the other two rooms were also empty. His mind had told him

that there was no one awake in the apartment, but a sleeping man's mind,

filled with dimmed, chaotic thoughts, blended into the background and

might easily be missed.






Then Spencer Candron used the telephone, punching the first of the two

code numbers he had been given. A connection was made to the room where

a twenty-four-hour guard kept watch over James Ch'ien via television

pickups hidden in the walls of his prison apartment in the basement.



Candron had listened to recordings of one man's voice for hours, getting

the exact inflection, accent, and usage. Now, he made use of that

practice.



"This is General Soong," he said sharply. "We are sending a Dr. Wan down

to persuade the guest. We will want recordings of all that takes place."





"Yes, sir," said the voice at the other end.



"Dr. Wan will be there within ten minutes, so be alert."



"Yes, sir. All will be done to your satisfaction."



"Excellent," said Candron. He smiled as he hung up. Then he punched

another secret number. This one connected him with the guards outside

Ch'ien's apartment. As General Soong, he warned them of the coming of

Dr. Wan. Then he went to the window, stepped out, and headed for the

roof again.



* * * * *



There was no danger that the calls would be suspected. Those two phones

could not be contacted except from inside the Palace, and not even then

unless the number was known.



Again he dropped down Elevator Shaft Three. Only Number One was

operating this late in the evening, so there was no fear of meeting it

coming up. He dropped lightly to the roof of the car, where it stood

empty in the basement, opened the escape hatch in the roof, dropped

inside, opened the door, and emerged into the first basement. Then he

started down the stairs to the subbasement.



The guards were not the least suspicious, apparently. Candron wished he

were an honest-to-God telepath, so he could be absolutely sure. The

officer at the end of the corridor that led to Ch'ien's apartment was a

full captain, a tough-looking, swarthy Mongol with dark, hard eyes. "You

are Dr. Wan?" he asked in a guttural baritone.



"I am," Candron said. This was no place for traditional politeness. "Did

not General Soong call you?"



"He did, indeed, doctor. But I assumed you would be carrying--" He

gestured, as though not quite sure what to say.



Candron smiled blandly. "Ah. You were expecting the little black bag, is

it not so? No, my good captain; I am a psychologist, not a medical

doctor."



The captain's face cleared. "So. The persuasion is to be of the more

subtle type."



"Indeed. Only thus can we be assured of his co-operation. One cannot

force the creative mind to create; it must be cajoled. Could one have

forced the great K'ung Fu-tse to become a philosopher at the point of a

sword?"



"It is so," said the captain. "Will you permit me to search you?"



The affable Dr. Wan emptied his pockets, then permitted the search. The

captain casually looked at the identification in the wallet. It was,

naturally, in perfect order for Dr. Wan. The identification of Ying Lee

had been destroyed hours ago, since it was of no further value.



"These things must be left here until you come out, doctor," the captain

said. "You may pick them up when you leave." He gestured at the pack of

cigarettes. "You will be given cigarettes by the interior guard. Such

are my orders."



"Very well," Candron said calmly. "And now, may I see the patient?" He

had wanted to keep those cigarettes. Now he would have to find a

substitute.



The captain unlocked the heavy door. At the far end, two more guards

sat, complacently playing cards, while a third stood at a door a few

yards away. A television screen imbedded in the door was connected to an

interior camera which showed the room within.



The corridor door was closed and locked behind Candron as he walked

toward the three interior guards. They were three more big, tough

Mongols, all wearing the insignia of lieutenants. This was not a

prisoner who could be entrusted to the care of common soldiers; the

secret was too important to allow the hoi polloi in on it. They

carried no weapons; the three of them could easily take care of Ch'ien

if he tried anything foolish, and besides, it kept weapons out of

Ch'ien's reach. There were other methods of taking care of the prisoner

if the guards were inadequate.



The two officers who were playing cards looked up, acknowledged Dr.

Wan's presence, and went back to their game. The third, after glancing

at the screen, opened the door to James Ch'ien's apartment. Spencer

Candron stepped inside.



It was because of those few seconds--the time during which that door was

open--that Candron had called the monitors who watched Ch'ien's

apartment. Otherwise, he wouldn't have bothered. He needed fifteen

seconds in which to act, and he couldn't do it with that door open. If

the monitors had given an alarm in these critical seconds....



But they hadn't, and they wouldn't. Not yet.



The man who was sitting in the easy-chair on the opposite side of the

room looked up as Candron entered.



James Ch'ien (B.S., M.S., M.I.T., Ph. D., U.C.L.A.) was a young man,

barely past thirty. His tanned face no longer wore the affable smile

that Candron had seen in photographs, and the jet-black eyes beneath the

well-formed brows were cold instead of friendly, but the intelligence

behind the face still came through.



As the door was relocked behind him, Candron said, in Cantonese: "This

unworthy one hopes that the excellent doctor is well. Permit me to

introduce my unworthy self: I am Dr. Wan Feng."



Dr. Ch'ien put the book he was reading in his lap. He looked at the

ceiling in exasperation, then back at Candron. "All right," he said in

English, "so you don't believe me. But I'll repeat it again in the hope

that I can get it through your skulls." It was obvious that he was

addressing, not only his visitor, but anyone else who might be

listening.



"I do not speak Chinese," he said, emphasizing each word separately. "I

can say 'Good morning' and 'Good-by', and that's about it. I do wish I

could say 'drop dead,' but that's a luxury I can't indulge. If you can

speak English, then go ahead; if not, quit wasting my time and yours.

Not," he added, "that it won't be a waste of time anyway, but at least

it will relieve the monotony."



Candron knew that Ch'ien was only partially telling the truth. The

physicist spoke the language badly, but he understood it fairly well.



"Sorry, doctor," Candron said in English, "I guess I forgot myself. I am

Dr. Wan Feng."



Ch'ien's expression didn't change, but he waved to a nearby chair. "Sit

down, Dr. Feng, and tell me what propaganda line you've come to deliver

now."



Candron smiled and shook his head slowly. "That was unworthy of you, Dr.

Ch'ien. Even though you have succumbed to the Western habit of putting

the family name last, you are perfectly aware that 'Wan,' not 'Feng,' is

my family name."



The physicist didn't turn a hair. "Force of habit, Dr. Wan. Or, rather,

a little retaliation. I was called 'Dakta Chamis' for two days, and even

those who could pronounce the name properly insisted on 'Dr. James.' But

I forget myself. I am supposed to be the host here. Do sit down and tell

me why I should give myself over to Communist China just because my

grandfather was born here back in the days when China was a republic."



* * * * *



Spencer Candron knew that time was running out, but he had to force

Ch'ien into the right position before he could act. He wished again that

he had been able to keep the cigarettes. Ch'ien was a moderately heavy

smoker, and one of those drugged cigarettes would have come in handy

now. As it was, he had to handle it differently. And that meant a

different approach.



"No, Dr. Ch'ien," he said, in a voice that was deliberately too smooth,

"I will not sit down, thank you. I would prefer that you stand up."



The physicist's face became a frozen mask. "I see that the doctorate you

claim is not for studies in the field of physics. You're not here to

worm things out of me by discussing my work talking shop. What is it,

Doctor Wan?"



"I am a psychologist." Candron said. He knew that the monitors watching

the screens and listening to the conversation were recording everything.

He knew that they shouldn't be suspicious yet. But if the real General

Soong should decide to check on what his important guest was doing....



"A psychologist," Ch'ien repeated in a monotone. "I see."



"Yes. Now, will you stand, or do I have to ask the guards to lift you to

your feet?"



James Ch'ien recognized the inevitable, so he stood. But there was a

wary expression in his black eyes. He was not a tall man; he stood

nearly an inch shorter than Candron himself.



"You have nothing to fear, Dr. Ch'ien," Candron said smoothly. "I merely

wish to test a few of your reactions. We do not wish to hurt you." He

put his hands on the other man's shoulders, and positioned him. "There,"

he said. "Now. Look to the left."



"Hypnosis, eh?" Ch'ien said with a grim smile. "All right. Go ahead." He

looked to his left.



"Not with your head," Candron said calmly. "Face me and look to the left

with your eyes."



Ch'ien did so, saying: "I'm afraid you'll have to use drugs after all,

Dr. Wan. I will not be hypnotized."



"I have no intention of hypnotizing you. Now look to the right."



Ch'ien obeyed.



Candron's right hand was at his side, and his left hand was toying with

a button on his coat. "Now up," he said.



Dr. James Ch'ien rolled his eyeballs upward.



Candron had already taken a deep breath. Now he acted. His right hand

balled into a fist and arced upwards in a crashing uppercut to Ch'ien's

jaw. At almost the same time, he jerked the button off his coat, cracked

it with his fingers along the special fissure line, and threw it to the

floor.



As the little bomb spewed forth unbelievable amounts of ultra-finely

divided carbon in a dense black cloud of smoke, Candron threw both arms

around the collapsing physicist, ignoring the pain in the knuckles of

his right hand. The smoke cloud billowed around them, darkening the room

and obscuring the view from the monitor screens that were watching them.

Candron knew that the guards were acting now; he knew that the big

Mongols outside were already inserting the key in the door and inserting

their nose plugs; he knew that the men in the monitor room had hit an

alarm button and had already begun to flood the room with sleep gas. But

he paid no attention to these things.



Instead, he became homesick.



Home. It was a little place he knew and loved. He could no longer stand

the alien environment around him; it was repugnant, repelling. All he

could think of was a little room, a familiar room, a beloved room. He

knew the cracks in its ceiling, the feel of the varnish on the homely

little desk, the touch of the worn carpet against his feet, the very

smell of the air itself. And he loved them and longed for them with all

the emotional power that was in him.



And suddenly the darkness of the smoke-filled prison apartment was gone.



Spencer Candron stood in the middle of the little hotel room he had

rented early that morning. In his arms, he held the unconscious figure

of Dr. James Ch'ien.



He gasped for breath, then, with an effort, he stooped, allowed the limp

body of the physicist to collapse over his shoulder, and stood straight

again, carrying the man like a sack of potatoes. He went to the door of

the room and opened it carefully. The hall was empty. Quickly, he moved

outside, closing the door behind him, and headed toward the stair. This

time, he dared not trust the elevator shaft. The hotel only boasted one

elevator, and it might be used at any time. Instead, he allowed his

dislike for the stair treads to adjust his weight to a few pounds, and

then ran up them two at a time.



On the roof of the hotel, he adjusted his emotional state once more, and

he and his sleeping burden drifted off into the night, toward the sea.



* * * * *



No mind is infinitely flexible, infinitely malleable, infinitely capable

of taking punishment, just as no material substance, however

constructed, is capable of absorbing the energies brought to bear

against it indefinitely.



A man can hate with a virulent hatred, but unless time is allowed to

dull and soothe that hatred, the mind holding it will become corroded

and cease to function properly, just as a machine of the finest steel

will become corroded and begin to fail if it is drenched with acid or

exposed to the violence of an oxidizing atmosphere.



The human mind can insulate itself, for a time, against the destructive

effects of any emotion, be it hatred, greed, despondency, contentment,

happiness, pleasure, anger, fear, lust, boredom, euphoria,

determination, or any other of the myriads of "ills" that man's

mind--and thus his flesh--is heir to. As long as a mind is capable of

changing from one to another, to rotate its crops, so to speak, the

insulation will remain effective, and the mind will remain undamaged.

But any single emotional element, held for too long, will break down the

resistance of the natural insulation and begin to damage the mind.



Even that least virulent of emotions, love, can destroy. The hot,

passionate love between new lovers must be modified or it will kill.

Only when its many facets can be shifted around, now one and now the

other coming into play, can love be endured for any great length of

time.



Possibly the greatest difference between the sane and the unsane is that

the sane know when to release a destructive force before it does more

than minimal damage; to modify or eliminate an emotional condition

before it becomes a deadly compulsion; to replace one set of concepts

with another when it becomes necessary to do so; to recognize that point

when the mind must change its outlook or die. To stop the erosion, in

other words, before it becomes so great that it cannot be repaired.



For the human mind cannot contain any emotion, no matter how weak or how

fleeting, without change. And the point at which that change ceases to

be constructive and becomes, instead, destructive--that is the

ultimate point beyond which no human mind can go without forcing a

change--any change--in itself.



Spencer Candron knew that. To overuse the psionic powers of the human

mind is as dangerous as overusing morphine or alcohol. There are limits

to mental powers, even as there are limits to physical powers.



Psychokinesis is defined as the ability of a human mind to move, no

matter how slightly, a physical object by means of psionic application

alone. In theory, then, one could move planets, stars, even whole

galaxies by thought alone. But, in physical terms, the limit is easily

seen. Physically, it would be theoretically possible to destroy the sun

if one had enough atomic energy available, but that would require the

energy of another sun--or more. And, at that point, the Law of

Diminishing Returns comes into operation. If you don't want a bomb to

explode, but the only way to destroy that bomb is by blowing it up with

another bomb of equal power, where is the gain?



And if the total mental power required to move a planet is greater than

any single human mind can endure--or even greater than the total mental

endurance of a thousand planetsfull of minds, is there any gain?



There is not, and can never be, a system without limits, and the human

mind is a system which obeys that law.



None the less, Spencer Candron kept his mind on flight, on repulsion, on

movement, as long as he could. He was perfectly willing to destroy his

own mind for a purpose, but he had no intention of destroying it

uselessly. He didn't know how long he kept moving eastward; he had no

way of knowing how much distance he had covered nor how long it had

taken him. But, somewhere out over the smoothly undulating surface of

the Pacific, he realized that he was approaching his limit. And, a few

seconds later, he detected the presence of men beneath the sea.



He knew they were due to rise an hour before dawn, but he had no idea

how long that would be. He had lost all track of time. He had been

keeping his mind on controlling his altitude and motion, and, at the

same time, been careful to see whether Dr. Ch'ien came out of his

unconscious state. Twice more he had had to strike the physicist to keep

him out cold, and he didn't want to do it again.



So, when he sensed the presence of the American submarine beneath the

waves, he sank gratefully into the water, changing the erosive power of

the emotion that had carried him so far, and relaxing into the simple

physical routine of keeping both himself and Ch'ien afloat.



By the time the submarine surfaced a dozen yards away, Spencer Candron

was both physically and mentally exhausted. He yelled at the top of his

lungs, and then held on to consciousness just long enough to be rescued.



* * * * *



"The official story," said Senator Kerotski, "is that an impostor had

taken Dr. Ch'ien's place before he ever left the United States--" He

grinned. "At least, the substitution took place before the delegates

reached China. So the 'assassination' was really no assassination at

all. Ch'ien was kidnaped here, and a double put in his place in Peiping.

That absolves both us and the Chinese Government of any complicity. We

save face for them, and they save face for us. Since he turned up here,

in the States, it's obvious that he couldn't have been in China." He

chuckled, but there was no mirth in it. "So the cold war still

continues. We know what they did, and--in a way--they know what we did.

But not how we did it."



The senator looked at the other two men who were with him on the fifth

floor office of the Society for Mystical and Metaphysical Research.

Taggert was relaxing on his couch, and Spencer Candron, just out of the

hospital, looked rather pale as he sat in the big, soft chair that

Taggert had provided.



The senator looked at Candron. "The thing I don't understand is, why was

it necessary to knock out Ch'ien? He'll have a sore jaw for weeks. Why

didn't you just tell him who you were and what you were up to?"



Candron glanced at Taggert, but Taggert just grinned and nodded.



"We couldn't allow that," said Candron, looking at Senator Kerotski.

"Dr. James Ch'ien has too much of a logical, scientific mind for that.

We'd have ruined him if he'd seen me in action."



The senator looked a little surprised. "Why? We've convinced other

scientists that they were mistaken in their observations. Why not

Ch'ien?"



"Ch'ien is too good a scientist," Candron said. "He's not the type who

would refuse to believe something he saw simply because it didn't agree

with his theories. Ch'ien is one of those dangerous in-betweens. He's

too brilliant to be allowed to go to waste, and, at the same time, too

rigid to change his manner of thinking. If he had seen me teleport or

levitate, he wouldn't reject it--he'd try to explain it. And that would

have effectively ruined him."



"Ruined him?" The senator looked a little puzzled.



Taggert raised his heavy head from the couch. "Sure, Leo," he said to

the senator. "Don't you see? We need Ch'ien on this interstellar

project. He absolutely must dope out the answer somehow, and no one

else can do it as quickly."



"With the previous information," the senator said, "we would have been

able to continue."



"Yeah?" Taggert said, sitting up. "Has anyone been able to dope out

Fermat's Last Theorem without Fermat? No. So why ruin Ch'ien?"



"It would ruin him," Candron broke in, before the senator could speak.

"If he saw, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that levitation and

teleportation were possible, he would have accepted his own senses as

usable data on definite phenomena. But, limited as he is by his

scientific outlook, he would have tried to evolve a scientific theory to

explain what he saw. What else could a scientist do?"



Senator Kerotski nodded, and his nod said: "I see. He would have

diverted his attention from the field of the interstellar drive to the

field of psionics. And he would have wasted years trying to explain an

inherently nonlogical area of knowledge by logical means."



"That's right," Candron said. "We would have set him off on a wild goose

chase, trying to solve the problems of psionics by the scientific, the

logical, method. We would have presented him with an unsolvable

problem."



Taggert patted his knees. "We would have given him a problem that he

could not solve with the methodology at hand. It would be as though we

had proved to an ancient Greek philosopher that the cube could be

doubled, and then allowed him to waste his life trying to do it with a

straight-edge and compass."



"We know Ch'ien's psychological pattern," Candron continued. "He's not

capable of admitting that there is any other thought pattern than the

logical. He would try to solve the problems of psionics by logical

methods, and would waste the rest of his life trying to do the

impossible."



The senator stroked his chin. "That's clear," he said at last. "Well, it

was worth a cracked jaw to save him. We've given him a perfectly logical

explanation of his rescue and, simultaneously, we've put the Chinese

government into absolute confusion. They have no idea of how you got out

of there, Candron."



"That's not as important as saving Ch'ien," Candron said.



"No," the senator said quickly, "of course not. After all, the Secretary

of Research needs Dr. Ch'ien--the man's important."



Spencer Candron smiled. "I agree. He's practically indispensable--as

much as a man can be."



"He's the Secretary's right hand man," said Taggert firmly.