The Ganymede Takeover

“That I cannot say, but once she dwelt here in this bale. I no longer sense her close by.”

“She must have escaped into the hills, Mekkis muttered. He returned, then, to the study of the documents before him. How could Gus Swenesgard, he asked himself, have been so stupid as to allow such deadly devices to fall into the hands of the Neeg-parts? That took more than ordinary dullness, the kind of stupidity that can only result from long practice and hard study.

And yet this same man had played an important part in the capture of Percy X.

“I must meet this Gus Swenesgard,” Mekkis said aloud. He had hoped to have some report from the Psychedelic Research people on Percy X long before now. What were they doing there in Norway, any-

how? Unless the Terran they called Balkani could deliver him a functioning and docile Percy X and soon, the mop-up operation against the Neeg-parts might drag on for years. Or might abruptly turn against the Gany occupation forces. Those weap­ons

And this Balkani. It was he, it seemed, who had evolved the principles on which these mind-warping devices worked. And he who had worked out a tech­nique for training the ordinarily feeble telepathic powers of certain gifted Terrans so that they almost equaled in power an experienced Ganymedian member of the Great Common.

And he to whom uncooperative Earthmen got routinely sent—to be turned into useful wiks.

“Balkani, too,” Mekkis mused aloud. “I must meet him.”

On impulse he pressed the key of his intercom with his tongue, sent an order out for a full search of nearby reference libraries for the works of this fa­mous psychiatric figure; they might, he reflected, make highly interesting reading.

“You wished to see Gus Swenesgard?” the Oracle demanded, interrupting his meditations. “He is on his way; presently he will be here.”

Ten minutes later Gus indeed sat waiting in the outer office. He did not seem surprised when he received the command to enter; with a snappy salute he ambled in to face Mekkis, the picture of self- satisfied certitude.

“You can drop that saluting now, Mr. Swenes­gard,” Mekkis greeted him caustically. “The mili­tary occupation of this bale has terminated.”

“Yes sir,” Gus said, with vigor. “What I’m here for is—” He coughed nervously. “I have some in­formation, Mr. Administrator, sir.”

A quick scan of the man’s mind proved interesting; Mekkis found Gus to be shrewd and highly cunning— qualities nobody would ever have sus­pected on the basis of his outward, physical appear­ance. If Percy X did not come through, perhaps this individual might.

“I got spies, see, among the Neeg-parts,” Gus said, wiping his nose with the back of his arm. “And they tell me a lotta funny things are going on up in the hills. Those gadgets they got out of that cave; well, they are really humdingers, let me tell you.”

‘ ‘What is a ‘humdinger’?” Mekkis asked, worried. “Well, you know, Mr. Administrator, sir, they got some mighty funny effects on people’s minds. Makes people see things that ain’t there and not see things that are therd, if you know what I mean, and they’re getting kind of cocky with them. Like one of them black devils walked into my front room, invisible, and painted a black cross on my wall, right in front of my very eyes. I thought I’d been hitting the bottle a little too heavy, sir, but it was still there the next day. So I guess it must have been real.”

“What does that mean, a black cross?”

“Means they’re going to kill me if I don’t do what they say; that’s what it means.” Gus looked un­happy.

“I’ll provide you with protection,” Mekkis said shortly.

“I always heard that the best defense is a good offense. Why don’t you provide me with a little tacti­cal force?” The drawling, rustic accent had van-

ished, now; the man’s tone bristled with direct intent. “Some ionocraft bombers and autonomic darts and let me go up into those hills after those rascals.”

“I already have several units in the hills. What could you do that they aren’t already doing?”

“I could win,” Gus said quietly. “Where you fel­lers, no offense intended, are likely to just keep bat­ting around up there ’till hell skids over with ice. I know the hills. I have spies. I understand how the Neeg mind works. I can locate where they got those weapons hidden, those mind-warping things.” Routinely, Mekkis glanced into the man’s mind— and started in surprise at what he found there. Abso­lute deception: Gus intended to find the weapons, all right—but he would keep them for himself.

For a moment Mekkis pondered. Gus could of course be bugged and even provided with some vari­ety of remote control instant-kill device. Even though his motives were impure perhaps he could locate the weapons and defeat the Neegs, where the Gany occupation forces had failed. Then, at the in­stant in which Gus believed he had everybody fooled, the remote control kill-unit, hidden some­where on his body, would take him out and leave the weapons and the victory for Mekkis.

Mekkis could never resist a gamble.

“All right,” he said to Gus. “A unit of twenty-five creeches and their full war equipment will be placed at your disposal. Use them with wisdom.”

As Gus, amazed at his own success, turned to go, Mekkis called after him. “But if you come across something called a Nowhere Girl, destroy him, her or it immediately.”

'‘Yes sir,” Gus said, and saluted.

“What’s wrong?” demanded Ed Newkom anx­iously.

Paul Rivers, lying on the couch in the fortune- telling parlor, with the telepathic amplifier on his head, had abruptly tensed with agitation. “My God,” he said, but he had become so absorbed in the thoughts which he received that he sounded, not like himself, but like Percy X. “She’s screaming!” “What are they doing to her?” Ed asked.

A long silence followed. Outside, afternoon hung heavily. Ionocraft horns beeped. A churchbell tolled five o’clock, and a slight breeze moved the curtain at the window. “She’s in a restraining jacket,” Paul said at last, again in Percy X’s voice. “She’s lying on a table with wheels, going down a long, unlit hallway.” A pause; then he spoke again, this time, eerily, in the voice of Joan Hiashi. “Damn it, Balkani, this is ab­surd! Let me go!”

Ed leaned forward, moistening his lips nervously. “Now what’s happening?”

“She’s in a room with padded walls, Paul answered, again in Percy X’s voice. Time passed and then he spoke again. Using the voice of Rudolph Balkani. “Robots one and two—take her out of the restraining jacket.” Then again in Joan’s voice. “Stop that. No! I won’t let you! It’s no use struggling, Miss Hiashi; these robots are at least ten times as strong as you are. That’s it. You see, it’s much easier on you when you cooperate. I’m not going to hurt you. After all, I am a doctor, Miss Hiashi. You’re certainly not the first unclad woman I’ve ever seen. Now, please, slip into this. No, I won’t!” The voices ebbed back and forth, as if tugging each’other, con- dieting in a counterpoint, with each struggling for dominance.

Ed Newkom listened with repugnance, almost un­able to believe what he saw and heard; the personal­ity of Paul Rivers had vanished completely.

Doctor Rudolph Balkani handed Joan Hiashi what looked to her like a pair of loose-fitting coveralls made from black plastic. She put them on and one of the robots zipped her up from the back. Only her head remained showing, she discovered. The coveralls had been lined on the inside with some material so soft that she could hardly feel it.

“You are no doubt familiar, Miss Hiashi,” Balkani said, “with the practices of certain mystic hermits; I refer specifically to the practice of sensory with­drawal. We possess now, thanks to contemporary science, and improved version of the hermit’s cave. It is called the sensory withdrawal tank.” He pressed a button and a sliding panel opened in the floor to reveal a pool of dark, still water. Balkani picked up a helmet with no windows in it.

“The most successful method of sense withdrawal is an immersion tank where the subject floats on water at blood temperature, with sound and light absent. When you put on this helmet and are lowered into the pool you will see nothing, smell nothing, touch nothing and, thanks to the sensory blocking drug with which we have injected you, there will not remain even the experience of your body, its pains and motions and chemical alterations. Put on the helmet, Miss Hiashi.”

She did not. The robots, however, did it for her.

Seemingly calm now, Joan said to Balkani, “Have you ever been in the tank yourself?’’

“Not yet,” Balkani answered. At his command the two robots lowered her into the pool, uncoiling the air-hose that led to the helmet; watching, Balkani lit his pipe and puffed on it thoughtfully. “Give my regards to oblivion, Miss