safest.'
'Right,' Rafferty replied easily, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. 'That really was a nice piece of flying, Mr. Lippitt. Thank you for leading the rescue party.'
'I've got two things I want to say. First, I'm sorry for the mess I got us into.' He paused, glanced sharply at me. 'Second, I trust I'll hear no more talk from you about me being senile.' 'Not a peep.'
33
Flying at low altitudes to avoid radar, stopping only at remote airports to refuel, it took us three days to reach the northern tip of California, where Jonathan Pilgrim's Institute for the Study of Human Potential was located.
A former astronaut who had experienced a profound shifting of consciousness while walking on the moon, Pilgrim, a retired Air Force colonel, had spent almost a decade seeking to fund and shape an institute that would provide the cutting edge in all the social, psychological, and physical sciences relating to humankind. He had succeeded. The Institute's sports medicine research program was second only to East Germany's, and its myriad other programs were second to none. Leading scientists from all over the world came to 'Pilgrim's Mountain' to lecture and continue their own research with the Institute's state-of-the-art equipment and massive computer files on human types ranging from New Guinea pygmies to African Watusi. Research volunteers ranged from geniuses to idiot savants, prodigies in chess, music and mathematics, world record holders in virtually every organized sport and not a few unorganized ones, smart people and stupid people, altruists and sociopaths, heroes and mass murderers. Pilgrim had even done a workup on a certain dwarf who'd used his rather remarkable athletic abilities to become a circus head-liner, but I'd been there long before Siegmund Loge, Stryder London, and Mr. Lippitt.
A huge sign on the highway at the foot of the mountain bore Siegmund Loge's likeness, and the logo: FATHER IS THE ANSWER. We left the clunker we'd stolen in a plowed parking area off the main highway and, after checking my battery pack, hiked up the mountain through snow and forest, moving parallel to the Institute's access road.
Because of the many celebrities, talented and powerful people who might be at the Institute at any given time, there had always been tight security; there was still tight security, but now it appeared to be provided exclusively by Warriors. From our position in a culvert across the road from one of the entrance gates, we watched for almost an hour; the gate, guarded by two Warriors, was open, but nobody came or went.
'Can you do anything about those guards?' Lippitt asked Rafferty.
'I'm not sure,' the telepath replied after some hesitation. 'It's been a long time since I've done any probing and manipulation.'
'I know the layout of this place very well. If we can find a way of getting in through this entrance, we'll be close to a good hiding place we can use as a base of operations.'
Rafferty nodded. 'You two wait here. I'm going to talk to the guards. When you see me motion for you to come, just walk across the road and through the gate. Walk at a normal pace, and act normal. Don't speak to me or the guards. I'll follow you.'
Keeping low, hiding behind the banks of snow at the side of the road, Rafferty moved off to his left, disappeared from sight around a bend in the road. Ten minutes later we saw him coming down the highway on the Institute side, walking with a pronounced limp. The Warriors watched him approach, but showed no signs of nervousness. Rafferty stopped by the gate and began talking to the men; from his gestures, he appeared to be describing an automobile accident farther up the road. Then the Warriors began talking to each other; their conversation grew increasingly animated, until finally they seemed to be engaged in a heated argument, virtually ignoring Rafferty.
Then the hand signal came.
Lippitt and I looked at each other uncertainly. Both of us had very good reason to be in awe of Victor Rafferty's powers, but it was still unnerving to think that we were now expected to leave our cover and try to stroll past two fully conscious Warriors.
But Rafferty's instructions had been explicit.
'Let's do it,' I said, clambering up over the snowbank and sliding down the other side.
Lippitt followed. Keeping his hand on the gun inside the pocket of his overcoat, he walked behind me at an unhurried pace across the road, around Rafferty and the two Warriors, and through the open gate.
The Warriors were arguing with each other over which of several service stations provided the best towing service. Rafferty's face was clenched with the strain of maintaining the illusion he had placed in the men's minds; blood ran bright crimson from both nostrils, staining his lips, dripping off his chin.
I followed Lippitt down a narrow road between low-roofed buildings which looked as if they were used for storage. We ducked into an alleyway, waited. Rafferty joined us a few minutes later.
'Are you all right?' I asked anxiously.
'Yes,' Rafferty answered evenly. Blood was smeared on his face where he had wiped it off with a handkerchief, but it was no longer running from his nose. I could tell by his eyes that he was still in pain.
'Did you find out anything?'
Rafferty shook his head. 'I can't do the sort of thing I just did and scan at the same time.'
I went to the opposite end of the alley, looked around in the dusk, saw nobody.
'Where the hell is everybody?' Lippitt said as I reported back to him.
'They're getting ready to close the place down,' Rafferty answered. 'That much I picked up when I first went into their minds. There's just a skeleton crew of Warriors, technicians, and a couple of researchers left.'
'Working over Garth,' I said through jaws that suddenly ached with tension. 'Now that Loge has the biosamples, and Garth himself, he figures he's ready to go from research into production. Lippitt, let's go catch us somebody who knows where Garth is.'
Lippitt glanced at his watch. 'I'll do the catching-in another hour or so, when it's dark.' He removed the machine pistol and three clips of ammunition from his pocket, handed them to Rafferty.
'Aren't you going to need this?' the telepath asked.
Lippitt shook his head. 'I'll get another one from where that came from-I hope. I can't afford to fire a gun out there, anyway. Mongo has his own gun. If they catch me, it may all come down to how much heavy killing the two of you can do.'
A half hour after Lippitt went out into the night a brown-uniformed Warrior with mud on his chest and blood on his mouth came crashing through the door of the near empty building where Rafferty and I were holed up. The man staggered around in a circle, at which point Lippitt entered and whacked him in the chest with the butt of the Warrior's captured machine pistol. The Warrior sat down hard.
I was definitely never, ever, again going to suggest to Mr. Lippitt that he was senile; the D.I.A. agent was one tough old man.
'Stay, you son-of-a-bitch!' Lippitt snapped at the dazed Warrior. 'Just sit there and answer our questions. Try to get up, and I'll kill you.'
'Where's Siegmund Loge?' I asked the man.
The Warrior, a husky blond Nordic type, shook his head, looked at me. 'Fuck you, dwarf,' he said as his eyes came into focus.
'Now, now,' Lippitt said, tapping the Warrior on top of the head with the barrel of the machine pistol. 'There's no need to be rude. If you want me to kill you and go get one of your buddies, just keep it up. The gentleman of slight stature just asked you a question.'
'I don't know where Siegmund Loge is,' the Warrior said sullenly. 'If I did know, I wouldn't tell you.'
'Where are the passengers in the van you stopped?'
'What van?'
'Is Father's Treasure almost ready?' Lippitt asked.
Silence.
'Is Stryder London here?'
Silence.
