Stop Look and Dig Read online

  Stop Look and Dig

  by George O. Smith

  Edition 1, (November 29, 2006)

  STOP LOOK AND DIG

  BY GEORGE O. SMITH

  ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH

  The enlightened days of mental telepathy and ESP should have made the world a better place, But the minute the Rhine Institute opened up, all the crooks decided it was time to go collegiate!

  Someone behind me in the dark was toting a needle-ray. The impression camethrough so strong that I could almost read the filed-off serial number ofthe thing, but the guy himself I couldn't dig at all. I stopped to lookback but the only sign of life I could see was the fast flick of taxicablights as they crossed an intersection about a half mile back. I steppedinto a doorway so that I could think and stay out of the line of fire atthe same time.

  The impression of the needle-ray did not get any stronger, and that tippedme off. The bird was following me. He was no peace-loving citizen becausehonest men do not cart weapons with the serial numbers filed off.Therefore the character tailing me was a hot papa with a burner chargelabelled "Steve Hammond" in his needler.

  I concentrated, but the only impression I could get would have specifiedninety-eight men out of a hundred anywhere. He was shorter than mysix-feet-two and lighter than my one-ninety. I could guess that he wasbetter looking. I'd had my features arranged by a blocked drop kick theyear before the National Football League ruled the Rhine Institute outbecause of our use of mentals and perceptives. I gave up trying--I wanteddetails and not an overall picture of a hotbird carrying a burner.

  I wondered if I could make a run for it.

  I let my sense of perception dig the street ahead, casing every bump andirregularity. I passed places where I could zig out to take cover in frontof telephone poles, and other places where I could zag in to take coverbeyond front steps and the like. I let my perception run up the block andby the time I got to the end of my range, I knew that block just as wellas if I'd made a practise run in the daytime.

  At this point I got a shock. The hot papa was coming up the sidewalk hellbent for destruction. He was a mental sensitive, and he had been followingmy thoughts while my sense of perception made its trial run up the street.He was running like the devil to catch up with my mind and burn it downper schedule. It must have come as quite a shock to him when he realizedthat while the mind he was reading was running like hell up the street,the hard old body was standing in the doorway waiting for him.

  I dove out of my hiding place as he came close. I wanted to tackle himhard and ask some pointed questions. He saw me as I saw him skidding to anunbalanced stop, and there was the dull glint of metal in his right hand.His needle-ray came swinging up and I went for my armpit. I found time tocurse my own stupidity for not having hardware in my own fist at themoment. But then I had my rod in my fist. I felt the hot scorch of theneedle going off just over my shoulder, and then came the godawful racketof my ancient forty-five. The big slug caught him high in the belly andtossed him back. It folded him over and dropped him in the gutter whilethe echoes of my cannon were still racketing back and forth up and downthe quiet street.

  I had just enough time to dig his wallet, pockets, and billfold before thewhole neighborhood was up and out. Sirens howled in the distance and fromabove I could hear the thin wail of a jetcopter. Someone opened a windowand called: "What's going on out there? Cut it out!"

 

  "Tea party," I called back. "Go invite the cops, Tommy."

  The window slammed down again. He didn't have to invite the law. Itarrived in three ground cruisers and two jetcopter emergency squads thatcame closing in like a collapsing balloon.

  The leader of the squadron was a Lieutenant Williamson whom I'd never metbefore. But he knew all about me before the 'copter hit the ground. Icould almost feel his sense of perception frisking me from the skinoutward, going through my wallet and inspecting the Private Operator'slicense and my Weapon-Permit. I found out later that Williamson was aRhine Scholar with a Bachelor's Degree in Perception, which put him headand shoulders over me. He came to the point at once.

  "Any ideas about this, Hammond?"

  I shook my head. "Nope," I replied. He looked at one of his men.

  The other man nodded. "He's levelling," he said.

  "Now look, Hammond," said the lieutenant pointedly, "You're clean and weknow it. But hot papas don't go out for fun. Why was he trying to burnyou?"

  "I wouldn't know. I'm as blank as any perceptive when it comes to readingminds. I was hoping to collect him whole enough to ask questions, but heforced my hand." I looked to where some of the clean-up squad were tuckingthe corpse into a basket. "It was one of the few times I'd have happilyswapped my perception for the ability to read a mind."

  The lieutenant nodded unhappily. "Mind telling me why you were wanderingaround in this neighborhood? You don't belong here, you know."

  "I was doing the job that most private eyes do. I was tailing a gent whowas playing games off the reservation."

  "You've gone into this guy's wallet, of course?"

  I nodded. "Sure. He _was_ Peter Rambaugh, age thirty, and----"

  "Don't bother. I know the rest. I can add only one item that you may notknow. Rampaugh was a paid hotboy, suspected of playing with Scarmann'smob."

  "I've had no dealings with Scarmann, Lieutenant."

  The Lieutenant nodded absently. It seemed to be a habit with him, probablyto cover up his thinking-time. Finally he said, "Hammond, you're clean. Assoon as I identified you I took a dig of your folder at headquarters.You're a bit rough and fast on that prehistoric cannon of yours, but----"

  "You mean you can dig a folder at central files all the way from here?"

  "I did."

  Here was a _real_ esper for you. I've got a range of about two blocks forgood, solid, permanent things like buildings and street-car tracks, butunfamiliar things get foggy at about a half a block. I can dig lethalmachinery coming in my direction for about a block and a half because I'ma bit sensitive about such things. I looked at Lieutenant Williamson andsaid, "With a range like yours, how come there's any crime in this town atall?"

  He shook his head slowly. "Crime doesn't out until it's committed," hesaid. "You'll remember how fast we got here after you pulled the trigger.But you're clean, Hammond. Just come to the inquest and tell all."

  "I can go?"

  "You can go. But just to keep you out of any more trouble, I'll have oneof the jetcopters drop you off at home. Mind?"

  "Nope. But isn't that more than the police are used to doing?"

  He eyed me amusedly. "If I were a mental," he said, "I could read yourmind and know that you were forming the notion of calling on Scarmann andasking him what-for. But since I'm only a mind-blank esper, all I can dois to fall back on experience and guesswork. Do I make myself clear?"

  Lieutenant Williamson's guess-work and experience were us good as mentalsensitivity, but I didn't think it wise to admit that I had beenconsidering just exactly how to get to Scarmann. I was quickly and firmlyconvoyed home in a jetcopter but once I saw them take off I walked out ofthe apartment again.

  I had more or less tacitly agreed not to go looking for Scarmann, but Ihad not mentioned taking a dig at the apartment of the dear departed,Peter Rambaugh.

  Rambaugh's place was uptown and the front door was protected by an eighttumbler cylinder job that would have taxed the best of esper lockpicks.But there was a service entrance in back that was not locked and I tookit. The elevator was a self-service job, and Rambaugh's back door waslocked on a snaplatch that a playful kitten could have opened. I dug theplace for a few minutes and found it clean, so I went in and took a morecareful look.

  The desk was not particularly interest
ing. Just papers and letters andunpaid bills. The dresser in the bedroom was the same, excepting for thebottom drawer. That was filled with a fine collection of needle-rays andstunguns and one big force blaster that could blow a hole in a brick wall.None of them had their serial numbers intact.

  But behind a reproduction of a Gainsborough painting was a wall safe thatmust have been built before Rhine Institute discovered the key to man'slatent abilities. Inside of this tin can was a collection of photographsthat must have brought Rambaugh a nice sum in the months when the murderbusiness went slack. I couldn't quite dig them clear because I didn't knowany of the people involved, and I didn't try too hard because there weresome letters and notes that might lead me into the answer to why Rambaughwas hotburning for me.

  I fiddled with the dial for about fifteen minutes, watching the tumblersand the little wheels go around. Then it went click and I turned thehandle and opened the door. I was standing there with both hands deep inRambaugh's safe when I heard a noise behind me.

  I whirled and slid aside all in one motion and my hand streaked for myarmpit and came out with the forty five. It was a woman and she wascarrying nothing more lethal than the fountain pen in her purse. Sheblanched when she saw my forty-five swinging towards her middle, but shetook a deep breath when I halted it in midair.

  "I didn't mean to startle you," she apologized.

  "Startle, hell!" I blurted. "You scared me out of my shoes."

  I dug her purse. Beside the usual female junk she had a wallet containinga couple of charge-account plates, a driver's license, and a hospitalcard, all made out to Miss Martha Franklin. Miss Franklin was abouttwenty-four, and she was a strawberry blonde with the pale skin and blueeyes that goes with the hair. I gathered that she didn't belong there anymore than I did.

  "I don't, Mr. Hammond," she said.

  So Martha Franklin was a mental sensitive.

  "I am," she told me. "That's how I came to be here."

  "I'm esper. You'll have to explain in words of one syllable because Ican't read you."

  "I was not far away when you cut loose with that field-piece of yours,"she said flatly. "So I read your intention to come here. I've beenfollowing you at mental range ever since."

  "Why?"

  "Because there is something in that safe I want very much."

  I looked at her again. She did not look the type to get into awkwardsituations. She colored slightly and said, "One indiscretion doesn't makea tramp, Mr. Hammond."

  I nodded. "Want it intact or burned?" I asked.

  "Burned, please," she said, smiling weakly at me for my intention. Ismiled back.

  On my way to Rambaugh's bedroom I dug the rest of the thug's safe butthere wasn't anything there that would give me an inkling of why he wasgunning for me. I came back with one of his needle-rays and burned thecontents of the safe to a black char. I stirred up the ashes with the noseof the needier and then left it in the safe after wiping it clean on myhandkerchief.

  "Thank you, Mr. Hammond," she said quietly. "Maybe I can answer yourquestion. Rambaugh was probably after you because of me."

  "Huh?"

  "I've been paying Rambaugh blackmail for about four years. This morning Idecided to stop it, and looked your name up in the telephone book.Rambaugh must have read me do it."

  "Ever think of the police?" I suggested.

  "Of course. But that is just as bad as not paying off. You end up all overthe front pages anyway. You know that."

  "There's a lot of argument on both sides," I supposed. "But let's finishthis one over a bar. We're crowding our luck here. In the eyes of the lawwe're just a couple of nasty break-ins."

  "Yes," she said simply.

  We left Rambaugh's apartment together and I handed Martha into my car andtook off.

  It struck me as we were driving that mental sensitivity was a good thingin spite of its limitations. A woman without mental training might haveevery right to object to visiting a bachelor apartment at two o'clock inthe morning. But I had no firm plans for playing up to Martha Franklin; Ireally wanted to talk this mess out and get it squared away. This shecould read, so I was saved the almost-impossible task of trying toconvince an attractive woman that I really had no designs upon herbeautiful white body. I was not at all cold to the idea, but Martha didnot seem to be the pushover type.

  "Thank you, Steve," she said.

  "Thanks for nothing," I told her with a short laugh. "Them's mysentiments."

  "I like your sentiments. That's why I'm here, and maybe we can get ourheads together and figure something out."

  I nodded and went back to my driving, feeling pretty good now.

  A man does not dig his own apartment. He expects to find it the way heleft it. He digs in the mailbox on his way towards it, and he may dig inhis refrigerator to see whether he should stop for beer or whatever else,because these things save steps. But nobody really expects to find troublein his own home, especially when he is coming in at three o'clock in themorning with a good looking woman.

  They were smart enough to come with nothing deadly in their hands. So Ihad no warning until they stepped out from either side of my front doorand lifted me into my living room by the elbows. They hurled me into aneasy chair with a crash. When I stopped bouncing, one of the gorillas wasstanding in front of me, about as tall as Washington Monument as seen fromthe sidewalk in front. He was looking at my forty-five with carefulcuriosity.

  "What gives?" I demanded.

  The crumb in front of me leaned down and gave me a back-and-forth thatyanked my head around. I didn't say anything, but I thought how I'd liketo meet the buzzard in a dark alley with my gun in my fist.

  Martha said, "They're friends of Rambaugh, Steve. And they're a littleafraid of that prehistoric cannon you carry."

  The bird in front of Martha gave her a one-two across the face. That wasenough for me. I came up out of my chair, lifting my fist from the floorand putting my back and thigh muscles behind it. It should have taken hishead off, but all he did was grunt, stagger back, dig his heels in, andthen come back at me with his head down. I chopped at the bridge of hisnose but missed and almost broke my hand on his hard skull. Then the otherguy came charging in and I flung out a side-chop with my other hand andcaught him on the wrist.

  But Rhine training can't do away with the old fact that two big tough mencan wipe the floor with one big tough man. I didn't even take long enoughto muss up my furniture.

  I had the satisfaction of mashing a nose and cracking my hand against askull again before the lights went out. When I came back from Mars, I wassitting on a kitchen chair facing a corner. My wrists and ankles weretaped to the arms and legs of the chair.

  I dug around. They had Martha taped to another chair in the oppositecorner, and the two gorillas were standing in the middle of the room,obviously trying to think.

  So was I. There was something that smelled about this mess. Peter Rambaughwas a mental, and he should have been sensitive enough to keep his takelow enough so that it wouldn't drive Martha into thinking up ways andmeans of getting rid of him. Even so, he shouldn't have been gunning forme, unless there was a lot more to this than I could dig.

  "What gives?" I asked sourly.

  There was no answer. The thug with my forty-five took out the clip andremoved a couple of slugs.

  He went into the kitchen and found my pliers and came back teasing one ofthe slugs out of its casing. The other bird lit a cigarette.

  The bird with the cartridge poured the powder from the shell into the palmof my hand. I knew what was coming but I couldn't wiggle my fingers much,let alone turn my hand over to dump out the stuff. The other guy plantedthe end of the cigarette between my middle fingers and I had to squeezehard to keep the hot end up. My fingers began to ache almost immediately,and I was beginning to imagine the flash of flame and the fierce wave ofpain that would strike when my tired hand lost its pep and let thecigarette fall into that little mound of powder.

  "Stop it," said Martha. "Stop it!"

&nb
sp; "What do they want?" I gritted.

  "They won't think it," she cried.

  The bright red on the end of the cigarette grayed with ash and I began towonder how long it would be before a fleck of hot ash would fall. How longit would take for the ash to grow long and top-heavy and then to fall intothe powder. And whether or not the ash would be hot enough to touch itoff. I struggled to keep my hands steady, but they were trembling. I feltthe cigarette slip a bit and clamped down tight again with my achingfingers.

  Martha pleaded again: "Stop it! Let us know what you want and we'll doit."

  "Anything," I promised rashly.

  Even if I managed to hold that deadly fuse tight, it would eventually burndown to the bitter end. Then there would be a flash, and I'd probablynever hold my hand around a gun butt again. I'd have to go looking forthis pair of lice with my gun in my left. If they didn't try the sametrick on my other hand. I tried to shut my mind on that notion but it wasno use. It slipped. But the chances were that this pair of close-mouthedhotboys had considered that idea before.

  "Can you dig 'em Martha?"

  "Yes, but not deep enough. They're both concentrating on that cigaretteand making mental bets when it will--"

  Her voice trailed off. A wisp of ash had dropped and my mental howl musthave been loud enough to scorch their minds. It was enough to stop Martha,at any rate. But the wisp of ash was cold and nothing happened except myspine got coldly wet and sweat ran down my face and into my mouth. Thepalm of my hand was sweating too, but not enough to wet the little pile ofpowder.