Warm, dressed once more in his own clothes which had appeared mysteriously in an upstairs bedroom, Blake came into a small room furnished with the heavy pieces of an earlier century. Hoyt sprawled in one of the massive chairs.
He was watching with doting care a very small black kitten absorb chopped raw meat, and when he noticed Blake's arrival he indicated his feline charge.
"Meet the Missus. She sure can tuck it away, can't she?"
The tip of the kitten's tail flicked as if in acknowledgement of the introduction, but she continued to chase scraps of beef with single-hearted devotion.
"Did you take her out of that ash can?"
Hoyt's smile vanished. "She was tied up in a sack and left to freeze."
The kitten, her center section ball-round, sat down to make washing dabs with her paw. She paused to look up at Hoyt, her baby eyes blue circles. Then with a spring she landed on his knee, kneading his slacks with thumb-sized paws, singing a song of content.
"She's going to be a help." Hoyt drew a finger around the furry head, rubbing all the right spots behind ears and in the angle of her jaw. "This level doesn't realize the possibilities of its natural resources. Cats and dogs and some birds can be contacted mentally if you try. Yes, Missus here is going to be a help. The more since Pranj," his grin was no longer pleasant, "hates all her kind. I wouldn't be surprised that it was by his orders Missus found herself exiled today."
The kitten relaxed in slumber and a drowsy feeling of well-being enveloped the room.
When Blake awoke in the morning, it was to the soft hiss of snow against the window pane. Outside drifts ridged high. Thursday; Blake counted off the days since this wild adventure had begun. It seemed longer.
The garage was open. Down a path shoveled from the house, two foreshortened figures, whom he was sure were Erskine and Saxton, went to get into the car and drive off.
Blake did not hurry. Who were the owners of this house, he speculated, as he went downstairs. There were two servants, a cook and a maid, who kept to themselves. Who had welcomed the agents here, and why?
Kittson was alone in the small dining room watching the snow swirl outside the pane. And the kitten sat on the sill, making dabs at the glass, as absorbed as its human companion. The radio had been turned on and the newscaster was announcing that the snow level was rising, that the city was fighting to keep the main streets clear. There followed some ominous comparisons to the big blizzard of five years back and the two-day tie-up of services which had ensued.
"It's getting worse," Blake ventured.
Kittson only grunted and the other realized then that the agent was in one of his trances of concentration. Were each one of these strangers in themselves receiving sets tuned in on message lengths they alone could pick out of the air?
Hoyt came in, his shoulders still powdered with snow. "It's almost as bad as glue," he informed them as he picked up the kitten. "Out this far they've given up trying to keep the side streets clean."
"If we're tied down by the weather," Kittson moved restlessly from window to chair and back again, "so is Pranj."
Hoyt shrugged and sat down, turning his attention to the kitten. If he had not witnessed what followed Blake would not have believed it. He had always heard that cats could not be trained to do tricks, that their innate independence kept them from obeying any will but their own. But in some manner the big man established contact with the minute bundle of black fur. Round kitten eyes stared into Hoyt's and the tiny feet moved, the small body climbed or ran, or little jaws closed upon a scrap of paper and carried it the length of the room to drop into a waiting hand. But kittens tire, and after a few moments Hoyt allowed his pupil rest.
It was mid-afternoon when Blake decided to go out. Both of his companions were in the peculiar trance state, perhaps they were in contact with action elsewhere. He was not only restless but in some way resentful, feeling as if he had been deliberately shut out.
The cook was standing by the back door. "Do you think you could get as far as the drugstore?" she asked abruptly. "Agnes has one of her headaches and will be good for nothing the rest of the day if she doesn't get her drops. The silly girl waited too long to have her prescription filled." She had a paper in her hand.
"I'll be glad to get it," he plunged out into one of the whirls of wind driven snow.
There was a holiday mood inside the store. Highway workers were gathered there drinking coffee, exchanging good and bad news with such customers as had fought their way in. Blake listened as he waited for the prescription to be filled. This was real—the way life was. The fantastic world he had inhabited for the past three days was a dream.
How could one believe in other level worlds, in criminals hopping from one to the next, in psi men who could turn life upside down and shake it while you watched them? If he had any sense he would walk out now—away from the house on Patroon Place, out of the reach of Kittson. He could do it if he was not again nagged by the thought that it would do no good, that escape from those forces was impossible. Real world, dream, he was trapped in this.
But he was still rebellious, as he had been since waking that morning. He suspected that he was as much a tool in his way as the kitten Hoyt now trained. They would use or lay him aside as they thought expedient. It was a parent-child relationship and it aroused antagonism.
Was that resentment recognized and fed by something outside himself? Had he during those hours been deliberately prepared for what was to happen? Afterwards Blake sometimes believed that he had been so conditioned for the kill.
Outside the grayness of the afternoon had deepened into a premature night. Blake stamped off clinging snow between strides. Then he saw that other figure ahead. There was no mistaking, as he thought, the slim outline, the quick walk—Erskine.
A car came slowly along the cleared way. And with it a twist of apprehension hit Blake. Danger—danger for Erskine in some way. Blake shouted, plunging on. But the other, bending against the push of the wind, neither saw nor heard.
The car pulled up beside him, two dark forms dropped from it and went at Erskine in a rush. Blake's feet struck a slick patch of ice. He fought for balance, but at that moment a bolt of mental pain blasted him into utter blackness.
There was a throbbing ache beating in his head. Blake tried to remember what had happened. He was gagged, his mouth filled with cloth, tape across his lips. It was dark and his hands and feet were tied. When he jerked in his bonds he learned that the man or men who had put those on knew their business. He tried to roll over and discovered that he was inside a container, his knees cramped up against his chest.
Erskine! Had the other been taken prisoner, too? For all their powers the psi men had their limitations. Kittson had been unable to escape from the shielded thug in the Shelborne. Blake wished though that he had one of the others' powers. If he could only communicate now with Erskine! He was still aware of his own private warning system, but he had met its prod so often lately that he was familiar with such uneasiness.
He was not dead so the kidnappers must have a use for him. How had they managed to get on the trail so quickly? Or had they been after Erskine and collected him as additional bonus? How long would it be before Kittson and Hoyt would discover and come to the rescue? (That they would not make any move on his behalf never occurred to Blake.) Could their mysterious "Listening" inform them of this disaster?
No use asking himself questions to which he had no answers. It was more profitable to concentrate on what he could do . . . which was nothing at present.
Blake had no way of telling how long that trip lasted, but he felt the jerk of their stop. There were low voices. The box which held him was propelled forward and fell, jarring him painfully.
Warmth now and more voices. Something else. He caught a trace of perfume. At last a bump deposited the box on the floor and feet retreated. Warmth. Perfume. Blake strove to fit pieces together. The green van—the dress shop across from the Crystal Bird?
His cramped limbs were numb, he could do no more than move his head from side to side. There was a crack of light and from time to time he could hear muffled conversation.
When they did let him out he would be a sitting duck, too numb with cramp to put up any resistance. But—Pranj was psi. And anyone raised in an environment where psi powers were the norm would depend upon those powers consciously and unconsciously, considering those who did not have them inferiors.
Blake had sensed a trace of this same attitude in the agents, although they had been conditioned to live as ordinary citizens of non-psi worlds. In the process of training they had lost their conscious superiority. But Pranj would have no reason to conceal his talents. Would not his dependence upon them blind him, lead him to undervalue opponents except those from his own world?
In spite of his aching head, Blake forced himself to study the situation with what calmness he could muster. What did he have: a latent psi power of precognition of dangers and a strong mental shield. Very small advantages to set against Pranj's arsenal of invisible weapons. But the shield—it had held during his first encounter with the outlaw. Suppose such an attack would be leveled at him once more? Could he build on that barrier a false set of memories to be read by the enemy?
His body might be immobile but his mind raced, exploring that possibility. If he only knew more! Could he make Pranj believe that he was only an innocent bystander? With a few alterations he might tell the truth and it would bear that out.
What if he still believed that the agents were from the F.B.I, tracing a normal criminal of this world? The story would fit his actions and might satisfy Pranj into believing he was relatively harmless.
Without more than a vague idea of what he was trying to accomplish Blake set to work. He recalled the details of his life back home—that he had come to attend classes at Havers. That was true—it could be checked. In his hotel room he had been startled by a sound, he made himself remember that sound. He helped Kittson to escape the thug. Kittson had shown him identification. They had made him join them. Ruthlessly he tried to overlay true memories with false. The visit to Beneirs, the assault on Tuesday, the story the agents had told him; he must forget those. And as he fought that strange battle in his own mind Blake was surprised. It was almost as if his efforts, crude as they were, awakened new skills, new and keener insights.
The light outside flashed off. For a moment Blake's preoccupation was broken by a wave of real panic. Was he going to be just left here? It was difficult to breathe, the cramp was crippling. Could he stand hours of such confinement?
That touch of hysteria was frightening until the new part of his mind, the section which observed and evaluated, saw how it could be put to use. To be afraid was the correct reaction. And fright in a way was telepathic, might be picked up by the enemy. Fear would add to his protecting cloak.
Blake had come a very long way since he had been taken prisoner, made a journey down a path he had not even known existed before. Shock was stimulating growth and he was no longer the same Blake Walker who had been taken captive on a snow-drifted street. He never would be again.
The light went on again; there was the heavy tread of feet. A cover was ripped off and he blinked up into brightness before he was sprawled out helpless on the floor. A kick twisted him around and he stared up at two men. Neither of these, even disguised, could be Pranj. Swiftly Blake thought bewilderment and fear.
"Yeh, he's one of them all right. And he's awake."
"Told you he was." The smaller man spat out a chewed matchstick. "What yuh gonna do with him?"
"Take 'im to th' boss. Git them ropes off his legs. We ain't gonna lug him."
The smaller man produced a switch blade and sawed at the cords about Blake's ankles. When he saw that the captive was watching him, he displayed rotting teeth in a grin and stabbed threateningly. Blake allowed himself to flinch and both men laughed.
"You be good, sonny boy, or Kratz'll cut more'n ropes."
"Sure thing," the other replied. "Me—I'm good with the sticker. Can carve you either neat or messy. Don't ask for it—see!"
Blake was dragged to his feet and slammed against the wall with a grip which kept him pinned in that position. The numbness in his legs gave way to the torture of returning circulation. As he was enduring this, a third man came in, a curious twist of his upper lip in a cruel dark face showing the points of two fang teeth.
"Take him over the lower way." One glance disposed of Blake.
"Sure, Scappa."
Between his captors Blake was hurried along in the wake of Scappa, down a dark hall and a flight of stairs. There was a well opening in the floor and Scappa descended into this followed by Kratz. Then Blake was lifted and dropped casually. He nearly blacked out with the force of his landing, but he was not allowed to lie in peace. The big man came down, picked him up, and bore him on.
Through an opening in the wall they came into a second cellar. Blake was placed on a chair, jammed against it so that his bound arms were crushed and a muffled grunt of pain forced out of him. The big man looped a strand of rope about him, anchoring him firmly to the seat.
Scappa jerked a thumb at his henchmen. "Get out!"
To Blake it appeared that the other two were only too glad to mount the rough wooden stairs and vanish through a trapdoor. Scappa, once they had gone, spread a handkerchief on a step and seated himself, lighting a cigarette. He had the air of one waiting for a curtain to go up on an eagerly anticipated theatrical performance.
When the assault came it was not the stabbing probe Blake had met before, but slow, inexorable pressure—a pressure which warned that this time the enemy meant to be the victor.
Blake held his thoughts to the selected memories he had prepared. It was easy to allow self pity to creep in also. Why should he be dragged into this battle. Slowly, under the prodding of the door, he revealed the meeting with Kittson and what had happened afterwards.
He no longer saw the cellar nor Scappa lounging there. In an odd way his sight was turned inward. Even his fear must be carefully nourished, but it must not reach deep enough to endanger the wall of his edited recollections. The invader must not realize that there was a wall!
Blake had no way of knowing whether he was standing up to the test or failing. The probes were sharper, deeper, as if the mind launching them was growing impatient. Wearily Blake held to his story and the weird interrogation continued in utter silence.
Then the mind touch of the other withdrew. Blake shuddered. Again he was left with the sense of defilement, violation. But he had also a spark of hope. The barrier had not been assailed with the strength he had feared. Did that mean that Pranj had accepted him for the innocent, normal world dupe of the agents? He was aroused by a slap which rocked his head. Scappa's features set in a sadistic mask flickered through a red haze.
"Come and get this punk!"
The big man clattered down the rickety stairs. Kratz followed.
"So what do we do with him?" the knife man wanted to know.
"Whatta yuh think? Unload him back with the gunsel. Then we can forget about him."
"Sure." The big man fumbled with the rope. "Big Boss git what he wanted?"
Scappa's grin faded. "Big mouths talk too much. Git him outta here!"
"Sure, sure!" the big man was instantly placating.
He propelled Blake through the opening in the wall. Halfway along the tunnel he stopped and Kratz shone a circle of light on a metal door. Drawing bolts he opened the portal just wide enough for them to boot Blake inside.
"Ask the gunsel to untie yuh punk!"
Blake tripped, to slide along the floor, his face saved from a skinning only by the tape which held his gag in place. When he was able to twist his head around, the door had closed.
The dark and silence combined into a crushing weight. Perhaps he could inch his way to the wall and struggle up with his back against it. But now he was too tired to try. The chill from the pavement crept up his sweat bathed skin.
"In with the gunsel." He had been deposited in some private burial place. They had not retied his ankles, but his arms were a dead weight. Get up—move! But he was so tired; he ached with weariness.
Blake froze. There had been a sound out of the darkness. It came again from the other side of the unseen chamber. The gunsel. Blake controlled that thought. Something was moving now.
"Who's . . . who's there?"
Blake chewed on the gag which prevented him answering that hollow ring of voice.
"Why—why don't you answer me?" There was fear in that. "Answer me! Answer—!"
Movement again—toward him.
Erskine? Instantly Blake repudiated that. No matter what the ordeal he could not imagine Erskine's voice holding that note. He heard footsteps broken by pauses. Then a foot caught under his knee. With a scream the other tumbled across Blake, driving most of the breath out of him with the impact of their bodies. There was a flick of light, followed by an exclamation. Fingers explored his face, pulling at the tape.
With a cruelty which might be born of terror, the other ripped that away. The cloth was pulled out of his mouth and he was able to move his tongue. He wanted water more than anything he had ever desired in his life.
"Who are you?" demanded his companion querulously. "Why did they put you in here?"
"To get rid of me," Blake whispered huskily. "Can you untie my arms?"
He was unceremoniously turned on his face. His arms rolled, dead weights to his side, and he asked a question of his own.
"How long have you been here?"
"I don't know," the note of hysteria was stronger. "I was knocked out—woke up here. But . . ." Fingers dug into Blake's shoulder, pulling him up, "there may be another way out. They said something—"
With the assistance of the other Blake won to his feet.
"We go along the wall," he was informed. "There are only five matches left. And in the middle's a big hole."
The grip on Blake's shoulder urged him on that strange journey.
"You said 'another way out'?" he prompted.
"They said, earlier, before they threw me in. Something funny about it—they laughed—kinda nasty. But anything's better than this!"
"Take it slow," he admonished a second later.
How long that inch by inch progress continued Blake could not have told. But he was sure that the chamber was a large one. Then that other spoke again with a trace of excitement.
"This is what I found jus' before they dumped you in. Step up!"
Blake's chin scraped against a rise about a foot above the pavement. He went down on one knee and explored the surface by touch. It was slick, almost greasy smooth. Metal? He stepped up on it.
"I found something stickin' out at this end; it feels like a crowbar. If we could twist if off then we'd have a go at the wall over on the other side. Some of the stones are loose there. But yuh gotta help me git this lever loose first."
Blake was tense. Through every nerve and muscle the warning shrilled.
"Don't—!"
He got out only that one word before he was thrown from his feet as the surface beneath him shuddered. A faint greenish glow gathered and he saw that he shared a small platform with another dark figure whose hands clasped a lever protruding from the surface under them.