The Lost Perception by Daniel F. Galouye Read Free Book Online Page B

to be caretaker at the Wilson Hunting Lodge.”
*  *  *
    The grass was still dew-spangled the next morning when Gregson verticaled toward the almost obliterated bull’s-eye in front of Enos Cromley’s farmhouse. Even before he touched down, however, he sensed that the place was deserted. Nevertheless, after hallooing several times he entered cautiously.
    The rooms were sparsely furnished, with a considerable film of dust over everything. But the hallway and kitchen lights were burning, suggesting that an unpaid electricity bill had not yet resulted in meter cut-off.
    In the kitchen he found abundant evidence of a struggle—overturned furniture and charred streaks left by laser beams on the walls and ceiling. By the table there was a crumpled newspaper that might have been cast aside in anger. When he straightened it out, he saw that it was open on the page with the “aliens-among-us” story.
    And glinting in the early sunlight that was spilling in through the open back door was a single, long, false fingernail—conclusive justification for his hunch to come to Cromley’s place.
    Back at the hopper, he contacted Special Agents Operations and recounted what had happened. He reported his intentions of pushing on to Wilson Hunting Lodge on foot and described its nearby location. Then he requested a detail of International Guardsmen to meet him there as soon as possible.
    After acknowledging his instructions, the operations officer added, “Whatever you’ve got on the fire will have to be wrapped up as soon as possible. You just received special orders from Radcliff in England. He’s set up a special agents briefing in London Monday morning.”
    “There’s been a break on this thing?”
    “I wouldn’t know. Radcliff can be secretive as hell.”
    At the hunting lodge a half hour later, Gregson advanced carefully through the underbrush on the caretaker’s shack, from whose chimney was curling a shaft of smoke.
    He heard the twig snap behind him. But, before he could draw his laser pistol, something with the punch of a horse’s hoof exploded against his temple and he fell into a pit of blackness.
    Regaining consciousness, he sagged forward. But a stout hand landed on his chest and shoved him erect in the chair.
    He opened his eyes and stared into the tube of his own laser pistol, wielded by a stocky man of about forty-five with black hair graying at the temples. Beside him was a much smaller and considerably older person who was going through Gregson’s wallet.
    “Nothing in here except a New York hopper license,” the latter said. “Name’s Gregson—Arthur. He’s thirty-one.”
    “We’ll find out whatever we need to know,” the other vowed, seizing Gregson’s lapel.
    “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
    Gregson shook his head to clear it. “I saw the story in the Clarion. I believed what was in it and—”
    Whap! He caught the stout man’s knuckles across his cheek.
    “Won’t do. All the way from New York you see the story and hightail it out here.”
    “I was passing through Stroudsburg.”
    “Why did you leave your hopper over at the farm and walk here, through the woods rather than by the road?”
    “No place to vertical down.”
    Whap! More knuckles snapped his head sideways.
    “There’s a whole field outside.”
    “I didn’t know that.”
    “Then how’d you know enough about this place to look for Cromley here?”
    “You Cromley?”
    Whap! The knuckles were formed into a fist this time. And Gregson licked blood from his lips.
    “He’s Cromley.” The interrogator flicked the pistol in the older man’s direction.
    Gregson addressed the latter directly. “You said in print what I suspected all along. You claimed you needed help. I wanted to help—up until now, anyway.”
    “That was a mistake,” Cromley said. “They told me I shouldn’t have done it—speak with Doc Holt, I mean. I brought us too far out into the open. I…”
    “Shut up!” the stout man ordered.