Ability Quotient Page 6

  “What’s in all this for you?”

  The other shook his head.

  In disgust, Bert went back into the living room. Jim was at the bar again, his right arm immobilized in a sling.

  Bert Alshuler looked at Marsh. “Kay. What about Jill Masterson?”

  “We’ll immediately do what we can.”

  “That’s not enough. Who has her?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “What was she doing here?”

  “As you’ve already mentioned, the same thing you were.”

  “What am I doing?”

  “See here, Alshuler, you took this assignment and pledged yourself to silence.”

  “That’s not enough now, obviously. We want Miss Masterson back… safely.”

  “In spades,” Jim said, his voice even.

  Marsh suppressed irritation “Very well, Alshuler. I’ll go over all this with Professor Katz and undoubtedly he will go into it further with you tomorrow. He is out of town today.” Marsh made a motion with his head toward Doctor Smith. “We had better be on our way.” He looked at Bert. “Meanwhile, do nothing further in this regard.”

  Jim rapped, “Who in the devil were those guys that snatched Jill?”

  Marsh looked at him. “I’ve already told you I don’t know. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Come along, David.”

  Doctor Smith followed him.

  When they were gone, Jim said, “Who were they?”

  Bert shook his head. “You know almost as much as I do. I got into this because they promised me a nice financial deal. I decided it was some sort of new departure in teaching, involving speeding up the brain so you can learn faster and evidently retain more of what you assimilate. Now I don’t know what the hell it is.”

  Jim said, “They couldn’t have snatched her for money. She didn’t have any. She was on Guaranteed Annual Income, just like you and me.”

  “I think I’ve got one possible lead,” Bert said, heading for the phone screen. “Give me your Identity Card.”

  Jim handed it over.

  Bert Alshuler put the card in the slot and said, “I would like the faces and names of all professors in this university city.”

  Chapter Eight

  Jim leaned over his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m looking for somebody I had a run-in with yesterday morning. He might be connected with this gang.”

  It was a lengthy process. There were a good many full professors in an educational institution of this magnitude. It was a lengthy process and without result. Bert grunted disgust.

  He thought for a while and said, “He was too young to be a full professor anyway and, into the screen, “I would like the faces and names of all the assistant professors and instructors in this university city.”

  The faces began to flash before him again, alphabetically, as before. He drew pay dirt in the Ks. His mysterious visitor was named Kenneth Kneedler.

  He said into the screen, “University Information, please. Let me have what is available to students on Assistant Professor Kenneth Kneedler, I am considering taking one of his classes.”

  The screen said, “Yes, Mr. Hawkins.”

  Kenneth Kneedler taught several courses in political economy, including one on Communism.

  “Communism,” Jim snorted. “In this country? In a government-run university?”

  Bert said into the screen, “University Information, please Where is Assistant Professor Kenneth Kneedler, at the present?”

  “In his office. Administration Building, floor forty-three, Office Number 385.”

  Bert came to his feet and jerked his head at his companion. “Come on over here and open this case for me.” He led the way to the panel behind which was hidden the collection of weapons.

  “Now you’re talking,” Jim growled. He brought forth his oversized pocketknife.

  Bert shrugged out of his jacket and took up one of the shoulder rigs and two spare power packs. He began to work into the quick-draw holster. Jim reached out and appropriated the remaining laser pistol and tucked it into his belt on the right side of his body.

  Bert said, “What do you think you’re going to do with that?” He brought the gun he had used against the kidnapper from the hip pocket in which he had been carrying it, and slipped it into the holster.

  Jim said, “I’m coming with you.”

  “The hell you are. Not in your condition. You stay here and get some rest.”

  Jim looked at him stonily.

  Bert grumbled, “Kay. Come on.”

  They went out into the corridor again and summoned the elevator. Bert told him about the disposal of the body and also described his run-in with Kneedler.

  Jim said, “So that body will wind up with some kid medical student butchering it tomorrow. Some professors.”

  They took the elevator down to the forty-third floor, Jim wincing in pain at the precipitate drop. There were few persons in the corridors. When they found Office Number 385, they stood to one side, against the wall, and pretended to be deep in conversation, until the hall was temporarily clear.

  Bert said slowly, “This joker knows me. He might not open up if he saw my face on the door screen. We’ll go in fast, not giving him a chance to yell for help. You cover my back and the door.”

  Jim loosened the pistol in his belt, and nodded. Bert brought forth his own laser gun, flicked the stud flown to shortest range, stepped forward quickly and burned out the door’s lock. He threw his shoulder against the panel and burst through, Jim immediately behind.

  In the middle of the room, a sheaf of papers which he was scanning in his hand, stood Bert Alshuler’s demanding visitor of the morning before.

  Even as Jim slammed the door shut behind them, Bert had moved forward at full speed. Before Kneedler’s eyes had time to widen in surprise, the former combat man was upon him. He’ grabbed Kneedler by his jacket front with both hands and dashed him backward toward the wall of the room’s far side, all but lifting him bodily from the floor.

  He smashed him brutally against the wall, so that the other’s head was so shaken that his contact lenses popped from his eyes and dropped to the floor. Bert snarled, “Where’s Jill Masterson?”

  “What… what…!”

  Bert Alshuler smashed him in the mouth with his right fist, mashing his lips, loosening several of his teeth.

  “Where’d you bastards take Jill Masterson?”

  The other tried to struggle, but the fear in him made his less than muscular body even more inadequate against his aggressive attacker.

  Bert Alshuler, his face cold as bleak death, took his right forefinger and jammed it up into one of the writhing man’s nostrils, raising him up to tiptoe in agony. He squealed.

  Bert snarled, “Now listen, Kneedler, listen real good, because you’re almost dead right now. Some guys think they can’t be made to talk. They’d rather die, they think. But they’re wrong. Anybody can be broken. It’s not pretty. But anybody. Believe me, I know. Jim here, and I, are experts. We got to be experts the hard way.”

  “I won’t… I won’t.”

  It was all the admission that Bert Alshuler wanted. He kneed the man brutally, and let him drop to the floor.

  “Real tough, ain’t he?” Jim said pleasantly. He was leaning against the door.

  It was a full five minutes before the fallen man tried to bring himself to his hands and knees, even as he groaned. Bert Alshuler kicked him in the side, flattening him again.

  Jim said, “Hey, Bert, that one was pretty good. I think you got at least three ribs. You going to kill him?”

  Bert said, “Not yet. How’d you think we ought to do it, Jim?”

  Jim said easily, “Oh, some way not too simple. I don’t much like characters that rough up little girls.”

  The other on the floor spluttered through broken mouth and teeth, “Miss… Miss Masterson is in no physical danger.”

  Bert kicked him again.

  Jim said in mild protest,
“Easy, Bert, you don’t want to kill him until we know where Jill is.”

  Their victim was breathing in desperate gasps He said, “Please… please. I’ll tell you… I’ll tell you. No danger… she’s in no danger.”

  “Yeah,” Jim said. “Your boys aren’t playing for keeps. This slug I took in my side was all fun and games.”

  Bert reached down and grabbed Kneedler by the jacket collar and hauled him to his feet. He pulled him so close that their faces almost touched.

  “Where is she?”

  “In… in a house on the outskirts… outskirts of town.”

  Bert looked at Jim. “We can’t leave him here… alive. He might get in touch with somebody. And if we tie him, somebody might come in and let him loose.”

  “Please… please… I’m not lying.”

  Bert snarled at him. “You’re damn right, you’re not lying. You’d better not be. “He said to Jim, “We’ll have to take him along.”

  Jim looked at their victim critically. “Golden boy’s not in any too good a shape to be seen on the streets.”

  Bert let go of the man and brought a handkerchief from his pocket. “Here. Hold this over your mouth, as though you have a toothache.”

  “My… my glasses.”

  “The hell with your glasses. I prefer you blind. Jim, lead the way Back to that semi-private elevator. There won’t be anybody else in it.”

  They made a parade down the hall, Jim going first.

  Bert bringing up the rear. They passed only half a dozen persons, all of them too preoccupied with their own thoughts to notice anything strange. Assistant Professor Kenneth Kneedler was evidently too demoralized to attempt an appeal for assistance.

  Bert Alshuler could almost, but not quite, feel pity for the man. Not more than five minutes ago, he had been in the security of his private office, some university paper work in hand. Now he was a broken, terrified man in the hands of what he must have thought homicidal maniacs, expecting, at best, sudden death. All his plans, all his schemes, forgotten. Survival the only thing in him, his only desire. It was the brutal suddenness of it all that had broken him. It had been a gamble but it had paid off.

  In the elevator, Bert said, “Metro, please.”

  “Yes, Mr. Alshuler.”

  They had to move fast now, while the other remained demoralized. They couldn’t afford to give him the opportunity to erect new defenses. They couldn’t give him the chance to reason out the fact that they wouldn’t kill him, wouldn’t dare kill him. Not in this age of ultra-modern police methods. The kidnapper had been one thing, but you didn’t abduct a professor from his office and take him out and destroy him without leaving clues behind. Among others, there was, in the data banks, a record of the fact that someone had searched out Kenneth Kneedler’s name, appearance and where he was immediately before his disappearance. And that someone had used the Identity Card of James Hawkins.

  No, they wouldn’t kill him, even it that had been their desire. And it wasn’t. They needed him alive.

  Chapter Nine

  In the metro, in view of the fact that they were leaving the automated system of the university city, Bert Alshuler summoned an electro-steamer with manual controls. The three of them crowded into the front seat, Bert behind the wheel.

  He said to the browbeaten teacher, making his voice dangerous, “Kay. What are the coordinates of the house on the outskirts?”

  The other hesitated and Jim Hawkins backhanded him across his swollen mouth. Kneedler winced in pain and answered.

  Jim said to Bert, “Your best city entry would be the southwest. That’d be Number Eight.”

  Bert put his Identity-cum-Credit Card in the car’s screen slot and dialed the entry. He had been in a hurry to set the coordinates of the house before their captive had recovered any further. Kneedler was obviously no man of action. His life was not such that he was accustomed to violence, even though he had carried a gun the day before. However, Bert Alshuler was also unfamiliar with what motivated the man but suspected it was an ideological reason, no matter how mistaken. If so, the other might at any time strengthen and become difficult so far as further information was concerned. And information was what they were in particularly dire need of.

  The vehicle smoothed into the underground traffic and Bert leaned back in his seat.

  lie said conversationally, “So you teach communism, eh? It’s been a long time since I met a commie here in the United States of the Americas.”

  Kneedler said through puffed lips, which he was presently trying to clean up with the handkerchief, “You don’t have to be a communist to teach communism, any more than you have to be an American to teach early American history.”

  Jim said with a chuckle, “Our boy is getting chipper, real chipper. Maybe I’d better knock out a few more of his teeth, just to keep him in line.”

  The teacher cringed. “Please… I’m badly hurt.”

  Which he wasn’t, Bert thought inwardly. He didn’t know what being badly hurt was. He had never been exposed to it. Jim was probably in considerably more pain —unless that doctor friend of Marsh’s had given him a shot. But Jim in his time had taken many a hit. Not that you ever got used to being hit, but you learned to ride with it.

  “So you’re not a communist?” Bert said.

  The other took a deep breath. “You might keep in mind that you can’t fight a thing effectively if you don’t understand it. In my classes, I try to keep without prejudice, either… either way. In the past, many universities didn’t even have a copy of Das Kapital in the library, evidently afraid students might read it. I teach communism right from the days of Marx and Engels down to today’s Number One in the Soviet Complex, and whatever you might call the present socio-economic system that prevails over there. I have no idea if any of my more intelligent students are subverted by what they learned in my class. I doubt it.”

  Bert said suddenly, “Why was Jill Masterson kidnapped?”

  “I… can’t tell you.”

  Jim said, looking at him benignly, “You’re beginning to irritate me a little again, buddy. Now, I picked up a little trick a few years ago that involves ramming a sharp pencil down a man’s ear. You’d be surprised at the effects. For one thing, later he can’t hear out of it so good any more.”

  It was a new one to Bert Alshuler and he suspected that it was new to Jim too, but he held his peace. They had to keep this customer under a condition of intimidation if they were going to get any more out of him. He was inwardly amused at the fact that Kneedler had crowded over a little in his direction, to get as far away from Jim Hawkins as possible.

  “Can’t tell, or won’t?” Bert said.

  They had arrived at the entry and the vehicle came to a halt on the dispatcher. Bert took over the controls manually, and they merged onto an open road. He flicked on the map screen and dialed the coordinates the other had given him. The appropriate map faded in, a red cross marked on the house that was his destination.

  He said to Kneedler, “Come, come, friend.”

  Kneedler said, “Miss Masterson is in no danger. She has simply been… been taken to a place where the true nature of Katz and his clique can be explained to her. But I warn you that the men she is with are dedicated and will put up with no interference from you.”

  “Oh, they won’t, eh?” Bert said grimly. “Kay. Well just keep that in mind.”

  “Who’s Katz?” Jim said.

  Bert said, “Professor Leonard Katz. I’ll tell you more about him later.” He turned back to Kneedler. “Go on, friend. This all sounds so cozy. Just wanted a little talk with Jill. Unfortunately, there’s already one man dead, and Jim, here, was nicked a bit. Your explanations better improve.”

  From the side of his eyes, he could see the other tighten up. He was beginning to regain some of his lost confidence.

  Kneedler said stubbornly, “I tried to warn you, too.”

  “No, you didn’t. You tried to browbeat me into telling you what Katz wanted of me.”
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br />   Jim said, “We’re coming up on this place.”

  Bert said, “Kay. Well use the old house-to-house, clean-up deal. You blast the door down, I’ll go in shooting.” He looked at Kneedler. “You stay in the car. Don’t try to make a break for it, or Jim will gun you down. These are laser pistols we’re carrying. Jim’s a crack shot, but he doesn’t have to be with a laser beam. He could cut you down a couple of blocks away and several of the houses in the vicinity along with you. Understand?”

  “I… I understand. I’ve read about laser weapons.”

  “Good. Jim, I’m going to drive up as near as I can get to the front door. Move fast. We don’t know what sort of defenses they might have.”

  “I know, I know,” Jim said. “Holy smokes, I thought we’d gone through this routine for the last time.”

  Bert Alshuler made out the house for which they were heading. It was one of various smaller constructions built for those who rebelled against living the ant-like existence of the high-rise buildings in the university city proper. All very fine, if you could afford it.

  There was a short stretch of lawn, two steps that led up to a small porch. There were three windows on the front of the house If there had been an armed guard posted at any of them, he and Jim would have had it.

  However, once again, he was of the opinion that these adversaries were amateurs. Hell, practically anybody was an amateur compared to him and to Jim.

  He came up fast, slammed up against the curb, jammed on the brakes. He and Jim bolted out of the car, and they dashed, zig-zagging and crouching almost double as combat men run under fire, for the door.

  Jim bounced to one side when he reached the entry. He aimed the laser and burnt off doorknob and lock. Bert hit the door with his shoulder, slammed on through and kept on the move. A very short hallway. Down it as fast as he could go, the pistol extended.

  Into a living room, into the center of the room, moving fast. There were two men there, one seated with a book, one in the process of entering through a far door. Their eyes popped at him. Leaning up against the wall next to the seated one, was a rifle. He reached for it—far too slowly.