Astounding Science Fiction (British edition) — page 16: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

14 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION couldn’t see any harm in it. I’ve not discussed it with anyone, of course.”’ “No matter.” Sorensen waved a -muscular hand. “If you hadn’t done so, I'd have ordered you to. I want your opinion on this.” “Why . I’m not a detective—” “You know more about Records, though, than anyone else. Ill be frank with you—under the rose, naturally.” Sorensen seemed almost friendly now. Was it a trick to put his prey off guard? “You see, there are some puzzling features about this case.’ Thornberg kept silent. He wondered if Sorensen could hear the thudding of his heart. “Sam Hall is a shadow,” said the cop. “The most careful checkups eliminate any chance of his being identical with anyone else of that name. In fact, we’ve learned that the name occurs in a violent old drinking song—is it coincidence, or did the song suggest crime to Sam Hall, or did he by some incredible process get that alias into his record instead of his real name? Whatever the answer there, we know that he’s ostensibly without military training, yet he’s pulled off some beautiful pieces of precision attack. His IQ is only 110, but he evades all our traps. He has no politics, yet he turns on Security without warning. We have not been able to find one person who remembers him, not one, and believe me, we have been thorough. Oh, there are a few subconscious memories which might be of him, but probably aren’t—and SO aggressive a personality should be remembered consciously. No under- grounder or foreign agent we’ve caught had any knowledge of him, which defies probability. The whole business seems impossible.” Thornberg licked his lips. Sorensen, the hunter of men, must know he was frightened ; but would he assume it to be the normal nervousness of a man in the presence of a Security officer? Sorensen’s face broke in a hard smile. ‘As Sherlock Holmes once re- marked,” he said, “when you have eliminated every other hypothesis, then the one which remains, however improbable, must be the right one.” Despite himself, Thornberg was jolted. Sorensen hadn’t struck him as a reader. “Well,” he asked slowly, “what is your remaining hypothesis?” The other man watched him for a long time, it seemed forever, before replying: “The underground is more powerful and widespread than people realize. They've had some seventy years to prepare, and there are many good brains in their ranks. They carry on scientific research of their own. It’s top secret, but we know they have perfected a type of weapon we cannot duplicate yet. It seems to be a hand gun throwing bolts of energy— a blaster, you might call it—of im- mense power. Sooner or later, they’re going to wage open war against the government. “Now, could they have done some- thing comparable in psychology? Could they have found a way to erase or cover up, selectively, memories, even on the cellular level? Could they know how to fool a personality tester, how to disguise the mind itself? If so, there may be any number of Sam Halls in our very midst, unde- tectable until the moment comes for them to strike.” Thornberg felt almost boneless. He couldn’t help gasping his relief, and hoped Sorensen would take it for a sign of alarm. “The possibility is frightening, isn’t it?’ The blond man laughed harshly. “You can imagine what is being felt in high official circles. We’ve put all the psychological researchers we could get to work on the problem—bah! conniclooolkks.c© in