I drove through the gate with a sigh of relief—only to be stopped just beyond the gate. A barrier dropped in front of me and I just managed to stop the car, whereupon a cop stuck his head in the side I had open. “Safety check,” he said. “Climb out.”
I protested that my car had just been inspected. “No doubt,” he agreed, “but the city is having a safety drive. Here’s your car check. Pick it up just beyond the barrier. Now get out and go in that door.” He pointed to a low building a few steps from the curb.
“What for?”
“Eyesight and reflexes,” he explained. “Come on. You’re holding up the line.”
In my mind’s eye, I saw the map, with Kansas City glowing red. That the city was “secured” I was sure; therefore this mild-mannered policeman was almost surely hag-ridden. I did not need to look at his shoulders.
But, short of shooting him and making an emergency take-off from that spot, there was nothing I could do but comply. With a normal, everyday cop I would have tried the bribe direct, slipping him money as he handed me my car check. But titans don’t use money.
Or do they?
I got out, grumbling, and walked slowly toward the building. The door near me was marked “IN”; there was one at the far end marked “OUT”; a man came out from it as I approached. I wanted very badly to ask him what he had found.
It was a temporary building with an old-style unpowered door. I pushed it open with a toe and glanced both sides and up before I entered. It seemed safe. Inside was an empty anteroom with open door beyond.
Someone inside called out, “Come in.” Still as cautious as the setup permitted, I went in.
There were two men, both in white coats, one with a doctor’s speculum strapped to his head. He looked up and said briskly, “This won’t take a minute. Step over here.” He closed the door I had entered; I heard the latch click.
It was a sweeter setup than we had worked out for the Constitution Club; had I had time I would have admired it. Spread out on a long table were transit cells for masters, already opened and warmed. The second man had one ready—for me, I knew—and was holding it tilted toward him, so that I could not see the slug inside. The transit cells would not arouse alarm in the minds of victims; medical men always have things at hand which are odd to the layman.
As for the rest, I was being invited to place my eyes against the goggles of a quite ordinary visual acuity tester. The “doctor” would keep me there, blindfolded without knowing it and reading test figures, while his “assistant” fitted me with a master. No violence, no slips, no protests.
It was not even necessary, as I had learned during my own “service”, to bare the victim’s back. Just touch the master to the bare neck, then let the new recruit himself adjust his clothing to cover his master before he left.
“Right over here,” the “doctor” repeated. “Place your eyes against the eyepieces.”
Moving very quickly I went to the bench on which was mounted the acuity tester and started to comply. Then I turned suddenly around.
The assistant had moved in closer: the cell was ready in his hands. As I turned he tilted it away from me. “Doctor,” I said, “I wear contact lenses. Should I take them off?”
“No, no,” he snapped. “Let’s not waste time.”
“But, Doctor,” I protested, “I want you to see how they fit. Now I’ve had a little trouble with this left one—” I lifted both hands and pulled back the upper and lower lids of my left eye. “See?”
He said angrily, “This is not a clinic. Now, if you please—” They were both within reach; lowering my arms in a mighty bear hug I got them both—and grabbed with clutched fingers at the spot between each set of shoulder blades. With each hand I struck something soft and mushy under the coats and felt revulsion shake me at the touch.