Stop Look and Dig | Page 2

down again. He didn't have to invite the law. It
arrived in three ground cruisers and two jetcopter emergency squads
that came closing in like a collapsing balloon.
The leader of the squadron was a Lieutenant Williamson whom I'd
never met before. But he knew all about me before the 'copter hit the
ground. I could almost feel his sense of perception frisking me from the
skin outward, going through my wallet and inspecting the Private
Operator's license and my Weapon-Permit. I found out later that
Williamson was a Rhine Scholar with a Bachelor's Degree in
Perception, which put him head and shoulders over me. He came to the
point at once.
"Any ideas about this, Hammond?"
I shook my head. "Nope," I replied. He looked at one of his men.
The other man nodded. "He's levelling," he said.
"Now look, Hammond," said the lieutenant pointedly, "You're clean
and we know it. But hot papas don't go out for fun. Why was he trying
to burn you?"
"I wouldn't know. I'm as blank as any perceptive when it comes to
reading minds. I was hoping to collect him whole enough to ask
questions, but he forced my hand." I looked to where some of the
clean-up squad were tucking the corpse into a basket. "It was one of the
few times I'd have happily swapped my perception for the ability to
read a mind."
The lieutenant nodded unhappily. "Mind telling me why you were
wandering around in this neighborhood? You don't belong here, you
know."
"I was doing the job that most private eyes do. I was tailing a gent who
was playing games off the reservation."
"You've gone into this guy's wallet, of course?"

I nodded. "Sure. He was Peter Rambaugh, age thirty, and----"
"Don't bother. I know the rest. I can add only one item that you may not
know. Rampaugh was a paid hotboy, suspected of playing with
Scarmann's mob."
"I've had no dealings with Scarmann, Lieutenant."

The Lieutenant nodded absently. It seemed to be a habit with him,
probably to cover up his thinking-time. Finally he said, "Hammond,
you're clean. As soon as I identified you I took a dig of your folder at
headquarters. You're a bit rough and fast on that prehistoric cannon of
yours, but----"
"You mean you can dig a folder at central files all the way from here?"
"I did."
Here was a real esper for you. I've got a range of about two blocks for
good, solid, permanent things like buildings and street-car tracks, but
unfamiliar things get foggy at about a half a block. I can dig lethal
machinery coming in my direction for about a block and a half because
I'm a bit sensitive about such things. I looked at Lieutenant Williamson
and said, "With a range like yours, how come there's any crime in this
town at all?"
He shook his head slowly. "Crime doesn't out until it's committed," he
said. "You'll remember how fast we got here after you pulled the
trigger. But you're clean, Hammond. Just come to the inquest and tell
all."
"I can go?"
"You can go. But just to keep you out of any more trouble, I'll have one
of the jetcopters drop you off at home. Mind?"
"Nope. But isn't that more than the police are used to doing?"

He eyed me amusedly. "If I were a mental," he said, "I could read your
mind and know that you were forming the notion of calling on
Scarmann and asking him what-for. But since I'm only a mind-blank
esper, all I can do is to fall back on experience and guesswork. Do I
make myself clear?"
Lieutenant Williamson's guess-work and experience were us good as
mental sensitivity, but I didn't think it wise to admit that I had been
considering just exactly how to get to Scarmann. I was quickly and
firmly convoyed home in a jetcopter but once I saw them take off I
walked out of the apartment again.
I had more or less tacitly agreed not to go looking for Scarmann, but I
had not mentioned taking a dig at the apartment of the dear departed,
Peter Rambaugh.

Rambaugh's place was uptown and the front door was protected by an
eight tumbler cylinder job that would have taxed the best of esper
lockpicks. But there was a service entrance in back that was not locked
and I took it. The elevator was a self-service job, and Rambaugh's back
door was locked on a snaplatch that a playful kitten could have opened.
I dug the place for a few minutes and found it clean, so I went in and
took a more careful look.
The desk was not particularly interesting. Just papers and letters and
unpaid bills. The dresser in