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One Thousand Mind Liquefiers
The call came just after midnight. A thousand mind-liquefiers found in shipping containers on Pier 62.
“A thousand,” I repeated into the phone. As Chief of Police Special Tactics, I was never supposed to show fear, but I’d be lying if I said that my voice didn’t tremble a bit.
I was at the pier in fifteen flat. This was 1936, mind you, and getting from Depot Junction to the waterfront in less than half an hour was no easy task.
Hart stood alone at the pier when I arrived. He was young, twenty-three or twenty-four I guess, but he was honest, and that’s what really mattered. People thought the Special Tactics selection course was all about finding the brightest and toughest. The truth was, I designed it to find the most reliable men I could get. If there was going to be any chance at all of getting the liquifiers off the streets, I was going to need trustworthy men.
Hart nodded into my flashlight. Uncertainty was painted all over his baby blues. “Sir,” he said.
“You looked inside the containers,” I said. “You looked at the liquifiers.”
He looked away and thought of lying. The idea was written all over his face. But honest men always find lying more difficult than telling the truth. That’s why they’re honest.
