INTERVENTION

A   ROOT   TALE   TO   THE
GALACTIC MILIEU

and a
VINCULUM
between it and
THE SAGA OF
PLIOCENE EXILE

JULIAN MAY
1987
HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY   •   BOSTON


THE DISCLOSURE

1
NEW YORK CITY, EARTH 
21 FEBRUARY  1978

      THE FLIGHT FROM Chicago had been over an hour late, and helicopter shuttle service between Kennedy and Manhattan had been disrupted by the same fog that had delayed the airplane. The car-rental counter was mobbed, but here Kieran O'Connor's coercion expedited procurement of a Cadillac limousine. He and Arnold Pakkala, his executive assistant, took the front seat while Jase Cassidy and Adam Grondin got into the back. Then they were off in a squeal of expensive rubber, with the minds of Cassidy and Grondin clearing the way and Pakkala driving like the battle-trained Chicago commuter that he was.
      Kieran closed his burning eyes and dreamed while the big black automobile roared up the Van Wyck and Long Island expressways in defiance of the speed limit. It negotiated the snarl at the Queens-Midtown Tunnel magically and bulldozed its way down 42nd Street. Other vehicles seemed to melt out of its way as it streaked up Avenue of the Americas, ignored by patrolling NYPD cruisers. It turned left onto West 57th against the lights, zigzagged from lane to lane amidst traffic apparently frozen in place, and plunged into the whorl of Columbus Circle like a black shark invading a sluggish shoal of prey species. Here, with vehicles coming at it from six directions, the limousine faced its keenest challenge. The targeting eyes of Cassidy and Grondin flicked to and fro and their minds shouted silent commands to the other drivers: You stop! You go right! You move left lane! Up the curb bike! Out of the way walkers! Go! Stop! Gangway! Enchanted buses froze at the curb or lumbered aside; private cars seemed to cower as they yielded; take-out-food delivery boys on bicycles and pedestrians scattered like pigeons before a hawk; even the pugnacious Manhattan taxis were demoralized and swerved out of the limousine's charmed path with tires screeching and brake lights flashing scarlet alarm.
      Arnold Pakkala guided the Cadillac with fluid precision through the chaos, ran a red light for the seventeenth time that night, and floored the accelerator when he attained the comparatively unimpeded reach of Central Park West.
      Adam Grondin said: Kennedy to Central Park 34 minutes. Beautiful Arnie.
      Jase Cassidy said: Time to make it. Chief still asleep?
      Pakkala said: Until I tell him to wake up.
      A map image of New York City seemed to hover in his peripheral vision off to the right, among the lamplit bare trees of the park. He spotted a police cruiser, but Adam and Jase had already fuzzed the minds of the two officers inside. They knew they couldn't possibly have seen a Caddy doing seventy northbound, and turned their attention to a doorman walking three poodles who was suspiciously unencumbered by a pooper-scooper.
      Pakkala said: Only a few blocks more.
      The limousine charged across 65th Street on the fag end of the amber light, then hung a left onto 66th virtually riding the rims. For the last time Cassidy and Grondin exerted their coercive powers to stop the modest flow of vehicles on Columbus. The Cadillac took the final corner smoothly, decelerated, and drove up the ramp in front of the Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts. A touch of power brakes brought it to a sedate halt.
      Cassidy and Grondin relaxed their overstrained brains with audible groans of relief. Arnold Pakkala's face had gone rigid in the wan light from the instrument panel. Still gripping the steering wheel, he let his head fall back against the padded rest. His eyes closed. The other two men flinched at the orgasmic discharge that energized the interior of the car for an instant, setting their own nerves afire with sympathetic vibration. Seconds later Pakkala was sitting ramrod-straight again, not one white hair out of place, stripping off his leather driving gloves with small, neat motions.
      "Jesus, Arnie, I wish you wouldn't do that. " Grondin ripped open a pack of Marlboros with shaking hands and coaxed one out.
      Cassidy wiped his florid face with a handkerchief. "Wouldn't that be a helluva thing for the chief to wake up to? The fallout from your stupid come!"
      Pakkala ignored that. "Mr. O'Connor may continue to sleep until I make certain that our subjects are actually inside, in their box. If our informants erred — of if they lied — other plans will have to be made. "
      "Well, get cracking, dammit, " Cassidy snapped. "Don't just sit around here getting your rocks off. "
      Pakkala's face went rigid again. He seemed to be studying the hub of the steering wheel with blind eyes. Tiny flakes of snow sifted down and smelted to pinpoint droplets when they struck the warm windshield. The engine idled soundlessly and Kieran O'Connor exhaled a deep, sighing breath that was almost a sob.
      Grondin sucked cigarette smoke fiercely. "Poor bastard. "
      Cassidy said, "He'll be all right. Just so long as those two dago butchers are in there where we can get at 'em. "
      Nodding at Pakkala, Grondin said, "Arnie'll find out. Umpteen thousand people in there, but Arnie'll find 'em if they're inside. Helluva head, old Arnie, even if he has his weird moments. "
      "I still think this is the wrong place for a hit, though, " Cassidy said. "I know the chief has to do it before any of the New York crowd expect him to act. But to do it here... "
      Both men looked across Lincoln Plaza, where the five tall arches forming the faηade of the Metropolitan Opera House enclosed a scene of festive splendor. They were more than ninety feet high and panelled in transparent glass from top to bottom, framing the four tiers of the house and the golden vaults of the ceiling. Colossal murals by Marc Chagall blazed on either side of a grand double staircase of white marble, carpeted in red. The walls were crimson velvet or gleaming stone, set off by twinkling sconces. In the central arch hung the famous starburst chandeliers, the largest at the top and the smaller satellites offset beneath it like a cluster of crystal galaxies. Rising bright against the black sky of winter, the opera house looked like the open door into a fantasy world, rather than the designated site of a double execution.
      Tonight's house was a sellout, a benefit performance of La Favorita by Donizetti. The performance was a new and lavish one featuring the superstars Luciano Pavarotti, Shirley Verrett, and Sherill Milnes, a rare treat for aficionados of Italian opera. Among the most devoted of these was a certain New York City business leader named Guido "Big Guy" Montedoro. On most opening nights he was to be found in his regular box with his wife, his grown children, and the spouses of the latter. Tonight, however, his companions were all male. Seated at the rear of the box were four trusted associates of the Montedoro Family, whose rented tuxedos bulged slightly under the arms. In front, next to Don Guido himself, was the honored guest of the evening, Vicenzu Falcone. Don Vicenzu, an old friend of the Big Guy and a fellow music-lover, was being fκted on the occasion of his parole from the federal prison at Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, where he had been serving time for tax evasion. He was accompanied by his deputy, Mike LoPresti, who had kept the Brooklyn narcotics pipeline running more or less efficiently while his superior was hors de combat. LoPresti's brother-in-law, Joseph "Joe Porks" Porcaro, the Falcone enforcer, was also in attendance. It was this same Porcaro who had gone to Chicago three days earlier to execute a contract on the upstart young consigliere of the Chicago Outfit, whose far-reaching activities had encroached once too often upon certain business interests of the boys from Brooklyn.
      Porcaro, following LoPresti's orders, had trailed his intended victim to the posh Oakbrook shopping complex in the western suburbs of Chicago. He had smiled as the counselor took pains to park his brand new Mercedes 450SL at some distance from other cars, lest their careless drivers open doors against its immaculate flanks and ding the paint job. When the consigliere went away, Porcaro wired a small bomb to the Mercedes, drove to O'Hare Airport, and was home in Brooklyn in time for a supper of linguini with white clam sauce.
      Unfortunately for him — and for Underboss LoPresti, who had ordered the hit on his own authority without consulting Don Vicenzu — the Camastra Family's legal adviser had come to Oakbrook to pick up his wife and children, who had spent the morning shopping with the wife's mother. The young parents and their daughters, aged two and three, had approached the booby-trapped automobile together. But then Shannon, the three-year-old, decided that she had to go to the bathroom. Scolding her just a little, her father took her to a nearby department store while the mother and younger child waited in the car.
      It was a cold and blustery February day, and only natural that Rosemary Camastra O'Connor should start the engine of the Mercedes to get the heater going.
      
      [Fireflower!]
      Wake up Mr. O'Connor.
      [Fireflower!] The dark hallway in the dingy flat in Southie with the emanations from the sickroom hitting him fresh again so that he nearly puked with the pain before he could shut it out Kier Kier my baby are you back did you pray did you...
      Wake up. It's all right. We're at the Opera House.
      [Fireflower!] Mom calling in her broken-glass-edge voice the voice only he could hear crying and dying clinging obstinately to her agony and to him Kier Kier you did receive Holy Communion didn't you Kier you didn't sneak breakfast again did you oh you know you have to pray hard I can't so you must and then there'll be a miracle...
      Wake up sir. Open your eyes.
      [Fireflower!] The hands dry as newspaper the fingernails blue and broken one hand gripping the tarnished silver-filigree rosary and the other tangled in his old sweater pulling him closer and him fighting to raise a higher and higher wall between the two of them and she calling out to the awful Irish God she loved the one who tortured Kier Kier he tests the ones he loves best he loves us I love you Kier pray for the miracle pray Jesus it stops Jesus stop it please stop it Kier stop it...
      Mr. O'Connor! Wake up!
      [Fireflower!] Yes Mom I'll stop it even if damned God won't I know how... I know how... was it so easy? Blue eyes gone wide and black and empty pain gone mind gone are you really gone? And the boy screams [fireflower!] and the grown man screams [fireflower!] and it expands in thunder under Illinois clouds as gray as Mom's fluffy hair on the coffin's cheap satin pillow and the coffin will have to be closed you understand
      Mr. O'Connor wake up Mr. O'Connor wake up!
      Kieran opened his eyes.
      Arnold Pakkala was there, and Adam Grondin, and Jase Cassidy. The loyal ones, the ones he had salvaged and bonded to him, the ones like him: hurt through their own fault, ever hurting.
      He asked Arnold: Are Porcaro and LoPresti inside?
      "Yes, sir, " Pakkala said out loud. "Everything is exactly as Koenig and Matucci told us it would be. The two subjects are here with the dons. There are no women. Four button-men are inside the box and two are on watch outside. The intermission between the Third and Fourth Acts is about to begin. You and Adam and Jason can mingle readily with the crowd. "
      Kieran unfastened his seat belt and removed his hat, his white silk scarf, and his dark blue cashmere overcoat. Grondin and Cassidy hastily followed his example. All three of them were dressed in black-tie formal evening wear. "Go around to Sixty-fifth Street, by the Juilliard School, " Kieran told Arnold. "There's a tunnel on the lower level that goes under the plaza to the stage door. We'll meet you there afterward. "
      "Yes, sir. Good luck!"
      Cassidy and Grondin were already out on the pavement, heading for the broad steps; but Kieran paused, half in and half out of the limousine, and smiled at his executive assistant. A mental picture hovered between them: a drunken derelict being kicked to death by a vicious punk in a Chicago alley, uttering a last telepathic cry for help.
      "Luck, Arnold? You of all people should know better than to say that. People like us make our own luck. "
      Kieran stepped out of the car and slammed the door. The Cadillac's headlights came on like some great animal opening its eyes. Arnold Pakkala raised his hand and said: I'll be waiting.
      Kieran nodded. He stood there in spite of the arctic wind knifing through his clothing, until the limousine disappeared around the corner. Yes, we make our own luck. We make our own reality, and when the bill comes due we pay cash on the barrelhead. Arnold and Jase and Adam didn't quite understand that yet, but they would; and so would the others when Kieran found them and bound them.
      The Opera House began to shimmer. Thousands of people were pouring from the auditorium and the balconies onto the grand staircase for intermission. Cassidy and Grondin waited patiently, silhouetted against the brilliance.
      [Fireflower.]
      All right, Kier said to them. This is what I want you to do.
      
      The performance was running long, and Montedoro and Falcone decided to spend this final intermission relaxing in their box, rather than attempt another sortie into the high-society crush out on the Grand Tier lobby. Three of the bodyguard were given permission to take a smoke break and Joe Porks was sent for a magnum of champagne. Mike LoPresti, whose musical tastes ran more toward cabaret singers than divas, appeased his boredom by using the binoculars to inspect the dιcolletages of the elegant ladies down on the main floor.
      The two dons made favorable comments about the rousing curtain-closer ensemble that had ended Act Three. La Favorita, they agreed, was somewhat of a potboiler — which explained why the Met hadn't mounted a production since Caruso in 1905 —but it did have some soaring melodies, and Pavarotti was in splendid voice. Vicenzu Falcone was old-fashioned enough to express regret that the heroine was being portrayed by a black soprano.
      Montedoro shrugged. "At least she's not fat, and she's got a great legato. So if her color bugs you, close your eyes during the duets. "
      "Look, Guido, I don't mind a chocolate Carmen or Aida — but there oughta be limits. When I was in stir I saw Price do Tosca on Live from the Met and it was fuckin' grotesque! What next? A Jap Rigoletto? It's all the fault of that damn Kraut, Bing. He squanders a bundle building this house, and we got trick chandeliers, no privacy, everything open like a goddam goldfish tank — and the singers gotta blast out their voiceboxes to fill the thing. The old Met was better. "
      "Nothing stays the same forever, Vince. Us old farts gotta change with the changing times. "
      "Sez you! You're only sixty-seven and you don't have arteries sludged up like a Jersey backwater at low tide. " Falcone lowered his voice and began to speak in Sicilian dialect. "And you don't have a U. S. attorney standing on your testicles, ready to defy God and the Madonna and the
      Bill of Rights in order to make certain that you die in prison. Piccolomini, that head of a prick! Do you know why he pursues me? He intends to run for senator, and I am to provide him with his ticket to Washington. Illegal wiretaps, suborned witnesses, planted evidence — he doesn't care how he incriminates one. You had better guard your own precious arse, friend Guido. "
      "I always have, " Montedoro said in English. The perfect acoustics of the auditorium filled the place with white noise during the interval, so the conversation between the two dons was inaudible even to LoPresti and the single remaining bodyguard, who were only a few feet away. Nevertheless, the man whom the newspapers called Boss of Bosses leaned very close to his old friend and spoke in the tongue of secrecy. "Do you think that I'm blind to the government conspiracy against Our Thing? I saw it coming years ago, when that shitter-of-wisdom Robert Kennedy declared war on us. For this very reason, my own Family has diversified, distanced itself from the less savory sources of income. The Montedoro Borgata is legitimate, Vicenzu! Well — very nearly so. My sons, Pasquale and Paolo, have more three-piece-suits on their payroll than a Wall Street brokerage. You don't find cunting zealots like Piccolomini poking into our affairs. Not when they can spend their time more profitably pursuing the greatest importer of heroin and cocaine on the East Coast. "
      "Perhaps I should peddle pizza?" Falcone growled.
      Montedoro chuckled. "Why not? See here — I know that your gross profits are tremendous, rising with each passing month. But you are having difficulty laundering the money. And some of your impatient young men complain that their share is slow in filtering down to them. I happen to know that the Sortino Borgata has the same problem, and there are rumors about Calcare's operation, too. It is the unprecedented quantity of money — the drug money — so inconvenient! But there are new methods of handling this embarrassment of riches, Vicenzu —tricks of modern finance. "
      "Hah! You suggest that we hand the money over to you for safekeeping, my dear old friend?"
      "Suppose, " Montedoro said softly, "that we revive the Commission? Suppose that the Five Families work together instead of at cross-purposes? The Commission was a good idea — only ahead of its time. But now, with this massive influx of dirty money that must be invested if it is not to be pissed away in bankers' percentages, we need to unify to survive. "
      "Oh, shit, " said Falcone in English. "Now you're startin' to sound just like that Chicago asshole, Camastra. "
      A troubled look crossed Montedoro's face. "Al Camastra phoned me last night. He knew we'd be getting together. How did he know that, Vince?... And what Al had to say worried me. "
      The door at the back of the box opened and Joe Porks came in, a tray of empty flute glasses in his hands and a big bottle of champagne tucked under one arm. He nodded deferentially to the dons and went over to LoPresti. The two whispered together. LoPresti, scowling, headed for the door while Joe Porks undid the cork wire on the magnum. There was a juicy pop. Joe began to pour.
      Falcone was distracted by the actions of his minions. There was a creeping sensation behind his stiffly starched collar, which seemed suddenly to constrict his windpipe. He ran a finger behind the collar and grunted to clear his throat. "Camastra! He always means trouble. Him and that smartass Irish consigliere of his. What kinda crap was he shovelin' this time?"
      Before Montedoro could answer, the door to the box opened again. LoPresti stood there, his face gray and drawn, and behind him were three men in evening clothes. The quartet edged inside and the door closed. The lone soldier on guard duty started up from his seat, groping in his armpit, and then crumpled to the floor with a muffled crash. He twitched and lay still.
      "Jesus Christ, " said Joe Porks. His fingers tightened on the champagne bottle.
      "Don't even think of trying it, Porcaro, " said one of the shadow men behind LoPresti. "Take his piece, Mike. "
      The two dons gaped. LoPresti stepped over to his enforcer, who seemed to be paralyzed, and removed a .38 Detective Special from his shoulder holster. Joe Porks stood like a battered mannequin in an After Six display window, a full glass of bubbly in one hand and the big bottle in the other. Sweat poured down his forehead and his acne-pitted cheeks.
      Falcone lurched to his feet to confront his Underboss. "Mike, what the fuck's going on here?"
      LoPresti's mouth worked as if he were trying to overcome a spasm of lockjaw. There were tears of rage in his eyes. He handed the revolver to one of the men behind him and then went to a seat beside Falcone and slowly lowered himself into it.
      The shortest of the three intruders now stepped forward into the light. He was a man in his mid-thirties whose dark hair grew in a widow's peak, and his face wore one of the most compelling and terrifying expressions that the two dons could remember having seen during their unquiet lives.
      Montedoro remained seated. "A visitor from Chicago, " he said in a neutral tone. "O'Connor, isn't it?"
      Yes.
      "Al Camastra mentioned your name when we spoke on the phone last night. Do you intend to kill Vince and me?"
      No. But I will explain certain matters to you.
      Montedoro nodded. His glance took in the sagging LoPresti and motionless Joe Porks, who was teetering a bit with the champagne but didn't spill a drop.
      May we sit down? The intermission is nearly over.
      Montedoro inclined his head graciously.
      Your associates whom we met outside are resting in the men's lounge. They'll probably feel much better after a good night's sleep. The fellow on the floor will require prompt hospitalization. Porcaro and LoPresti, however, will receive their treatment from me.
      O'Connor's two companions had gone to Joe Porks and relieved him of his burdens. They guided him to the fourth seat at the front of the box near to LoPresti and sat him down, then retired again to the shadows. The five-minute-warning chime sounded. People began returning to their seats in the boxes to the right and left. They paid no attention to the mobsters and their uninvited guests.
      "He's talking, " Falcone whispered, his eyes bulging with terror, "but he ain't talking. "
      Montedoro was staring at Kieran with shrewd speculation. "So you're Camastra's edge. No wonder he made you. No wonder he raised you to consigliere. "
      "I have other talents as well, Don Guido. If you help reorganize the Commission and put it into efficient operation, you may benefit from my unique abilities yourself. And so may Don Vicenzu, and other businessmen of honor. " But first we must settle another matter.
      Falcone said hesitantly, "It wasn't me ordered the hit, O'Connor. You know that, don't you? You're a counselor. Untouchable. But LoPresti was burned because you undercut us on the bidding last year for the Montrιal Connection. That was a pipeline he sweat blood to bring in, and the froggies were all ready to deal — until you convinced 'em otherwise. " He gave a weak laugh. "Maybe now we know how you convinced 'em. "
      "I'm not a miracle-worker, " Kieran said. "My... influence isn't long-lasting and it certainly doesn't extend over distances. What I offered Montrιal was a better deal and safer conditions of transfer, using the Saint Lawrence Seaway. No danger of hijacking, no payoffs to cops or customs, and payment direct to Switzerland. Chapelle explained all that to LoPresti. It was a simple business matter, Don Vicenzu, but your man chose to treat it as a personal affront. He's stupid and shortsighted and vindictive, and so is his animal, Porcaro. "
      "I agree, " said Falcone.
      The lights in the Opera House were dimming and the patrons settled down. Applause greeted Maestro Lσpez-Cobos as he entered the pit and motioned for the players in the orchestra to rise.
      Then there will be peace between Chicago and the Falcone Family, Don Vicenzu?
      The don spoke in a harsh whisper. "I swear it. I swear it. "
      And you are a witness to this, Don Guido?
      "I am, " said Montedoro.
      The hall had become very dark. The conductor raised his baton and the pianissimo notes of an organ began the overture to Act Four of La Favorita. LoPresti and Porcaro sat beside Falcone with only the rise and fall of their shirt-fronts signaling life, apparently held in a trance by the two associates of O'Connor who were glaring at the backs of their necks. Kieran rose to his feet and put his right hand on Porcaro's head and his left on LoPresti's. The paralyzed men started violently and O'Connor himself suppressed a groan.
      This... is not revenge, you understand. Only simple justice. A restoration of order. Don Guido, your men should be able to cope with the disposal of this pair without too much difficulty. It will be an educational experience for them. We will send them in on our way out.
      And then O'Connor and the two men with him were gone, and the gold brocade curtain opened on the handsome Ming Cho Lee set of a monastery courtyard in Spain. The stage illumination lit the faces of the audience. Falcone was aware of a faint, peculiar odor. He leaned over and saw that the eye sockets of his henchmen had become streaming wells of dark fluid, and that neither man was breathing even though they both sat very straight in their luxurious chairs.

2
ALMA-ATA, KAZAKH SSR, EARTH
10 JULY  1979

      HE WAS THE most self-effacing member of the delegation of Indian parapsychology scholars visiting Kazakh State University, and afterward many staff members at the Bioenergetics Institute (including the Director) denied that he had been there at all. But the truth was that he had been the one who arranged for the tour in the first place, as a pretext for meeting Yuri and Tamara.
      The visitors had seen nothing of the laboratory where the young biophysicist and his wife worked, since it was under the Cosmic security classification. Instead they toured the Kirlian facility, where scanning devices purported to monitor the nonphysical aura of living things. Although one or two of the delegates asked indiscreet questions about corona discharge effects and water vapor, most were suitably impressed. In the afternoon there was a tea, presided over by the Director of the Institute, where the delegates were given the opportunity to mingle with the various project supervisors and a few of the percipient subjects whose psychic powers were under analysis. Yuri and Tamara were there, introduced simply as "biocommunications specialists. " They said very little and slipped away early, and forgot about the group of Indian scholars almost at once. Their attention was fully occupied by the matter of Abdizhamil Simonov. There were rumors that Andropov himself was taking a personal interest in the KGB's inquiry into the mind-controller's sudden death.
      That evening, as Tamara was putting little Valery and Ilya to bed, Yuri received a phone call from the Director.
      "A distinguished member of the Indian Paraphysics Association tour group has asked for a personal meeting with you and your wife. " The Director's voice was strained and overly formal. "He was told that such an appointment would be difficult to arrange, since it would have to be approved by Moscow. This did not deter him. He... prevailed upon me to phone the Comrade Academician himself with the request. It was approved. "
      Yuri could only say, "How unusual!"
      "You will meet this Dr. Urgyen Bhotia in the main lobby of the Hotel Kazakhstan as soon as possible. He is a Tibetan resident of Darjeeling, and he wishes to speak to you about certain studies he has made that are relevant to your work. Show him every courtesy. " Before Yuri could respond, the Director hung up.
      Tamara came out of the children's bedroom with lifted brows.
      He transferred the amazing gist of the conversation to her in an instant, adding: I have no idea what this is all about but we are going to have to see this guru and postpone our discussion with Alla and Mukan until later tonight I'll call them while you get Natasha to baby-sit.
      When everything was arranged, they took a bus across town to the soaring new hotel on Lenin Avenue, where only the most distinguished visitors were housed. No sooner had they come into the air-conditioned lobby than the strangely influential Tibetan was there bowing. He was a short, sturdy man with very brown skin, dressed in crisply pressed trekker's garb.
      "Dr. Gawrys and Madame Gawrys-Sakhvadze, I am Urgyen Bhotia. I thank you profoundly for coming here, and apologize for causing you inconvenience. I hope you will forgive my summoning you in such a precipitate manner, but I have waited nearly five years for this moment. " Shall we stroll outside in the cool of the evening?
      Yuri froze in the act of shaking hands. Tamara said: I think that would be wise. Have you taken the cable car up Koktyube Hill?
      Not yet but I hear it provides a marvelous view of the city.
      Yuri said: You know us and our work? How can this be?
      The Tibetan laughed and said, "This is not my first visit to your lovely city of Alma-Ata, but it is my first opportunity to enjoy it with all my physical senses! Let us walk. "
      He casually took an arm of each of them when they were outside and guided them across Abai Avenue into the gardens of the Lenin Palace of Culture as though he were the host and they the visitors. The fountains were lit with the coming of dusk and the spray from them was cooling and welcome. A heavy scent of flowers arose from the formal gardens and Urgyen paused to admire them.
      "So many lush growing things in this splendid, modern city! The aether sings with vitality. " He might have been any age from forty to sixty. His head was shaved and his cheeks were such a bright red that they might have been rouged. His teeth were very white and perfect and his eyes, almost hidden in a mass of deep creases when he smiled, were an unusual hazel color.
      Tamara said, "It is clear that you are one of the adept — unlike your colleagues. You will please tell us how you came to know of our psychic faculties and of our work, since both are closely guarded state secrets. "
      "I know you, " the Tibetan said, "because I have been blessed with an ability to perceive the bioplasma of the brightest ones across great distances. My vision extends only throughout Asia. But for more than twenty years now, since leaving Tibet, I have studied the soul manifestation by means of what you would call remote-viewing. I saw the two of you for the first time in 1974, when you were newly come to Alma-Ata, a double mind-star more brilliant than any I had found before. Since then I have watched, I rejoiced in the birth of your two brilliantly ensouled sons, and now I anticipate with you the coming of your third child, a daughter. "
      "It is a girl?" Tamara exclaimed.
      "Most assuredly. " Urgyen searched the faces of the young couple, ruefully acknowledging the mental barricades they had erected against him. "Please do not be afraid of me. My only wish is to help you at this very difficult time, when you two and the many immature minds under your care find yourselves at a moral crossroads. "
      "You say you have watched us, " Yuri stated. "How close has your astral scrutiny been? Have you read our minds?"
      "You know from your own remote-viewing studies that such a thing is impossible. Nor can I read them now unless you freely give access. Nevertheless, I am aware of the temptations bedeviling you and the dangers that you face. I asked myself and the Compassionate Lord if it was my duty to advise you. "
      "And what, " Yuri inquired coldly, "did your heavenly oracle say?"
      "I was helped to understand that, in spite of certain inhumane actions you have abetted, you are both persons of goodwill. You have rejected the false joy of the great determinism that hands over the individual conscience to a group and evades personal responsibility. You know you are free, and you know you will have to make choices. Too many people of your nation deny this difficult truth. They do not understand that the human mind must cultivate both soul and spirit if it is to be integral. "
      "You will have to explain that, " Yuri said.
      They walked on, across the palace concourse and into trees where cicadas were beginning to buzz.
      Urgyen said, "A month ago there was a meeting of leaders in Vienna. The President of the United States and the Soviet President Leonid Brezhnev signed a strategic arms limitation treaty. At one of their conferences, which took place in the Soviet embassy in Vienna, a person from your Bioenergetics Institute named Simonov exerted coercive and mind-altering force upon the American President, throwing him into a state of confusion and irrationality that still persists... The Chairman of your KGB was so elated by Simonov's success that he made arrangements to send the man to Washington, where he would be able to exert his inimical influence upon other American leaders, as ordered. The plan was aborted when Simonov dropped dead while jogging on the university campus. "
      "An autopsy showed that his heart was enlarged and weakened, " Yuri said. "It is a disability that often accompanies great psychic exertion. I myself am under a physician's care for similar symptoms. "
      "Exactly, " said Urgyen sadly.
      They walked in silence. Ahead was the brightly lit funicular station, the goal of many other evening strollers.
      Tamara said, "Abdizhamil Simonov was a tribal shaman before he was recruited to the Institute, a petty and vicious man who resisted all our efforts to dissuade him from cooperating in Andropov's scheme. He was half mad, a menace to world peace. The KGB thought they could control him, but we knew they could not. "
      Urgyen nodded. "There was also Ryrik Volzhsky, a strong coercer and an incorrigible corrupter of children. You have in your special program at the Institute more than sixty youthful psychics. When Volzhsky persuaded your Director to assign him to the pedagogical staff, both of you admonished him to restrain himself. He laughed. Two days later he was found drowned in the Bolshaya Alma-Atinka River. "
      "The normals can only agonize in their impotence when confronted by evil, " Yuri said. "They can only utter foolish curses or wish the destruction of the wicked. We are more fortunate. "
      "The soul would say so, but not the spirit, " said the Tibetan.
      They came to the ticket office, where Yuri paid. Then the three of them got into one of the crowded red-and-yellow cablecars. The other holidaymakers made room for pregnant Tamara near the window, and a moment later they were soaring up the hillside, suspended in the clear air, with the discussion now relegated to telepathy.
      Yuri said: So you presume to judge me and castigate me with your pious Eastern word-play... Soul and spirit! Talk instead of life and death! Talk of a pair of fearful children become the toys of power-corrupted old men who would use marvelous mind-powers as weapons rather than dedicate them to the good of humanity!
      Urgyen said: But if you kill even in a cause that seems just are you any better than your oppressors?
      Tamara said: We regretted the deaths bitterly. Yuri acted only after serious reflection.
      Urgyen said: In Tibet in the eleventh century the poet Milarepa had mental powers like yours. He was able to strike his enemies dead from afar. But only after he renounced his usurpation of god-power did he become a saint.
      Yuri said: We aren't saints. We are only persons wanting to survive. Yes I killed and because I am a Pole and a Catholic I was tormented and I wish there had been another way but there was not. Once I was timid little Jerzy snatched from my parents in Lodz bullied and cajoled into mental slavery thinking there was no helping it. Then came Tamara! In Leningrad the scientists studied us and tested us and the military men tried to convince us that our duty was unquestioning loyalty and service to the state. But Tamara knew better and helped me to know also. Her dear father was exiled because he dared to protest and publicize the GRU's treatment of us and of other psychics.
      Urgyen said: Your unhappy memories are clear to me... and I see what you are reluctant to state directly: that even then you thought it necessary to kill...
      Yuri said: Why can't you understand!
      Tamara said: There was a cold-blooded brute the chief of the GRU. Yes he was the first. He would have locked us away treated us as equipment rather than human beings to further his ambition. We were to be his secret weapon to spy with remote-vision on Chairman Andropov of the KGB. When our enemy died the GRU lost control of the psychic-study program. Andropov and Brezhnev became fervent believers in the mind-powers, coopted the project and promised us and the other adepts that we would now be treated as honored Soviet citizens. It was 1974. Six months after Papa's exile. I was 16 and Jerzy/Yuri 22. We were given permission to marry and sent to Alma-Ata.
      Yuri said: We expected a barbarous outpost in Central Asia with camel caravans and fierce nomads and bazaars. Imagine our surprise at this green new city with the great university where we could study as well as be studied.
      Urgyen said: You have acquired knowledge but not wisdom.
      Yuri said: Gawno!
      Tamara said: Urgyen Bhotia we are not Indians or Tibetans. Our soul does not flinch at the prospect of violence because our people have survived for centuries in violent lands enduring persecution. We know we face grave choices but we have made glorious plans and we are determined to see them carried out. This means defending ourselves if necessary. Yuri and I are the most powerful of all the minds assembled here in the pilot bioenergetics program. We teach the young ones remote-viewing and convince them to hide their true ability from the KGB evaluators. The program thus seems to progress very slowly. But the children understand that their minds set them apart that they must work for all the world not only for the Soviet Union.
      Urgyen said: If you are the teachers it is that much more important that you reform your erring consciences.
      "Here we are at the top of the hill, " Yuri said. "Come, let us enjoy the view!"
      There was an observation platform and a restaurant at the terminus of the cableway, and the other passengers disembarked laughing and exclaiming at the beauty of the panorama. To the north, lost in purple haze, were the steppes of the Virgin Lands, turned into fields and orchards by irrigation. The multicolored lights of the great city were just beginning to twinkle on while the last sunset glow illuminated the eastern foothills. Behind Koktyube, to the south, was the Zailiysky Ala-Tau, a heavily wooded outlier of the high Tien Shan. China lay only three hundred kilometers beyond.
      They stood at the railing, looking out over Alma-Ata. Tamara said, "The city's name means Father of Apples. There are orchards everywhere, and vineyards. We have come to love this place. At the university, we are trusted. We say the proper things and are circumspect in the use of our higher mind-powers. We can do so much good, Urgyen... and someday when other persons like us in other parts of the world are able to reveal themselves and work openly, we will also. Then we will forever renounce the self-defensive violence that we have been forced to resort to. I swear it. "
      "You know there are many others, many minds with these powers, " Urgyen said. "But do you know that there is a World Mind, of which you and I and the others, whether highly empowered or lowly, partake?"
      "We know there is the Great Soul, " Tamara said. "My many-times-great-grandfather told me of it when I was a child. Now we would call it the Conscious Field of Humanity. Some persons call it God. "
      "It is not God, " said the Tibetan. "God is spirit and cannot be infected by evil. But the World Soul can... and this is why I came to plead with you. "
      Yuri cried: Soul! Spirit! Tell us plainly what you mean!
      "I will try, " said the Tibetan. "Years ago, when I was a monk called Urgyen Rimpoche and practiced my mind-powers proudly, I thought I was one blessed by the gods, a living miracle who had the right to command heaven. I was young! In the turmoil that my poor country suffered during the Chinese invasion of the 1950s, my attempts to coerce divinity and repel the invaders were futile. Our little monastery was utterly demolished and we were beaten and called parasites by the Red soldiers. Of course, they were right... I had confused soul with spirit. So had my brother monks who had prospered and enjoyed prestige by celebrating my talents. Along with many of my countrymen, I fled to India. After suffering much and losing my psychic abilities because of self-doubts, I began to acquire wisdom. The first thing I took to heart was the realization that the soul and its powers are not supernatural. They are no miracle. They are part of the natural human heritage and all people have them in greater or lesser degree. "
      "We have also come to that conclusion, " said Tamara.
      Urgyen said, "The soul is neither physical or spiritual. But it is still part of matter's realm, born with certain coalescences of matter and energy. Even atoms have a minute portion of soul! Higher organisms have much more. And there is a World Soul —"
      "Do you speak of a World Mind?" Yuri asked.
      "No, no. That comes later, with the infusion of spirit! But let me go on... The soul feels but it cannot know. It is — as most thinkers have recognized — feminine: life-giving, as patient and enduring as planet Earth whose soul-essence is part of each one of us. Living things form a hierarchy of soul, first tropistic, then sentient. Plants and animals. In us, souls dream and imagine and fantasize and create. They remember and they fear. They are basically passive and amoral. When the soul is properly entuned, its powers may move matter and change it. Sometimes the human soul swells large and begets ultrasenses, or a coercive will, or mental control of matter and energy, or the reorganization of dysfunctioning mind or body that we call healing. "
      "Tell us how mind relates to soul, " Yuri demanded.
      "Only in thinking creatures is the soul infused with spirit, making a mind. "
      "And spirit is what?" Tamara asked.
      "It does not belong to the realm of matter. We may call it divine, but it is of a different order of reality. It enkindles the intellect, orders all things in our minds, impels us upward as flames rise. It is masculine: impregnating and driving, engendering discipline, truth, wisdom, and law. It makes thinking creatures yearn toward a higher reality, what I would call the face of God. It knows good and evil. It strives to unite in love with other minds and to form the World Mind. But it can be debased. Its impulse toward increasing organization can be crippled, even halted. "
      They said: We do not understand. Especially we do not understand why you say WE threaten your World Mind.
      "Look around you, " Urgyen invited. "You see the terraced mountains with their forests and orchards, and you see a modern city. The mountains were upthrust ages ago, and slowly they are being worn down. The trees and other plant-life spring up from seed and grow — but when growth stops, they will die. The city of Alma-Ata is only the latest of many human settlements in the Valley of the Seven Rivers. Others flourished for a time, but when they stopped growing, they died. Growth! Evolution, if you like, with life and mind organizing itself at ever-higher levels! If Mind does not grow, it will also die. My dear Tamara and Yuri, you are the vanguard of the planetary Mind, together with the others like you. It is so simple: you must be better than those who came before because spirit must grow as well as soul in the evolving World Mind. Without growth, there can only be death. If you, the leading shoots of your growing species, become corrupt, you will tend to corrupt the entire Mind. "
      Yuri exclaimed: You would have us submit tamely to our enemies? Die rather than kill in self-defense?
      Yes.
      Tamara said: You want us to be like Mahatma Gandhi. But our system of values says we have a right to kill mortal enemies.
      True... and yet your Avatar allowed his enemies to kill him.
      Yuri said: We are not martyrs! We have a great plan and it requires living leaders. You yourself said it: We are the vanguard we can lead the world to peace!
      Never if you kill to prevail. Never if you use the mind-powers that way. Think! What was hard in the beginning becomes more and more easy. Think! The once stricken conscience becomes dulled. Think! Who are you going to lead? Your peers? What of the lesser minds? What if they fear you and will not follow? Will you coerce and kill? Think of your children watching you and learning. Think.
      Tamara said: Urgyen your message is hard to hear harder to accept. I don't know if I can accept it. But I do believe it...
      Her husband rounded on her. "How can you? After all we have suffered together — how can you?"
      She placed her hand on her swollen body. Inside, the fetus leapt. "I think it has to do with motherhood, " she said.
      Urgyen nodded and smiled. "Yes. And fatherhood. "
      Yuri looked from one to the other in confusion. Both of their minds were open to him, showing. But he still could not understand.

3
SUPERVISORY CRUISER NOUMENON [Lyl 1-0000]
10 JULY  1979

      "THE FORMER LAMA shows a coadunate sensitivity rare among humans, " said Eupathic Impulse. "How gratifying. "
      "He typifies an abhorrence of violence found mainly among Easterners of the Buddhist persuasion, " Homologous Trend said, "and among the English. The trait is, as one has noted, regrettably uncommon. "
      "Making the coadunation of the World Mind that much more unlikely, " Asymptotic Essence said.
      "In the unlikelihood is the greatest glory, " said the poet, Noetic Concordance.
      "All very well for one to look on the bright side of a situation that's hopeless, " Impulse said.
      "One supposes that it was inevitable that perverse operants, such as the lamentable O'Connor, would use their higher mind-powers aggressively and for personal gain, " Trend observed. "Such flawed personalities, are, after all, outside of the mainstream of mental evolution. But one regrets most deeply that a pivotal operant such as Yuri Gawrys, so estimable in other respects, has seen fit to use his metafaculties to kill. "
      "The temptation was overwhelming to one of his mind-set, " Essence said.
      "One fears he does not represent an isolated case, " Impulse added. "On the contrary, he is probably typical, given that the most dynamic of the irrupting operant minds share the moral view of the West, not the East. Even Yuri's mate Tamara, inculcated with gentleness and true coadunate principles during her formative years, and assenting intellectually to the truth of the Tibetan's admonition, will undoubtedly succumb to the use of violence under extreme provocation. Human females will kill to defend their children even as they counsel them to embrace peace. "
      Noetic Concordance radiated sorrow. "Then the Tibetan's warning was in vain?"
      "One may hope, " Trend said, "that his message will have a positive influence upon other human minds at a more favorable point in mental evolution. "
      "Strange, " Asymptotic Essence mused, "that the lama should have so fortuitously conceived this advanced insight, and gone counter to his naturally retiring disposition to deliver it to Yuri and Tamara. If one had not noted the Tibetan's indubitably authentic mental signature, one might be forgiven for suspecting that he was none other than Unifex, masquerading again in human guise. "
      "Indeed one might!" Concordance agreed.
      "Now there is an oddity, " Eupathic Impulse remarked. "That It should take pleasure in simply walking among the lower life-forms!"
      "It empathizes so closely with them, " said Concordance. "Should one be surprised when It assumes their physical form?"
      "Yes, " Impulse said shortly. "Krondaku may do so routinely, but it violates dignity and custom for a Lylmik to take on the material aspect of a client race. "
      "One is being a bit stuffy, " Trend suggested.
      "And one should remember, " Concordance appended, "that It is in love. "
      "It is in New Hampshire even now, " said Essence, "having completed its contemplation of the supernova in the Soulpto Group that threatened to irradiate the planet of the Shoridai. It saved them by interposing a gas-cloud — then sped back to Earth when It perceived an urgent necessity to harangue its slow-witted catspaw. "
      "That one, " said Impulse darkly. "He would have used the powers to kill also, if he had not been restrained. The very agent of Unifex — a reprobate!"
      Noetic Concordance's mind smiled. "Oh, I don't know. He rather grows on one. "

4
FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ROGATIEN REMILLARD

      MILIEU BIOGRAPHIES OF my nephew Denis have covered the latter years of his childhood in considerable detail, thanks not only to his diaries but also to the reminiscences of his teachers and fellow students. For this reason I intend to highlight only a few incidents from that time.
      First, let me correct a persistent error. Denis was never seriously endangered by Pentagon or CIA zealots seeking to utilize his talents for intelligence gathering or experiments in "psychotronic" aggression. Other young operants did suffer from the compulsory enlistment attempts of official (and highly unofficial) groups; but Denis went unharassed, thanks to his Jesuit protectors at Brebeuf Academy and later to the Dartmouth Coterie, who formed an ad hoc Praetorian Guard as well as a circle of intimate friends during Denis's college years.
      One story I must tell deals with the way Denis finally made contact with the Coterie and his other early operant associates, using a method so crude that he was too embarrassed even to mention it when he became a respected academic. His biographers assume that he instinctively used the declamatory mode of farspeech, calling out in a generalized fashion. They seem to think that when his developing powers reached an adequate level, numbers of isolated operants automatically responded.
      The truth is otherwise — and much more droll.
      After our encounter with Elaine Harrington, Denis was firmly convinced of the existence of other operants, and he made many attempts to contact them via telepathy. Working together, the boy and I checked out his "broadcast range" by the simple expedient of having him bespeak me as I traveled to prearranged New England locales. Although intervening mountain ranges tended to block or interfere with his mental messages, as did the sun and electrical storms, we discovered that Denis could farspeak me reliably over a distance of more than a hundred kilometers. When he operated out of Brebeuf near Concord in central
      New Hampshire, as he usually did, he could theoretically blanket our own state, plus Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and most of Connecticut — as well as a fair-sized chunk of Maine and those parts of upper New York that weren't shielded by the Adirondacks. Our record long-distance exchange during his school years covered 166 kilometers, between Brebeuf and East Hampton, Long Island, where I visited friends in 1977.
      Nevertheless, in spite of his success in farspeaking me, Denis had no luck at all in contacting other telepaths using a generalized broad-spectrum hail. His mental CQs remained futile howls into an aetheric rain-barrel, messages lacking addresses, until that day in 1978 when we first tried the seriocomic tactic I dubbed Operation Witch Hazel.
      It was in November, when Denis was eleven and in his final term of study at the academy. I had come down on a delicate and rather sticky mission: to break the bad news to Fathers Ellsworth and Dubois that their prize prodigy would not, after all, be matriculating at Georgetown University next year as they had hoped — and quite taken for granted. Denis himself had no objections to attending the Jesuit institution. It had a fine medical school and its faculty, secretly briefed by my nephew's clerical mentors, was quite willing to accommodate a twelve-year-old genius with a supernormal psyche.
      But the Ghost had other ideas.
      My interview with the good fathers was an uncomfortable one. Following the Ghost's  suggestion, I told Ellsworth and Dubois  that Georgetown, being situated in Washington, DC, was too susceptible to infiltration by government agents or other parties who might take an unhealthy interest in Denis's talents. (This maneuver of mine was undoubtedly the source of later rumors that Denis was actually pursued by unscrupulous psychological-warfare specialists. ) The priests were deeply disappointed when I told them that I had already arranged for Denis to enter Dartmouth College, a venerable Ivy League school in western New Hampshire. My arguments in favor of Dartmouth must have had a paranoid flavor — and even worse, smacked of ingratitude after the special pains taken by the Brebeuf faculty in the first five years of the boy's education. The two priests tried hard to change my mind; but I had my orders, and so I prevailed. With Don's total abdication of responsibility, I was Denis's de facto guardian and the decision was mine to make. In the end, I cheered them up. Dartmouth was a small college but it did have a school of medicine sympathetic to the concept of metapsychic research. It was nearby, in the beautiful town of Hanover on the Connecticut River. It had been founded in 1769 and numbered among its alumni such luminaries as Daniel Webster and Dr. Seuss. Above all, because of its quixotic and individualistic atmosphere, it was about the last place in the world likely to be infiltrated by the CIA, the lackeys of the military-industrial establishment — or the KGB. So the matter was settled.
      With the Ellsworth-Dubois ordeal behind me, I was glad to escape by taking Denis for a stroll into the gray and leafless woodland adjacent to the Brebeuf campus. The clouds hung low and there was a smell of snow in the air. Early frosts had withered the low-growing plant-life. Fragile rinds of ice crusted the puddles along the path. The boy and I walked for an hour or so, discussing Dartmouth and making plans to visit it over the upcoming Thanksgiving vacation. Then the conversation turned to a vexatious old topic: Denis's continuing futile attempts to farspeak other telepaths.
      "I've been thinking over the theory of telepathic communication, " the boy said. "Trying to discover why you and I can farspeak over long distances — while I have no luck when I call out to others. " He de-toured so as to walk through a deep drift of maple leaves, kicking them into the air with childish satisfaction. "The first possibility — and the most rotten! — is that there simply aren't any receptive minds within my telepathic radius. I just can't believe that. I feel them out there! They're probably unaware of their powers for the most part, but some of them might have a gut conviction that they're different from the rank and file of humanity... Now the second possibility: The minds are there but they don't hear me for some reason. I have to find out why my transmissions don't reach them even though I can farspeak you. "
      Little chickadees, lingering tardily in the woods before their annual withdrawal to town and farmyard during fast winter, sang as we crunched along. I said, "The problem might simply be that your closet telepaths aren't listening! Look how we ignore the sounds made by these birds while we concentrate on each other's voices. "
      "That's a good point. The unknowns out there aren't expecting a telepathic message. They don't think such things are possible. So when farspeech inadvertently reaches them, they may not recognize it for what it is. They could think it was a daydream, or some notion cooked up by their own brains, or even a ghost or something. "
      "Mm, " I said.
      "If they were seriously expecting a farspoken message it would be entirely different. You know that our own head-skeds were carefully planned. We were both alert and waiting at the time we'd arranged to communicate — and I knew where you would be. It didn't matter that your mind has a relatively puny receptive faculty —"
      "Thank you very much!"
      His solemn little face broke into a grin. "Nothing personal. Your mind is a weak telepathic transmitter and you're not a very sensitive receiver. But my mind makes up for it. I put out a high-powered signal that you can read, and I listen for you with an ultrasensitive mental antenna. Theoretically, I should be able to bespeak other weak or untrained telepaths — if only they knew enough to listen for me. " His mind flashed a farcical display advertisement:
      
TELEPATHS   OF   THE   WORLD!
TUNE   IN   YOUR   MENTAL   EARS
WITHOUT   FAIL
NEXT  TUESDAY, 8: 00 P. M. EST
FOR   AN   IMPORTANT   ANNOUNCEMENT!

      He added aloud, "Of course we'd never dare do it. And even if we did, the very people we wanted most to reach would ignore it completely. "
      "Eventually there will be a public acknowledgment, " I said. "You will be able to discuss the powers openly someday... "
      He nodded. "When I'm grown up, and I have my research facility and a suitable aura of academic respectability. " The irony on his young face was almost tragic. "But it's so tempting to take a short cut!" "You're talking like a child. "
      He wryly agreed. Then he gave me a sidelong look. "You've saved me from making a lot of mistakes, Uncle Rogi. I'm just beginning to understand that. And the way you got me away from Papa — to this school, where I'd be safe and able to grow. Now this business of going to Dartmouth instead of Georgetown. I trust your judgment and you know I'd never try to probe your motivation. But I hope that someday... "
      All I said was, "At the proper time. "
      He sighed. We walked along in vocal and mental silence for several minutes, and then he returned to our previous topic of discussion.
      "I've thought of another reason why my farspeech might not reach other telepaths; signal incompatible with receiver. The AM/FM thing. "
      "Could be, " I agreed. "Our voices can whisper, talk, yell, sing. Why shouldn't there be different modes of telepathic output?"
      "I believe there must be at least two. You know, when we're home in Berlin, how you and I can bespeak each other without Papa or Victor listening in? That's a sort of private mode. But there's a public mode, too — the way we farspeak when the message comes to you and me and Papa and Victor all at once. "
      He stopped walking, frowned, and cogitated. Then he said, "What if that private kind of telepathy is the most efficient kind? What if it's coherent farspeech, say, sort of like a laser beam of light! Public mode might be more like a streetlamp — casting light in all directions but only illuminating a small, nearby area. You need a tight beam for lighting up faraway objectives. Maybe thoughts need to be beamed, too. "
      "Makes sense. "
      His face went gloomy. "But if that's true, then my random telepathic calls can never work. I don't know how I aim the beam... I suppose I recognize your mind-pattern and tune to it in some instinctive way when we go private, or when we do long-distance farspeaking. But how will I ever find out the mental signatures of unknown telepaths?" He was thinking hard, and in a moment he brightened. "I bet they'd hear me if I spoke in public mode right up close to them! Then I wouldn't need any signature. After all, I heard Elaine okay when she was half a mile away on Mount Washington that first time, and later she could hear me when we were a couple hundred yards apart. Funny, though. I never seemed to be able to go private with her."
      I let that one lie. "You can hardly travel all over the country farshouting in crowds, hoping to scratch up other telepaths. It would be prohibitively expensive, slow, and boring beyond belief. "
      "There ought to be another ultrasense for locating people, " the boy growled. "A seekersense. "
      We were going downhill, toward a little brook. The low ground had moisture-loving red alder trees and occasional small thickets of witch hazel. The clouds opened briefly, letting a shaft of sunlight lance down, and from a distance it seemed that the leafless branches were wrapped in a yellow haze. Then I realized that the witch hazel shrubs were in bloom. I pointed out the phenomenon mentally to Denis. It was a small bit of botanical sorcery repeated every late fall in the New England woods.
      "Weird old witch hazel, " Denis said. "No wonder the early folks thought it was magic."
      "That's why they used it for dowsing, I guess. You can find water by divining with just about any kind of wooden rod, or even a piece of wire. But the experts say that nothing works quite so well as a branch of witch hazel. I remember reading about one dowser who could find water just by moving a forked witch hazel stick over a map. "
      "It's your mind that does the finding, " the boy said absently. "The stick probably just helps you to focus the —" He broke off abruptly. His eyes met mine and we found ourselves mind-shouting in unison:
      Seekersense!
      "The guy really used a map?" Denis whispered.
      I nodded. "Found water on the island of Bermuda, as I recall. From here in the States. "
      "It's a cockamamie idea. Totally bananas. To think that I might be able to dowse out telepaths with a forked stick and a road map. "
      "Only, " I said pointedly, "if you believe you can. But it can't hurt to try. I have a large-scale Delorme Atlas of New Hampshire in my Volvo... "
      "Even if I did manage to find people, we'd still have to drive to the place where they were so I could send out a public-type hail. We'd still have to do some hunting. "
      "It can be managed, " I told him, "provided you don't turn up eight hundred prospects. " I reached into my pocket for my trusty penknife, and led the giggling boy into a witch hazel thicket to select a suitable forked stick.
      
      I only saw a water dowsing operation once, and that was on television back in the '50s when I was just a kid. The program was one of those down-around-home local documentaries that were common then, and featured a famous "water-witch" from Hancock in the southern part of the state. I remember being disappointed, after the narrator's exciting build-up, when the witch turned out to be a balding elderly man with a lantern-jawed Yankee face and eyeglasses framed in black plastic. His clothes were unexceptional and his manner laconic — until he took up his forked stick.
      In the experiment, a fifty-five-gallon drum full of water had been buried six feet deep in a freshly plowed area of field. The witch held his Y-shaped divining rod by the two short arms and extended the thing ahead of him as he slowly walked up and down the furrows. The camera showed close-ups of his face, staring at the ground with rapt attention, eyes wide behind the eyeglass lenses, sweat beading his forehead. Then the camera pulled back and we saw the witch plodding toward us, stick outstretched.
      And the point of the stick suddenly dipped down.
      There didn't seem to have been any causative movement of the old man's hands: the stick just revolved a bit and pointed to an area near the witch's feet. The tiniest glimmer of a smile crossed his lips. He backed up, let the stick rise, then walked over the spot once again. A dip. He approached the spot from the sides. As if with a life of its own, the stick turned down perpendicular to the earth.
      "I reckon she's there, " said the witch.
      Two sturdy fellows with shovels stepped forward and the soft dirt began to fly. In a few minutes the drum lay revealed in an open pit; its bung was removed and water gurgled from it. The witch allowed as how he could find water "mebbe eighty percent of the time. " He was the fourth generation of his family to have the gift and apparently the last. His children and grandchildren, he said, lacked confidence. Then he added, "But there ain't much call for water-witching nowadays anyhow. Folks feel a little foolish about it. They'd rather call in a geologist — nevvamind he hands 'em a whoppin' bill for his services, so long's he's scientific. But the old way still works... "
      It worked for Denis, too — but only after six months of self-training. I watched him mind-hunting many times, first using the atlas, later poring over a series of aerial photos I'd purchased for him at the cost of an arm and a leg. I had very little seekersense myself (youthful experiments in imitation of the water-witch had proved that), but it was possible for me to share the boy's search by means of our mental rapport. He would sit at a table in a species of trance, the forked twig moving slowly over the surface of the map, and what passed through his mind was almost magical.
      We have all flown in aircraft at night and looked down on the scattered jewel-lights that mark towns and settlements. The higher one is, the more indistinct the luminous splotch; but descend, and the individual streetlamps and lighted windows and slowly moving ground-cars become clearly visible. Denis's seeking looked rather like a night flight, when seen by my mind's eye. When he first began to hunt he sensed only bright fuzzy masses that signified concentrations of ordinary mentation: thinking people. But in time he learned to sharpen his focus, to sort the sapient blur into a sparkling collection of separate minds. They were multicolored, bright and dim, large and small. Just as a dowser for water or minerals visualizes the object of his search, then directs his higher senses to find it, so Denis conjured up the quintessence of "operant" mental energy and went hunting for it during a variant of the classic out-of-body experience.
      The first operants he viewed, in a targeting operation, were his father and his brother Victor in Berlin. Initially it was hard for him to avoid the instinctive use of their mental signatures; but when he had conquered this technical glitch he was able to see the adult mind and the child only as tiny beacons of higher function, distinct in the miasma of normally talented thought. Don's younger children, who numbered six at that time, glowed dim and latent — a tragedy that Denis and I would understand fully only years later. But Don was a fitful variable star and nine-year-old Victor burned like a baleful ember hiding in a half-extinguished campfire.
      Denis never farspoke them, never hinted to them what kind of a search he was engaged in. "It wouldn't be good for them to know, " he told me in that sober, young-old way of his. And of course he was right. The patient search for kindred spirits began to pay off in June 1979, when he finally located Glenn Dalembert's mind in the congestion of metropolitan Manchester. We set off on a frantic ground-search then, me driving the Volvo and Denis, entranced, sitting beside me with his finger hovering over a tattered aerial survey sheet. (By then he had been able to discard the witch hazel wand, to his manifest relief. ) Panic set in when it became evident that our target was on its way out of Manchester.
      A wild chase on the southbound lanes of the turnpike followed, and once we almost lost Glenn; but we bagged him at long last in a hilarious and touching scene at Benson's Wild Animal Park, where he had a summer job coercing elephants in a small circus. The young man reacted to our telepathic revelations with equanimity and took an instant shine to Denis. The boy was stunned to learn that his newfound metapsychic ally was an undergraduate at Dartmouth. Glenn Dalembert became the first member of the now-famed Coterie and would become a champion of metapsychic rights during the dark pre-Intervention years. A few weeks after finding Glenn, Denis tracked down the second Coterie stalwart, Sally Doyle, in her home at Troy. She was a minor celebrity in her hometown because of a knack for finding lost persons and things. She had graduated valedictorian of her high school class that year, and in the fall (quelle surprise!) she was to enter Dartmouth. Once again Denis was astonished at the coincidence. I, as you might imagine, remained unruffled.
      We located only two other operants that summer. One was an elderly invalid, Odette Kleinfelter, whom we nearly frightened into cardiac arrest with our telepathic greeting — and hastily disqualified from recruitment. The other contactee was a Nashua girl a year younger than Denis. When we confronted her, she fixed Denis with a redoubtable glare and snapped: "I suppose you think you're pretty smart!" Except for her metapsychic gifts, which we did not fully appreciate at that time, she seemed a bright but unexceptional child with that streak of mulish stubbornness that occasionally characterizes Franco-American females. Denis was leery of her, and for some years she would remain on the periphery of the growing body of young operants. In 1979 there was no hint of the girl's future role in the metapsychic drama. Her name was Lucille Cartier, and one day she would become Denis's closest colleague, his wife, and the mother of the Seven Founding Magnates of the Human Polity of the Concilium. But that was far in the future, and I will reserve Lucille's story until a later point in this narrative.
      
      That fall, shepherded by Glenn Dalembert and Sally Doyle, Denis entered Dartmouth College. His seekersense quickly pinpointed three other suboperants among the student body, who were gathered into the Coterie through telepathic rapport. Two of these, a senior named Mitch Losier and a sophomore named Colette Roy, had been entirely unaware of their psychic talents until close contact with Denis brought about an accelerated floraison. The third, Tukwila Barnes, was a Puyallup tribesman from Washington state. At the time of Denis's matriculation Tukwila was a seventeen-year-old junior in the college's premed program, a genius well aware of his talent for hands-on healing and soul-travel who was wise enough not to acknowledge his unorthodox skills publicly. He was a wary mind-screener who completely eluded Denis's dowsing, and only revealed himself after observing the activities of the Coterie for more than six months.
      As Denis devoured the undergraduate curriculum in three hectic terms, he found time to ferret out three more operants whom he induced to enroll at Dartmouth. Gerard Tremblay was a happy-go-lucky worker in a Vermont granite quarry, nineteen years old, with no idea that he was a suboperant telepath. Gordon McAllister, the only one of the Coterie who would choose physics over psychology or psychiatry, was twenty-six and operating the family potato farm in Maine when he was tapped. He had always known that he was a bit fey, but out of filial piety  had  repressed  his  psychic  tendencies  as  frivolous  and  un-Presbyterian. The final, and oldest, Coterie member was Eric Boutin, who had worked for nearly ten years as the service manager in a Ford dealership in Manchester before Denis discovered him. Boutin's boss wept unashamedly when the most uncanny diagnostician of auto malfunction in the state of New Hampshire enrolled as a Dartmouth freshman at the age of thirty.
      Denis received his Bachelor of Arts degree in June of 1980, applauded by me, his Coterie, his mother, and a goodly contingent of Remillard relations. Don did not attend. In 1983, when Denis was a mature and self-possessed sixteen, he was awarded an M. D. from Dartmouth Medical School. This time I escorted to the ceremony not only Sunny but also eight of her children — including the infant, Pauline. Twenty-four other Remillards made the journey to Hanover to celebrate the triumph of the family prodigy. Don, however, suffered a diplomatic attack of flu and remained in Berlin, attended by the adolescent Victor. They were not greatly missed.
      Although Denis (as well as his Coterie) kept his extraordinary psychic powers under wraps during his study years, he continued to give his associates informal training. Mitch Losier, a methodical type who quickly became a seekersense adept, continued to trace other suboperants. Many of these were enticed to Dartmouth and eventually helped form the first North American operant nucleus. Denis served his three years' residency in psychiatry at the Mental Health Center associated with the college, and simultaneously took Ph. D. degrees in psychology and mathematics (the latter in the field of cybernetics). His intellectual precocity had attracted considerable public attention, of course, and certain anonymous benefactors helped to finance the first small ESP research facility that he set up and supervised as a postdoctoral fellow. For the next three years Denis worked with numbers of operant and suboperant metapsychics in this modest little laboratory. Members of his Coterie contrived to join him as they completed their own studies and residencies, sacrificing financial security for the advancement of mental science. During this time of metapsychic pioneering Denis published half a dozen cautious papers and skirted the morass of premature publicity that might have fatally tainted his image. Persistent media snoops — and there were some — were summarily dealt with by the mettlesome Boutin and McAllister, the designated enforcers of the Coterie. More subtle attempts at probing were sidetracked by certain persons high in the administration of the Dartmouth Medical School, who realized what a unique talent the college was harboring.
      As rumors of remarkable psychic activities at Dartmouth strengthened, hard-nosed investigators attempted an end run around Denis by importuning his father. Don was then attempting to operate a small logging business, having been fired from the mill for intractable alcoholism. The sensation-seekers were discouraged by bilingual curses and the menaces of Victor, who was by then a hulking youth with a notably malevolent demeanor. Denis had made many attempts to bring Victor into his own circle of young operants, but without success. Victor's coercive faculty had come on strong, together with a raging jealousy of his older brother. He wanted nothing to do with higher education or metapsychic experimentation. Eventually he dropped out of high school and joined Don in the woods.
      In 1989, having established himself as one of the premier psychic researchers in the country, Dr. Denis Remillard was admitted to the Dartmouth Medical School faculty as a research associate with the rank of Associate Professor of Psychiatry (Parapsychology). He was by that time twenty-three years old, almost totally alienated from his father and brother Victor, and committed to the work that would occupy him for the rest of his life... until his great mind was lost to humanity and the rest of the Galactic Milieu in the prelude to the Metapsychic Rebellion.

5
ALMA-ATA, KAZAKH SSR, EARTH
18 JANUARY  1984

      ONLY OLD PYOTR Sakhvadze noticed the earthquake.
      The rest of the spectators and the crowd of ice skaters in Medeo Stadium were completely oblivious. Any faint seismic whisper would have been drowned out by the loudspeakers playing the waltz from Yevgeniy Onyegin and the shouting of the children. It is true that the side walls of the gaily ornamented yurta warming tents out on the ice swayed a little, and their horsehair tassels danced; but that might just as easily have been caused by a stray gust from the Zailiyskiy Ala-Tau intruding for a moment into the ice-rink's sheltered bowl.
      But Pyotr knew better.
      He was newly come to the Central Asian metropolis of Alma-Ata to live with his daughter Tamara and his son-in-law Yuri Gawrys and their three children, after nearly ten years of exile in Ulan-Ude, ministering to the mental-health needs of the Buryat Mongols. On this winter afternoon he was performing grandfatherly duties, shepherding Valery, Ilya, and Anna — who were nine, seven, and four years of age — on a skating outing at Medeo. Pyotr had nearly begged off going because of the sick headache that had plagued him for the past two days; but the youngsters would have been very disappointed, and he wanted so much for them to learn to love him that he pretended he felt better. He drove them in Tamara's red Zhiguli up to the big alpine sports complex in the foothills south of the city. Medeo's rink was world-class, and so cleverly sited that even in midwinter one could usually skate in comfort without bundling up. The three children had joined the throng out on the ice, leaving Pyotr to watch from a front row of the stands.
      He had huddled there nursing his headache in silent misery for nearly two hours, feeling cold in spite of the tatty fur greatcoat and shapka he had brought from Siberia. He sipped mint tea from an insulated bottle, felt very sorry for himself, and wondered if he had made a serious mistake allowing his daughter to "rescue" him from exile. Ulan-Ude wasn't the Russian Riviera like Sochi; but the Mongols were a vigorous and good-humored lot and the psychic dabblings of their shamans were strictly apolitical... unlike those of Tamara and her high-strung Polish husband.
      The headache grew worse, nauseating him with the pain. At last, when it seemed his poor head would explode, his eyes began to play tricks on him. The sunset-tinged snowy slopes that overhung the stadium started to shimmer, throwing off auroralike beams of an unnatural green color, and the bare rock areas were haloed with eerie violet. He felt the slight vibration of the earth tremor through the sensitive base of his spine and at the same time a lance of white agony seared his vision. He groaned out loud and tottered in his seat, nearly spilling the bottle of tea.
      And then, a miracle!
      His head cleared and was free of pain. The strange aura effect cut off abruptly. His muzzy brain snapped into a keen state of cognition. An earthquake! Yes! And accompanied by the same mental phenomena he had experienced twice before, in 1966 at the disastrous psychiatric conference in Tashkent, and just last year in Siberia, when a minor temblor had rocked the Lake Baikal basin.
      It could not be a coincidence. It was a species of extrasense! And he shouted:
      You see, children? I am one of you after all! This proves that I, too, have the soul-power!
      Dizziness overcame him and he lost track of reality until he heard the anxious voice of Valery, his oldest grandson.
      "Dedushka? Are you feeling all right? We... we heard you cry out. "
      Pyotr was aware of the cheerful music again, and he saw the two boys and their little sister standing in front of him in their bright jackets and knit hats with pompoms. Their breath was coming in quick cloudy puffs and their dark eyes were wide with astonishment. A couple of adult skaters had also stopped because of the evident concern of the children, and a sturdy woman in a blue speed-suit asked, "Any problem here, comrade?"
      "No, I'm fine, " Pyotr forced himself to say, giving a chuckle that was nearly giddy. "I nodded off and nearly slid out of my seat. Silly of me. "
      The adults paid no more attention to him but his grandchildren crowded closer. Pyotr could sense the swift telepathic exchange passing between Valery and Ilya. Their faces were distant, almost frightening in their maturity. But little Anna reached out to him with mittened hands, smiling, her cheeks as shiny as the Aport apples for which Alma-Ata was famous.
      "Your head feels better now, doesn't it, Dedushka?"
      He squeezed her hands gently. "Much better, little angel. In fact — I think I have made a wonderful discovery!"
      Ilya was almost accusing. "We heard your mind shout to us. There was a strange image, too. "
      "Didn't you feel the ground tremble while you were skating?" Pyotr asked. "There was a small earthquake — and I perceived it with both my body and my mind!"
      "I didn't feel anything, Grandfather, " Valery said.
      "Are you sure you didn't imagine it?" Ilya said.
      Anna piped shyly, "I think I felt it, Dedushka. Was it sort of bright, and deep-down?"
      "Yes, exactly!" Pyotr swept up the child, skates and all, and kissed her resoundingly. Then he crouched with a serious expression and told the three of them, "I detected the faint preliminaries to the earth tremor with some kind of an extrasense, and the actual shock, the discharge of seismic energy, was translated into a visual phenomenon. It's just as the village elder Seliac said more than twenty years ago: I, too, have the soul! I am one of you! A true extrasensor!"
      The children stared at him blankly. Their minds shared subliminal comments that were as incomprehensible to Pyotr as the twittering of bats.
      "Don't you see?" the old man said desperately. "My terrible headache was part of it, and I saw colored auras around the rocks as well. The important point is, I've had this type of experience before just prior to earthquakes, but I never realized its significance. Now I'm positive! Yes! It must be some new kind of psychic power — different from the telepathy or psychokinesis or out-of-body travel that your parents study at the Bioenergetics Institute. We must go home at once and tell them about it! It will be a wonderful surprise, and now perhaps they won't feel I'm such a useless burden —"
      "You aren't a burden, Grandfather, " Valery said, but his smile was remote.
      "Do we have to go home?" Ilya's mouth turned down at the corners.
      ''You said we'd stay until eighteen hours. I want to skate some more. I didn't feel any earthquake. "
      Valery gave him a poke.
      Anna threw her arms around Pyotr's legs and peeped up at him. "I know you have the soul, Dedushka. Never mind what they think. "
      A coldness crept over Pyotr. The colorful whirl of skaters was growing shadowy as dusk fell, and the music now seemed harsh. All of a sudden the great banks of stadium floodlights flashed on, nearly blinding him with their reflection off the ice. Could he have imagined the entire episode? Was it only the wish-fulfillment of a septuagenarian fool? Or — more ominously — might he have suffered a small stroke? (The symptoms were suggestive, even to a rusty psychiatrist like himself. )
      "There was a small earthquake, " he said firmly. It was real, my children! Believe me don't shut me out read it in my memories accept my mind-opening accept me...
      They stood in a row looking at him, opaque — even the dear little Anna — seeming to weigh him among themselves. He tried to relax. He tried with all his heart to love them and not fear them, this new generation for whom he had suffered so much, whose freedom he had championed at the cost of his own liberty and professional advancement. It had been rather easy to do when the truly alien young minds were yet unborn, when there were only Tamara and Yuri (then called Jerzy) and a handful of other frightened, gifted ones in danger of exploitation by the military and the GRU fanatics under Kolinsky. Pyotr had demanded that they be treated as Soviet citizens, not guinea pigs; and through his international professional contacts he had publicized some of the dubious directions that psychic research was taking in his country during the late 1960s and '70s. He had sounded warnings — and he had been silenced. But things changed for the better.
      The children stared. Anna smiled first, and then Valery, and finally Ilya, who said:
      "Yes, let's go home and tell Mama and Papa. "
      "Zamechatel'no!" Pyotr whispered, lowering his head so they would not see his tears. Then they all trooped down to the cloakroom.
      
      When they arrived at the big apartment in the new university quarter of Alma-Ata, the children ran down the hall ahead of Pyotr and burst into the kitchen where Tamara and Yuri were preparing dinner together, as was their custom when Yuri did not feel too exhausted after work. The unmistakable aroma of homemade kielbasa permeated the room, and Tamara was just lifting kachapuri, delectable Georgian cheese tarts, from the oven. With a great deal of shouting and jumping up and down, the children announced their grandfather's claim to a new psychic power. Anna still maintained that she had felt the tremor and experienced the terrestrial aura effect "just like Dedushka. "
      "Oh, I don't think she did, " the old man protested. "Perhaps it was all my imagination after all. " He wilted under the barrage of juvenile protest and lifted his hands helplessly. "Now I scarcely know myself whether or not it really happened. "
      Yuri untied his apron after covering the simmering kettle of sausage and cabbage. "Come along with me, Papa. We'll leave these Red Indians for Tamara to pacify and find something to steady your nerves. "
      They went into the young biophysicist's cozy, messy little study and closed the door. Pyotr sank into an overstuffed lounge chair while his son-in-law poured brandy into a large glass from a leather-bound bottle.
      "Not so much, Yuri! You mustn't waste it on a deluded old fool. "
      "Drink. Then we'll find out what you've been up to. " Gawrys sat down at his desk and shoved aside dog-eared publications and stacks of correspondence. He formed his thin fingers into a steeple and studied the bluish nails, his pallid features in repose and his hair falling lankly over his high forehead. He took none of the brandy.
      "What we really ought to do, " Pyotr mumbled, his face in the glass, "is check with the university to see whether or not there was a small earthquake at about four-thirty this afternoon. "
      "Tamara is attending to it. "
      "Oh. Of course. " Even after living with them for more than two weeks, he never ceased to be amazed by the domestic interaction of practicing telepaths. Pyotr took a hefty swig of the brandy. It was Georgian, not Kazakh, mellow and earthy. Pyotr sighed. "It really did happen, you know. "
      "A psychic response to seismic activity is not unknown to science, " Yuri remarked. "Other persons have described similar experiences. "
      "Then it may be that I am a genuine extrasensor?" The old man half rose from his chair in his eagerness.
      Yuri Gawrys lifted his eyes. They were dark blue, like the lapis lazuli stones Pyotr remembered inset in the silver knife-scabbard of Seliac Eshba, the patriarch of Verkhnyaya Bzyb. "Would you like to tell me about the other times you sensed impending earthquakes?"
      "It happened twice before. The first was in 1966, before I got into trouble fending the jackals off from Tamara. There was a conference on mental health in Tashkent, in April. "
      "Yes... a great quake devastated the city then. "
      "When I arrived at the airport I began to suffer the same kind of headache, the same vision of ghostly luminosity playing about the earth's surface. And when the first shock occurred, my symptoms vanished. But there was so much confusion in the aftermath — our hotel was damaged, you see — that I never made the connection. Then last year in Ulan-Ude there was a rather small tremor. I read about it the next day in the newspaper and wondered a bit, but at the time I was distracted. It was December, when you suffered your second heart attack, and—"
      "Yes, Papa, yes. " Yuri made an impatient gesture. "You are very lucky to be a sturdy Georgian rather than a Polack with an unfortunate history of cardiac insufficiency. And there is so much work yet to be done... especially now, when we are about to enter into a new, positive phase of psychic research at the university. "
      Pyotr's jaw dropped. "But the KGB-sponsored programs of bioenergetic weaponry! Surely you will remain locked into them indefinitely —" "Andropov is dying, " said Yuri. "He will not last another month. And when he goes, so will the KGB's stranglehold on our work. He was the one, together with Fleet Admiral Gorshkov, who originally saw aggressive potential in psychic faculties. While Andropov headed the KGB, he took a personal interest in the guidance of psychic research in the Soviet Union. You know, of course, that Secretary Brezhnev was himself treated by a psychic healer, and was completely in accord with Andropov's mind-war schemes. "
      Pyotr nodded.
      "When Andropov finally took over as Party Secretary he was already deathly ill. His grip on us slowly loosened. The awful days of summer 1979, when Simonov and others of his perverted ilk violated the American President's mind during the SALT II signings in Vienna, will not soon come again. " Yuri Gawrys's smile was terrible. "We have weeded our mental garden at Kazakh State University's Institute of Bioenergetics. The job was a long one, but it is complete. The last poisonous growth was uprooted only last December. By me, personally."
      "Radi Boga! Your heart attack —"
      "We all have a certain price to pay, Pyotr Sergeyevich. You have paid yours and I, mine. For the soul."
      "What will happen when Andropov goes?" asked the psychiatrist. "There will be a holding action by the old guard, a caretaker put in place while young Gorbachev and Romanov fight their duel. Whichever wins, we will be safe. They are both well-educated technocrats who have no patience with... the unconventional. They will forcibly retire Admiral Gorshkov and we shall probably find that our funding is drastically reduced. It is laser and particle-beam research that will get the rubles now. "
      "But —" Pyotr hesitated.
      "Shall I read your thought?" Yuri inquired, smiling gently now. "This cutback will actually benefit us. The essential work — the gathering together of the psychically gifted here at the Institute — has already been done. We may deplore that these young people were taken from their families, as Tamara and I were, but in the larger view it is all for the best. Now that our minds are linked, we will always remain in contact with one another. The garden, Papa! The garden will grow. "
      The old man sipped his brandy, unable to respond. After a few minutes the door opened and Tamara came in, buxom and radiant, her bright auburn hair struggling out of its confining chignon.
      "I have spoken to Akhmet Ismailov at the Geophysical Observatory. At precisely eighteen-twenty-eight hours there was a minor earth tremor measuring two point four on the Richter Scale. Its epicenter was about thirty kilometers south of Medeo, in the Zailiyskiy Ala-Tau. "
      "Ah!" cried Pyotr. "I am one of you! I am!"
      Tamara kissed the top of his head, where a few sand-colored hairs still grew. "Of course you are. You would be even if your head were stuffed with sawdust, instead of wise old brains that may be very valuable to our work. "
      "You really think that I can help you, daughter? You aren't simply humoring me?"
      Tamara laughed. "Alma-Ata is in a zone of seismic instability. We have minor tremors often, and an occasional large one. Our buildings are specially engineered for safety. If you live here with us, Papa, your extrasense may get more of a workout than you would like. You may end up wishing that you were back in Ulan-Ude, shrinking Mongolian nut-cases!... Now please wash up for dinner. "
      When Pyotr had gone out, Tamara said to her husband, "The faculty is of a certain theoretical interest, and it will help Papa to adjust to us. He was afraid, you know. "
      Yuri got up from his chair. "I told him — obliquely, but he understood — about our Black Frost. "
      "Was that wise?"
      "He had to know that our group is trustworthy, and that we are not without means of self-defense. I spoke only of my own role in the terminations. "
      "There must be no more of them! We must find other ways!"
      "Hush. " He took both her hands and pressed them to his cool lips. "We will find other ways. But above all, we must survive, my darling. Otherwise, the plan will not succeed and it will all have been for nothing. "
      "The soul, " she whispered. "The poor soul of our people. Why must it have this terrible dark side? But it has always been so. We progress only through violence, never through reasoning and love. "
      "The normals of our nation will have to be taught to love us. It will not be an easy lesson. The plan that we have worked so hard on promises a way, but it cannot be put into force for many years yet. I do not have those years. It will be up to you to be strong. To defend all your mind-children from those who would destroy or pervert them. This Alma-Ata group must survive and link up with the others in other nations, with the World Soul, Tamara. Until then, the children must endure in a wilderness, defended by a valiant mother. " He looked down at her, full of pity. She was twenty-six.
      "I will try to find peaceful ways, " she said. "If they fail, then I will do as you have taught me. "

6
EXCERPTS FROM:

ADDRESS GIVEN BY YASUHIRO NAKASONE, PRIME MINISTER OF JAPAN, AT THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY OF THE UNITED NATIONS

UNITED NATIONS, NEW YORK, EARTH

23  OCTOBER  1985

      AT THE TIME the United Nations Charter was signed in San Francisco on 26 June 1945, Japan was waging a desperate and lonely war against over forty-odd Allied countries. Since the end of that war, Japan has profoundly regretted the ultranationalism and militarism it unleashed, and the untold suffering the war inflicted upon peoples around the world and, indeed, upon its own people.
      As the only people ever to have experienced the devastation of the atomic bomb, in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the Japanese people have steadfastly called for the elimination of nuclear weapons. Nuclear energy should be used exclusively for peaceful purposes; it must never again be employed as a means of destruction.
      We believe that all living things — humans, animals, trees, grasses — are essentially brothers and sisters, [and yet] our generation is recklessly destroying the natural environment which has evolved over the course of millions of years and is essential for our survival. Our soil, water, air, flora and fauna are being subjected to the most barbaric attacks since the earth was created. This folly can only be suicidal. Man is born by the grace of the great universe:
      
      Afar and above the dark and endless sky,
      the Milky Way runs
      toward the place I come from.

7
HANOVER, NEW HAMPSHIRE, EARTH
19 SEPTEMBER  1987

      THE SATURDAY AFTERNOON was classic autumnal Ivy League, with a clear blue sky above broad-leaved trees that were just beginning to ignite in their fall colors. Lucille Cartier was glad to be back at Dartmouth, glad that Doctor Bill had agreed to resume counseling her, happiest of all that the damn dreams had gone away with her return to the campus, and that there was as yet no sign of subversive mental influence from Remillard's Coterie.
      She bicycled to her shrink session, going the long way around Occom Pond and approaching the Mental Health Center via Maynard Street. She arrived with ten minutes to spare, dismounted in a shady spot by the main entrance, and took slow, deep breaths.
      I am not resisting therapy. It will help me. I need help and welcome it. I am glad to be here...
      She lifted her eyes, looked across Maynard, across the big Hitchcock Hospital parking lot, across busy College Street. And there it was, not five hundred feet away, an old gray saltbox building that hulked among spindly birches and dark evergreens like a haunted house out of a Stephen King novel, its windows blank-eyed and sinister.
      You won't put me off! I'm not afraid of you. To hell with you and your Coterie. I defy you!
      Recklessly, she hopped back on her bicycle and zoomed across the road to stand in the very forecourt of 45 College Street. There were only two cars parked beside the saltbox — Glenn Dalembert's old Mustang with the odd-colored door, and a spiffy new Lincoln with Massachusetts plates, no doubt belonging to some visitor.
      You see? I'm back. You couldn't scare me away. I don't need you and I won't let you harass me. You can't recruit me against my will like you did Donna Chan and Dane Gwaltney. I'll live my own life, thank you very much... and I'll integrate my freak brain without surrendering to any mind-worm collective!
      The saltbox building was utterly still, without telepathic response. And then Lucille realized that she had been using his private wavelength, what the mind-worms called a "mental signature, " perceptible to him alone. Obviously, he wasn't even here today. Her gesture of defiance was futile.
      Or was it? She felt quite a bit better inside! For good measure, she gave Dr. Denis Remillard's laboratory the finger, and then she rode her bicycle back to Maynard Street, parked it in the Mental Health Center rack, and went inside to keep her appointment.

DR. SAMPSON: I'm very glad you decided to resume therapy, Lucille. I presume this means that you've decided to remain at Dartmouth rather than transfer to Rivier College for your senior year.
LUCILLE: Yes. That idea turned out to be a mistake, Doctor Bill.
SAMPSON: Would you like to tell me why you changed your mind?
LUCILLE: We — you and I— didn't seem to be getting anywhere with the therapy last term. And I was miserable here anyway, worrying about Mom having to cope with Dad all by herself besides teaching at the high school. I thought I'd solve that problem and help my own feelings of anxiety and guilt by simply going back home. I could day-hop to Rivier and complete my degree, and help Mom with Dad and the housework just like before. When I went back to Nashua for the summer break I felt pretty good for a few weeks... but then the old shit started all over again.
SAMPSON: The anxiety and insomnia?
LUCILLE: [laughs] Don't I wish that was all!... Look, Doctor Bill, I've got a confession to make. I haven't been completely honest with you. I didn't tell you all my symptoms.
SAMPSON: Why not?
LUCILLE: I was afraid to. If the college found out, they'd want to bounce me.
SAMPSON: [mildly] You know our relationship is confidential.
LUCILLE: Even so... it's so weird, you see. And it would interest — never mind. I didn't think I had to mention it because I hadn't had the thing for a long time. Not since I was thirteen, bucking the puberty blues.
SAMPSON: Would you like to tell me about it now?
LUCILLE: I've got to. It's back. Going home again, living with my parents this summer, triggered it. I didn't say anything to them — they would have been scared to death, like they were the other time. You're my only hope now, you see. I won't go to Remillard! I won't!
SAMPSON: [nonplussed] Denis Remillard? Of the parapsychology lab?
LUCILLE: It's his fault it's come back! Damn him and his meddling! If he had only let me alone —
SAMPSON: [making a note on his pad] Lucille... Stop for a moment and relax. Then let's try to concentrate on this mysterious symptom you neglected to mention.
LUCILLE: All right. It goes back to when I was thirteen. The attacks of creepiness, nerves, anxiety — they really began then. And I also had nightmares. And then... the house burned down. I did it.
SAMPSON: You deliberately started the fire?
LUCILLE: No, no! I didn't mean to! But... it was a time when I was feeling all mixed up. Nobody understood me, that kind of adolescent bullshit, but something else, too. They really didn't understand! I couldn't talk to them... Dad was just starting to come down with the sclerosis thing and he was — was hard to live with. I was so sorry for him and wanted to help, but he was so angry all the time and didn't want me around him. Then I started to have these nightmares about fire. I was Joan of Arc and they were lighting the pyre and I was all noble and forgave them and the flames came roaring up to swallow me and my skin would burn and even my bones and I'd be nothing but clean bright sparks flying up to heaven if only I wouldn't be afraid. But I was afraid. So the flames hurt horribly because I wasn't Saint Joan at all, and I'd wake up yelling and get the whole house in an uproar, Mom and Dad and my kid brother Mike. It was awful. It was even worse the time I woke up and found my bedroom wall was all in flames.
SAMPSON: Good God!... I'm sorry. Go on.
LUCILLE: I got out the door and woke Mom and Mike and we got Dad into his wheelchair and made it outside safely. But by the time the fire department came, the house was too far gone to save much. Dad's piano burned. It was a Steinway grand he'd got years ago, before he was ever married, when he was going to be a concert pianist and studied at the New England Conservatory in Boston. It cost thousands of dollars and he kept it even when he gave up his classical ambitions. Then, when he got sick and couldn't do lounge gigs or even give lessons anymore he wanted to sell it, to help out the family. But Mom wouldn't let him. He loved that piano more than anything. And I burned it.
SAMPSON: But you said you didn't start the fire deliberately. Why do you blame yourself?
LUCILLE: My room was right next to the one where the piano was. The fire started in that wall — the firemen could tell. I hadn't been smoking or anything dumb like that, but the whole wall near my bed and the piano on the other side of it somehow caught fire.
SAMPSON: An electrical short.
LUCILLE: There was no outlet on that wall, and only an ordinary lamp near the piano... Later on, they thought I might have walked in my sleep and lit a match. I told them it was my fault, you see. That I did it. But I didn't dare explain how! I dreamed that fire. The dream became more and more real... and finally, it was real.
SAMPSON: What do you mean by that?
LUCILLE: I did it with my mind. My unconscious. I'm one of them — the freaks that Remillard tests over at the parapsychology lab. He hunted me out long before he came to Dartmouth, when I was eleven. Later on, he and his Coterie wanted me to come here to school. I didn't want to, but there was the scholarship and my folks put on the pressure. I came when I was sixteen, and then Remillard really shifted into high gear. I should be grateful all to hell to assist the boy genius in his researches, even if I could only do a little telepathy when the moon was right, and melt ice cubes and jiggle tables. Dumb, useless things! I told him no. He kept on bugging me for three years, though, and so did his mind-worm clique! I told him all I wanted to do was live a normal life, study a legitimate science like biochemistry instead of waste time on occult nonsense. And I will!
SAMPSON: Excuse me, Lucille. You're an intelligent young woman. Don't you see any contradiction in what you've been saying?
LUCILLE: Remillard and his people give me the creeps — and I won't be experimented upon!
SAMPSON: I understand that. You want help. But why do you think I'm the one who can give it to you — rather than Remillard?
LUCILLE: It's a psychiatric problem. It really has nothing to do with parapsychology except — in its manifestation.
SAMPSON: You are convinced that this incendiary faculty is a genuine paranormal phenomenon?
LUCILLE: [laughs] There's even a name for it in folklore: fire-raising. Look it up in any compendium of witchcraft. You'll find true stories about people who start fires without any equipment — produce it out of thin air. Some of them even manage to burn themselves to death.
SAMPSON: You only did this once, when you were thirteen?
LUCILLE: I'm... not sure. We had other house-fires, small ones, when I was younger. There always seemed to be a natural explanation.
SAMPSON: The piano burning might have had one. A freak lightning strike, for example.
LUCILLE: It was me! My resentment of poor Dad. He only had time for his illness and the damn piano and never any time for me...
SAMPSON: Let's suppose your self-analysis is correct. Why do you think you're playing with fire again now, at this particular time?
LUCILLE: I don't know! That's why I came to you in the first place, when Denis Remillard's badgering got me so edgy last February and I couldn't sleep or study. I thought you'd just prescribe some Valium, but instead you got me into this analysis that didn't seem to help at all.
SAMPSON: You never spoke to me about being harassed by Remillard or his people.
LUCILLE: I didn't want you to know. I thought... oh, hell. Now you do know. Can't you help me? What if the fire nightmares start up here at Dartmouth like they did at home this summer?
SAMPSON: They haven't yet?
LUCILLE: No.
SAMPSON: You suffered from anxiety and depression here at school last spring, and yet the really serious warning from your unconscious only came to you when you tried to return home. Does that suggest anything to you?
LUCILLE: I had to come back here. To you. That's what my mind was telling me.
SAMPSON: Are you sure?
LUCILLE: Yes.
SAMPSON: I want to help you, Lucille. You must believe me. But you do understand that your analysis presents unique problems. All humans carry within their unconscious a load of destructive wishes left over from early childhood. You've studied psychology. You know what I mean. The mother takes the nipple from the hungry baby's mouth and it becomes enraged. A little child is punished for being naughty and wishes its parents were dead. We all had feelings like this once and we repressed them, and sometimes this guilt or something similar resurfaces in later life to give us psychic pain. But a toddler is too weak to murder its parents. And an adult who still unconsciously resents her father's neglect will not normally harm him physically. The unconscious may rage, but unless the person is psychotic it remains outwardly impotent and must find other outlets for its revenge.
LUCILLE: But my unconscious isn't impotent...
SAMPSON: Evidently not. And one might ask whether your conscious mind is similarly empowered.
LUCILLE: God. What am I going to do?
SAMPSON: The only useful answers in psychoanalysis are the ones you see clearly for yourself. I can guide you, but I can't force you to set your deep fears aside... And you are afraid of your paranormal powers, Lucille. You'd like them to go away so you can be just like normal people —
LUCILLE: Yes. Yes!
SAMPSON: But it seems quite likely that the powers won't go away. So we'll have to predicate our coping strategy on that supposition, won't we?
LUCILLE: [hotly] I know exactly what you're leading up to! And it has nothing to do with mind reading. Remillard!
SAMPSON: I haven't had too much professional contact with him, but there are those on the Medical School faculty who think highly of his work. For all his youth, he's a meticulous researcher. His test subjects aren't treated like mental patients, you know. Most of them seem to be Dartmouth students like yourself —
LUCILLE: And just why have so many of these psychic freaks come here? Why did I come? There was the scholarship offer, of course — but I felt an unnatural compulsion, too!
SAMPSON: [patiently] Is it necessarily bad to want to associate with others who share your unusual mental faculties?
LUCILLE: [despairingly] But I don't want them... I only want to stop burning... to be happy... to have someone understand me and love me.
SAMPSON: Your unconscious wants you to be happy, too. It wants you to face your dilemma honestly instead of running away from it. The unconscious isn't a demon, Lucille. It's only you.
LUCILLE: [after a silence] I suppose so.
SAMPSON: No one can force you to participate in Dr. Remillard's experiments, Lucille. But you must ask yourself: Might your fear of him be irrational?
LUCILLE: I don't know. I'm all mixed up. My head feels so feverish and my throat is so dry. Can I get some water?
SAMPSON: Today's session is almost over... I have a suggestion. Let me find out some specifics of Remillard's research. Let me ask him — without mentioning you — about the general state of mental health among his subjects. Surely some of them must have experienced conflicts similar to yours. When I get more information, we can begin working out your coping strategy.
LUCILLE: But not with him.
SAMPSON: Not if you don't want to.
LUCILLE: He'll want me to join his group. He'll coerce me.
SAMPSON: [laughing] Over my dead body! And I played middle linebacker for the Big Green in '56!
LUCILLE: [admiringly] It figures. And you have the perfect name.
SAMPSON: Uh... well, that was long ago and far away. But you can rest assured that no one will coerce you into anything. Now, our time is up for today. Can you come again at the same time next Wednesday?
LUCILLE: Will the Center authorize more than one free therapy session a week for me? I mean, I can't afford —
SAMPSON: That's all right. Your case is unusual. As a matter of fact, it's the most unusual one I've ever encountered... But you will sleep with a fire extinguisher nearby, won't you?
LUCILLE: Yes, Doctor Bill. Goodbye.
SAMPSON: Goodbye, Lucille.

8
BERLIN, NEW HAMPSHIRE, EARTH
20 MAY  1989

      DON REMILLARD DIDN'T go to the Blue Ox on Saturday nights much anymore, it being a lot cheaper to drink at home. But with Sunny waiting tables on the late shift at the Androscoggin Kitchen this week and Victor gone up to Pittsburg on some mystery errand, the younger brats would be running wild around the place. He'd end up belting a couple of them for sure, and then there'd be a row when Sunny got back — and God knows he had enough trouble with her already.
      So he went down to the Ox, settled in at his usual spot on the far end of the bar, and started working through his quota of Seagram's. A few of his old buddies greeted him, but none stuck around to interfere seriously with his drinking. Little by little the place filled up and the tunes played by the jukebox got louder. By ten o'clock Don was almost deafened by the music and the racket made by the roistering mill-hands and loggers and their exuberant ladies. He had downed enough whiskey to be more or less skunk-bit and incapable — and it hadn't done a damn bit of good.
      He could still hear the obscene voices inside his head. The goddam telepaths. The ones who were out to get him.
      Just look at that pathetic fucker! Can't hardly hold a glass without it sloppin' over. Eyes like poached eggs in ketchup! Skritch-jawed and grubby and wearin' a week-old shirt.
      Crazy as an outhouse rat, too. Brains so pickled his power's petered away t'zilch. Won't belong now, he won't be able to shut us out. We'll nail him!
      May not have to bother, he screws up again like he did today. You see the way he tried to clear the throat of the whole-tree hog he let jam up!
      Hell, yes. Goddam jeezly bar-toad almost got chopped to red-flannel hash!... Hey, stupid! Finish the job next time. Do us all a favor!
      Do Victor a favor. What's he need a drunken old fart like you on the operation?
      "I taught him everything, dammit. Everything. "
      Pig's ass. Kid got the outfit percolatin' despite you.
      Yeah. That's right!
      "I taught him everything! How to use his powers. Never woulda done it without me. Green kid! Shit — I made that kid. "
      You made him what he is.
      Whatever that is! Haw haw haw...
      "Damn right... damn right. You tell 'im that. "
      Hey, Vic! How long you gonna put up with your drag-ass old man? How long you gonna let the old stumblebum bollix up your show? Listen, Vic. Bright kid like you don't hafta put up with shit like he pulls. Lookit today. Feedin' the new Omark the wrong kinda stems. Coulda broke the christly rig! Family loyalty can be mighty expensive. Take our advice. Tie a can to the old asshole. Hire somebody who knows what he's doin'!
      I'm considering it...
      "The hell you are!" Don muttered viciously.
      Old Ducky Duquette, who was nursing a bottle of Labatt's a little way down the bar, looked at him with an expression of mild surprise.
      Haw haw haw! You think Vic wouldn't get rid of you? Think again!
      Tell him, Vic. Tell him why you went up to Pittsburg tonight.
      Tell him!
      ... I'm putting it up to Howie Durant to come in with us. He's an experienced hand with whole-tree chippers.
      Way to go, Vic! Demote the old man to brush-piler. Better yet, get him off the operation altogether. He's an accident waitin' to happen, drinkin' on the job the way he does.
      Maybe the sooner the accident happens, the better!
      Wipe him out yourself, kid. Tip him over the edge. You don't hafta wait for us. Be our guest!
      ... It might be for the best. Easy enough to rig an accident with programmed incitement. His defenses are negligible now and his farspeech no longer has the range to alert Denis or Uncle Rogi.
      That's right, Vic. Be just another logging fatality. Happens all the time.
      Don slammed his shot glass down on the bar and yelled, "Oh no you don't, punk! I'll fry your fuckin' brains out first!"
      Ralph Pelletier, the Ox's owner, who was tending bar as usual, called out over the din, "Anything wrong down there?"
      Don forced a big grin and shook his head. "All I need's another double, double-quick!" He waved his glass.
      Pelletier brought the bottle and poured. Don downed the whiskey and immediately demanded more. The tavern-keeper said quietly, "You've had about enough for tonight, Don. Finish this and then give your liver a rest. "
      "Don't need your lectures, bonhomme. Just your booze. Un p'tit coup. " Don tossed money onto the mahogany. The bills fell into a puddle of spilled liquor.
      Pelletier scooped them up with a grimace of distaste. "Drink up and go home, Don. You hear what I'm saying?" He filled the double shot glass again. "I mean it. Hors d'ici. " He went away.
      Don mouthed silent curses after him. Pelly wanted to get rid of him. Everybody wanted to get rid of him! He sipped from the glass and groaned. All around him the Blue Ox patrons laughed and the voices inside his head recited fresh indecencies.
      Ducky Duquette edged closer, a tentative smile of sympathy creasing his weathered old chops. "Ca va, Don? Had a rough week?"
      Don could only laugh helplessly.
      "Trouble out at the chantier, maybe? The logging outfit has growing pains?"
      The mental voices chortled at the joke. Don pressed knuckles to his temples until pain submerged them, then lifted his glass with a trembling hand. "My damn kid's gettin' too big for his fuckin' britches. Throwing his weight around. "
      "Ah!" Ducky looked wise. "Such a clever boy, your Victor. But perhaps impatient? That's the way of the young. Still, he's doing very well, isn't he? I heard about the big new contract he landed with Saint William. Amazing that they accepted the bid of such a youthful entrepreneur, eh?"
      "Fuckin' fantastic, " Don muttered.
      "You can be proud, Don. What sons! First Denis le Mirobolant — and now Victor, with his own logging company at the age of nineteen. "
      "And I'm such a lucky bastard, Ducky. I get to work for my own wiseacre kid! I taught him everything. And now he wants to kick me out. " His face lit up in a sour smile. "But he won't get away with it. I know where a few bodies are buried... like how a shoestring operation like his is able to field so much expensive rolling stock. "
      Fold your face, you drunken blabbermouth!
      Vic — you gonna let him keep this up?
      Ducky had gone wary. He lowered his voice. "Tell you the truth, Don, there has been some talk. Lot of people wondered how Vic could afford that new Omark chip machine so soon after getting the second feller-buncher. Equipment like that don't grow on trees. "
      "Lemme tell you something, Ducky. " Don draped an arm around the old man's neck and spoke in a coarse whisper. "Any ol' wood rat knows that logging machinery does, too, grow on trees. All you hafta do is know what trees to look under. And when. "
      Will you shut up, you peasoupin' lush?
      He's gonna squeal, Vic. Don't say we didn't warn you. It's his fuckin' conscience, see. Confession's good for the soul, he thinks. Go ahead and confess, Don — we got the final absolution all ready!
      We'll show him what happens to finks!... Give him to us, Vic. Come on! What're you waitin' for—a posse of county mounties goin' over your stuff with a magnifying glass and an electronic sniffer?
      Don tittered. "Wouldn't find diddly. Got every damn ID number and beeper-trace fixed. Told you my Vic was smart. And I taught him everything. " The injustice of it all overwhelmed him and his voice broke. "Everything, Ducky. Not just the mind-powers but the business, too. Vic was nothin' but a high school punk when they pink-slipped me at the mill. It was my idea to go into the woods and start cuttin' pulp-wood. "
      And you'd still be a low-bore stump-jumper operatin' with two chain saws and a pick-em-up if it wasn't for Vic!
      You taught him! He taught you!
      Who coerced the first big contract? Who rounded up the gear? Who found the right men, the ones who know how to keep zipped lips? Who keeps the whole show chargin' ahead in the black? Not you, you washed-up alcoholic cuntlapper.
      "No gratitude, " Don moaned. "From any of my children. "
      Ducky blinked and began drawing away. "Tough luck... "
      "I know what Vic's planning, " Don shouted. "But he won't get away with it! None of 'em will!" Heads were turning and he felt the pressure of hostile eyes delving after his dangerous secrets. Could the patrons of the Blue Ox hear the taunting voices, too? No — of course not! They were only in his head. They were only imaginary! What was wrong with Ducky, then, looking so shit-scared?... God! How much had he blabbed to the old fool?
      "Where the hell you think you're going?" Don grabbed Ducky by the front of the shirt. The old fellow yelped and pulled back, and his bottle of beer tipped and burbled onto the bar.
      Ralph Pelletier, his expression thunderous, called, "Goddammit, Don — what'd I tell you?"
      He knows! They all know! They'll tell Vic! Tell the cops!
      You spilled your guts just fine this time, fink!
      Don shook Duquette until his dentures rattled. "You won't tell! I never said anything about Vic's equipment. You hear me?"
      "He's crazy! He's crazy!" Ducky gibbered, hanging in Don's grip limp as a spawned-out salmon.
      Choke the lyin' sonuvabitch! Shut him up!
      Lute Soderstrom, who stood six-six and had once punched a hole in the radiator of a Kenwhopper, stepped up behind Don and took hold of his arms. A couple of other Blue Ox habitues pried Ducky loose.
      Don's howl was agonized. "You won't get away with it! You're all in it together, aren't you? All working with Vic and the others to finish me off!"
      "Ease him outside, " Pelletier said.
      The jukebox was pounding a raucous dirt-rock tune. Women squealed and men shouted jocose advice to Lute as he wrestled his burden toward the door.
      "They're waiting for me out there!" Don screamed. "Waiting with Vic!" He tried to coerce the Swede: hopeless. He tried to trip Lute up by knocking over chairs or tables with his psychokinesis: he hadn't a glimmer. He was impotent. He was nothing. A carousel of light and noise and pain spun around him, slowly dissolving to black, and the jeering mental voices receded to a far distance. Don was a dead weight in Lute's powerful arms as they came out into the soft May night.
      Lute dragged him around back to the Ox's dark parking lot, picked him up bodily, and dumped him onto a folded tarp in the bed of a little Nissan 4x4. "You gonna be okay, Don. " He spoke soothingly. "You stay here, get a little air, maybe sleep. I come back in just a little bit and drive you home, okay?"
      Fais un gros dodo, ordure! Haw haw haw...
      Don made an inarticulate noise. Lute nodded and went off.
      You can't stay here.
      You dassn't go to sleep!
      Vic knows what you said. You gotta get outa here!
      "Je suis fichu, " Don mumbled. "Pas de couilles... mon crβne... ah, Jesus... "
      Pretty late in the game to be calling on him, shithead.
      He can't help you. Nobody can. Nobody cares what happens to you, you drunken freak. Nobody!
      Nobody... nobody... nobody...
      "You're wrong. " The words were slurred, tainted with the bile that had risen in his throat. He clutched at the side of the pickup's cargo bed, summoned strength, and heaved himself up and over. Then he lay on his face in the dirt for a long time, stunned.
      Something crawled across the back of his neck and he opened his eyes, lifted his head, and grinned at the Nissan's left rear wheel. His senses were reeling but he was no longer a man without hope. The voices were wrong! Somebody did care. Somebody who would help him, who would even fend off Victor...
      "Merci, mon Seigneur. Merci, doux Jιsus!"
      He struggled to his feet, fighting off nausea. His head seemed to be in the grip of iron tongs and he had to lean against the side of the Nissan until the pain subsided and he could see. He peered about anxiously among the parked cars and trucks for signs of the enemy. Nobody was there. Not yet. They were waiting for Vic, and it'd take the kid time to get back to Berlin from Pittsburg, sixty miles away via two-lane blacktop.
      When he was steady he thumbed his wristwatch. The lighted read-out showed just a little past eleven. She'd have to work until one on Saturday and it was only a mile to walk, along well-lit Main Street and then Riverside Drive. She had her car. He could sit in it and wait, get coffee and sober up. It would be all right.
      Pulling himself together, he shuffled onto the sidewalk and came around to the front of the tavern. The music and laughter were louder than ever. They'd forgotten all about him. Lamenting the callousness of it all, he set off north on Main, heading for the Androscoggin Kitchen restaurant and Sunny.

      Don went to the take-out window and ordered a large black coffee from Marcie Stroup, and asked her to have Sunny bring it to the car.
      "Gee, Don, I dunno. " The girl eyed him dubiously. He was a filthy mess, reeking of alcohol, and he had caused scenes before at the Kitchen that had nearly cost Sunny her job.
      "Please, Marcie. I'm not here to make trouble. It's really important. Tell Sunny that. "
      The girl finally said, "Okay, " and went off. He shambled over to Sunny's battered '81 Escort that was parked at the far side of the big paved lot, and got in on the driver's side after opening the door with his own key. The Andy K was bursting at the seams on this fine spring night. The lot was jammed with vehicles coming in and out and cruisers stopping for take-outs. The place was far too brightly lit for those murdering bastards to chance coming after him, so he leaned back and closed his eyes, feeling safe for the moment. The long walk had helped to clear his brain but his head ached worse than ever. It didn't matter. He welcomed the pain because it kept the voices at bay. Not that he really cared about their taunting anymore. They couldn't touch him without Vic's say-so, and Sunny would take care of him.
      "Don?" She was standing beside the open window, face drawn with worry and shadowed by the overhead illumination of the vapor lamps. She held a large container of coffee. The loving concern that radiated from her mind struck him like a sword in the heart. Poor Sunny. She was only forty-one, and she was old. Like him. He had put her through so much.
      He smiled crookedly. "Come sit with me. "
      She handed him the coffee. "Don, you know I can't. We're busy. I only came because Marcie said —"
      His mind took hold of hers in an old familiar way, like a hand slipping into a glove. "It's important. Just for a few minutes. "
      She sighed and came around to open the passenger door, then slid in beside him. "What is it?" Apprehension made her voice unsteady. She still had one hand on the door handle.
      He downed a gulp of steaming liquid. "I was at the Ox tonight. Making a nickel-plated jackass outa myself. "
      She turned away miserably. "Oh, Don. If only you —"
      He interrupted her. "Listen. I made up my mind! If you just help me, I'll give up drinking for good. I'll do what you been asking me to do. "
      She looked at him, incredulous. "You'll go to Denis? Let him check you into the detox clinic at Project Cork?"
      Don gritted his teeth. Even the mention of the quaintly titled but nationally famous institute for alcoholism study at Dartmouth got his back up. Project Cork! Enough to make a grown man puke. But locked away in its stern sanctuary with Denis's powerful mind to shield him, no enemy would ever be able to get hold of him. Not Victor. Not the fiends of his own engendering.
      "I'll go to Denis, " Don vowed. "Tonight, if you like. Call him up and tell him I'm on my way. "
      Tears filled Sunny's eyes. "You really mean it this time?"
      "I swear to God!" His eyes shifted. Was that something moving in the trees beyond the edge of the lot? Were they out there, listening? Don set the coffee on the dashboard and clasped his wife's hand. "But I gotta go now. I need help now, Sunny. You understand?"
      "You're in no condition to drive that far. I'll call Denis, and then when Victor comes home he can —"
      "No!" Don seized her by the shoulders. Her eyes dilated with fear and he hastened to say, "Victor's gonna be gone God knows how long. I can't wait! I've gotta go now or never!"
      She took a resolute breath, detached his hands. "I'll drive you myself. I'll call Denis and ask him to meet us on the road. "
      "Good idea! Then you won't have to leave the kids alone too long. " He gulped more coffee and thought hard. "We'll take Route 2. Ask Denis to meet us at the Saint Johnsbury Rest Area on I-91. Go call him, Sunny. Hurry. "
      She stared at him, searching. "You're sure?"
      His mind cried: Sunny for the love of God help me!
      She opened the car door and slipped out. "I'll be right back. " Then she was hurrying toward the gaudy lights of the restaurant and he was alone, limp with reaction and relief. He reached over, locked the right-hand door, and rolled its window fully closed. He secured his own side as well. The car was stuffy and the windshield partly fogged by coffee vapor, but he was safe. His mind seemed to slip in and out of gear, focusing on one menace after another: Victor. The hostile voices. His brother Rogi, that backbiting weasel. Even Denis, remote, ice-hearted, intolerant of a hard-working father's human weakness... God, how he dreaded having to submit to Denis! He knew he'd have to come clean — tell Denis about the voices and the way they'd drawn Victor into the conspiracy, maybe even tell about the stolen equipment that had triggered the whole fuck-up in the first place. Denis would despise him more than ever! But he'd have to stand by his father nonetheless. Sunny would see to it. Wonderful Sunny...
      And then Don caught sight of the black customized Chevy van. It was poised in the turn lane out on Route 16, signals blinking, waiting for a break in the heavy northbound traffic so it could enter the parking lot.
      He's finally here.
      It's about time!
      Over here, Vic! Over here!
      "No, " Don whispered. "No, God. "
      At least four other cars were trying to get out of that exit. The van was momentarily blocked. Sunny!... But she was probably still on the telephone. Could he make a break for the restaurant? It was too damn far away. The van would surely cut him off before he made it to the door —
      And now it was making the turn to enter!
      Frantically, Don switched on the ignition of the Escort. There was another way out, a dirt track that bumped over waste-ground. He floored the pedal and went ripping down a lane of parked vehicles. He clung to the wheel as his car careened over the rutted track and onto the highway. He swerved to avoid being rear-ended by a furiously honking station wagon, jinked onto the shoulder, then regained control. In the rearview mirror, he saw the black Chevy van trapped in the restaurant lot by a tangle of cars in front of it and behind it.
      Vic! Vic! He's gettin' away!
      In your mom's car. Northbound!
      Don laughed at them. He checked the fuel gauge: nearly full. The traffic was heavy in both directions. Victor's farsight was lousy and his coercion didn't reach beyond a stone's throw. He could lose the kid in the maze of logging roads up the Androscoggin River beyond Milan, then double back and pick up Sunny.
      You'll never get away!
      We'll keep Vic on your trail!
      You're finished, sucker.
      Give up. We'll help Vic nail you!
      Don was laughing so hard he nearly choked. "You're not real! You can't hurt me! Go to hell!"
      Oncoming cars were blinking their brights at him. He panicked for a moment, then realized that he was driving with only the parking lights on. Giggling, he flicked the headlight switch. Then he settled down and sped north along the river road toward the deep woods.

      Sunny wept in Victor's arms, sitting beside him on the front seat of the black van. "He was still very drunk. He's sure to have an accident! Victor, what are we going to do? How will we ever find him?"
      He held her tightly. "Hush, Maman. Let me think... There's Denis. He could try using his seekersense on Papa. "
      She broke away and cried, "Yes, of course! Hurry and telephone! He may not have left Hanover yet. "
      The young man sprinted for the front door of the restaurant, dodging departing diners. Sunny sat with her face buried in her hands, trying to summon from latency the telepathic power she had used so long ago when her eldest son was a baby:
      Denis stay home. Don't leave home yet. Stay Denis stay...
      After an interminable time, Victor returned, alight with triumph.
      "Caught him! He was on the way to the car, but he dropped his keys — and then he heard the phone ringing and came back. "
      "Oh, thank God. And he'll — he'll search? And tell you where to find your father?"
      Victor started the engine of the van. "Denis will track Papa down, then call me at home. He said there may be some difficulty because Papa's aura tends to be suppressed by the alcohol. But you're not to worry. We'll find him. And now I'm taking you home. "
      "But I'll have to speak to Mr. Lovett first, " Sunny protested. "He'll be furious —"
      "I've already spoken to him. " Victor's smile was invincibly reassuring. "He's not furious, he understands it's a family emergency. It's going to be all right, Maman. " He took a tissue from the console dispenser and wiped her tears, then bent and kissed her cheek with warm lips.
      Sunny felt herself relaxing, giving over volition to this tall, masterful son who was so like the strong, youthful Don she had married twenty-three years ago. She said, "I know how hard it's been for you lately, Victor. You're bitter. I understand why. But you must help your father, if only for my sake. "
      The black van was moving slowly forward. Victor gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead, "Just leave everything to me, " he said. "Now fasten your seat belt and we'll go home. "

      An excruciating thirst, a tight bladder, and a skull-piercing chorus of woodland birds woke Don.
      His rheum-clogged eyelids opened with reluctance to misty dawn. Every joint above the waist ached and every joint below was numb. His brain was swollen too large for its fragile bony case and was on the imminent verge of exploding. He cursed, invoked a compassionate God, and asked himself aloud where the hell he had ended up this time.
      It was the usual Saturday night blackout. The usual Sunday morning hangover. But he was in Sunny's car, not his own. What the hell?... Oh, yeah. His heap was in the shop. He must have taken hers.
      The windows of the Escort were curtained in condensation. He rubbed a clear space and tried to focus his bleary eyes. There were giant shapes around him, yellow and blue, with jointed arms held rakishly akimbo. The nose of the little car was snuggled up to the flank of a monster machine. Another, even larger, confronted him with threatening insectile jaws. On its back was a cab bearing the legend:

REMCO   PULPWOOD   LTD., BERLIN, N. H.

      Don cursed anew, then fell back into the seat. The thing with the jaws was Victor's new feller-buncher, a self-propelled tree harvester capable of shearing two-foot trunks in a single bite. Grouped around it were other pieces of heavy equipment: the hydraulic boom loader, the whole-tree chipper he usually operated, the tree-length delimber, the second feller-buncher looming out of thick mist.
      He was out in the forest at their logging site up the Dead Diamond River. He was hiding from Victor.
      He remembered very little of the previous night. His last clear recollection was when he passed through the town of Errol thirty miles north of Berlin after a nightmare flight through the back country around Cambridge Mountain. Goaded by the voices, he had been afraid to return to Sunny at the restaurant. Instead he had decided to head west and work his way down to Hanover and Dartmouth via the roads along the New Hampshire-Vermont border.
      But somehow he hadn't. Obviously he'd driven north out of Errol instead of west. God knew what had impelled him to come to the family logging operation...
      He opened the car door and just managed to catch himself before falling out. The shack! There was water there, the white-gas stove and coffee makings, maybe a few Pepperidge Farm cookies left in Victor's private stash, maybe a half bottle of brandy in the first-aid box. Scorning the Sanikan, he relieved himself against one of the tires of the Omark tree-chipper that had nearly taken his arm off yesterday. That'd show the bastard!
      He was fumbling with the padlock on the shack when he heard the sound of an automobile engine.
      Terror-stricken, he froze — only to be spotlighted by twin beams that stabbed suddenly out of the fog. The approaching vehicle was dark and blocky. The KC spots mounted on the roof glared at him but no other lights showed at all. It was Victor's black van.
      Don heard his son's mind-voice:
      Hold it right there, Papa.
      The coercive grip and the light held him like a hypnotized moth. The van stopped about twenty yards away and Victor got out.
      Don said: They sent you here, didn't they! They told you how to find me! They turned you against me — after I did everything for you!
      Victor said: You imagined them. The voices. You're sick. You've been sick for years. Your mind wasn't strong enough to adapt.
      Don said: Don't come near me! I know what you're planning. You heard me shooting my mouth off in the Ox!
      Victor said: Yes. You wanted me to.
      Don said: You're as loony as I am! Why the hell would I want you to hear me call you — to hear me —
      Victor said: To hear you call me a thief?
      Don said: You are dammit you are! I taught you everything — but I never taught you that. They did.
      Victor said: You're pathetic. No use to anyone. You hate yourself so much you want to die. But you're too much of a coward to kick off like a man, so you try to drink yourself to death.
      Don said: You're all against me Rogi Denis you we're all freaks together but you shut me out of your minds left me alone to suffer left me alone with them.
      Victor said: They're you, Papa.
      Don said: Bastardsonuvabitchfuckingcocksuckerbrat...
      Victor said: The voices are you. All the filth. All the accusations. All the threats. The mutation broke you, Papa. You're one of evolution's throwaways and it's time for you to go. You really are too dangerous now, and Denis will be here soon. Neither one of us could get a fix on you until you woke up, you know. Fortunately for me, he drives cautiously on dirt logging roads. Unfortunately for you...
      Don said: What — what are you going to do?
      Victor said: What you want me to do. It'll be an accident. A drunken man playing suicidal games.
      The dark silhouette disappeared as the blinding yellow lights shut off. Don crouched in the shack doorway, rubbing his eyes. He saw Victor get into the van and drive away. In his mind, the terrible voices spoke together:
      Now.
      The big diesel engine of the new feller-buncher coughed into life. Its shear, mounted on a twenty-six-foot knuckle boom, lifted into the air with a hiss of hydraulics. Then the whole rig came lumbering toward him on caterpillar treads, the grab-arms and the blades that could sever a two-foot tree trunk in a single bite held open at the height of a man's chest. The machine's cab was empty. Before Don turned to flee, screaming, he saw the control levers moving by themselves and heard silent laughter.

9
FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ROGATIEN REMILLARD

      SINCE THAT SUNDAY promised to be a hectic one, with two convention banquets and a fund-raiser dinner-dance scheduled at the hotel, I went to the 6: 30 A. M. Mass at the little church in Bretton Woods. It was a rustic place, dimmed by stained glass windows in abstract patterns. Hikers, golfers, and other resort employees like myself made up most of the somnolent, thinly scattered congregation. I arrived a few minutes late, so I slipped into a rear pew back in a dark corner. For this reason it was not immediately noticed when I died with my brother.
      It happened during the sermon. My mind was wandering and I had become aware of an increasing sense of unease, only partly dulled by my semiwakeful state. The foreboding may have been an aspect of precognition; but I had no real intimation of catastrophe until I abruptly lost my hearing. I saw Father Ingram's lips move but no longer heard his voice. In place of the background noises of shifting bodies, coughs, and rustling prayer booklets there was a great hush, hollow and portentous. I snapped into alertness.
      Then came an appalling noise, a deep grinding rumble laced with a more shrill, undulating sound, like brasses wailing in dissonance or howls from a chorus of lacerated throats. It built to a thunderous crescendo as though the earth itself were being rent open beneath me. I was immobilized by shock. I remember wondering why the priest was oblivious to the tumult, why the other worshipers kept their seats instead of leaping up in panic, why the church roof remained firm when by rights it should have been tumbling down around my ears.
      Any notion I had of being caught in an earthquake was disabused when I went blind. At the same time it seemed that a band of red-hot metal clamped about my breast and squeezed, stopping my heart and breath in an explosion of agony. I thought: a coronary! But I was only forty-four, in perfect health — and hadn't the Family Ghost told me that I had a long life ahead of me? Lord, it's a mistake...
      The shattering racket and the pain cut off simultaneously. My body seemed immersed in a thick and swirling medium. All around me was darkness, a liquefied void that was neither air nor water. Then I realized that the black wasn't empty at all; pictures were flashing in it, appearing and disappearing with subliminal rapidity almost like single-frame cinema projections displayed on dozens of small screens encircling me. I recognized early childhood scenes with Tante Lorraine and the young cousins, school days, Don and I blowing out candles on a joint birthday cake, Onc' Louie walloping the pair of us for some transgression, Christmas caroling in deep snow, fishing in the river, an embarrassing freshman high school dance. The vignettes whirled faster and faster and I realized at last that they were memories, the accelerating replay of a life.
      But not my life. Don's.
      For the first time I experienced real fear in place of stunned astonishment. The riot of images was acquiring a full sensory and emotional input and I seemed caught in an insane mιlange of sights, sounds, tastes, smells, visceral and tactile sensations. My mental voice cried Don's name and I heard him babbling an incoherent, furious reply. All of the remembered scenes were showing me. And the emotional transfer revealed that my twin brother despised and hated me to the very depths of his being.
      Why, Donnie, why?
      The only reply was rage. The visions were drenched in it. I seemed to be at the center of a psychic tornado with Don's mind flailing at me from every scene, hurt and degraded. His wife, his children, his friends flickered past, all wounded by his soul-sickness, all diminished, their attempts to help him rejected until it was too late. And he blamed it all on me.
      But I don't understand why!
      I felt myself standing firm in the center of the vortex while he whirled, helpless, remembering the very worst of it: his rejection of Denis, his corruption of Victor, the torment he had heaped on Sunny and the other children during the years of alcoholism, his seduction of Elaine in a calculated desire to hurt and humiliate me. To my amazement I saw that he was desperately sorry for all those things, and had been for years. What lingered was the source of the sins, his abiding hatred of me. In the final scene of his life he punished himself for it, but the action was one of severance and not remorse.
      Donnie, I don't know why you hate me. But it's all right. I've never hated you.
      He said: You should have.
      He controlled the machine with his own psychokinesis. I screamed,
      begging him not to do it, but of course it had already happened. The blades that cut him in half cut him free of me at last.

      I opened my eyes. Bill Saladino, the limping old church usher, was nudging me with the collection basket and grinning. I fished inside my jacket for the envelope and dropped it in. Bill winked at me tolerantly land stumped away, carrying the little basket of offerings up to the altar to be blessed.

      Don's funeral was a big one, attended by scores of Remillards together with nearly two hundred others who had grown up or worked with him. He looked fit and handsome in his casket after the local croque-mort performed his duty; and the eulogy delivered at his burial Mass proclaimed God's unsearchable ways as well as his compassion for the brokenhearted, to which category Don indubitably belonged. There was a good deal of sotto voce reference to "blessed release, " and the pious aunts reassured one another that alcoholism was a disease one simply couldn't help. Sunny, supported by husky Victor at her left elbow and the slight but commanding Denis at her right, bore up well. Her eight younger children stood about her dry-eyed at the gravesight while the cousins and aunts and female neighbors wept.
      The official verdict on Don was death by misadventure. Denis and Victor had driven their cars simultaneously into the logging site just as the runaway feller-buncher, with Don's severed body still held in its grab-arms, struck a large stump with one of its tracks and tipped over into a ravine. The resulting mangle, and a double dose of coercion aimed at the green-faced investigating deputies, made plausible to anyone but an experienced logger the final report on Don's demise. One of the witnesses, at least, was of unimpeachable reputation.

      Denis and I were at the same motel, and the morning after the funeral we breakfasted together. He would be staying to help Sunny wind up Don's affairs while I was heading back to the White Mountain Resort and the pre-Memorial Day rush. The coffee shop was crowded and noisy, but noise is immaterial when the conversation is largely mind-to-mind. The pair of us might have been father and son: a gaunt older man in a good summer worsted three-piece, thumbing through the Wall Street Journal, and a vaguely undergraduate-looking youth in a navy-blue jogging outfit whose extraordinary eyes were blanked out by dark glasses.
      Denis lifted the plastic pot. "More coffee?" I think I've solved the mystery of my young siblings' nonoperancy.
      I said, "Half a cup, maybe. "Victor's certainly at the bottom of it — and maybe Don, too. It's impossible that not a single one should have inherited telepathic ability, given the fact that your mother has occasionally shown flashes of the talent. Jeanette and Laurette were telepathic as infants but then seemed to lose it. I'm not sure about the others —
      "Sugar?" It was the same with the other six. They were born with higher faculties but had them deliberately suppressed by aversion-conditioning: mental punishment. I got hold of the youngest, Pauline, who's seven. She was vulnerable through grief and shock and it was easy for me to — to — I suppose you'd call it hypnotize — render her receptive to my command that she regress to babyhood and describe her impressions of Victor and Papa. It was clear what had been done. Poor little Paulie! But Papa had nothing to do with it, thank God. It was all Victor.
      The ruthless young bastard!... But how was it possible? He would have had to suppress the babies when he was still just a kid himself! How old was he when the girl twins were born? Four? And then Jackie and Yvonne and the boy twins coming bang-bang-bang and George just after you bachelored at Dartmouth in '80 that'd make Vic ten — and he would've been twelve when Paulie arrived my God my God no innocent kid could do such an evil thing —
      [Detachment.] I'll have to show you some of my juvenile psychiatric case histories. He could do it, all right. Nothing is more self-centered than a toddler. Why do you think some of them have tantrums? They want the world to turn around them. Most children outgrow that mindset and discover altruism. It's useful for survival, actually. But there are exceptions: sociopaths. Vic certainly seems to fit the profile. At first he acted to secure his position as Papa's favorite. Later, his motives would have become more complex. Power-oriented. You see the way he's going. He's an uneducated man, just as Papa was. A shallow thinker with a stunted conscience and tremendous drive and overweening conceit. Papa had those attributes, too, but he lacked self-confidence because he was afraid of his psychic powers. Also, he'd been inculcated with moral values from earliest childhood, which Vic hadn't, and guilt warred with egoism, leading to ultimate destruction. Vic is a much tougher nut than poor Papa. Even without higher faculties he'd be something to reckon with. I have a feeling that being a pulpwood tycoon is only the beginning of his ambition...
      "Want to pass me a little more strawberry jam? Thanks. " What the devil are we going to do?
      He mind-screens like the Chase Manhattan Bank vault. I can't see into him and I can't budge him a millimeter with coercion. I'm virtually certain he's used his powers in shady ways for self-aggrandizement. Those logging contracts, for instance, and the big bank loan for capitalization of the company. Pure coercion. And there are rumors that at least two pieces of his equipment were acquired via moonlight requisition. Watchmen and guard dogs are no problem for an operator like Vic. (They wouldn't be to me!) And God knows enough logging gear gets stolen by purely normal thieves...
      "Interesting article here in the Journal. Want a look? Seems Senator Piccolomini's narcotics bill has a good chance of passing. "
      Do you mean to say there's nothing we can do to stop that young freebooter?
      "Let's see. Hey — bad news for the pot smugglers!" Getting legal proof of his wrongdoing would be very difficult. And what's to prevent him from coercing a jury even if we did get the goods on him? A Homo superior criminal has the odds in his favor. And if one tries to counter him using his own weapons... well, you saw what happened to Papa.
      I exclaimed out loud, "Doux Jιsus — you can't be serious! I told you the way it was. I shared it!"
      But I was there. With Victor. He's a terrific screener, but he let the triumph leak. I was standing there spewing my guts out and he was crowing!... Papa was a morbid and self-hating man, like most alcoholics, but that night he'd been scared into asking for help for the first time. He wasn't sunk in despair, he was reaching for a way out. Taking a first step onto a very shaky bridge across a black canyon. And somebody cut that bridge somebody sabotaged his newborn hope somebody planted a powerful coercive incitement to suicide that reinforced his own underlying tendency toward death: Victor! He knows I know. He knows I can't do a thing about it.
      Can Victor... hurt you?
      No more than Papa could. [Concern.] But I'm not so sure about you, Uncle Rogi. Your mind is pretty transparent, especially about emotion-charged matters. Your sharing of Papa's death... if Victor found out, he might think you were a threat. I've been considering ways to protect you.
      I pushed away my plate. "I don't think I'll finish these hot cakes after all. Waitress! Will you give us our check, please?" Christ Denis what a crock of shit maybe Don was right after all powers cursed —
      A long time ago you said that what you'd really like to do is open a bookstore in a quiet college town.
      ... You're right. I'd almost forgotten.
      You're a topflight convention manager. You could probably get a job in hotel management somewhere else in the country. But Hanover really needs an antiquarian bookshop, and if you were there you wouldn't be alone. There are nearly forty of us working at Dartmouth now, research assistants and subjects in my lab. You could help us. And I'm certain we could protect you.
      "Somehow, " I said, smiling, "I don't think I'd be in serious danger here. I have a strong belief in guardian... angels. "
      "Don't be a fool!" Even through the dark glasses I could see Denis's eyes blaze and feel the searing force of his mind that took hold of me like a puppy. He released me instantly as I reacted with fear and astonishment. His mental speech was anguished:
      I should have been able to save Papa from Vic! I ran away from the situation at home shut out what I knew was happening did it to survive and because I believed my work more important than my biological father's life but I should have saved him should have loved him and didn't and I'll always blame myself always feel him dying dying lost in despair and I won't lose you the same way damn you Rogi can't you understand?... One day I'll find a way to checkmate Vic. Until then the powers are cursed and perhaps we are too but I'll find a way to redeem us and if that isn't megalomania I don't know what it is maybe I'm crazier than Vic and more futile than Papa but I must go ahead. I must! Please help please understand please know who you are to me why I need you...
      "Denis, " I said, reaching across the table. "Tu es mon vrai fils. "
      Tears were streaming from behind his dark glasses. At my touch he lifted his chin and the drops of moisture vanished. "That's creativity, " he said softly in response to my start. "A psychic power we've just begun to investigate, perhaps the capstone for all the rest. Let me show you, Uncle Rogi. Join us. "
      Love and a sudden inexplicable revulsion warred behind my mental barricade. Prudence dictated that I safeguard myself from Victor. But as for becoming closely involved with Denis and his crowd of youthful operants... no. By no means.
      The waitress handed me the check. I calculated the tip and fished in my wallet for bills. Denis and I headed for the cashier.
      You must come with me to Hanover! His coercion was poised. Ordinarily, I could fend him off readily (as I had been able to fend off Donnie and Victor) but there was a chance that if I drove him to extremes he might feel compelled to bludgeon me down. For my own good. I couldn't let that happen.
      So I smiled over my shoulder at him.
      "I think, " said I, "that I'll call the shop The Eloquent Page. "

10
SUPERVISORY CRUISER NOUMENON [Lyl 1-0000]
26 APRIL  1990

      FOUR LYLMIK MINDS watched from their invisible vessel as the last civilian evacuees from the American space station boarded the commercial shuttle Hinode Maru. The smaller American orbiters were still mated to the station's half-completed drive-unit while their crews completed the demolition arrangements.
      The vector of the meteoroid that had struck the manned satellite might have been calculated with diabolical precision. The impact had killed the orbital velocity needed to keep the structure circling the Earth at its temporary altitude of five hundred kilometers, as well as killing six workers. The twenty-three other persons aboard the station survived because of the airlock system connecting the "Tinkertoy" units. These had suffered only minimal damage; but the power-plant that might have restored the velocity of the station was unfinished, and kicking such a huge satellite back into orbit by means of auxiliaries would have taken more booster engines than the Western world, Japan, and China possessed. The addition of Soviet boosters would have sufficed to save the station. However, in addition to its multinational commercial facilities, research labs, and astronomical observatory, the American station had also included a module with functioning military surveillance apparatus. The Soviets had declined to assist in the salvage; and now the elaborate station, only a few months short of completion, traveled a rapidly decaying orbit that doomed it. Rather than await the inevitable reentry and fall to Earth, the United States had decided, for strategic and safety reasons, to blow it up.
      "The waste, the dashed hopes, " Noetic Concordance mused. "The discrepancy between the promise of this great station and its abortion, brought about by a mere chunk of nickel-iron coated with ice... The situation is fraught with nuance. I shall compose a poem. "
      "You'd better wait until I finish analyzing the disruption of the probability lattices, " Homologous Trend warned. "This event may have a truly nodal significance. "
      "Then perhaps I'd better plan an elegy. "
      "A dirty limerick, rather, " Eupathic Impulse suggested, "dedicated to the low-orbit proponents at NASA. If they'd been satisfied to build a smaller station at high orbit, as the Soviets did, a hundred meteor hits couldn't have knocked it down. But this close-in structure was more economical — assuming that no large object disrupted its delicately maintained low orbit during construction. One concedes that the odds were all in the Americans' favor! But, let's see:

The engineers trusted to luck,
Since they wanted more bang for the buck... "

      "Please, " Homologous Trend admonished.
      Asymptotic Essence said, "I think I perceive some sources of your anxiety, Trend. The new dιtente between the United States and the Soviet Union is lamentably fragile. In spite of their joint Martian Exploration Project, the ancient political dichotomy persists. The loss of this American station will be viewed by the strategists of both nations as a disruption of military parity. "
      "Oh, well, of course, " Eupathic Impulse conceded. "One need only analyze the psychological dynamics at work. The Americans knew that their space station was immensely superior to the Soviet one from a standpoint of technological sophistication, and it was also to be a showcase of international goodwill. This made the Americans chockfull of condescending magnanimity. (They love being Grandfather to the world even more than we Lylmik do!) The Soviet-American Mars expedition was intended to be only the beginning of a new era of scientific, economic, and cultural intercourse between these two powers. Now, however, the Americans stand humiliated. The impetus toward camaraderie in outer space is disrupted. Worse, the Soviets will have a strategic advantage — at least until the Americans put up a new space station. (Two years? Three? The American economy is already strained. ) One hopes that Trend's computation does not point toward the death of dιtente, but one must also keep in mind that we are dealing with ethical primitives. "
      "Logically, " Essence said, "the Americans should not feel threatened. There are any number of robot surveillance satellites that can be co-opted as backup spy-eyes — and Omega knows both nations still have parity in nuclear weaponry. But the space station was a symbol of national pride as well as security, and the Soviets will certainly exult over the disaster while the Americans will feel naked to hostile scrutiny. And when has human warfare ever been logically motivated?"
      "Listen to this, " Noetic Concordance broke in. "An experimental apostrophe, but having possibilities: O Meteor! Frost-cauled detritus of primordial cataclysm, fatal vagrant..."
      "One detects a soupηon of bathos, " said Asymptotic Essence with regret.
      Eupathic Impulse was less charitable. "You certainly can't use the meteor as the subject of the poem. It was a Pi-Puppid. How can one possibly compose an elegy on a Pi-Puppid? Now if the thing had belonged to a meteoric cloud having more intrinsic grandeur — say, if it had been a Beta-Taurid or even an Ursid —"
      "I have the revised probability analysis, " Homologous Trend declared, displaying it without further ado.
      Asymptotic Essence voiced the mutual dismay. "A threat to the Intervention Scheme? Surely not!"
      "Beyond a doubt, " Homologous Trend affirmed, "if one carries the proleptic analysis to the eighteenth differential, as I have done. The cuspidal locus results from my injection of the character of the American President. His background and his marketing genius link him inescapably to the destiny of the (at base) commercial orientation of the failed space station. Now his bellicose, jingoistic opponents will prevail. The next American station will be austere — and entirely military. With the dire consequences that you see in my projection of events for the next twenty years. "
      Eupathic Impulse strove for neutrality of tone and failed. "One might ask why the Supervisory Body failed to investigate the critical nodality of the space station earlier — and why we didn't take steps to protect the precious thing?"
      "In the first case, " Trend said, "it is the responsibility of Atoning Unifex, acting with us in Quincunx, to define situations susceptible to such investigation. In the second case, overt protection would have violated the Scheme as it stands: Shielding the space station against meteoroids of consequent mass would require use of a sigma-field (which the Earth-lings would surely have detected with their radio-telescope array); or else a preprogrammed hyperspatial matter trap (which as we know is unacceptably hazardous in a solar system having significant casual interplanetary traffic); or else we should have had to deploy a guardian vessel authorized to zap, deflect, grab, or otherwise dispose of intrusive space flotsam (which would grossly contravene the Oversight Directives). "
      "Well, now what?" Eupathic Impulse asked.
      Trend said, "The event requires contemplation by all five entities of the Lylmik Supervisory Body, acting in the aforesaid Quincunx. "
      "Anyone know where It is today?" Asymptotic Essence asked.
      Noetic Concordance shrugged mentally. "Either extragalactic or lurking about that college again. We'd better call. "
      The four combined in metaconcert: Unifex!
      One responds.
      [Situational image] + [probability analysis].
      Serene preoccupation. Oh, yes. The collision was today, wasn't it?
      Reproach. One might have shared one's prescience.
      Well, I didn't exactly use prescience... but I do apologize. There is no need for concern or action on your part with respect to this situation.
      One disputes the probability analysis of Homologous Trend?!
      Not at all. I plan to cope with the matter personally.
      ! [Forbearance.] Indirectly, one presumes, rather than through rescue of the space station.
      Oh, yes. The station's nodality hinges upon its use in weaponry surveillance. I shall simply render the entire concept of spy-eye satellites obsolete. Metapsychically. The planetary Mind has already evolved the capability. Bifurcation is imminent. I do not violate the planetary Will in this but, as it were, anticipate the determination.
      One of your esteemed Remillards?
      No. The Scottish connection has been working on this particular speciality. Given a gentle nudge, there should be a satisfactory manifestation within the critical time-period, restoring the original coefficients of the sexternion and putting our Intervention Scheme back on the rails.
      Comprehension. Most gratifying — and ingenious.
      I really should have contemplated the matter with you prior to the space-station disaster, however, in order to have spared you needless distress. My absent-mindedness is getting to be a scandal. I become rapt in nostalgia, to say nothing of my joy in the unfolding of the metapsychic World Mind at long last... Now you must excuse me.
      "Gone again, " Asymptotic Essence said. "Ah, well. "
      "One notes how confident It remains, " Homologous Trend remarked.
      Noetic Concordance said, "It has a unique perspective. "
      "One hopes, " Eupathic Impulse added astringently, "that It knows something we don't know about these contentious larvae, validating Its confidence in them... "
      "The probabilities are in Its favor. " Homologous Trend said, "as one might expect. "
      The four entities shared certain ironic retrospections. Then they waited. Eventually, Eupathic Impulse said, "There goes the destruct signal for the space station. "
      "O Fireball!" declaimed Noetic Concordance. "O perished pride of rigid circumstance —"
      The other three Lylmik settled back to study the spectacle while the poet's mind continued its commemoration.

11
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, EARTH
2 MAY 1990

      HE HAD COMPLETED the mental exercises that he was accustomed to perform at the start of each business day, and now Kieran O'Connor stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of his office and let his mind range out. His aerie was on the 104th floor of the Congress Tower, Chicago's most prestigious new office building, and from its vantage point he could oversee thousands of lesser structures, hives of concentrated mental energy that invigorated his creative mind-powers at the same time that they stimulated his hunger. Kieran had known other great cities — Boston, where he was born in poverty and educated in Harvard's affluence; Manhattan, where he had apprenticed in a law firm having a sizable Sicilian fraction among its well-heeled clientele — but the effete and tradition-bound East was an unsuitable home base for a unique upstart such as himself. Instinctively he had come  to  the   dynamic  heartland   of  North  America, to  this city notorious for its cavalier misprision and polymorphous get-up-and-go. Chicago was the perfect place for him; its commerce was thriving, its politics disheveled, and its morals overripe. It was a coercer's town with bioenergies that matched Kieran's own, not suffering fools but welcoming  bullies  with  open  arms — a  bottomless  wellspring  of novelty, hustle, and clout.
      From his high place Kieran looked out across a bristling forest of skyscrapers, a grid of crowded streets, green bordering parklands along the Lake Michigan shore that flaunted lush tints of spring. Countless cars ant-streamed along the multiple lanes of the Outer Drive. The lake waters beyond were a rich iris-purple, paling to silver along the eastern horizon. Outside the breakwater was a dancing sailboat. On a whim, he zeroed in on it and was rewarded with the ultrasensory impressions of two people making love. He smiled and lingered over the emanations momentarily, not with a voyeur's vulgar need but in dispassionate reminiscence. He had other pleasures now; still, the resonances were good...
      A chime sounded, pulling him back to reality.
      He turned away from the window and went to his enormous desk. The polished surface mirrored a single yellow daisy in a black vase and a photograph in an ebony frame — Rosemary holding the infant Kathleen, little Shannon in a white pinafore clinging to her mother's skirts. Rosemary and Kathleen would never grow older, but Shannon was a moody fifteen-year-old now, resisting initiation into her father's world. The phase would pass; Kieran was sure of it.
      The chime sounded again.
      Kieran touched one of a line of golden squares inset into the rosewood desk-top. A compact communication unit lifted into ready position. Arnold Pakkala looked out of the screen with his deceptively distant expression. His colorless eyes seemed to study a potted fig tree behind Kieran's right shoulder.
      "Good morning, Arnold. "
      "Good morning Mr. O'Connor. You'll be interested to know that Grondin has checked out and approved two more California recruits. They'll be flying in to the corporate training facility next week. "
      "Excellent. "
      "Mr. Finster is standing by on the Washington land-line. However, I must also advise you that Mr. Camastra's car has just entered the Tower parking garage. He must have taken an early flight from Kansas City. "
      "Hmm. He'll be in a stew so we won't keep him waiting. Let me know as soon as he gets up to the office. There's time for the Finster call, I think. Put him through, full-sanitary scramble. "
      "Right away, sir. "
      The communicator screen displayed a sequence of security codes punched up by Kieran's executive assistant. Eventually these dissolved into a close-up of Fabian (The Fabulous) Finster, whose engaging smile featured two large upper incisors separated by a comical gap: chipmunk teeth. Most people were so captivated by that droll grin that they failed to take note of the icy green eyes above it. When Fabian Finster had earned his living as a bottom-of-the-bill mentalist in Nevada casino shows, he had enhanced his naturally striking appearance with neo-zoot suits trimmed in blinking LEDs. Now that he was one of the confidential agents of Kieran O'Connor, Finster strove for a more conservative image and had taken to Italian silk suitings and striped ties, with nary a trace of glitz. But the show-biz aura still clung to him, and he still performed occasionally to keep up a front, even though most of his time was now occupied by more serious and lucrative activities.
      Kieran said, "We'll have to make this quick today, Fabby. Did you wrap up Senator Scrope?"
      "Tighter than a rattlesnake's ass, chief. You should have seen his face when I mentioned the number of his secret Icelandic bank account... Our pipeline into the Armed Services Committee is now secure. Damn good thing, too. Reading politicians' minds is like snorkeling in a sewer. Shit galore — but you got one helluva time finding the one piece you really need before you drown in the utterly extraneous. "
      Kieran laughed. "Congratulations on doing a super job. I suppose you're worn out with the effort now and ready for a quiet gig at the Hotel Bora Bora. "
      The mentalist's grin widened. "I can read your mind all the way from here... almost. You got something interesting cooking, I wouldn't mind giving it a spin. Provided I don't have to stay in Washington. After digging in the brains of these politicos for six months, I'm fed to the teeth. Really makes a guy appreciate the lucid crumminess of the Mob mind. "
      "What I have for you is an excavation with a good deal more class. How would you like to go Ivy League, Fabby? Do a little investigating for me at Dartmouth College up in New Hampshire?"
      "Ah hah. You want me to sniff around that ESP project!"
      "So you've heard of it. "
      "I even read the new book by that Dartmouth prof that hit The New York Times best-seller list. It took me two weeks — what with having to look up all the big words — and I'm still not sure the guy said what I think he said. "
      Kieran's tone was incisive. "I had no idea that parapsychology research was being taken so seriously by legitimate institutions. Jason Cassidy and Viola Northcutt are looking into the work being done at Stanford on the West Coast, but I want you to find out what this man Denis Remillard is up to — especially what practical applications of the higher mental powers might lie behind the theoretical considerations set forth in his book. "
      "You mean, is the guy up to anything dangerous to us — or is he just blue-skying around?"
      "Precisely. Remillard's book is a very unlikely best seller. It's difficult to read and its conclusions are veiled to the point of deliberate obscurantism. He almost seems to be bending over backwards to make his data appear prosaic. Of course he couldn't squelch the inherent sensationalism of the topic completely, even with the pages of dry statistics and the academic jargon. His experimental verification of telepathy and psychokinesis is one of the hottest scientific stories of the century. But I have a feeling that Remillard is holding back. I want to know what other psychic experimentation might be going on at Dartmouth that the good doctor has decided not to publicize... for prudence's sake. "
      "Jeez, " mused The Fabulous Finster. "If certain parties start taking mind reading and animal magnetism seriously, what's going to happen to our edge?"
      "Work me up a complete dossier on Denis Remillard. Get as much information as you can on his close associates as well. I'm particularly interested in how many adept mentalists he's recruited for his research. How powerful they are. How committed. "
      "You want me to turn head-hunter if I turn up any live ones?"
      "Use the utmost discretion, Fabby. " Kieran's eyes rested for a moment on the photo of the late Rosemary Camastra O'Connor and the two lovely children. "This is a dangerous game. The government may have infiltrated the Dartmouth project — or even foreign agents. Remillard's book hints at a worldwide network of cooperating psychic laboratories beginning to achieve significant results after years of fumbling and marking time. I want to know if there's any truth in that idea, or if it's only wishful thinking. "
      "I get the picture. "
      "One last thing. If Remillard or any of his people show the least hint of being able to probe your mind, get out of there fast and cover your tracks. "
      "I understand, " came the cheerful reply. "Not to worry, chief. I won't screw up. I've noticed how people who cross you seem to get these weird cerebral hemorrhages... "
      "Senator Scrope's wrap-up nets you a cool Bahama million, Fabby. The payoff on Remillard's organization could be even bigger. Goodbye. "
      Kieran touched a golden square, breaking the scrambler patch. The screen went dark. Almost immediately, another square inset on the desk began blinking red.
      Kieran keyed the intercom. "I'll see Mr. Camastra at once, Arnold. " He recessed the com-unit into the desk, performed a brief Yoga transmutation designed to lift his coercive energies to the highest level, and sat back to await the arrival of his mafioso father-in-law.

      "You heard, Kier? You heard? He didn't veto! I got the word from Lassiter in Washington on the car-phone just as we exited the Kennedy!"
      Big Al Camastra stormed into the room. His cyanotic lips trembled in fury and a small driblet of saliva trailed from the corner of his mouth. The two bodyguards accompanying Chicago's Boss wore expressions of apprehension.
      "I heard, Al. I've been expecting this. " Kieran came around his desk, solicitous, as Carlo and Frankie helped Big Al settle his bulky body into the office's largest leather armchair.
      Al raved, "That yellow-belly bastard! That fink! He's just gonna hold the bill until tomorrow without signing it, then it automatically goes into law even without his signature. "
      Kieran nodded. "The President wants the law but he didn't want to give public affront to its opponents. "
      "What the hell kinda religious man is he? Goin' against the Catholic Bishops and the Council of Churches and the NAACP and the fuckin' PTA, for chrissake? They all lobbied for the veto. We all knew he'd have to veto! How could he do this? God — you know what this means? It's Repeal all over again!"
      "Boss, take it easy, " Carlo pleaded. "Your bionic ticker... you gotta calm down!"
      "A drink!" Big Al roared. "Kier, gimme a drink. "
      "Al, you shouldn't, " whined Frankie, catching Kieran's eye and shaking his head frantically. "The doc in K. C. said —"
      Kieran O'Connor lifted one hand in peremptory dismissal. The two bodyguards stiffened and their eyes glazed. Both of them turned, completely docile, and left the room — oblivious to the fact that Big Al had enjoined them only five minutes earlier not to leave him alone with Kieran O'Connor under any circumstances.
      The don had forgotten his own order. He was leaning back in the chair, one puffed and blotchy hand over his eyes, muttering imprecations. Kieran busied himself at an antique sideboard where cut-glass decanters sparkled in the sunlight. "A little Marsala won't hurt you, Poppa. I'll have some, too. It's a nice virginale that DeLaurenti discovered and sent in to New York on the Concorde last week. If you like it, I'll have a couple of cases sent out to River Forest. "
      Kieran took one of the filled glasses and wrapped the old man's tremulous fingers around it. He let healing psychic impulses flow from his body to Camastra's through the momentary flesh contact. "Salute, Poppa. To your health. " Kieran lifted his own glass and sipped.
      A bitter smile cracked Big Al's pallid features. "My health! Madonna puttana, you should have seen those vultures giving me the eye in Kansas City, wondering if I'd drop dead right in front of 'em so's they could call off the Commission meeting and the vote!"
      "The flight back has tired you out. You should have gone home to rest instead of coming downtown directly from O'Hare. Everything will work out fine. The Commission did as we expected. I won't have to exert mental pressure on them directly. " He raised his glass to the old man again and returned to his seat behind the desk.
      Big Al watched him with hooded eyes. At forty-six, Kieran O'Connor was still youthful, his dark hair only slightly silvered at the temples and at the distinctive widow's peak above his wide forehead. With his olive skin and dark brown eyes Kieran looked more Italian than Irish — but he wasn't, and that should have stalled him in the consigliere niche permanently, no matter whose daughter he had married. Big Al still didn't quite fathom why it hadn't.
      "The Commission voted you your seat, " Camastra told Kieran. "You're the Acting, as of today, and they give tentative approval for you to take over when I retire. But we're not outa the woods yet. Falcone and his dinosaur faction keep harping on tradition, bitching because you're not a paisan'. They're willing to give you respect — but not to the point of joining your new financial consortium. "
      Kieran made an airy gesture. "Patsy Montedoro's influence will keep the younger dons on our side, and the Vegas and West Coast people are solid. Let Falcone and his pigheaded conservatives stew in their own juice for another year. Their racketeering and gambling interests have been on a long slide for over a decade — and now that the Piccolomini legislation is on the books, they're caught by the shorts. The end of Prohibition was a Sunday-school picnic compared to the legalization of marijuana and cocaine, and the decriminalization of other drugs. "
      Big Al shook his jowls in bewilderment. "How could the President do it? Every piss-poor tobacco farmer in Dixie will be planting pot or coca trees. Little old ladies'll grow opium poppies in window boxes! We'll have a country fulla junkies. " He gulped his wine.
      Kieran got up and refilled the don's glass. "No we won't, Poppa. The other provisions of the Piccolomini Law will see to that. The educational campaigns against all forms of chemical abuse... the compulsory treatment or confinement of hard-narc addicts... the capital penalties for outlaw dealing. What the government has done is to say: 'Okay, you low uneducated trash, you unemployables, you losers, you cheap thrill-seekers. Go ahead and smoke yourself into a stupor if you want to — and pay Uncle Sam tax on each joint. Or snort till your nose falls off — but don't bother nice people while you're doing it, or we lock you up and throw away the key. And don't commit a crime under the influence, or recruit underage users, or peddle shit illegally — or you die.' It's a very simple, sensible solution to a nasty problem, Al. The Treasury will recover revenue lost from the declining sales of tobacco and hard liquor, the streets will be cleared of criminals supporting their habit, and the big bad Mafia will have the financial floor cut out from under it once and for all. "
      "It's indecent, " Big Al said. "Sell cheap pot and crack and kids are gonna get it. I don't give a damn about the adult addicts. Let 'em turn their brains to stronzolo! But the little kids..."
      Kieran resumed his seat with a shrug. "The bleeding-heart liberals and the church people and the social workers tried to tell the President and Congress that. And so did we, of course. "
      Al stared morosely into his wine. "Thirty percent. We lose thirty percent of our income just like that with the legalization — and we're the most diversified of the Families! New York, Boston, Florida, New Orleans — they're gonna drop fifty percent at least. And California — !"
      "The Outfit will have a lean year or two. But those Families who go into my venture-capital pool will eventually end up richer than ever. Chicago is leading the wave of the future, Poppa, and my consortium will provide the impetus for a whole new profit structure. We'll survive, and so will the Families who follow us. "
      "Follow you. " Blood-webbed eyes burned for an instant with the old antagonism and fear; but then came a fatalistic little laugh. "What else could they do but follow you, stregone? Sorcerer!"
      Kieran's expression was earnest, his coercive faculty working at max. "Al, we can't keep running a two-hundred-billion-dollar business like a gang of nineteenth-century banditti — squabbling over a shrinking pie, eliminating rivals by shooting them and stuffing their bodies in car trunks. Times have changed. In two years, human beings will be walking on Mars. All financial transactions will be fully computerized. Most of the old rackets will be as dead as the peddling of narcotics. Sure, the Mob is rich. But you know what they say about money: if you just sit on it, it might as well be toilet paper. "
      "Yeah, yeah, " the don said wearily. "We gotta invest. I know. "
      "Invest properly, Al, so that the money makes more money. That's what I've been doing as your consigliere — and what I'll continue to do when I'm Boss. "
      "Boss of Bosses, " Camastra muttered.
      Kieran did not seem to hear. "In addition to our legitimate investment corporation for the Organization funds, we now have our own small tank of sharks to work with — three of them, all under my thumb and without the slightest off-color taint to attract Justice Department bloodhounds. We own Clayburgh Acquisitions, Giddings & Metz, and Fredonia International. They're takeover artists, Al, the kind of outfits that specialize in the leveraged buy-outs of troubled or vulnerable companies. So far, our little pets have confined themselves to modest raids of the loot-'em-and-dump-'em type. But now I'm ready to give them the go-ahead for some real action. Once the capital pool is ready, we're going after the biggest money there is. "
      "What, for God's sake?"
      "We'll begin with small defense contractors — the ones whose stock took a dive during the late-lamented dιtente. With the space-station disaster and hawkish noises starting up again in Congress, those defense companies will come back like gangbusters. When we're ready to tackle a biggie, there's a McGuigan-Duncan Aerospace, the firm that almost crashed when their Zap-Star orbiting mirror weapon was axed by the Pentagon economizers. I have a strong hunch that by 1993 — when we have a new President and the Mars Project is recognized for the useless PR stunt that it is — this country will wake up and realize how far ahead of us the Russians are in the space arms race. Then those Zap-Stars may get a new lease on life. "
      Big Al had gone the color of chalk. "You think there's gonna be a war?"
      "Of course not. Only a fresh defense initiative. Once we've wrapped up McGuigan, we can go after G-Dyn Cumberland, the submarine builders. And Con Electric is shaky with the Japanese and Chinese undercutting their domestic products — but they were the fourth largest defense contractor in the country during the 1980s, and the Pentagon certainly won't buy missile parts from Asia. "
      "Madonna puttana! You really mean it!" Big Al's glass fell without a sound to the thick beige carpet. Inside his thoracic cavity, the pacemaker adjusted his heartbeat in response to the elevated level of adrenalinemia.
      Kieran was patient. "History has shown that there is no greater potential for profit than in a suitably stimulated military-industrial complex — and the stimulation is imminent. The Soviets don't really want war and neither do we. But both countries are bound to slide back into the Cold War groove in response to internal tensions. We have our high unemployment and monumental national debt. They have their eternal food and consumer-goods shortages, and Slavic angst. "
      "What if you guess wrong about a defense build-up? What if this U. S. -Russian Mars Project makes us all buddy-buddy with the damn Reds and the disarmament thing gets into high gear?"
      "Then it would be Goodbye, Daddy Warbucks. " Kieran waved one hand dismissively. "But we won't let that happen. We'll protect our investment. "
      Big Al stared at his son-in-law with the unaccepting disbelief of a man confronting an impending natural disaster — an avalanche descending, a looming tornado funnel — and then his face cleared and he began to laugh uproariously. "Jesus!" he wheezed. "Jesus H. Christ! Wait till that cazzomatto Falcone gets a loada this action!"
      Kieran touched a golden square. Immediately the door to the outer office opened and his executive assistant appeared.
      "Yes, sir?" Arnold Pakkala inquired. His mind added: The two hoods are sitting quietly biting their fingernails, and you have a conference call coming up at ten-thirty with Mr. Giddings and Mr. Metz in Houston, and then an early luncheon with General Baumgartner.
      "Mr. Camastra is ready to leave now, Arnold. Would you ask Carlo and Frankie to step in?" Kieran stood in front of Big Al with an outstretched hand and a cordial smile. "Thanks a lot for stopping by, Poppa. Betty Carolyn invited me to bring Shannon to your place tomorrow for dinner, so I'll see you then. If you feel up to it, we can talk over this new financial business in more detail. "
      Supported by his bodyguards, Big Al surged to his feet. "Sure. We'll talk tomorrow. " He was still chuckling but his eyes refused to meet those of the new Acting Boss of Chicago. "You can bring the two cases of Marsala. It's real good stuff. See you, Kier. "
      Kieran O'Connor turned to the window to look out again over the luminous lake. The sailboat with the lovers was gone. He focused his farsense on a big cabin cruiser moving up the river toward the Michigan Avenue Bridge.
      Arnold said: Ten-thirty. Shall I set up the call to Houston?
      One person in the cruiser was telling another person a scandalous anecdote about the Illinois Attorney General and a certain labor official.
      Kieran said: Give me five minutes to meditate and clear my mind. Then bring on the sharks.

12
MILAN, NEW HAMPSHIRE, EARTH
16 AUGUST 1990

      IT WAS THE worst psychic stakeout in his experience, from beginning to end, bar none.
      The damn tippy little rented johnboat! Essential to his night bass fisherman cover, it was dismayingly low in the water, its aluminum hull clanked at his slightest movement, and it stunk from decaying salt-pork bait trapped down under the duckboards.
      The damn hot, muggy night! Not a breath of fresh air stirred over the small lake ringed with summer cottages, and after four hours of surveillance, he was sopping wet with sweat and cramped all to hell.
      The damn fucking bugs! They really were — mating, that is — and doing it all over him. Perhaps it was the seductive stench, or the little boat might just have provided a convenient rendezvous out there in the middle of the lake. Whatever... aquatic insects by the hundreds, gossamer-winged and mostly connubially linked, fluttered, crept, and copulated in and about the anchored johnboat. Any shift in posture by the boat's occupant produced a cellophanish crunch.
      The damn fish! Smallmouth bass, gourmandizing on the besotted bugs, leapt explosively out of the water at unnerving intervals. If he had been a genuine angler, the sight of the noble lunkers would have warmed his heart. But Fabian Finster was a city-bred, sports-hating sophisticate who preferred his fish filleted, gently grilled, and served with lemon-butter sauce. Periodically, when the feeding frenzy in the waters around him disturbed his concentration to an unbearable degree, he would break off the surveillance, muster his coercive faculty, and blast both predators and prey. The fish would hightail it into the depths and the bugs would faint, fall into the lake, and drown. All would be serene for ten minutes or so, until a new swarm of insects arrived and the fish pulled themselves together again.
      The real corker, however, the brain-bender supremo of that enchanted evening, was a technical surveillance problem: the subjects were speaking — and thinking telepathically — in French. He had encountered this in his nightclub days, too, and learned to fake translations by cracking the linguistic formulation of the thought and extracting its purely imaginal content. (Ha ha, ugly gringo! Read my mind! Tell me I have six thousand-dollar bills in my money-clip! ) But translating more than a phrase or two of a foreign language was a bitch of a job for a mentalist — analogous to eyestrain. The intense concentration required would leave him physically and mentally pooped, by no means a healthy state for a guy in the espionage and extortion racket. Add to the French translation grief an uncanny premonition of disaster that no psychic could afford to ignore, and Finster decided he had been very unwise to accept the Remillard assignment, no matter how much loot Kieran O'Connor dangled as bait.
      Bait!
      SCRAM! FUCK OFF! FUCK ELSEWHERE!
      Momentarily alone again in the starlight, Finster sighed.
      His troubles had started at the beginning of the assignment, when he'd tackled the kid professor, Denis Remillard. Denis was a truly boffo screener of his private thoughts, nobody to mess with. Any probe attempt by Finster would not only have been detected — but its source would have been pinpointed. So he'd settled for crumbs, bits of "public" telepathy Remillard addressed to his friends and associates. Denis spoke only English and his subvocal thoughts were also couched in that language. But what thoughts! The prof ratiocinated on such a rarefied level that poor Finster was totally out of his league, lost in a labyrinth of symbolic logic, gestalts, alatory subintellections, and other horrors. If Denis was working on anything potentially threatening (or useful) to the O'Connor enterprises, it would take a better brain than Finster's to prove it at this stage. He had suggested, and his Boss had concurred upon, a more indirect course of investigation. Finster would leave Denis and his Coterie alone until there were hints of more than theoretical activity, and concentrate his efforts on the young genius's many relatives. One or more of them might provide useful leverage material for future action against the Dartmouth group.
      It was when Finster began surveillance of Denis's uncle, who acted in loco parentis to the professor and worked at a big resort in the White Mountains, that culture shock struck. Like most persons who considered themselves one-hundred-percent Americans at that time, Fabian Finster was completely ignorant of the French-speaking minority population of New England. Uncle Roger was a harmless fellow who spoke fluent Yankee — but his thoughts were an untidy melange of French and English. Sorting them out had consumed a tedious month, during which Finster stayed as a guest at the resort during the high season, eating too many gourmet meals. But there had been a payoff: Uncle
      Roger was preparing to leave his job because he was afraid! Afraid of Denis's younger brother, Victor, the black sheep of the family.
      Bingo.
      Finster had zeroed in on Victor immediately, and discovered that the twenty-year-old man was not only a telepath but a powerful coercer as well — certainly stronger than his older brother and perhaps even more compelling than Kieran O'Connor himself. Furthermore, he was a crook, using a legitimate business as a front in much the same way that Kieran did, only on a vastly smaller scale.
      O'Connor was very interested.
      Finster was instructed to study Victor and his operation, using the utmost caution. He was always to stay out of coercive range, which they pegged at a hundred yards to be on the safe side, more than twice Kieran's sphere of psychic influence. He was to eavesdrop both electronically and telepathically, being especially alert for useful dirt. Each night Finster would fast-transmit the tape of the day's data to Chicago via scrambled land-line, and there would follow consultation and fresh orders from the Boss.
      For three weeks, Finster had shadowed the young pulpwood entrepreneur in and around his home base of Berlin, New Hampshire. It soon became apparent that the shady aspects of Victor's operation were expertly papered over; there was no immediate prospect of blackmailing him. He had no wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, or significant other susceptible to outside menaces. (He shared support of his widowed mother and younger siblings with Denis, but seemed to have no real love for any of them. ) His financing was tightly secured in two local banks and a third in Manchester. He had logging contracts in both New Hampshire and Maine, and seemed ready to expand into Vermont as well — as soon as he could pin down the appropriate persons to coerce. Given Victor's apparently invulnerable setup, Kieran O'Connor decided he had two options at the present time: He could let Victor be, as he had Denis, filing him for future reference; or he could invite the young man into his own criminal coalition.
      Finster was now completing the feasibility study for the latter alternative... and it was looking dimmer and dimmer. In Finster's judgment, Victor Remillard was not only a mental badass, he was probably a nutter to boot. His French-English thoughts were often chaotic, indecipherable. There were dark hints of no less than three murders perpetrated within the last year, together with an indeterminate number of psychic and/or physical assaults. He dreamed of monsters, and most of them had his own face. He hated Denis, and only some deep-lying inhibition constrained him from doing violence to the older brother he both envied and despised.
      Fabian Finster had long cherished a salutary fear of Kieran O'Connor; but he had decided that he was even more afraid of Victor Remillard. When he finished up for the night, Finster intended to pass on to the Boss his own urgently negative vote regarding any alliance with Victor. On the contrary, the Mob might give serious consideration to putting out a contract on this kid before he spread his web any wider...
      Sweaty, pest-ridden, and disquieted, Fabian (The Fabulous) Finster resolutely stayed on the job, whispering a simultaneous translation and running commentary into a bug-smeared Toshiba microcorder hung on a lanyard around his neck. Meanwhile, on the screened porch of his lakeside summer cabin, Victor Remillard drank cold beer and went about the business of recruiting fresh heads for his growing coven of psychic henchmen. He was concluding an interview with a middle-aged Canadian telepath of dubious moral fiber who had driven down that day from Montreal in a brand-new Alfa Spider.
      "Now the two of 'em just sit there chewing things over... Now Vic offers the guy another bottle of Hibernia Dunkel Weizen from the refrigerator on the porch (Jesus!)... Now Vic says out loud in Frog, 'I agree that a merger of our two groups might be advantageous, Roe-bear, but it must be on my terms. I will make the machine march — be the boss. ' And Fortyay says, 'For sure, Vic. No — uh — hassle. I have seen for myself who you are and what you are. ' And he takes a fast slug of suds, trying to be brave. And Vic leans toward him and smiles just a little and thinks: 'Is it that you are certain your four playmates will accept my direction? Without making any doubts? I am not playing kids' games, Roe-bear. I am going to shock the gallery' — dammit! he means score big — 'with this mental thing. My Remco pulpwood operation is just — uh — for starters. I'm going to be a big vegetable' — shit! — 'big shot and make more millions' — wait, that means billions — 'than you can count. So will the people who work with me. But you will have to do things my way. Do you understand, Roe-bear? No one makes the cunt with me — uh — fucks around with me and manages cheap — uh — gets away with it. ' And the other guy says out loud: 'Good blood, Vic! I told you, anything you say!' And his brain is dripping blue funk like a colander, and he thinks: 'You know why we're anxious to join up with you. Who else knows the music — the angles — of this mind business like you? Up in Kaybeck, me and Armang and Donyel and the rest have been just — uh — spinning our wheels, fooling around with small-beer scams. We know we gotta come South to get where the real — uh — action is. And that means joining your outfit. Why do you think I made my proposition regular?' He means above-board. 'Drill in my head all you want. Drill in the boys' heads. You'll see we aren't — uh — bullshitting. ' And Vic is all charm now. He says, like:
      'Swell!' They both laugh. The thought-patterns are formless friendly — only underneath Roe-bear is still trying not to wet his pants and Vic's sub-basement has a gleam like your steel tiger-pit, Boss... "
      Finster hit the pause button of the recorder and shifted position. Inky ripples spread out in circles from the johnboat. The water was now littered with insect bodies and the bass, sated, had retired for the night. Finster prayed that soon Victor would, too.
      He whispered a few more translations and comments as the young man led his visitor down the front steps of the cabin and walked with him to the Alfa Romeo. A next meeting was set up, to include the other members of the Canadian gang. Then the Spider's headlamps flashed on, making two paths of wavering light on the lake that stopped short of Finster's boat. The car backed, turned, and drove off along the shore road.
      Victor Remillard's mind was strangely aglow. He stretched, yawned, then walked down the path to the small dock in front of the cabin, where he stood looking out over the lake with his arms folded.
      Finster's boat began to move slowly toward him, dragging its sash-weight anchor.
      "Oh, shit, " muttered the mind reader. "Shit a brick. "
      He lunged for the three-horse outboard mounted at the stern and yanked the starting cord, producing pathetic burbling sounds. He yanked again and got a few apologetic pops. Cursing, he fumbled the small oars into their locks and flailed desperately at the water while the boat picked up speed, moving in the opposite direction.
      "Turn me loose, dammit!" There were other cabins on the shore, some with lights. He yelled: "Help! Help!... " But his voice died away to a croak, lost in the summer chorale of frogs, crickets, and katydids. Nothing left to do! The tall silhouette at the end of the dock was barely ten yards away. Finster ripped buttons from his soggy sportshirt to get at the. 357 magnum Colt Python in its underarm holster. He lifted the gun with both hands and tried to aim, but the Colt seemed to have a life of its own and the blood-hot metal fought to squirm out of his grip, and when he clung to it, it became heavy as the lead sash-weight anchor and tried to break his wrists, and then he saw that the barrel was pointed at his right kneecap and his finger was tightening on the trigger, and he screamed and flung the thing sideways and it fell overboard and Vic laughed.
      I'll jump out! his mind howled. And I can't swim but I'd rather drown —
      He was drowning.
      Drowning in his own vomit that had flooded up his throat and into his windpipe. He made a terrible noise as he crashed against the low aluminum gunwale, his head and upper body hanging over the side, his eyes wide open beneath the dead-black water. And the mental voice:
      Don't be any more stupid than you've already been. Not until we have a chance to talk.
      Talk?...
      He was sitting upright, wet only with his own perspiration, and the boat glided smoothly up to the dock and stopped. A hand was extended to help him climb out.
      He looked up. The zillions of stars in the summer sky outlined a tall, good-looking young man with dark curly hair. His mind was a simmering blur.
      "Talk?" Finster repeated out loud, a wan chipmunk grin trembling on his lips.
      "Come up to the cabin, " Victor told him curtly, and turned his back to lead the way off the dock. When the mind reader hesitated, something seemed to clamp his heart with red-hot pincers, making his knees buckle; but in a split second the pain was gone and he stood upright again, and the damn frog growled over his shoulder, "Grouille-toi, merdaillon!"
      Finster needed no translation. In fact, he was inclined to agree with Victor's rude assessment of him. It was the royal screw-up of his life — what was left of it — and he was a certain goner. Once this realization came, Fabian Finster's spirits paradoxically lifted.
      "Sit there, " Victor ordered, when they came through the screen door onto the cabin porch. Finster lowered himself into a wicker chair with cretonne cushions. Did he dare ask for a beer?
      Something awful lit up behind Victor's eyes. "I could squeeze your brain like a grapefruit, Finster. I could force you to tell me everything you know about the ones who sent you to spy on me, then kick your ass out of here with nothing but scrambled eggs left inside your skull. I've already done that to a couple of snoopers. One was a Russian — can you believe it? — offering me three hundred grand to get him into my brother's laboratory. I took his money very gladly and he disappeared without a trace. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, Finster. You could go the same way... or maybe not. You've got a certain familiar smell about you. "
      And he lifted his mind-screen to give the barest glimpse of reprieve.
      "All right!" Finster shouted, breaking into a guffaw of relief. "I dig what you're thinking, amigo! Do I ever!"
      "Oh, yeah?" Victor's voice was like ice, and the tantalizing image the mind reader had grasped so desperately did a chameleon shift and faded to imminent doom. Finster sat up straight, waiting for it.
      But Victor was smiling. "You're not one of my brother's stooges.
      You're not from the government. You're not a Red. Your mind's spread open like a planked salmon, Finster. I know exactly what you are. "
      "I'm a crook, Victor, " Finster said. "Just like you. And I'm here following orders from another crook — who is definitely not just like you. He's big. Maybe the biggest, pretty soon. You reading my mind?"
      "Better than you know. Tell Kieran O'Connor exactly what I say, Finster... Stay away from me. If your people try to interfere with me, I'll send them back to O'Connor's office in Chicago to die, right in front of his fancy desk. But you also tell him that I have certain plans. If he lets me alone, here in my home territory, maybe the day will come when the two of us have things to say to each other. It won't be soon. But when one of us really needs the other, I'll talk to him... Do you think you can remember my exact words, Finster?"
      The mind reader shrugged, hooked one thumb around the lanyard that hung from his neck, and pulled out the Toshiba microcorder. "You're on the record, Mr. Remillard. "
      "Then get out of here. " Victor turned away, heading for the interior of the cabin.
      "No beer?" Finster ventured.
      "No beer. "
      "Figures, " Finster said. He went out the screen door, closed it very carefully, and headed for the dock.

13
FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ROGATIEN REMILLARD

      As A BOOKSELLER, I have noted a curious thing: There are certain scientific books of epochal importance, titles recognized by every educated citizen in the Galactic Milieu, that nevertheless languish unread by modern people. One thinks of Darwin's Origin of Species, Freud's Interpretation of Dreams, Wegener's Origin of the Continents and Oceans, Weiner's Cybernetics, and other works that provoked controversy in their day — only to subside into banality once their contents had passed the test of time and merged with the common body of human knowledge.
      Denis Remillard's towering work, Metapsychology, is another that suffered this ironic fate. Now, 121 years after its publication, only a few scientific historians bother to read it. But I remember the uproar attending the book's appearance early in 1990, when it sold nearly 250, 000 copies in hardback format during its first year and became the common coin of TV talk shows and articles in the popular press — an amazing performance for a highly technical work, bristling with statistics, written in a dignified and daunting style. Metapsychology presented for the first time an integrated scheme encompassing all forms of mental activity, normal and supranormal, with an emphasis upon mind's interrelation to matter and energy. In a detailed and elegant series of experiments, scrupulously verified, Denis demonstrated how the so-called higher mind functions are inherent in the mental processes of all human beings. He showed how every mind contains, in some measure, powers both ordinary and extraordinary. His keystone theory explained the unusual activities of psychic adepts in terms of operant metafunction, and the deficiencies of "normal" people as an aspect of metapsychic latency — where operation of the higher powers was either inhibited by psychological factors or precluded by a limited talent.
      Metapsychology provoked intense discussion — and a certain dismay — within the scientific establishment, since it presented hard evidence that the higher mental functions were genuine phenomena and not merely dubious conjecture. Psychic researchers (and there were many besides Denis), after enduring decades of condescending tolerance or out-and-out ridicule from their conservative peers, basked in a new and unprecedented atmosphere of respect as they found themselves courted by the media, by sundry government agencies, and by commercial exploiters scenting a new growth industry that might eventually rival aerospace or genetic technology. Numbers of hitherto clandestine operants "came out of the closet" as a result of Denis's book and became involved in serious research projects. There were also legions of quacks — astrologers, tea-leaf readers, spoon-benders, and practitioners of black magic — who enjoyed a brief heyday riding the coattails of the legitimate metapsychic movement. The public was entertained for months by debates and squabbles among the mixed bag of opposing psychic factions.
      Denis himself remained largely aloof from the altercations his book had spawned, distancing himself from popular journalists, television interviewers, and other purveyors of mass titillation. He had not yet publicly revealed that he himself was one of the principal subjects of his experiments, nor were other operant workers at his Dartmouth laboratory identified by name to nonprofessional investigators. Attempts to make an instant celebrity of the author of Metapsychology were doomed by Denis's humorless and erudite manner, his penchant for quoting statistics, and his total lack of "colorful" personality traits. Media snoops found lean pickings at the scene of his researches, a drab old saltbox on College Street in Hanover, across from the Hitchcock Hospital parking lot. The metapsychology lab's personnel was loyal and close-mouthed, giving superficial cooperation to reporters and interested VIPs while making certain that no really sensational data came under outside scrutiny.
      Fortunately for the disappointed newsmongers, there were plenty of less diffident psychic researchers at other institutions who were more than eager to fill the metapsychic publicity gap. These basked in the limelight and hastened to publish their own researches — as well as their critiques of Denis's magnum opus. Since most ordinary people have a gut belief in the higher mental powers, the public at large reacted positively to the opening of the new Metapsychic Frontier. There were surprisingly few commentators, in those early days, who envisioned any problem in having an elite population of operants living and working among "normal" humanity...
      Late in 1990 when the Mind Wars scandal broke and it was revealed that the Defense Department of the United States had attempted to pressure psychic researchers into undertaking classified projects, public opinion experienced its first anti-meta shift. But this was destined to be swept away in the fresh furor that came the following year, when Professor James Somerled MacGregor of Edinburgh University revealed to a stunned world the first truly practical application of mind-power. MacGregor's demonstration was a total vindication of Denis's theories. It was also responsible for opening a rift in the human race that not even the Great Intervention would heal completely.

      To digress momentarily from the earthshaking to the jejune, I must note that 1990 was also the year that I started my bookshop, The Eloquent Page. Nowadays the place has quasi-shrine status, but I continue to resist attempts by various busybody groups to institutionalize it. The shop persists under the original proprietor at its address of 68 South Main Street, Hanover, New Hampshire. For the sake of Galactic tourists, I have a section devoted to works by and about famous Remillards. (I even have for sale a few fragile copies of the first edition of Metapsychology, exorbitantly priced. Inquiries are invited. ) However, my stock in trade remains, as always, one of the largest collections of rare science fiction, fantasy, and horror books in New England. My shelves hold no modern liquid-crystal book-plaques; every volume is printed on paper — and a goodly percentage of them are still sturdy enough to be read. I welcome browsers of all races, even Simbiari, provided they utilize the plass gloves I keep available and refrain from dripping green mucus on the stock.
      The choice of the bookshop premises was not mine. I had initially decided to rent a place farther north on Main Street, closer to the Dartmouth campus, where there was much heavier foot traffic and where my business instincts assured me that trade would be brisk. This intention, however, was thwarted by an old acquaintance.
      I remember the sunny autumn day that the rental agent, Mrs. Mallory, took me on a round of inspection. Even though I had already expressed my preference, the lady insisted on showing me one last vacant property.
      "It's such a pretty place, Mr. Remillard, " she told me, "the corner shop on the ground floor of the historic Gates House building, across from the post office. A marvelous example of the Late Federal style, absolutely the ideal ambiance for a bookshop! The premises are a tad smaller than the location down by the Hanover Inn — but so much more evocative. And there's a lovely large apartment available on the third floor. "
      I agreed to look the place over, and it was everything she had promised. The apartment, in fact, was virtually perfect. The store itself, however, seemed far too small for the type of establishment I was then contemplating, a combination of used books and current hardbound and paperback volumes. I told Mrs. Mallory that I found it charming but unsuitable.
      "Oh, dear! I really thought you'd like it. " She gestured at the old beamed ceiling, the frowsty little nooks at the rear. "The atmosphere of antiquity — can't you feel it?" And then she smiled conspiratorially and said in a lowered voice, "It's even haunted. "
      I paused in my inspection of the bay display window, polite incredulity on my face. "Interesting. I'm sure having a ghost in one's bookshop would be quite a novelty, especially since I plan to specialize in fantastic literature. But I'm afraid the place really is too small, and too far from the campus to attract much evening trade —"
      And then I felt it. Without conscious volition, I had let my seekersense range out, the weak divination faculty I had been practicing under Denis's tutelage with a view toward guarding myself from intrusions by Victor or other undesirables. I had managed to learn how to detect the distinctive bioenergetic aura of fairly strong operants, such as Denis, Sally Doyle, or Glenn Dalembert — provided that they were within a radius of ten meters or so and not shielded by thick masonry or some other barrier.
      And now, scanning this old frame building's empty corner premises, I farsensed the presence. I stood rooted to the spot, sweat starting out on my forehead.
      Mrs. Mallory was chattering on: "... and if you're sure you'll need more space, we might talk to the owner, since the little coffee shop next door might not renew its lease and it might be possible to double the square footage available... "
      I seemed to hear someone say: Tell her you'll take it.
      Who's there? my mind cried. Whothehell is that?
      "I beg your pardon?" said Mrs. Mallory.
      I shook my head. It was in the back room.
      "I know!" she exclaimed brightly. "I'll just let you stay and look the place over at your leisure, both the store and the apartment, and you can drop in at my office later with the keys and let me know what you've decided. "
      "That will be fine, " I said. The sound of my voice was distant, dimmed by my concentration on the detecting ultrasense. It was coming out of the back room into the main part of the shop. Mrs. Mallory said something else and then went out, closing the street door firmly behind her. Dust motes eddied in the brilliant sunbeams shining through the display window. As I began slowly to turn around for the confrontation, an idiotic extraneous thought flickered across my mind: In late afternoon, I would have to make some provision so that the strong sunlight would not fade the books.
      There's an awning. All you have to do is lower it.
      "Bordel de dieu!" I spun around, exerting my farsense to the utmost, and detected an all-too-familiar aura. It had no form, nor was there anyone visible in the shadowed rear of the shop.
      The Family Ghost said: It's been a long time, Rogi. But I had to be certain that you took this place and not the other.
      "Ah, la vache! I might have known... " I stood with one hand braced against the wall, laughing with relief. "So you've been haunting this shop, have you?"
      The previous tenant was a trifle reluctant to vacate and I had to insure that the lease would be available. Sometimes it's perplexing, trying to determine precisely which occasions require my personal attention. My overview of the probability lattices is by no means omniscient, and after such a long time my other faculty is unreliable.
      "So! You've made up my mind for me and I'm to be forced to rent this place even though it's too small. Is that it? My poor little Eloquent Page and I will go broke just to satisfy your ineffable whim. "
      Nonsense. You'll do well enough if you stock antiquarian books and forget about the cheap ephemera. The clientele will seek out your establishment and pay suitably high prices for collector's items, and you can also do mail-order business... Be that as it may, it is not your destiny to achieve commercial prosperity.
      "Well, thanks all to hell for the good news! As if my morale isn't low enough, changing careers at the age of forty-five and playing lab-rat for one nephew while another contemplates offing my ass. "
      Victor is otherwise occupied. You need not worry about him.
      "Oh, yes? Well, you'd better keep him in line!"
      I may not influence him or the other Remillards directly. It would violate the integrity of the lattices. You are my agent, Rogi, because you have been influenced. You must live and work here, in this place that is appropriate, only two blocks away from the house at 15 East South Street.
      I was totally mystified. "Who lives there?"
      At the present time, no one who need concern you.
      I snarled, "Oh, no you don't!" and pointed a determined finger at the volume of air that seemed to radiate the aura of le fantτme Familier. "I'm not standing still for any more of your mysterious directives from Mount Sinai! You cut the crap and give me a damn good reason why I should rent this shop instead of the other one — or find yourself another patsy. "
      There was a cryptic silence. Then:
      Come with me.
      The front door opened and I was firmly impelled out onto the pavement. I heard the locks click. A couple of coeds sitting at a sidewalk table in front of the little restaurant next door eyed me curiously. I let the Ghost shepherd me around the corner. It said:
      Walk east on South Street.
      All right all right! I said rebelliously. For Godsake don't make a public spectacle out of me!
      I — or perhaps I should say we — walked along the quiet side street. It was only two blocks long, and near Main Street were a few commercial structures and widely separated old homes converted into offices and apartments. There was very little traffic and only sporadic bits of sidewalk, so I strolled along the edge of the street, past landscaped parking lots and mellow frame residences, and crossed Currier Place. There stood the Hanover public library, a modernistic pile of red brick, concrete, and glass-wall framed in enough greenery to allow it to blend unobtrusively with the more classic buildings around it. Immediately east of the library was a large white clapboard house with dark green shutters, a modest portico, and third-floor dormers, set well forward on a thickly wooded lot that sloped toward a deep ravine in the rear. On a weedy and unkempt lawn lay an abandoned tricycle. A football and a yellow Tonka Toy bulldozer decorated the porch, along with a sleeping Maine Coon cat that resembled a rummage-sale fur piece. Two hydrangea bushes flanking the steps still carried pink papery blooms. No people were in evidence.
      I stood under a scraggly diseased elm and stared at the house that would one day be famed throughout the galaxy as the Old Remillard Home. The Ghost said: You will note its convenient proximity to the bookshop.
      I didn't say anything.
      The Ghost went on: Six years from now, Denis will buy this house for his family. Many years later it will be Paul's home —
      "Paul?" I said out loud. "Who the devil is Paul?"
      Denis and Lucille's youngest son. Marc and Jon's father. The Man Who Sold New Hampshire. The first human to serve on the Galactic Concilium.
      Starlings were yammering up in the elm and the golden autumn sun heated the asphalt pavement and gave a faint pungency to the air. The pleasant old house — as solid and homely a piece of New Hampshire architecture as one could imagine — seemed to be drowsing in the late-afternoon calm of this little college town. I looked at it stupidly while my mind took hold of what the Ghost had said and tried to digest its import. The "galactic" bit was too bizarre to penetrate at first, so I seized on a more down-to-earth improbability.
      "Lucille? Marry Denis? You've got to be kidding. "
      It will happen.
      "Admitted, she's one of his most talented psychic subjects. But the two of them are hopelessly incompatible — fire and ice. Besides, I happen to know that she's in love with Bill Sampson, a clinical psychiatrist at Hitchcock. It's an open secret that they'll marry as soon as her analysis is complete and there's no ethical conflict. "
      The Ghost said: Lucille and Denis must marry and produce offspring. Both of them carry supravital alleles for high metafunction.
      "Tu paries d'une idιe ΰ la con! They don't even like each other. And what about poor old Sampson?"
      An unavoidable casualty of Earth's mental evolution. His wounded heart will recover. The deflation of the Cartier-Sampson liaison will be one of your most critical tasks in the months ahead. When Lucille is free, she will naturally gravitate to Denis, her metapsychic peer, and the genetic advantage of their union will become self-evident to her. If it is not, you can discreetly press the point.
      "Me? Me?" I was sandbagged by the casual arrogance of the Ghost. "You think this girl's some kind of computer I can reprogram?"
      You'll find a way to work things out. You must. Sampson is hopelessly latent, an unsuitable mate for this young woman who is so highly endowed with the creative metafunction. It is unfortunately true that she and Denis have clashing temperaments, but this is not an insuperable barrier to a fruitful marriage. Lucille will be an ideal professional partner for Denis as well. Her drive and indomitable common sense will counter his tendency to brood and vacillate. There will be continuing tension between them, especially in the later years. It is then that your own supportive role — and your fortuitous proximity — will be most advantageous.
      "I'm your mole, you mean! Put into position for continuous meddling with people who aren't even born yet — isn't that it?" I pulled myself together. Although the street seemed to be deserted, it would hardly do for local residents to look out of their windows and discover a middle-aged loufoque haranguing an elm tree. I walked on to the east, where the street curved into Sanborn Road and the wooded precincts of the Catholic church.
      Sternly, I addressed the Ghost in mental speech: I see very well the role you intend for me. I am to be your agent provocateur, interfering with upcoming generations of Remillards like some evil genius in a goddam Russian novel!
      Nonsense. Your influence will be entirely beneficial. You will be needed. Your qualms are understandable, but they will fade as the importance of your mental nurturing manifests itself.
      If I refuse the commission — ?
      I cannot coerce you. If your compensatory influence is to be effective, it must be freely given. The unborn Remillards needing your help are not ordinary human beings, however, and your sacrifices on their behalf will have far-ranging consequences.
      How... far?
      Rogi, vieux pote, I have already said it — but you refused to accept the implication. And so I will be explicit, so that you will know exactly what is at stake. You are a member of a remarkable family: one that will one day be the most important on Earth. Denis and Lucille's children and grandchildren are destined to become magnates — leaders, that is — of the Human Polity of the Concilium of the Galactic Milieu.
      "C'est du tonnerre!" I cried, aghast, and my mind asked the halting question: Are you telling me that we... the planet Earth... will become part of a galactic organization within my lifetime?
      There was a furious honking and a sarcastic voice that called, "Howsabout it, Charley? You gonna stand in the street till you grow roots?"
      I snapped out of my daze to see a laundry van two feet away from me in the middle of Sanborn Road. There must have been something in my face that turned the young driver's impatience to concern. "Hey — you feeling all right?"
      I lifted one hand and hastened onto the sidewalk. "I'm okay. Sorry about that. "
      The driver eyed me uncertainly, then shrugged and drove on.
      The Ghost said: My dear blockhead.
      You, the entity who reads this, will doubtless think the same of me. Had not the Ghost told me long ago that it was a being from another star, that its intentions were benevolent and our family was of crucial importance? A man possessed of the least modicum of imagination might have deduced some design behind these uncanny maneuverings — always supposing that the spectral puppet-master was real and not the perverted manifestation of my own unconscious.
      I made an attempt to gather my scattered wits. "When will this... invasion of extraterrestrials happen?"
      Never! Rogi, you are a prize idiot! Le roi des cons! Why should we invade your silly little world? The starry universe is our domain and our cherished responsibility, and we come to a world only when we are called.
      "Elaine and her people called you, " I muttered bitterly. I reverted to mental speech when I noticed a workman cutting the lawn of the church across the street: Why didn't you respond to Elaine's appeal, mon fantτme? All her people asked was that you bring us the blessings of your galactic civilization before we're destroyed in a nuclear holocaust. Wasn't that a good enough reason for you to bestow your cosmic CARE packages on Earth?
      The Milieu does not dare to contact a developing world until the planetary Mind attains a certain maturity. Premature intervention would be hazardous.
      To whom?
      To the planet... and to the Milieu.
      Well, don't cut it too fine! Dιtente's on a fast track to hell again and every other tin-pot nation in the Third World seems to have an atomic bomb ready to defend its honor. You wait too long and your flying saucers might land in a radioactive slag heap!
      The likelihood of a small nation detonating a nuclear weapon is unfortunately high. But the prospect of full-scale nuclear war between the great powers is infinitesimal at the present time. The danger seems destined to escalate with the passage of time, but my prolepsis indicates that the Great Intervention will almost certainly take place before your civilization destroys itself.
      Well — when do you land, for chrissake?
      When there is worldwide recognition of the higher faculties of the mind, and when those faculties are used harmoniously by a certain minimal number of humans.
      Are you talking about the kind of thing Denis is working on?
      Denis and many others. Metapsychic operancy is the key to lasting peace and goodwill among disparate entities — human and nonhuman. To know the mind of another intimately is to understand, to respect, and ultimately to love.
      Then all of the citizens of your Galactic Milieu have the higher mental powers — telepathy and psychokinesis and all that?
      The spectrum varies from race to race and from individual to individual. But all Milieu minds share telepathic communication and our leadership enjoys formidable insight. In matters of gravity there can be no duplicity among us, no misunderstanding, no irrational fear or suspicion.
      No wars?
      We have never experienced interplanetary aggression. Our Milieu is far from perfect, but its citizens are secure from exploitation and institutionalized injustice. No individual or faction may flout the will of the Concilium. Every citizen-entity works toward universal betterment at the same time that it is encouraged to fulfill its personal potential. Ultimately, the goal of our people is to obtain that mental Unity toward which all finite life aims.
      "Grand dieu, " I whispered. "Ηa, c'est la meillure!" Without thinking, I had turned left onto Lebanon, a major thoroughfare. My heart soared like that of a six-year-old on Christmas morning. I had thrust aside all my doubts as to the authenticity of the Ghost. If it was a figment, its delusions were comforting ones. I asked:
      How many planets belong to this Milieu?
      Thousands. Our present coadunate population includes some two hundred thousand million entities — but only five races. This is a very young galaxy. Eventually, all thinking beings within it who survive the perilous ascent of technology's ladder will find Unity with us. My own race, which was the first to attain coadunation (the mental state leading to Unity) has the honor and the duty of guiding other peoples into our grand fellowship of the Mind. Nearly a quarter of a million juvenile races are currently under observation, and six thousand of those have a high civilization... but you humans are the only candidates approaching induction.
      Jesus Christ! When I tell Denis —
      You will tell no one, least of all Denis. These revelations are for your own encouragement, given because you demanded of me good reasons for your continuing cooperation.
      Denis deserves to know!
      He would be distracted from his great work. He must go on his own way for now, assisted by you in secret. His trials — and there will be many — will be his incentive.
      God, you're a cold-blooded bastard! Suppose I tell him in spite of you?
      Denis would not believe you. You are being very silly, Rogi. Your obtuseness wearies me.
      "Sometimes, " I whispered with a certain malicious satisfaction, "I get pretty sick of me, too! Poor Ghost. You picked a weak reed for your galactic shuffleboard game. "
      There was a spectral chuckle: I myself have had my own ups and downs... but here we are in front of the real-estate office. Mrs. Mallory awaits your decision on the bookshop rental.
      I felt in my hip pocket for the two keys she had given me, one for the Gates House store and one for the apartment upstairs. The two pieces of brass were cool in my hand. God knew what they would unlock in my future.
      The Ghost said: I have a small token for you. Look in the gutter.
      I did, and there among the leaves and pebbles and gum wrappers was a gleam of red. I picked up a dusty little key ring. At the end of its short silvery chain was a novelty fob, a red glass marble of the type we kids used to call "clearies, " enclosed in a wire cage.
      Well? asked the Ghost.
      Don't rush me, dammit! I said. Then I opened the office door and went in to sign the lease on my haunted bookshop.

14
HANOVER, NEW HAMPSHIRE, EARTH
22 DECEMBER 1990

      THE TEST CHAMBER was heavily insulated against sound, temperature change, and extraneous electromagnetic radiation. Its air was filtered and its lighting dim and blue, which latter turned the ruddy color of the kitten's fur to grizzled gray and its amber eyes to smoky topaz. In the ceiling were video and cine cameras, radiation detectors, and other environmental monitors, focused on the cat and on Lucille Cartier. The young woman, wired with body-function electrodes, sat in a chair at one end of a heavy marble balance table. The kitten perched opposite her on the table top; the twin EEG transmitters mounted near the inner base of its ears were only two millimeters in diameter and almost completely concealed by the fur. On the table between Lucille and the cat was the ceramic platform of a hermetically sealed, ultrasensitive recording electro-balance. It looked rather like a medium-sized cheeseboard with a glass dome cover.
      Vigdis Skaugstad's telepathic voice said: Ready Lucille?
      Lucille said: Steady&ready. Minou too.
      The kitten said: [Play?]
      Lucille said: Soon now wait be good.
      Vigdis said: Systems running scale hot GO.
      A white baby spot flashed on, illuminating the glass-covered balance plate. Simultaneously the blue lighting faded away, leaving most of the room in darkness. Lucille began to hum monotonously. She was still only imperfectly operant in creativity and the music helped to suppress her insistent left brain and induce the necessary lowering of the intercerebral gradient. She stared at the dazzling balance plate, trying not to "will" too forcefully, urging the primal power that resided in her unconscious mind to flow toward the controlling conscious. In this way primitive humanity had summoned its gods, worked its magic, achieved transcendence, even compelled reality: by bridging unconscious and conscious, right brain and left, in this subtle, quasi-instinctual way that had been all but lost with the advent of the conquering word. Verbalization, a left-brain function, had given birth to human civilization — but at a price. The ancient creative powers were repressed, and lived on mainly in the archetypal guise of muses, those flashes of artistic inspiration or illuminating insight that welled up from the soul's depths almost without volition. And the old magical aspects of creativity, the ability to direct not only the "mental" dynamic fields but also the fields generating space, time, matter, and energy, were relegated to the dreamworld in most individuals.
      It had been so for Lucille Cartier until four months earlier. Then, bowing at last to the counsel of her analyst, she had agreed to undertake training at the Dartmouth Metapsychology Laboratory that would raise her latent mind-powers to operancy. "The faculties are part of you, " Dr. Bill Sampson had told her, "and you'll have to accept the fact. And learn to control them — or they'll control you. "
      So she had come at last to the gray saltbox building. To her great relief, Denis Remillard had assigned her a congenial and nonthreatening mentor. Vigdis Skaugstad was a visiting research fellow from the University of Oslo, a specialist in psychocreativity. She was thirty-six, pug-nosed and rosy, with very long flaxen hair that she braided and wound about her head in a coronet. Vigdis's own psychic talents were unexceptional, but she was a gifted teacher; and her tact and empathy had led Lucille to overcome most of her deep-seated repugnance toward the research program — if not her dislike of its young director. Working with Vigdis, Lucille had learned telepathy very easily. This most verbal of the higher powers quickly assumes a "hard-wired" status in the brain of a talented person, as do most of the related ultrasenses. But Lucille's other significant faculty, creativity, had required a tedious, almost Zenlike regimen to raise it to the operant level. It was still far from reliable. Lucille took training exercises almost every day from Vigdis, and at the same time worked toward her doctorate in psychology. Thus far she had sedulously avoided socializing with other operants, except for an occasional lunch with Vigdis.
      The laboratory cats, on the other hand, were her dear friends.
      The animals were used in many different experiments, especially those involving telepathy, a feline long suit. Lucille's special affinity with the cats had at first provoked jokes among the staff about witches and their familiars; but the joshing had cut off in short order when Lucille seemed to establish a genuine mental linkage with one particular kitten, leading to an apparent creativity manifestation that was having its first controlled test today.
      "Ooh, Minou, " Lucille crooned aloud. And to the cat: Let's do it baby you and me let's do it together again... together Minou!
      The kitten's large ears swiveled and its pupils widened as it stared fixedly at the shielded balance platform. It saw the image in Lucille's mind and it knew what she was trying to accomplish.
      So it helped.
      "Minou, Minou, ooh-ooh, " sang Lucille.
      The little animal's whiskers cocked forward in anticipation. It uttered a barely audible trilling sound, the hunting call of the Abyssinian breed, and its black-tipped tail twitched. Except for its relatively large ears and eyes, its conformation and color were almost exactly those of a miniature puma.
      "Ooh-ooh-ooh. " Here it comes kitty here it comes...
      The insubstantial image, brought forth from Lucille's memory.
      [Amplified by kittenish predatory lust. Oh, fun!]
      A smudgy cloud had begun to form above the center of the ceramic balance pan. It was ovoid, smaller than an egg, with a pointed anterior and a humped posterior.
      "Ooh!"
      [JumpjumpNOW!]
      Impatiently, the kitten darted forward and batted the glass dome. The psychocreative image shimmered as woman and cat faltered in their mental conjunction, then sharpened as they drew together again.
      "Ooh-ooh, naughty Minou, not yet wait until we're through. " Good baby yes work with me sit still help MAKE IT keep it under the glass don't let it get away until it's here stay stay work with me...
      [Mouse!]
      Yes.
      [MOUSE!]
      The form was still translucent, in the early stage of materialization that Vigdis Skaugstad had called "ectoplasmic Silly Putty. " But the mousy shape was entirely plausible and becoming more detailed with passing seconds. Snaky little tail. Jet-bead eyes. Tiny ears and whiskers — shadowy, yet, but placed where they belonged. (And how many patient hours had Lucille spent beside the cage in the critter room of the Gilman Biomedical Center, committing those anatomical details to memory so that her mind's eye and creativity function would be able to resummon them whenever she commanded it... )
      The illusion became opaque. It settled onto the ceramic balance platform beneath the glass dome. It had four feet with claws, a fur-clothed body that shone sleek under the bright spotlight.
      [Warmth of MOUSE smell of MOUSE twitchy allure of MOUSE!]
      The kitten crouched, waggling its rump, stamping its hind feet in preparation for the spring —
      "Nooh-ooh, ooh-ooh. " Not yet Minou not yet wait baby you can't get at it under the glass wait soon soon...
      Abruptly, the read-out on the electro-balance went from zero to 0.061 ?g. The mouse simulacrum began to move, its eyes sparkling and its nose sniffing. It scuttled obliquely off the pan and went through the thick lead glass of the dome cover, heading for the table edge.
      The kitten sprang.
      Squeee!
      [Gotcha!]
      The psychocreative mouse vanished.
      Lucille Cartier sat back in her chair and sighed, while the room lighting brightened to normal incandescent and the Abyssinian kitten bounded about, searching for its elusive prey. The test-chamber door opened and Vigdis Skaugstad came in, all smiles.
      "Wonderful, Lucille! Did you notice the mass gain?"
      "Not really. I was too busy making the mouse squeal. Minou is so disappointed if it doesn't. " Lucille reached into the pocket of her flannel skirt and took out a little ball with a bell in it, which she threw to the kitten. Her face was weary and her mind dark.
      Vigdis began to disconnect the body-function monitors that had been pasted to the human subject. The kitten abandoned the ball to mount an attack on the dangling electrodes.
      "No no, kitty, " Vigdis scolded. "Behave yourself—or maybe next time we wire you. "
      "Minou wouldn't cooperate then, " Lucille said, disentangling the small paws. "She won't perform unless the experiment is fun. I should be so lucky. "
      "It was hard on you?" Vigdis's kind, china-blue eyes were surprised. "But you said doing the materialization was always an amusement for the two of you — and your heart and respiration level were not significantly elevated during the activity. "
      Lucille shrugged. "But now we aren't just playing. The mouse isn't just a pounce toy, it's an experiment with the data all recorded for analysis. "
      "But the experiment was a great success!" Vigdis protested. "And not just the materialization — although it was the best you have ever done — but the fact of the metaconcert! This is our first experimental confirmation of two minds working as one. Your EEG and the cat's were like music, Lucille! I shall write a paper: 'Evidence of Mental Synergy in a Human-Animal Psychocreative Metaconcert. ' "
      "That's a new term, isn't it? Metaconcert?"
      "Denis coined it. So much more stylish than mind-meld or tandem-think or psi-combo or those other barbarisms you Americans are so fond of, don't you think?"
      Lucille only grunted. She stood up, transferring the kitten to her shoulder.
      Vigdis said, "We shall have to repeat the experiment, and similar ones. Eventually, we will want to try the metaconcert with you and a powerful human operant, such as Denis. "
      At the door, Lucille whirled around. "Not on your life!"
      "But he would be the best, " Vigdis said, gently reproving.
      "Not him. Anybody but him!"
      "Oh, my dear. If there were only some way I could help you to overcome your antagonism toward Denis. It was all a misunderstanding, your earlier feeling that he was trying to force you to participate —"
      "I have the greatest respect for Professor Remillard, " Lucille said, heading out into the hall. "He's brilliant, and his new book is a masterpiece, and he's had the good taste to let me alone during most of my work here. Let's keep things that way... Now I'll take Minou home, and then I'm off to finish my Christmas shopping. "
      Vigdis followed as Lucille headed for the Cat House, an opulently furnished playroom where the resident animals ran free. "Lucille, I'm sorry but there is something you must do first. I didn't want to upset you before the run, but it is very important that you speak to Denis before you leave for the Christmas break. He is waiting for you in the coffee room. "
      Oh Vigdis!
      Lucille you must. Please.
      "If he has any more friendly admonitions about Bill, I'm going to be awfully pissed, holiday season or not!" Lucille stormed. "I've had enough flak from my family without Denis adding his contribution. "
      "The conference has nothing to do with Dr. Sampson. It is an entirely different matter."
      "Good, " said Lucille shortly. Then she relented at Vigdis's hurt reaction to her asperity and apologized. "Don't take me seriously. I'm still tensed up over the experiment... Did I tell you Bill wanted to give me a diamond for Christmas? His late mother's ring. But I refused. As long as I'm still his patient, there mustn't be even a hint of — of our commitment. But the analysis is nearly complete. "
      She opened the Cat House door and bent down to put Minou inside. The place harbored five Maine Coon cats, three Siamese, and two other Abyssinian kittens, all breeds noted for metapsychic precocity. The animals lounged on carpeted ledges and shelves, peered from padded lairs, slept in baskets, clambered up feline gymnastic equipment, and lurked amid a well-chewed jungle of potted plants. Minou ignored the lot and made a beeline for the feeding station.
      "Is it your family's disapproval of Dr. Sampson that makes you so downhearted?" Vigdis asked, bending to scratch the head of a Siamese that had come to caress her ankles.
      "They're being very pigheaded, and it's so damned unfair! I thought they'd be happy when I told them Bill wanted me to marry him. "
      "A psychiatrist and his patient, " Vigdis murmured. "There are ethical considerations —"
      "To hell with that! And that's not what's bugging Mom and Dad. They don't want me to marry anyone. " They don't understand they only know their own stupid fear and Bill the doctor was supposed to cure me of it exorcise it make me normal like them and instead he loved it loved me and they can't stand that it proves them wrong and proves me good and lovable and them wicked because they hate and fear me and they'll be sorry Bill and I will make them feel so small so ashamed make them burn with shame burn burnburn BURN WITH SHAME —
      The cats shrieked.
      As if some switch had been thrown, the room exploded in a clamor of tormented kitten squeals, full-throated Siamese yowls, and the lynx-roars of frenzied Coon cats. The women dashed out into the hall and slammed the door.
      "Uff da! "said Vigdis.
      Lucille had gone white. "I'm so sorry! The poor little things! God — will I ever get this thing under control?"
      Vigdis put an arm about the trembling girl. "It's all right. Your creativity was energized inadvertently. You must expect that to happen sometimes when you are tired or stressed. The cats were not harmed, only frightened. "
      Lucille repeated dully, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. " Sorry my mind is perverse sorry my folks don't like Bill sorry they fear me does Bill? sorry they don't love me but just let him love me —
      Lucille be strong. You want to be loved of course so do we all.
      I think... he may be afraid too.
      Yes. He may. You must face that. Your Bill is a normal.
      He understands!
      He is twice your age an experienced clinician yes he very likely does understand and I am sure he loves you very much even if he is also afraid. But normal! Oh Lucille my child I should tell you... but how can I? Your parents may have known in their hearts loved you more than you realized... but how can I tell you how —
      What?
      Lucille... I loved a normal man. We married before my faculties became operant under the tutelage of Professor MacGregor but then afterward the difference the terrible difference I did not want to believe what the wisest operants warned me about I knew my love would be strong enough but in the end Egil divorced me the price paid for becoming operant is permanent alienation from normal human attachments.
      I don't believe it!
      It is true.
      It can't be... the way you said. Bill loves me! He knows exactly what I am and he loves me.
      He cannot know you. Your mind is closed to him. Your true self will always be unknown and you can only love him rejecting lying —
      "No!" Lucille said aloud.
      The cats had fallen silent and the old building creaked in the blustering wind. Somewhere in an empty office a telephone rang five times before being switched to the answering machine.
      Vigdis said, "It's getting late — nearly six. I must go back to the test chamber and finish up. " Her mind had veiled itself, withdrawn from the younger woman's defiance. "Please don't forget to meet with Denis before you leave. "
      Vigdis hurried away and Lucille stood there for several minutes, seething with resentment, before going downstairs to the room on the main floor that had once been the kitchen of the saltbox and now served as a coffee room for the research staff. It had been furnished with cast-off furniture. To honor the holiday season, there was an eighteen-inch spruce tree decorated with multicolored LEDs sitting on an old lab cart in front of the window.
      As Lucille entered the room, Denis Remillard turned away from the coffee machine near the Christmas tree, holding two steaming cups. Of course he must have known exactly when she would arrive...
      "Good evening, Professor Remillard, " she said stiffly. "Dr. Skaugstad said you wanted to see me."
      "Sugar?" Denis lifted one of the cups. "The half-and-half is all gone, I'm afraid. "
      "Black is fine. " As if you didn't know!
      As always, his mind was fathomless below its socially correct overlay. He was dressed for the weather in a red buffalo-plaid shirt, corduroy pants, and Maine hunting shoes from Bean's — an incongruously boyish bκte noire who held out the coffee mug to her with a noncommittal smile. His awful blue eyes were averted, watching the snow outside the window.
      "They say we'll get another eight inches before tomorrow. It'll be rough for travel. "
      Lucille said, "Yes. "
      "I'm glad that your creativity run was successful. The implications of the mass pickup on the simulacrum are almost more intriguing than the metaconcert effect. "
      "Vigdis has staked out the metaconcert paper, " Lucille said sweetly. "That leaves the mass gain for yours. "
      Denis nodded, still looking out the window. "You might be interested in an article in the current issue of Nature. A man at Cambridge has suggested a mechanism for the psychophysical energy transfer, based on the new dynamic-field theory of Xiong Ping-yung. "
      "No doubt the Chinese Einstein will connect us mind-freaks to the real universe in due time, and the Triple-A-S will heave a great sigh of relief. But if you don't mind, I'll give the six-dimensional math and lattice-construct theory a miss for now. Too many other things to think about. " She set her coffee down, untasted. "Just what was it you wanted to discuss with me, Professor?"
      "A certain problem has come to light. " Denis spoke slowly, keeping his tone casual. "At parapsychology establishments in California, New York, Virginia, and Pennsylvania, workers have been approached and offered enormous salaries as an inducement to join a secret unit being formed at the Psychological Warfare School of the Army Research and Development Center at Aberdeen, Maryland. Persons who declined — and we believe most did decline — were then subject to great pressure by the Army representatives. In several cases, the pressure amounted to virtual blackmail. The more polite decliners were urged to set up a psychic-research data pipeline to the Pentagon. The military is particularly interested in the areas of excorporeal excursion, long-distance coercion, and the psychocreative manipulation of electrical and electronic energy. "
      "The bastards!" Lucille exclaimed. "It's the atomic weapons thing all over again! Whether we like it or not, we're going to be used —"
      We are not.
      She gaped at him. He turned from the window so that his eyes caught hers for an instant like a cobra mesmerizing a rabbit. An instant later he lowered his gaze and she was left floundering.
      He said, "The human mind is not a docile piece of machinery, Lucille — especially not the mind of an operant metapsychic. Perhaps some time in the future we operants may learn to disguise our thoughts so thoroughly that we can deceive one another readily in moral matters — but that time hasn't come yet. Any operant sympathetic to this insane Mind Wars concept will be expelled from our research projects. Sent to Coventry. Thank God the point is moot thus far. "
      "You're positive nobody's gone over?"
      "Nearly so. However, if certain overzealous Pentagon types discover just how close we really are to psychic breakthroughs of global importance, they may resort to more dangerous tactics. The advent of excorporeal excursion alone will turn foreign policy on its ear... So we won't be able to remain passive in the face of this threat. The people at Stanford are going to blow the whistle on the dirty recruitment tactics — especially the attempted extortion. When the scandal breaks, public and Congressional outrage will dig the grave for the Army's Mind Wars scheme. "
      "And then they'll leave us alone?"
      "I'm afraid not. I'm certain that the military will continue to try to penetrate our research groups for intelligence purposes. But I'm determined that this will not happen here at Dartmouth, where so many strong operants are concentrated. So far, we seem to be secure. Very few normals outside of the college administration are aware of what we actually do, and I've examined all of our workers and operant subjects without finding a single person who was suborned by Pentagon head-hunters. That is — I've examined everyone except you. "
      "Well, nobody's tried to buy me or dragoon me. God help them if they tried!"
      "I have to be sure of that, " said Denis.
      "You —what?"
      The eyes took hold of her again.
      "I must be quite certain. "
      He set his coffee mug down beside the little Christmas tree and closed the distance between them. His psychic barricade, that wall of impregnable black ice, was dissolving now and she could see for the first time a hint of the mentality that lay behind. It was even worse than she had feared. The coercion was impossible to resist, as cold and impersonal as the northeast wind driving the blizzard. What a fool she had been to think that he had tried to coerce her before! He'd done nothing — only talked, exerted ordinary persuasive force. She had been left free, then, to make her own choice.
      Now there was no choice.
      Dissolving, berating herself, helpless before his invasion, she could only watch as he posed the questions and read the replies her mind passively delivered up. Humiliated, too supine even to rage, she found herself suddenly alone; and her only memory was of a mind-voice, as unexpected as a razor cut:
      Thank you Lucille. All of us thank you. We're very glad that you are one of us...
      The window drew her like a magnet. She pressed her nose against the frosty pane and looked out into tumultuous white. The snow-bleared red of his Toyota's taillights shone at the exit of the parking lot and then disappeared.
      She was all alone in the laboratory building. A curl of vapor arose from her neglected coffee cup, sitting beside the empty one Denis Remillard had left behind. The Christmas tree blinked against the backdrop of the storm.
      One of them.
      Am I one of them?
      Lucille turned out the room lights, leaving the little tree lit, and went upstairs to make her peace with the cats before going to supper.

15
EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, EARTH
11 APRIL 1991

      A CLASSIC SCOTCH mist fell on the tenements and closes of Old Town, rendering the quaint streetlighting even more inadequate than usual, but the two persons who stalked Professor James Somerled MacGregor had no difficulty at all keeping track of him. His gangly figure was a blazing beacon to the psychosensitive as he tramped through the murk, haloed by a raging crimson aura lanced with occasional fresh bursts of white indignation. His subvocal thoughts, more often than not, were broadcast heedlessly on the declamatory mode.
      Two million quid! The bloody cheek of it!
      Oh, aye! He'd been expecting something like this to happen once the EE work reached the critical transition from theoretic to practical. He'd alerted the other metapsychology research establishments actively studying the function to keep a sharp watch for attempts at subversion. And now this! The low, furacious skites hadn't made their move in America or India or West Germany — they'd tried it here, in Scotland, on his very own patch that he'd taken such pains to secure!
      Of course loyal Nigel had told the CIA where to stuff their fewking proposition. Whereupon the spooks had piled insult upon insult by telling him that he couldn't hope for a better offer from MI5, who were hamstrung by recent budget cuts. Then they'd hinted that he would enjoy life a lot more in a nice Maryland condominium than in a guarded compound in the Negev Desert or a GRU facility on the outskirts of beautiful metropolitan Semipalatinsk!
      Small wonder that Nigel's creative metafaculty had run slightly amok at that point, setting the Yanks' attachι cases on fire and prompting their hasty withdrawal. Nigel had bespoken his boss at once, and he and Jamie had held a council of war in Nigel's Canongate rooms, with the windows open to disperse the stench of scorched cordovan, and tumblers of Laphroaig to calm their righteous ire. Now that the security of the Edinburgh Parapsychology Unit was compromised, there seemed little hope that they could continue on the cautious schedule of action championed by Denis Remillard and Tamara Sakhvadze and the other operant conservatives, who advocated delaying the public announcement of EE capability until there were at least a thousand adept practitioners scattered around the world. This move on Nigel by the CIA meant that other intelligence agencies would soon be homing in on the EE workers. Once the world militarists became aware of the advanced state of EE, they might risk a neutralization scheme of draconian scope in order to preserve the strategic status quo.
      The only thing for it was to do a media demonstration just as soon as possible.
      Once the news was out, the risks would be diminished — if not quite eliminated. World opinion would help safeguard the adepts from any blatant pogrom or conscription attempt. Yes... that was the only way to go. There'd be resistance from Tamara and Denis to overcome. Their timetable had been carefully reasoned. And Denis would certainly balk at participation in a demonstration, since he'd stuck his neck out so far in the publication of Metapsychology. Right, then — Jamie would gladly put his own cock on the block. They'd do the media demo right here at Edinburgh University. Probably take until autumn to set it up. Meanwhile, they'd all have to take precautions, just as young Alana Shaunavon had urged that very afternoon. Curious, her having that premonition of danger...
      As Jamie squelched along, cogitating, he was oblivious of other pedestrians on the High Street. There weren't many, since it was nearly one in the morning and the mist was thickening to drizzle. Normally, he would have taken a bus from Nigel's place to his own home a mile away in the northern New Town, but he'd wanted to give his anger a chance to cool, besides mulling over what would have to be done next. Set up safeguards for his own people in the morning. Then excurse to America and tackle Denis. Or should he do that as soon as he got home? What time was it in bloody New Hampshire, anyhow?...
      He was just short of North Bridge when the two superimposed mental images struck him like a physical blow.
      Alana!
      And the Unknown.
      ... Alana Shaunavon, his most talented EE adept, shivering with her witch-green eyes full of apprehension after a perfectly harmless jaunt to Tokyo, gripping the arms of the barber's chair white-knuckled and confessing that she'd had a flash of dire foreboding. Impending disaster. He'd reassured her, then forgotten the matter until Nigel Weinstein alerted him to the attempted subversion. And now Alana's face sprang to Jamie's mind again — from his memory or from somewhere else — projecting a second warning...
      ... that was savagely blotted out by the mental override of the Unknown. A man, physically present nearby, strongly operant.
      Turn right MacGregor into the next close.
      The compulsion was irresistibly exerted. The intent was murderous. Jamie was both stunned and incredulous. An operant enemy? But that was impossible! Both Denis and Tamara had flatly assured him that their governments had no operant agents. Denis had checked Langley many times with his seekersense and Tamara had subjected the files of both the KGB and GRU to remote-view scrutiny.
      "Who's there?" Jamie called. And then telepathically: What do you want? Where are you?
      Come in here under the archway.
      Helpless, Jamie turned off the High Street into the entry of the close, one of those narrow urban canyons peculiar to Edinburgh's Old Town that gave access to the warrens of tenement blocks. The corridor was nearly pitch-dark in the mist. Jamie had no penetrating clairvoyance that would spotlight the way, no dowsing ability that might identify the mentality coercing him. He stumbled on irregular pavement and nearly took a header, then managed to orient himself by looking up at the sky, which shone a faint golden gray above the silhouetted roofs and chimney pots.
      "Who are you?" Jamie demanded. American? Russian? Sassenach?!
      Keep walking.
      His footsteps splashed and echoed in a narrow alleyway. He came out into a broader courtyard where there was a bit of fuzzy illumination from a building on the right and saw an insubstantial figure, standing still.
      Come closer to me.
      What the devil do you want?
      Let's just get this over with.
      Jamie battled the coercion, reeling like a drunken man, but his betraying legs carried him on toward the waiting Unknown. He tried to shout out loud, but his vocal cords now seemed paralyzed. Strangely, he was not afraid, only more than ever furious. First Nigel — now him!
      The Unknown held a narrow tube, no larger than a biro, with a faint metallic gleam. He pointed this at Jamie.
      Closer. Closer.
      Don't be a bloody fool! Jamie's mind shouted. You won't stop EE by killing me...
      In retrospect, Jamie was never quite sure what happened next. Strong arms suddenly grasped him from behind and hauled him off his feet. He got his voice back and uttered a bellow that rang up and down the close. The Unknown swore out loud, crouched, and thrust out the cylinder. Jamie heard a sharp hiss. Then he was wrenched violently to one side by the person who had seized him and fell in a heap onto the slippery stones, striking his head. Roman candles popped in the vault of his skull and he heard running footsteps receding into the distance.
      "How're you doing, man? Did he hurt you?"
      Dim flame of butane cigarette-lighter. Deep-set eyes and touseled fair hair glistening in the drizzle. A burly man wearing a duffel coat, bending over him. A wry but friendly smile.
      "I think I'm all right, " Jamie said. "Bit of a bump. "
      His rescuer nodded, extended a big hand, and helped Jamie climb to his feet. Although he was not young he was built like a stevedore, and he topped Jamie's six feet three inches. He held the lighter high, and its blue flame gave a surprising amount of light.
      "Your friend the mugger seems to have run off. Did he get your wallet?"
      "No. " Jamie used his handkerchief to dry his wet hands and explored the lump on his head with caution. "Thanks very much for your help. "
      "Good thing I happened along. Now and again I use this close as a short cut. Want me to hunt up a policeman?"
      "No... it wouldn't do much good, would it? As you said, he's gone. I'd rather go home. "
      "Whatever you say. " The lighter snapped off. "But take my advice and stick to lighted streets after this. Better yet, take a taxi. You'll find one back there on the High Street. "
      "Yes, well —"
      The man in the duffel coat started off in the direction taken by the fleeing Unknown, calling over his shoulder with conventional good humor, "Get along now. We'd really hate to lose you. "

      "A suggestive remark, that, " Jean commented.
      "And with that he was off. " Jamie drew her more tightly against him, the palms of his hands enclosing her breasts as though they were talismans through which the healing magic flowed. "And it's only now, when I'm able to think clearly, that I realize how odd it was that he was able to see that I was in mortal danger. It's not as though the operant mugger had a gun or a knife. There was only the wee tube thing there in the dark. I was certain it'd be the death of me because the bugger's mind assured me of the fact —but how did my Good Samaritan know?"
      Tell me the answer, said his wife's mind.
      My rescuer was an operant too he must have been and that means of course it's only logical that there should be others but good God that they should be watching us!
      "You aren't inconspicuous, " she said, laughing softly. "As you said it's logical. "
      They lay together, naked before the fire, on a rug she'd made herself of pieced black and white Islay sheepskins. When he had come home, raging with worry and fear, she had closed her mind to him and not permitted him to tell the story until she had administered the great sovereign remedy there in the dark library, their private sanctum. Then she'd listened calmly.
      He said, "We'll have to work out some ways to guard ourselves, until the public demonstration can be arranged. All of the EE adepts will be at risk. Aside from the mysterious assassin, there are the government agents lurking about. The CIA for certain — and if the two who talked to Nigel are to be believed, there are Russians and Israelis and even British agents to worry about... "
      "You think they might try kidnaping if other recruitment tactics fail?"
      "It's a possibility, " he said somberly.
      She kissed his wrist lightly. "What you must do then is steal a march on the lot of them. For Whitehall, a preview of coming attractions demonstrating how an EE adept would react to involuntary sequestration by going out of body and raising a hue and cry among his colleagues. For the Yanks, a suggestion that Whitehall pass on the good word, with a judicious warning against poaching. For the others, a more devious approach. You and your colleagues will have to descend to cloak-and-daggering. Excurse into the appropriate embassies in London — and perhaps in Paris as well — and find out whether there are any nefarious schemes being planned against you. If there are take the aforementioned steps. "
      Jamie gave a delighted laugh. "Damn, but you're a cool one!"
      She grabbed him by his Dundrearies and pulled his face close. "Only because I don't think the intelligence people want to harm you. They don't know enough about you yet, my dear, for that. But your mystery man, the operant mugger, is something else altogether. He frightens me, and I have no notion at all how you can protect yourself from a person like that. He came from nowhere and vanished back into it. You know nothing of his motives. He may even have been a madman —"
      "No, " said Jamie. "He was sane. "
      "Then perhaps he's been frightened off by the other one. We can pray that it's so. And you can follow your rescuer's advice and take care not to travel in lonely places. "
      "Not while I'm in my body, at least, " he said, and he kissed her lips, and they lay together for a few minutes more watching the fire die, and then went off to bed.

16
ZURICH, SWITZERLAND, EARTH
5 SEPTEMBER 1991

      THE ELEVEN MEN and one woman who constituted the PRD, the banking regulatory board of Switzerland, watched without emotion as the confidential agent known as Otto Maurer showed his videotape of the photographed documents that verified the nature of Dr. James Somerled MacGregor's researches.
      "It is now confirmed beyond a doubt, " Maurer said, "that the psychic procedure for remote clairvoyant viewing is reliably practiced by no less than thirty individuals connected with the Parapsychology Unit at Edinburgh University, plus an undetermined number of other persons in other parts of the world who have made use of the mental programming techniques for this — uh — talent, as perfected by Professor MacGregor and his associates. Pursuant to my instructions, I have assembled other documentation from the Psychology Department, the Astronomy Department, and the Office of Media Relations for the Medical School of the University of Edinburgh. This material confirms that on or about twenty-two October of this year, MacGregor will hold a briefing for world media announcing... and demonstrating this psychic espionage technique. "
      The twelve banking directors uttered varied cries of dismay. Maurer lowered his head in a momentary gesture of commiseration, then said, "It is needless to belabor the obvious. MacGregor's researches effectively write 'finis' to the confidentiality of the Swiss banking system. Additionally, widespread utilization of psychic espionage will trigger chaos in every stock market, commodity exchange, and financial institution throughout the world, opening virtually any transaction to the danger of public scrutiny... This concludes my report, Messieurs and Madame, and I await your questions and instructions. "
      The woman asked, "This MacGregor — has he any radical political affiliation? Is he a Red? An anarchist? Or simply an ivory-tower academic unaware of the potentially disastrous consequences of his actions?"
      "He is none of these things, Madame Boudry. MacGregor is a Scot and a fierce idealist. It is military secrecy he seeks to demolish by introducing this psychic spy technique, thinking thereby to preclude the possibility of nuclear war. The collapse of the world financial structure would seem to him a small price to pay for peace. "
      There was an appalled silence.
      A stout, placid-looking man asked, "You have explored avenues of — of influence that might deter him from his demonstration?"
      Maurer nodded. "I have, Herr Gimel, but without conspicuous success. He is fearless, in spite of an attempt upon his life last April and intensive surveillance by a number of state security agencies. He would be affronted by any attempt at bribery. His position at the university is impregnable, and his professional status is beyond reproach so there is no chance of his work being discredited before or after the fact. "
      "His personal life?" Gimel inquired.
      Maurer spoke in English. "Squeaky clean. "
      The bankers chuckled bitterly. A frail, ill-looking man with burning eyes leaned toward the agent and quavered, "Are you telling us that there is no way of stopping this man?"
      "No licit way, Herr Reichenbach. "
      The invalid clasped the edge of the mahogany table with skeletal hands. "Maurer! You will have to think about this matter urgently. It is of paramount importance to us, to your country's continuing prosperity. Find a way to stop this demonstration — or, failing that, a way to delay it. MacGregor himself is the key to the problem! Do you understand me?"
      "I'm not sure, Herr Reichenbach... "
      "It is privacy that this psychic madman threatens. A fundamental right of humanity! This thing you have shown us, this technique of spying, is a nightmare out of George Orwell that any right-thinking person would repudiate with horror. You say MacGregor hopes for peace. I say MacGregor is the greatest menace civilization has ever known. Think of it. Psychic overseers scrutinizing every action of business, politics, even our personal lives. Think of it!"
      Maurer's eyes swept around the broad-room table. The other eleven PRD members were nodding their heads in solemn affirmation.
      "Do something, " old Reichenbach whispered. "Think very carefully, then do something. "

17
FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ROGATIEN REMILLARD

      THAT FIRST YEAR of mine in Hanover was very difficult. There is inevitably a lot of hard work involved in getting a new business off the ground, and my Eloquent Page bookshop was strictly a one-man operation. Early in 1991 I traveled a lot, hitting sales and thrift shops and jobbers all over New England as I gathered the basic stock of used fantasy and science-fiction titles that were to be my specialty. I ordered new books as well — not only fiction but also science nonfiction of the type that I thought might appeal to my hoped-for clientele. When spring came and the shop was pretty well filled I opened the doors to walk-in customers and began to prepare catalogs for the mail-order trade. Denis and his Coterie were faithful patrons. They even sent their student subjects along through subtle application of the coercer's art.
      My nephew was always urging me to participate in this or that experiment at his lab, but I invariably declined. The place crawled with earnest young students, all gung ho for the advancement of metapsychology, who made me feel like a scapegrace fogy when I refused to share their enthusiasm. And then there was the Coterie. Except for Sally Doyle, who was earthy and nonjudgmental, and her husband Tater
      McAllister, who had a wacko sense of humor in spite of being a theoretical physicist, the Coterie did not consist of folks I would have freely chosen as drinking buddies. They were fanatically loyal to Denis and his goals and did not suffer the heretical mutterings of the Great Man's uncle with equanimity. My reluctance to sacrifice myself on the altar of mental science was viewed as semitreasonable by Denis's chief associate, Glenn Dalembert, by Losier and Tremblay, who ran the main operancy test program, and by the mystic medicine man, Tukwila Barnes. Colette Roy, Dalembert's wife, reacted to my negativism with the perky hopefulness of a camp counselor confronting a recalcitrant eight-year-old. But she moved me not a whit more than did Eric Boutin, the strapping ex-mechanic, whose toothy grin did not quite conceal his itch to whip me into tiptop mental shape, for my own good as well as the good of the cause.
      "No thanks, " said I, not giving a flying fuck that I was thereby letting the side down. I would not accept operancy training. I would not let them measure my overall PsiQ. I would not even submit to a simple assay of my metafaculties. (Researchers now tended to classify the mind-powers under the headings of Ultrasenses, Coercivity, Psychokinesis, Creativity, and Healing — later broadened to Redaction. )
      Maybe someday, I said, lying in my teeth. But not now.
      The publicity splash generated by the publication of Denis's book finally petered out, to my relief, and the media abandoned Hanover to cover more newsworthy events such as the Mars Mission, the African plague, and the never-ending Middle Eastern terrorist attacks. The mysterious researches of my nephew became strictly stale potatoes, journalistically speaking — until the Edinburgh bombshell exploded late in October.
      Denis knew it was coming. In spring, MacGregor had tried to enlist the cooperation of the Dartmouth group, in addition to that of the Stanford team, for his upcoming demonstration. Denis turned him down flat, and he tried hard to convince the Scot to postpone the press conference — or at least make the EE demonstration a private one for a select group of United Nations representatives. I only found out what was in the wind by accident, when Denis let anxiety over what he felt was a premature disclosure leak into the vestibule of his mind, where I picked it up — and was aghast. If MacGregor and his people came out into the open with a demonstration of their powers, linked to a patently political proposal, other metapsychics would also feel constrained to do so. Denis's group, beyond a doubt! They would acknowledge their operancy in support of the idealistic proposal of their fellow researchers, and when they did my own protective coloration would be destroyed.
      MacGregor had confided to Denis his reasons for deciding to go ahead; but Denis did not at that time reveal those reasons to me. I only saw that my nephew had apparently caved in to the pressure exerted by his older colleague and had abandoned a carefully orchestrated scheme that would have revealed the existence of operant minds to the world only after a period of careful preparation.
      Instead, it was to be: Voilΰ! Like us or lump us.
      I was as furious with Denis as I was frightened for myself. We had a flaming row over the matter that led to our first serious estrangement. I cursed myself for ever coming to Hanover, where it was inevitable that I would be drawn into whatever ruckus attended Denis. My original reason for coming, Denis's fear that Victor might try to harm me, now seemed to be without foundation. I had seen Victor only at the Christmas and Easter family gatherings, and he had been distantly cordial. It looked as though the real danger to me, ironically enough, was going to be Denis himself! And I was trapped. All my money was invested in the bookshop and it was too late to set it up elsewhere. I would have to stay in Hanover.
      However, I distanced myself from Denis and the other operants almost completely from April, when the Edinburgh matter came to a head, to October. Swaddled in midlife depression, I overworked, trying to distract myself and force my infant business into the black. I stayed open until midnight. I wrote reams of letters to specialty collectors proffering my wares and inquiring about rarities. I went to conventions of science-fiction and fantasy fans and peddled my stuff, making friends and contacts who would be invaluable in later years. I nearly managed to forget what I was. A mental freak? Not I, folks! I'm only a humble bookseller. But if you're into the occult, I might have just the title you're looking for...
      It was Don who put an end to the charade.
      Throughout the early fall, as my anxiety about the upcoming EE demonstration increased, I slept very badly. I would awake stiff with terror, my pajamas and pillow soaked with sweat, but unable for the life of me to remember the content of the nightmare. Then October came and the hills flagged their scarlet warning of approaching winter, and the petunias in the decorative tubs out on the sidewalks died with the first touch of frost. In the misty dawn, when I lay in bed in that odd state between sleep and full wakefulness, I began to feel again the familiar touch of my dead brother's mind. He had wanted so desperately to be free of me... but now, without me, he was lost.
      I tried to blot out my irrational fantasies in the time-honored family fashion, just as Don and even Onc' Louie had done before me. Sometimes the drinking helped. As a side effect I suffered a drastic "psi decline" (for few things are as detrimental to the metafaculties as overindulgence in alcohol), and this brought reproaches from Denis, along with tiresome offers of help. I refused, even though I was quite aware that I needed some sort of therapy. Somehow I had conceived the notion that to seek psychiatric help would be to "give in" to Don. I told myself that he was only a memory. He was dead, prayed over by the Church, buried in consecrated ground. Thoughts of him could hurt me only if I let them — and I would not! In time I would conquer him and the fears we had shared. Time would heal me.
      But the bad dreams and the depression and the feeling of hovering doom that the French-speaking call malheur only sharpened as the day of the Edinburgh press conference drew nearer. I could no longer get to sleep at all without drinking myself into insensibility. A certainty took hold of me that I would end as Don had, a suicide, and damned. In earlier years I might have prayed. I still went through the arid formalities of religious practice, but only to ward off additions to my already intolerable spiritual burden. My prayers had the thin comfort of habit, but lacked the trust in divine mercy that compels the probability lattices...
      One day, rummaging through a recently arrived shipment of used books, I came upon a title that I remembered Elaine burbling over, a study of yogic techniques. I had smiled when she told me how the book had "helped her resolution of the death-space. " (Death had been the furthest thing from my mind in those days!) The exercises she had described seemed to be mumbo jumbo, Eastern balderdash. But now in my extremity I took the book up to my untidy apartment and devoured it in a single reading. The states promised to the adept seemed analogous to the "astronomical consciousness" of Odd John, that supreme detachment that had made both the conquest of the universe and death become irrelevant to him.
      So I tried.
      Unfortunately, I was not very good at the meditations. They were too inwardly directed, too chilling to the sanguine Franco soul. Still I blundered on, for if the yogic exercises failed as the alcohol had failed, what hope was there? The inevitable day would arrive, and the exposure, and then I would be drawn along with all the rest of them to the inevitable end.
      At the start of his research, Denis had told me that there was only one assured way that operants could escape the Odd John Effect, the potentially fatal dichotomy between Homo superior and the less favored mass of humanity. It lay in giving the "normals" hope that someday they — or their children or their children's children — might also attain the higher mind-powers. Much of the current work at Dartmouth was directed toward this end, and it was to be the subject of Denis's next book.
      Other research groups in other parts of the world were also studying the problem, trying to bridge the gap, to demonstrate that metafaculties were a universal fact of human nature.
      Given time, these preparatory efforts might have defused the normals' perfectly rational fear of us. But there was no time.

18
EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, EARTH
22 OCTOBER 1991

      His MENTAL ALARM clock woke Jamie MacGregor at precisely 4: 00 A. M., and he began the most memorable day of his life with a queasy stomach and aching sinuses. The first could be attributed to stage fright and a lingering anxiety over the spooks, who might still be entertaining notions of kidnaping him before he let the EE cat out of the bag. The second was evidence that his prayer for just one more day of beautiful October weather had gone unanswered; the low-pressure trough that had lurked coyly above the Orkneys for the past week now sat astride Britain, charging the atmosphere with inimical ions. That might mean that the demonstration could be adversely affected. Under laboratory conditions the matter could easily be remedied through artificial neg-ion generation — but any such fiddle was out of the question during the public experiments, where the EE faculty had at least to seem invincible.
      Ah, well. If Nigel or Alana experienced problems he would simply step into the breach himself, and professional modesty be hanged.
      It was still very dark. Lying there beside Jean, whose mind cycled in the serene delta waves of deepest sleep, Jamie MacGregor addressed the first order of business: banishing the sinus headache. He relaxed, adjusted his breathing, then summoned a picture of the front of his own skull in cutaway. He let gentle insinuation become a firm command: Decrease histamine production shrink membranes inhibit mucus secretion initiate sinus drainage LET THERE BE NO PAIN.
      It happened.
      He savored relief for a few moments, listening to the faint ticking of sleet against the windowpanes and his wife's gentle snores. Her strongest faculty was the healing, and she had taught it to him and to their two children and to numbers of their colleagues at university. The gift was widespread among Celts and many Scots possessed it suboperantly, with its practice requiring only strong will power and never a modicum of doubt. It did not seem to matter whether or not the healer's perception of the ailment's source was scientifically accurate. Experiments with their own young Katie and David had proved that — and Jamie had to smile as he recalled certain bizarre visualizations by the children. Yet if a person sincerely believed that tiny demons with hammers were the true source of sinusitis, wishing the evil creatures dead would work a cure just as surely as his own explicit redactive commands had done... Outside in Dalmond Crescent an automobile engine whirred to a reluctant start and settled into a rough idle. The car did not drive off and Jamie's uneasy stomach reasserted itself. Damn them! Who was it this time? He cursed his inability to identify individual auras at a distance. Those lucky enough to possess that faculty, seekersense adepts such as Denis Remillard or the Tibetan Urgyen Bhotia, who headed up the Darjeeling establishment, did not have to fear being stalked or ambushed by human predators. But Jamie was blind to mental signatures. There was only one way he would be able to find out which foreign agent or British spook had spent a dreary night on station outside his house and now suffered predawn demoralization that required the comfort of a car's heater.
      Jamie let his mind go out of body.
      He seemed to ascend through the bedroom ceiling, through the loft, through the roof. He hovered above leafless trees tossing in the wind and streetlamps glimmering on the dark granite paving setts. One of the autos parked along the crescent, a Jaguar XJS HE, had twin plumes of vapor rising from it. Jamie swooped down to peer inside and saw Sergei Arkhipov, the London KGB resident, wiping his streaming nose with a sodden handkerchief before sucking a tot from his nearly depleted flask. The stereo was playing "Fingal's Cave. " This solitary vigil by an agent of Arkhipov's high rank undoubtedly meant that the Russians had finally ruled out a kidnap attempt, even as the Americans had. Sergei was probably standing by only to make certain that no other faction —especially the GRU, Soviet military intelligence — got reckless.
      Were there other spooks about? Jamie rose high again and began to search for signs of the Yanks or MI5; but the other parked cars on the street and in the adjacent mews were empty, and the only wakeful persons in the neighborhood besides himself and Arkhipov were Mrs.
      Farnsworth and her fretful infant and old Hamish Ferguson, insomniac again, watching Deep Throat on his VCR.
      Jamie's upset stomach responded now to self-redaction and he returned briefly to his own body to prepare for the principal excorporeal excursion. Jean, sensing his tension, half woke and sent out a little nonverbal query. He told her: No no it's nothing sleep lass sleep not quite time to rise for the Big Day...
      Then he was off again through the freezing dark, a soul that would girdle the globe before returning to its physical anchorage. But first, before crossing the Atlantic, he'd stop at Islay, for Gran.
      Storm winds out of the northwest smote the shoulder of the island squarely, shoving mountainous waves into Sanaigmore Bay. The farmsteading in its hollow seemed to crouch like a patient, sturdy beast, back to the gale. To Jamie's mind's eye, refined by the EE faculty as it never was during short-distance attempts at clairvoyance, the Hebridean darkness was as lucid as day, except that there were no colors and the lack of shadows gave the scene a peculiar flatness. The area lights that usually lit the farmyard at night were out and the house looked unilluminated as well, alarming Jamie. But when he glided down and came close he saw the glow of a paraffin lamp through the kitchen window and a smoky thread blasted horizontally from the chimney of the ancient, peat-burning hearth. His older brother Colin and his wife Jean and their grown son Johnnie, who worked the farm now, were still abed, enjoying the last precious half hour of rest. But Gran was up getting breakfast, as was her custom. He heard her humming as she put another peat on the fire and stirred the porridge.
      Jamie said: Gran it's me.
      Dear laddie you took the time to come! said she.
      For your blessing now that we're ready to show our secret to the world... I see your electricity's gone out in the storm.
      Aye and the fancy cooker and the lights and the closed-circuit telly to the barn and all the other modern thingamajiks useless until Colin wakes and starts the Honda generator but he and Jean and Johnnie will wake to hot food naetheless I cooked over peat for fifty years and I don't mind doing it now it's a comfort to know the old ways still have their worth.
      ... And now some of the oldest of all to be new again Gran.
      Affection! To think I'd live to see it! Eighty-one years but not even my Sight gave me a hint of how it would really be and I'm so proud so proud.
      Well I still have misgivings. If only we could have waited until there were more as adept at the soul-travel as Nigel Alana and I.
      No you could not wait not with Them skulking about Godbethankit you've been unmolested you must get it into the open then you'll all be safe.
      If the demonstration succeeds.
      Now stop that. What have I taught you man and boy for thirty-nine years but that doubt's the mind's poison causing the powers to sicken and wane? Shame on ye!
      I expect it's all this science that's spoiled me.
      Laughter. Now don't be afraid. I See that your showing will bring about a new world and it's Mother Shipton's joke you see: The world then to an end shall come in Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-One.
      ! So that explains that... still I wish I had the Sight like you and Alana and your confidence. When I remember what happened back in April my narrow escape I still get a cald grue if it hadn't been for that big chap who came along by chance —
      So it was chance was it!
      Ah Gran.
      Ah Jamie. Stop fashing yourself laddie just do what you've prepared yourself and Nigel and Alana for don't think of the cold world watching with its mechanical moonlet eyes pretend it's the first soul-trip just like long years ago a natural thing if a wonder an old thing cherished in spite of doubts and oppression and now it's time we showed it proudly and how will you like being a famous man my own wee Jamie?
      You're a cruel old woman to laugh at me when I'm all in a flaughter but I love you. Now charmbless me in the Gaelic for I must be off to California and the Antipodes to make sure that all's ready.
      Very well: Cuirim cumerih dhia umid sluagh dall tharrid do vho gach gabhadh sosgeul dhia na grais o mullach gu lar unid ga ghradhich na fire thu i na millidh na mhuaih thu... I put the protection of God around you a host over you to protect you from every danger the gospel of the God of Grace from top to ground over you may the men love you and the women do you no harm.
      Amen! Thank you dear Gran goodbye.
      Farewell Jamie my own heart.

      As he waited with the throng of journalists to be admitted to the auditorium of the University of Edinburgh's George Square Theatre, Fabian (The Fabulous) Finster amused himself by ferreting out others like himself who had crashed the event with forged credentials.
      The exercise was not difficult. All intelligence operatives live their waking hours wrapped in a miasma of hair-trigger vigilance and subacute anxiety. A sensitive like Finster perceived this "loud" mind-tone as easily as if a neon sign were being worn on the forehead of the emanator.
      So far, he had spotted spooks from France, East and West Germany, Britain's domestic intelligence service MI5, the Israeli Mossad, the CIA, and (rather strangely) the Swiss Banking Regulatory Bureau PRD. Four Soviet GRU agents were among the sizable press corps from TASS. There was also a lone KGB man playing a clandestine game whom Finster had contrived to stand next to. This Russian was a squat, fair-haired man with a nasty head cold and rumpled clothing. He wore a lapel badge identifying him as S. HANNULA — HELSINGEN SANOMAT.
      There was a flutter of action near the theatre's main entrance.
      "Look at that!" Finster exclaimed to the counterfeit Finn. "They're going to let the TV crews into the hall ahead of the working press! It happens every goddam time. "
      A rumble of indignation went up from the less favored media representatives. Their protests were partly appeased when some two dozen young people wearing University of Edinburgh Psychology Department sweat shirts came out a side door and began passing out press kits.
      The alleged Hannula growled, "Now maybe we will get a clue about the kind of circus these academic publicity-hounds are planning. "
      Considerately, he handed one of the thick information packets to the little squirrel-faced American next to him, whose ID badge read: J. SMITH — SEATTLE POST-INTELLIGENCER. As the Soviet agent opened his own packet he was thinking:
      But surely it cannot be significant EE breakthrough not coming from here this oldfashioned ridiculous place they couldnot have kept data secure most likely merely another crude stunt suchas MacGregor described literature but if demonstration not crucial then why CIA crablice pursuing him&associates try lure to America HolyMother what awful stuffed head fever perhaps I come down pneumonia this prickish Scottish dampness at least GRU donkeyfuckers aborted lunatic scheme kidnap MacGregor conscript into RedArmy psiresearch overcome KGB advantage Alma-Ata...
      Finster studied his press kit for a few minutes, then asked the KGB man, "Is there much interest in psychic phenomena in Finland?"
      "Oh, yes. That kind of thing is part of the national tradition. We Finns have been accused of practicing witchcraft by Swedes and other superstitious people from time immemorial. " He sneezed and cursed and made use of a stained handkerchief.
      "Gesundheit, " Finster told him cheerfully. (He was getting very good with other languages. ) "How about your neighbors to the east? Would you call the Russians superstitious?"
      "Hah! They are perhaps the worst of all. " Hannula became very absorbed in the handout material.
      "Not much useful stuff here, " Finster noted. "Will you look at this, for chrissake? A History of the British Society for Psychical Research, 1882 to Present. Did my editor send me halfway around the world for that kinda shit? And this bio-sheet on MacGregor is hardly anything except summaries of the guy's publications. How's this for a grabber? 'EEG Beta Activity Correlates Among Six Subjects During Short-Range Excorporeal Excursions. ' Jeez!"
      The Soviet agent managed a perfunctory chuckle. He thought:
      Shortrange it must be shortrange source New Hampshire assured us remoteviewing still unreliable but if so why Americans offer so much money Weinstein who try assassinate MacGregor April when idiots allow us enter hall begin sodding demonstration?
      "Any minute now, " Finster said absently, still studying the press-kit material. "Say — here's a choice bit. Did you know that MacGregor's official title here at Edinburgh University is 'Holder of the Arthur Koestler Chair of Parapsychology'? This Koestler was a famous writer, an ex-Commie who wrote about the abuse of power in the Red Bloc. When he died he left a pile of money to found this psychic professorship. Wouldn't it send up the Russkies if MacGregor has discovered something big? We all know the Reds have been trying to develop Mind Wars stuff for twenty, thirty years. Lately, there've been rumors that they're close to succeeding. "
      Hannula was blank-faced. "I have heard nothing about that. "
      Finster flashed his chipmunk grin. "I'll just bet you haven't. " He folded the information packet lengthwise and tucked it into the Louis Vuitton shoulder bag that contained the tools of his trade — audiovisual microcorder, cellular telephone with data terminal, and the seasoned reporter's indispensable steno pad with three Bic pens. Only the most careful scrutiny would have revealed the illegal comsat-scrambler hookup on the phone and the needle-gun charged with deadly ricin concealed within the Bic Clic with the silver cap.
      "Look!" Hannula cried. "Something happens!"
      The doors of the auditorium were opening at last. A ragged cheer arose from the media people waiting in the lobby and the mob surged forward in a body. Finster called out to Hannula, "Stick with me, buddy! I always get a good seat!" And somehow the throng did part minimally to let the dapper little American pass through. The KGB agent hastened to follow, and the two of them raced down the center aisle and plopped breathlessly into seats in the third row. "What'd I tell you?" Finster bragged. "Best seats in the house. "
      Hannula groped beneath his own rump. He extracted a placard that said: RESERVED TIME MAGAZINE. Consternation creased his brow.
      "Relax, " Finster told him. He took the Russian's sign, together with one from his own seat that said: RESERVED CORRIERE DELLA SERA, and tore both sheets to bits. Reporters milling about in search of their proper places were open-mouthed. Finster's eyes swept over them. "We have a perfect right to sit anyplace we want. Versteh'? Capisce? Pigez? You dig?"
      The other journalists looked away, suddenly absorbed in their own affairs.
      The hall was jammed with more than a thousand people, and some of those lurking about the fringes were plainclothes police officers. Finster pretended to jot down items on his notepad as he relocated the other spooks. Only the CIA, masquerading as an SNN Steadicam team, and the TASS crew were more advantageously placed than Finster and his Soviet acquaintance. The Brits were clustered fifth row far left. Both sets of Germans were way in back with the luckless standees — who now included a distinguished Italian science editor and a hopping-mad Time stringer. The Israeli agent and the lady from the Direction Gιnιrale de la Sιcuritι Extιrieure were side by side, chatting chummily. But what had become of the Swiss bankers' spy? Ah. Somehow he had wormed his way to the very front of the theatre, to the area between the seats and the platform edge, where he stood focusing his Hasselblad in the midst of a crush of television technicians. The fellow's mind was wrapped in feverish excitement, but because of the distance, it was impossible for Finster to sift out coherent thoughts. Obscurely troubled, Finster frowned.
      "Ah, " breathed Hannula. "It is about to start. "
      A white-haired woman in a heather-colored suit had come out onto the platform and stood expectantly, holding a cordless microphone at the ready. Behind her was a simple small table with another microphone, and a wooden chair. Hung upstage against a curtain backdrop was an impressive GPD video screen that measured four meters by five. It had been flashing enigmatic test patterns while the audience settled down, but now it had gone blank except for the digital time display in the lower right-hand corner that indicated 09:58. No other apparatus was in evidence.
      Ready-lights on the TV cameras surrounding the platform began to wink on like wolves' eyes glittering in fireshine. Technical directors muttered into headsets, giving last-minute instructions to their colleagues who manned a great gaggle of satellite-transmission vans massed outside on George Square and Buccleuch Place. A few still-cameras clicked and buzzed prematurely and print-media people whispered establishing remarks into their microcorders. At precisely ten o'clock, the university spokeswoman cleared her throat.
      "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I am Eloise Watson, the director of media relations for the Medical School of the University of
      Edinburgh. We would like to welcome you to this special demonstration and press conference organized on behalf of the Parapsychology Unit of the Department of Psychology. Immediately after the demonstration, questions will be accepted from the floor. We must ask that you hold all queries until then. And now, without further ado, let me present the man you have been waiting to meet — James Somerled MacGregor, Koestler Professor of Parapsychology. "
      She withdrew, and from the wings shambled a tall and loose-jointed figure. His jacket and trousers of oatmeal tweed were baggy and nondescript, but he had compensated somewhat for their drabness with a waistcoat cut from the scarlet MacGregor tartan. Still-cameras snapped and whirred and TV lenses zoomed in for close-ups of a lean and wild-eyed face. MacGregor's beaky nose and thin lips were framed with extravagant Dundreary whiskers of vivid auburn. His hair, unkempt and collar-length, was also red. He clutched a sensitive dish-tipped microphone with big bony hands, holding it up as though it were the hilt of a Highlander's claymore presented in defiant salute. When he spoke his voice was gruff, with the barest hint of a lilting western accent.
      "What we're going to show you today is a thing that people of a certain mind have been doing for hundreds of years — perhaps even thousands. I learned it myself from my grandmother in the Isles, and I've managed to teach it to numbers of my colleagues. You'll be meeting some of them today. The phenomenon has been called out-of-body experience, remote-viewing, astral projection, even soul-travel. Lately, psychic researchers have taken to calling it excorporeal excursion or EE. I'll stick to those initials during the demonstration for the sake of simplicity, but you journalists can call it anything you like — just so long as you don't call it magic. "
      There were scattered laughs and murmurs.
      Jamie's fierce, dark eyes glowered and the audience fell silent. "EE isn't magic! It's as real as radio or television or space flight!... But I didn't invite you here today to argue its authenticity. I'm going to show it to you. "
      He half turned, indicating the huge video screen at the rear of the platform. "With the kind assistance of the University's Astronomy Department and the GTE Corporation, we have arranged for several live television transmissions to be beamed exclusively to this theatre from other locations. I will be able to speak directly to the persons you will see, using this microphone — but they won't see me. All they will receive from me is an audio signal, like a telephone call... Now I think we're ready to begin. "
      At a gesture from MacGregor, a balding bearded man in his forties came on stage, saluted the audience with a wave, and seated himself at the table. Jamie said, "I'd like to introduce my old friend and colleague of twenty years, Nigel Weinstein, Associate Professor of Parapsychology here at the University. He will explain his role in a few minutes. But first — may I have the California transmission, please?"
      A color picture flashed onto the screen. A smartly dressed woman and an elderly man sat in easy chairs before a low glass table. Opposite was a long settee and behind them potted plants and a window that appeared to overlook moonlit waters spanned by an enormous suspension bridge. City lights starred the surrounding hills. The display in the corner of the screen now read: SAN FRANCISCO USA 02: 05.
      The woman said, "Good morning, Professor MacGregor — and all of you members of the world media there in Edinburgh, Scotland! I'm Sylvia Albert and I host the Late-Late Talk Show here on KGO-TV, San Francisco. We're coming to you live via satellite in a special closed transmission that was arranged at the personal request of Dr. Lucius J. Kemp of Stanford University. Dr. Kemp is no doubt well known to you all as a distinguished brain researcher and a Nobel Laureate in Medicine ... Will you tell us, Dr. Kemp, why you're participating in this demonstration?"
      Kemp had been staring at his clasped hands. Now he nodded very slowly several times. "Numbers of my colleagues at Stanford have been involved in parapsychology research for some twenty-three years. I've watched their progress with great interest, even though my own work involves a different area of study — one that you might say is more conventional. "
      He looked directly into the camera and leveled an index finger at his viewers on the other side of the world. "You might say! I say parapsychology is as respectable as any other branch of psychiatry. Now I study brain cells, things you can see and touch and measure. But the brain is a peculiar piece of matter that houses the mind — which we scientists most definitely cannot see or touch, and which we are only incompetently able to measure. The nature of mind, and its capabilities, are still nearly as mysterious as outer space. It wasn't too many years ago that the majority of educated people — scientists especially — dismissed parapsychology as nonsense. Things aren't that way today, but there are still skeptics in the scientific establishment who will try to assure you that paranormal psychic phenomena are either nonexistent or else freakish effects without practical value. I am not one of those scientists..."
      The screen in the Edinburgh lecture theatre was now filled with the Nobel Laureate's face, copper-brown skin stretched over high cheekbones, black eyes narrowed with the intensity of his emotion, a few drops of perspiration trickling from the snowy wool of his hair onto his broad forehead. Then he flashed a brilliant smile.
      "Because of that, the parapsychology researchers at Stanford nailed me! They asked for my help with this experiment, and they got it. That's why I'm here in the wee hours of the morning along with Miss Albert and the director and crew of her show and the three impartial witnesses we've asked to assist us. "
      The camera pulled back again and the talk-show hostess rapidly explained how the experiment was going to work. The three witnesses had each been asked to bring a small card with a picture or a few lines of writing. The subject of the card was to be known only to them, and they had sealed it inside three successive envelopes. The witnesses now waited in the TV studio's green room, where guests assembled before being taken on stage for their interviews. There were no cameras in the green room and the monitor there had been disconnected.
      Now Jamie MacGregor asked, "Miss Albert, is it true that there is no means of outside communication in this green room? No telephones or radio equipment?"
      "None whatsoever, " she said.
      "Very good. I want to be sure that the journalists with us here in Edinburgh understand that. Go on, Lucius. Tell us what your own part in the experiment will be."
      "I'll wait, " Kemp said, "until you tell me that your colleague, Dr. Weinstein, is ready to undertake a remote-viewing of those cards the three witnesses have hidden away on their persons. When you give me the word, I'll go to the green room and stand in the doorway. I'll ask the witnesses to take out the envelopes and hold them up, unopened, for two minutes. After that they'll accompany me back here to the cameras, envelopes still unopened. And then we'll see, won't we?" He smiled.
      "Aye, we certainly will, " Jamie said. "Thank you, Lucius. "
      The audience in the theatre let out a collective sigh. Seats creaked as many of them hunched forward. Jamie was holding a whispered colloquy with Nigel. The KGB agent turned to Finster and whispered, "If this works — great God, the repercussions!"
      "You can say that again, " the Mafia's man agreed. "In Finnish. " Nigel picked up his own microphone. He was still seated at the table, while Jamie had withdrawn to the left side of the platform.
      "I'm afraid, " Weinstein said, his expression mischievous, "that your worst suspicions are about to be confirmed. I'm going into a trance. " Tension-relieving laughter.
      "Usually we do this EE business in a soundproofed room to avoid distraction. We relax in a kind of glorified barber's chair equipped with monitoring gadgets that tell what our brains and bods are up to while our minds go soaring through the blue empyrean... but that wouldn't do today. We want you to see how ordinary EE can be. But I warn you — don't cough or drop your pencils or crack chewing gum while I'm off, or I just might crumble to dust before your eyes like Dracula in the sun-light. "
      More laughter. Then total silence.
      Nigel had closed his eyes and was breathing slowly and deeply. Up on the giant video screen the American scientist and the talk-show hostess waited.
      "Ready, " said Nigel in a flat voice.
      Jamie spoke into his microphone. "You may go to the green room now, Lucius. "
      The California camera followed Kemp into the studio wings, where he vanished amidst a clutter of equipment. Then it swiveled back to Sylvia Albert and held. Twenty-six seconds clicked by on the digital display.
      Nigel's eyes opened. "Got it, " he said simply.
      Jamie went to the platform edge. "Would one of you be so kind as to pass up a sheet of paper and something to write with?"
      A BBC technical director thrust up a yellow sheet and a pencil. Jamie nodded his thanks and passed them on to Nigel, who scribbled energetically for a few minutes. Then he gave the sheet back to Jamie, who returned it to the BBC man, saying, "Hold on to that. We'll want you to read it shortly. "
      Almost nine thousand kilometers away, the two minutes having passed, Dr. Kemp was returning to the talk-show set leading two women and a man. The newcomers sat down at the glass table and placed their sealed envelopes in front of them.
      Sylvia Albert said, "May I present our guinea pigs! Lola McCafferty Lopez, Assistant District Attorney for San Francisco County; Maureen Sedgewick, Associate Editor of the San Francisco Chronicle; and Rabbi Milton Green of the B'nai B'rith Hillel Foundation of the University of California at Berkeley... Now, will you tell us what results you have, Professor MacGregor?"
      Jamie leaned down to the BBC crewman. "Sir, would you please read out what Dr. Weinstein wrote?" He reversed his microphone so that the tiny parabolic receiving dish at its tip was aimed at the technician.
      "First card, " came the man's voice clearly. "From a Monopoly game: GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL, DO NOT COLLECT $200. "
      The audience roared as on the screen, the attorney ripped open her multiple envelopes and showed the card. The cartoon face peering through bars loomed in an extreme close-up.
      "Second card, " the BBC man read. "Handwritten quote from Shakespeare: 'To be, or not to be: that is the question. ' "
      The Edinburgh audience was murmuring loudly. As the California camera zoomed in for the second confirmation the noise swelled to a clamor. Jamie lifted his arms. "Please! There's still Rabbi Green's card. "
      The BBC man read, "Picture postcard of planet Earth taken from space with handwritten note on back: 'Let there be light. ' "
      Instead, there was bedlam.
      The false reporter from the Helsingen Sanomat covered his face with his hands and groaned, "Yob tvoyu mat'!" Finster appended, "In spades, tovarishch. "
      While the hubbub quieted, Jamie gave brief thanks to the California participants and the screen blanked out. Almost immediately it was replaced by a new image, a stark newsroom desk backed by a station logo: TV-3 AUCKLAND. A comfortably homely man and a blond young woman with an abstracted Mona Lisa smile sat close together at one end of the desk. The time was 20:18.
      "Good evening, Professor MacGregor! Ron Wiggins here, with your graduate student Miss Alana Shaunavon, who flew in on Air New Zealand SST from London earlier today. Alana, tell us just a little bit about yourself. "
      "I'm a doctoral candidate in parapsychology at Edinburgh University, where I work with Professor Jamie MacGregor. There are thirty-two of us at the Unit, in various stages of training for EE — excorporeal excursion. I was chosen to come here and attempt to view a message written by a member of the audience there at the Edinburgh press conference. " Ron Wiggins gave a worldly chuckle. "Well, we'll give it a fair go!... And here to keep a sharp eye on things are Bill Drummond of the Auckland Star, Melanie Te Wiata of the New Zealand Herald, and Les Seymour of the Wellington Evening Post. "
      The camera panned over the scribes, who sat at the opposite end of the desk, looking aloof. Wiggins said, "As I understand it, Alana will leave her body here in Kiwi Land and attempt to project herself more than eighteen thousand kilometers to Scotland —"
      "Excuse me, " the girl interrupted firmly. The close-up showed eyes of a magnetic emerald green. Her voice was low and cajoling as she contradicted Wiggins. "It's really not like that, you know. Subjectively, I may feel as though I were traveling, but I don't — any more than we travel when we dream. Current metapsychic theory holds that the EE experience is a type of sensory response, like long-distance sight. Farsight. But it's not mystical, and my mind certainly doesn't leave my body. "
      "Mm, " Wiggins said. "Be that as it may, let me assure our witnesses here and overseas that we have no electronic means of viewing events there at the Edinburgh press conference. Furthermore, we aren't broadcasting this transmission to our national audience. It's a coded impulse beamed solely to Scotland via satellite. We are recording here for a later presentation, however, in conjunction with the material we expect to receive from our people on the scene in Edinburgh... And now, Alana, are you ready to begin?"
      "Yes. "
      Jamie spoke once again to the BBC man who had read Nigel's results aloud: "Sir, will you please select a colleague in your immediate vicinity to write our sample message for Alana?"
      "Right, " said the Beeb technician. "How about this Swiss bloke over here with the Hasselblad?"
      There was a brief wrangle when the Swiss seemed reluctant to cooperate, apparently perturbed when camera lenses were aimed in his direction by the TV crews of several dozen nations.
      Fabian Finster felt the skin along his spine tingle with the same uneasy premonition he had experienced earlier. He whispered to the KGB agent, "You know anything about that guy? Otto Maurer, his badge says, photographer for the Neue Zurcher Zeitung... but I have reasons to doubt that he's legit. "
      "He would not have been admitted without a computerized credential check. He is surely a bona fide journalist. As legitimate as you or I. "
      "Idi v zhopu, " scoffed The Fabulous Finster. The thunderstruck Russian gaped at him.
      Meanwhile, the Swiss had evidently complied with the request to pen a brief message. Jamie MacGregor was saying, "Thank you, Herr Maurer. Now if you will place the sheet of paper on the floor, face down. None of the people around you have seen what you've written?... Good. You must try not to think of it, either. EE seems to be an ultrasense quite distinct from telepathy. It also seems inconsequential what position the target object may be in, or what barriers of matter may lie between the target and the percipient. What we seek to demonstrate is that EE makes it possible for trained persons to remotely view virtually anything in any part of the world. "
      A wave of incredulous exclamations swept the hall. Somebody called out, "But if that's true, it means —"
      "Please!" Jamie held up his hand again. "Let us have the demonstration first, then the questions. "
      "I have already read the paper, " came the amplified voice of Alana Shaunavon. Her young face was enormous on the screen, the brilliant green eyes fixed, wide open, blinking slowly. "He has written a verse in German:

Die Gedanken sind frei,
Wer kann sie erraten?
Sie fliegen vorbei
Wie nδchtliche Schatten.
Kein Mensch kann sie wissen,
Kein Jδger erschiessen.
Es bleibet dabei: die Gedanken sind frei.

      I can translate it rather freely: Thoughts are free, who can discover them? They fly past like shadows of the night. No one can know them, no hunter can shoot them down. When all's said and done, thoughts —' My God, look out! His camera! It's a weapon!"
      A wild fracas broke out on the floor and there were shouts as the Swiss attempted vainly to rush away. But too many bodies and too much equipment hemmed him in and he went down, tackled by two intrepid Canadian Broadcasting Corporation telecasters. The lethal Hasselblad was wrestled away and smashed by a soundman of the Fuji Network. Plainclothes police officers materialized and camera crews leapt about balletically recording the capture.
      As Maurer was being hauled away, he screamed, "Fools! Cretins! Er hat Sie alles beschissen! Don't you know what's going on here? What this MacGregor has done? Um Gottes Willen... Pandora's box... ruin ... chaos... anarchy... Weltgetόmmel... "
      The uproar subsided slowly. Jamie spoke into his microphone and the screen was wiped clear of the New Zealand transmission. There was a burst of video clutter and then the simple advisory:

OVERSEAS TELEPHONE MESSAGE READY
AUDIO SIGNAL ONLY

      "Jamie? Jamie? I could not wait!" A woman's voice, speaking heavily accented English, came through a hiss of interference. "I saw everything — but then I became so excited that I lost the sight! Tell me — is everything all right?"
      The confusion subsided and the attention of the crowd of newspeople was drawn once again to the platform. Jamie MacGregor tugged at one of his Dundreary cheek-whiskers. His expression was resigned. "All is quite well for the moment, lass. But I think this wee carfuffle's only the beginning of what we'll be seeing anon. "
      "Yes, that's true... Are you ready for me to speak? I must not waste any time. We may be cut off at any moment if my little bypass of the monitored circuitry is traced. "
      Jamie said, "Just wait for a moment, while I ask our Edinburgh University communications people to show the journalists in our audience where this telephone call is coming from. "
      The loudspeakers trilled a brief electronic aria and the video display printed an advisory:

ORIGINATING: 68-23-79 ALMA-ATA USSR
VIA SKS-8 + EUS-02 GTE/BT 4-3

      The female voice said, "I am Tamara Petrovna Sakhvadze, Deputy Director of the Institute for Bioenergetic Studies at Kazakh State University, and a member of the Kazakh Academy of Sciences. "
      "Nevozmozhno!" A pained whisper escaped the false Hannula. Others in the lecture theatre seemed equally unbelieving and they sprang to their feet shouting questions.
      "Silence!" Jamie roared. Then he spoke gently into the microphone. "Tell us why you've joined the demonstration today, Tamara Petrovna. " "I am a person who loves my country and its people. I am also a scientist, dedicated to discovering truth. And finally, I am the mother of three small children whose minds are just beginning to flower. I have worked in the field of parapsychology since 1968, when I was only a young child. My late husband, Dr. Yuri Gawrys, was my close associate. Like Jamie MacGregor, I have specialized in the phenomenon of excorporeal  excursion, along with  clairvoyance  and  certain  other metafaculties. On several occasions, I have... met with Jamie and with certain other scientists in other parts of the world. When Jamie told me he was determined to demonstrate EE, I agreed with his decision. The work we are doing here in Alma-Ata falls under the highest security classification, and this telephone call is a technical violation of Soviet law. And yet I make it with the full consent of every one of my colleagues here at the Institute, in the interests of all humanity.
      "You people, listening to my words being beamed to you via many satellites, try to understand! You Americans, especially, listen! The whole world will benefit from what we do today. To my fellow citizens of the Soviet Union who hear me, I say: Eto novoye otkrytiye prinesyot polzu vsyemu chelovyechestvu! An extraordinary door is opening, and from behind it shines a light that does away with all state secrets. There can be no more clandestine weapons research, no surprise military actions, no first-strike capability. The people of the Soviet Union need no longer fear attack by the USA, and Americans need no longer fear us. We can now work to resolve our differences without the threat of accidental or deliberate nuclear war. Our children can look into the future with hope again. My children can... and Jamie's... and yours. "
      The voice paused, and the immediate response of those listening was like the upsurge of a tremendous rising wind, wordless, laden with emotional energy. But before the sound wave could crest, Jamie cried out, "Wait! Let her finish!"
      She said, "I was there with you, a witness to one man's despair. I saw his violent reaction when he realized what changes we must expect when the higher mind-powers come into common use. He was afraid. He warned of Pandora's box, and perhaps his warning is justified. 'Die Gedanken sind frei'... thoughts are free, but with freedom comes responsibility. There will be great difficulties to overcome if we are not to exchange one kind of danger for another. But the door is opened and nothing can close it! A new age of the mind has dawned on our planet and all of us must enter into it. We must face this terrible new enlightenment courageously, together. As a first step... I invite you, my dear Jamie, and all of the scientists in the world who study the higher mind-powers to come to a meeting — the First Congress on Metapsychology. I invite the journalists of the world also. Come to Alma-Ata next year, in September when the fragrance of ripening apples fills our lovely city. Come and let us take the first step toward mir miru — a world at peace. "
      "Tamara, my lass, we'll be there, " said Jamie MacGregor. Then he bowed his head to the tumult of shouting that erupted in the theatre and waited patiently until order was restored and he could begin answering the questions.

      After the press conference was long over, two foreigners with press ID badges still pinned to their raincoats sat together in Greyfriars Bobby's Bar, making steady inroads on a bottle of the Macallen. The astonishing news had spread like wildfire and the place was packed, rocking with song and jollification as students and other celebrators marked the arrival of the new age of the mind with an impromptu ceilidh that showed signs of escalating into a riot.
      "I never knew 'Comin' Through the Rye' had words like that. " The Fabulous Finster was slightly scandalized.
      "Hah, " said the KGB man. "You should hear the unexpurgated version of 'For A' That. ' Or 'Duncan Gray. ' Or 'Green Grow the Rashes, O!' Yes, the Scottish hero poet, Robert Burns, wrote very earthy songs. We are very fond of him in my country. He was truly of the proletariat. " He brought his glass down onto the tiny table with a thud and caroled in a raspy basso:

"Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The lassies they hae wimble-bores,
The widows they hae gashes, O!"

      The patrons gave a yell of approval. Somebody with an accordion tried to drag the Russian from his seat; but he shook his head violently, red-rimmed eyes gone wide, and croaked, "No! I will not sing! I cannot sing!"
      Nobody took it amiss. Usquebalian dejection is no novelty in an Edinburgh pub. The musical gilravagers directed their attention elsewhere and Finster refilled his companion's glass. "Drink up, Sergei, old hoss. I know why you're feeling low. To tell the truth, I'm a trifle shook-up myself. Talk about a bombshell! My Boss back home'll be farting flames. Yours, too, I betcha. "
      The Russian agent tossed down the dram and began to pour another. "You are talking nonsense. And my name is Sami, not Sergei. "
      Finster shrugged. He reached out, clamping the other man's hand tightly to the bottle, and leaned very close. His face was so friendly, so droll. With that gap between the large front teeth, the face seemed like that of a saucy squirrel in a cartoon show for children. Who could feel threatened by a squirrel?
      "Tell me honestly, Sergei. Do you think that dame in Alma-Ata will be able to pull it off? The open-door psychic congress? Or has she bought herself and her bunch a quick ticket to the Gulag?"
      It was not a comical squirrel asking such questions. It was not even a reporter from Seattle, U. S. A. Who was it? Why was it so necessary to answer this funny little man?
      "She was devilishly clever... Deputy Director Sakhvadze... just like a damned Georgian... knowing our countries still officially embrace dιtente... and we must uphold noble world-image... next year Diamond Jubilee Revolution!... Sakhvadze all but confesses she and her cohorts are involved in Mind Wars research... just as your scientists are also, belka!... What a joke on both our countries... we must fulfill the world's expectations of us now, like it or not... Die Gedanken sind frei und wir stehen bis zum Hals in der Scheisse... "
      The squirrel did not seem willing to believe this. "Do you mean your government is going to let her get away with it?"
      The tipsy KGB man laughed, then blew his nose resoundingly. Finster's coercion was no longer needed. "Little squirrel, she has already got away with it. In that lecture hall were perhaps forty television cameras, trained on MacGregor and his video screen. Sakhvadze's words and their origination were broadcast live to our people as well as to the rest of the world. We cannot claim her message was a hoax because its source in Alma-Ata can be verified easily by the computers of British Telecom. Doubtless this verification will also be trumpeted to the world via the free satellite transmissions... Oh, yes! The lovely Tamara Petrovna has caught both the Soviet and American governments by the balls, and she is on a downhill slide. The Cold War is over, thanks to the Scottish Professor. You and I are washed up, Amerikanskiy. You are not CIA — but whatever you are, you are finished. The soul-travelers and the mind readers will expose the most closely guarded secrets of our two nations as easily as cracking hazelnuts. There is nothing left for us but to become friends... just as Robert Burns wished. Yes, little squirrel! The proletarian poet of Scotland was a great prophet! Do you know what he said?

For a' that, and a' that,
It's comin' yet, for a' that!
That man and man the world o'er
Shall brothers be for a' that. "

      "Sure, " Finster agreed, smiling. "Sure, Sergei. One for all, and all for one. At least until we get rid of our mutual enemies. "

19
FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ROGATIEN REMILLARD

      WHEN THE LIVE telecast from Edinburgh ended at 7:00 A. M. Eastern Time I was in a state of near-mortal funk. I downed a neat tumblerful of Canadian Club sitting there in my armchair in front of the blank television screen while my brain kept replaying that scene of the crazed Swiss photographer screeching his Cassandra warning as the Scottish police hauled him away.
      Pandora's box! Oh, yes, indeed. It was opening wide to an amazed and fascinated world, and what was inside was us.
      I had to call Denis. I told myself it was to find out what plans he and his people had. On my first three tries, his home phone was busy; then
      I only got his answering machine. I called the lab and reached Glenn Dalembert, who had come in early to make a videotape of the Scottish demonstration.
      "Yeah, I got detailed for the scut-work while everybody else watched the big show in comfort at home. This afternoon we'll do a replay for the full Medical School faculty, together with learned commentary by yours truly and homegrown EE talent displays by Colette and Tucker. With Denis gone, I'll be in charge. Want a freebie ticket?"
      "Denis has gone where?" I demanded.
      "Down to West Lebanon. They're sending an Air Force chopper to shuttle him to Burlington International where the Washington flight will be held for him —"
      I cut Glenn off. "They? D'you mean those Mind Wars bastards roped Denis in after all?"
      My nephew's associate gave a strained laugh. "Oh, no. Nothing so picayune as the Army or the CIA this time. The President himself called Denis at home right after the telecast. Seems he read the book and was very impressed, and now he's pegged Denis as the guy most likely to give him the straight poop about the authenticity of MacGregor's blockbuster. "
      "Oh, shit, " I groaned. My nephew — the Kissinger of metapsychic realpolitik! He would be asked to help recruit American operants for MacGregor's noble scheme. He would certainly reveal his own operancy. Or would he?
      Glenn had turned solicitous. "Roger, is there something wrong?"
      "Everything's wrong. "
      "Listen — come to the faculty meeting and we'll talk. Better yet, join Colette and me for lunch —"
      "No thanks. You folks have a good time at the show-and-tell. I'll be just fine. " I hung up, then took the phone off the hook.
      Denis. He was the only one who could help. I could try to reach him at the airport by telephone... but that was no good. I wouldn't be able to say what was wrong...
      Farspeak him, then. Make the appeal mind-to-mind.
      I slouched over to the bedroom window and stood there in my pajamas and grubby old terry-cloth robe trying to marshal my booze-addled wits. It was not going to be easy to attract Denis's attention with the all-important telepathic "hail. " My mind was weakened and Denis would surely be preoccupied with the enormity of MacGregor's gamble and by the upcoming Oval Office meeting. Furthermore, the bulk of Crafts Hill lay between me and the West Lebanon Regional Airport, four miles south of Hanover. I would have to muster up sufficient strength to "flow" my mental shout around the hill and puncture my nephew's brown study. Once alerted, he would have no difficulty tuning in to my puny thought-beam.
      But how was I going to manage that initial hail?
      An idea slowly formed. One of my yogic exercises featured a spiral focusing of body energies spinning centripetally in toward the heart, which certain psychic authorities proposed as the vital center of the modern human being. This so-called in-spiraling chakra meditation had tended to promote feelings of comfort and power even in my beleaguered soul. I could do it. The reverse form of the exercise, the out-spiral, had carried a cautionary note for novices. It was alleged to have more drastic effects in the focusing of energies and was more difficult to control. Since additional psychic trauma was the last thing I had needed during the awful summer and fall, up until now I had given this particular form of meditation a firm miss. But it might just offer me my best shot at reaching Denis.
      I assumed the appropriate posture, one I had dubbed "Leonardo's X-Man, " still standing there at the window. I closed my eyes, shielded myself from external stimuli as best I could, and concentrated on the region of my heart. Far more than a mere blood-pump, the heart is also a gland whose secretions help in the regulation of the entire body. I tried to visualize it as the focus of my being, a receptacle of life-force and love. When there was a distinct knot of warmth behind my lower breastbone, I coaxed it out to begin a slow, tight, flattened curve. It moved to the left and downward, traversing my solar plexus. Gaining strength and speed, it spiraled smoothly up to the branching of the trachea and the thymal remnant, then arced left within the body's frontal plane. It dove down through my spleen, illuminated the suprarenals, and swung back up toward the thyroid in my throat — for the first time passing outside my body as the spiral widened. A long curve brought the still-meager ball of energy to the root of my spine, where lay the chakra that yogic tradition deemed one of the most vital. I felt a great influx of fresh power enlarge and accelerate the ball. It swung upward, seemed to blaze behind my closed eyes, and began its final swift circuit through the elbow of my extended left arm, through my left and right knees, through my right elbow. I was waiting as it flew toward the crown of my head and branded it with the impress of a single mental signature, adding a dollop of heavenly appeal as a sop to the faith of my fathers. Then I hurled it away from me, that cri de coeur vιritable:
      DENIS!
      Simultaneous with the farspoken hail came a terrific neural ignition, part orgasm and part high-voltage shock. My body convulsed and I fell heavily to the floor.
      [Images: Full-color 3-D Denis face stunned. Air Force helicopter open
      door blades windmill tearing fog fabric colored runway lights yellow Toyota Land Cruiser.]
      ???GoodGodUncleRogi??? What'sWRONG?
      ... sorry... trying hard get your attention...
      ! You almost blasted me off my feet whatinhell you upto I suppose Glenn told you WhiteHouse summons... !!!... HOW DID YOU DO THAT?
      [Image drenched in sheepishness.] Outspiral chakra Leonardo's X with cyclotronic kundalini embellishment... worked a little better than expected...
      Fuckingidiot! Don't you know that could be dangerous?
      Yes.
      Acute anxiety. Dammit bon sang d'imbιcile you leave thatstuff alone until we go over it together I really mean what I say!
      Yesyesyes but had to reach you had to... [image].
      Concern. EdinburghDemo provoked fear? Explain.
      [Concatenated images.]
      Uncle Rogi... what you need I can't do at a distance. But you must believe me when I tell you it will be all right. [Airman beckons inside chopper Denis nods ducks blades scurries into aircraft door shuts airman orders seat belt signals pilot upup&away.]
      Denis... what President want?
      You can probably guess: my analysis assessment Scottelecast. Legit? Practicable solution armsrace? Howmany EEops potential US/USSR/ Scotland/Elsewhere? When online? Any chance Russ have jump on us already emplace their Psi-Eye?
      Psi-Eye!
      Prexyname ever the GreatSalesman. Fortunately can tell him Russ EEprogram controlled by Tamara [kiss!] she deceived Politburo re her project readiness so not emplaced. Russ EEops all peaceniks group purged of GRU/KGB/opportunist/fanatic heads last decade. Now Russ operants tend antiestablishment because "elitist phenom operancy" remains suspect under Marxist dogmatism. Tamara will see to honest observer team setup. There will be no war.
      That was never my worry. Too selfish...
      Then?
      [Projected image: Screaming figure waving camera disappears beneath bodycrush hauled up handcuffed dragged away.] Pandora's box ruin chaos anarchy and worse OUR EXPOSURE OURS DENIS!
      Difficult days yes there will have to be economic summits global cooperation in many other psychaffected areas —
      You don't understand yet what I've driving at! We will be pawns manipulated hated the coercers willbe offered power over others —
      This won't happen. Do you think we haven't anticipated such a thing? It was dealt with in the longrange plan that had to be scrapped but we will preserve our freedom and dignity. President wants set up MetaBrainTrust. Public. Plan for best use other operant faculties besides EE goodofcountry goodofworld. Guess who invited to be chairman?
      ! You had to write that goddam book.
      Relax. My forte research not administration. I'll decline with humblethanks let Brawley of Stanford or The Astronaut sit in Washington metahotseat.
      How can you not listen when 900-lb canary sings?
      Laughter. Now you know why I had no photo on bookjacket Metapsychology. All President has to do is take look at me [image] would YOU entrust Third Millennium diplomacy to halfbaked egghead twerp?... I'm safe plan propose myself special advisor sortof GrandYoungMan metapsychology.
      Denis... are you going to tell him that you're operant?
      Yes. I'm sorry Uncle Rogi... for your sake. But soonerorlater we have to come out with it.
      Despair. Later. Much later.
      Yes... I argued JamieMacGregor pleaded caution wanted postpone until operants numerous more organized for selfpreservation and my training normals ? operancy proved feasible. But MacGregor cited increasing peril globalwar... and another factor. He said: We are all members humanrace survive or perish together no Homosapiens vs Homosuperior only Homoterrestris. Earth Man.
      Resignation. Bitterness. Still terrible gamble Godsake nobody seriously believes Russ planning launch WorldWarIII —
      That was not deciding factor. I told you there was something else. Someone tried to kill Jamie in April. He was afraid his whole group endangered so decided to go to ground do demo soonest. His attacker not KGB/GRU/CIA/XXX. He was another powerful operant.
      Jesus Christ.
      Man coerced Jamie into darkalley physique metarendered fuzzy aimed tubething at paralyzed Jamie apologetic implacability just then muscleman in duffelcoat came scared off assailant was not affected coercion nextday Jamie examined alley found needle later analyzed coated deadly poison ricin favorite assassins no other clue attacker... or rescuer. Damn worrying.
      Operant crooks in Scotland! So NewHampshire doesn't have monopoly afterall. [Familiar image quickly erased.]
      Jamie says coercive ability assassin formidable. Disguising of appearance interesting jibes with my currentstudies creativity —
      The mysterious power to cloud men's minds. The Shadow knows!... Or are you too young to know that nonsense?
      I've heard classic radiotapes. But apparently attacker not really invisible or passerby might not have saved Jamie. Affair peculiar. If not metagovernmentagent (impossible we would know) then who?
      Wild card. Odd John had one. Psychometa.
      Jamie positive attacker sane.
      You intend tell President metavillains atlarge?
      Will mention possibility. But this minor compared to prospect end nucleardeterrent.
      MacGregor figure he's safe now?
      He thinks now Psi-Eye scheme revealed danger minimal. Actually SwissBankAgentfakephotographer had best motive for offing Jamie. Perhaps metassassin another of theirs. Governments not only ones with valuable secrets.
      Be sure you tell President that. Eventually we'll need bodyguards and they come expensive.
      Hogwash.
      Pauvre innocent! Go go carry out great mission pray Goodness triumphs... Were other academiclights also summoned President? He said no. Maybe later.
      Hah. So that's wayofit. By time you return Dartmouth you famous inspiteofself President will see to it whetherornot you agree head
      BrainTrust.
      Humor. It was the book. Talking heads come&go but if you write book you are AUTHORity.
      Laughter. Easing.
      ... Uncle Rogi we're approaching Burlington International. Please try not to worry. When I get home you must let me try to help you. (Yes yes I know how could I not tu es mon pθre!) Other Remillards all over US&Canada will find selves in your position after I exit metacloset. Most of them will cheerfully admit they haven't a metafaculty to save their lives. You can too. But it would be best if you didn't conceal your powers. Best for you for all operants as well. We must hurry day when operancy commonplace as musical/artistic/intellectual talent similarly unthreat to normals — damn! — there I go we're just as normal as they are aren't we?
      Pour sϋr. [?]
      Nonoperants will realize in time that they have nothing to fear from us.
      But they do.
      Oh Uncle Rogi.
      ... and we have even more to fear from them. We're outnumbered.
      Exasperation. If you spent some time with us at the lab you'd know we're finding ways to... neutralize... antagonists. Peaceful ways. You and your oneman stand! You don't have to face this alone can't you see the only way is through solidarity even nonoperants know a lonemind is doomed there must be two or three or more loving for Love to heal and initiate transcendence please please monpθre don't shut us out —
      We'll discuss later. Smallthing compared momentous events demanding your attention. You must not be distracted.
      We are landing... Please Uncle Rogi please join us. [Guile.] You will ease my mind.
      Will think over carefully. Bon voyage et bonne chance mon fils.

      I stood looking out the window. Outside, the morning mist was burning away and the streetlights had gone out. I was hungry, very nearly cheerful, but still perversely determined to best my inner demons in single combat. I would certainly have to find out just what self-defensive maneuvers Denis and his people had discovered, but as to joining with them — letting Denis into the secret parts of my mind — it was impossible. A Franco father cannot stand naked before his son.
      As I stared at the passing cars below and the students hurrying up Main Street toward their early classes a mundane thought stole into my skull. If the presidential favor did confer fresh notoriety upon my nephew, there would surely be a great new demand for copies of Metapsychology. If I called the jobbers in Boston with a rush order, I could get a leg up on the competition at the big Dartmouth Bookstore down the street. And when Denis returned, I might prevail on him to do a signing session. He had never autographed copies of his book before, but he might agree to help me out.
      Just as I was turning away from the window my eyes focused upon the glass itself. I swore mildly. Some damn kid with a BB-gun must have been taking pot shots at squirrels. There was a small hole neatly drilled in one of the upper panes. But it was a strange hole, lacking the typical halo crater produced by the impact of a missile, and there were no cracks radiating from it. It was about a quarter of an inch in diameter and the edges were not sharp, but smooth. Perplexed, I studied the tiny opening, which was above my eye level. Then I went to a drawer in the kitchen and got a tape measure.
      The hole was six feet two inches above the floor, my exact height in bare feet. I felt a blob of warmth begin to form again behind my ribs. Wondering, I touched the top of my head.
      Surely not. But on the other hand...
      Denis would no doubt be eager to test it. Should I agree? Why not, provided the rest of my mind was left inviolate? I chuckled at the thought of the consternation this "mind-zap" power would provoke among the academics. Nothing in any of my readings on parapsychology had prepared me for an effect such as this, nor had there been any mention of it in the lengthy catalog of higher mental phenomena in Denis's book. Not only was my zapping new, it was also fraught with possibility...
      How d'you like them apples, Donnie? Maybe you better rest in peace if you know what's good for you, mon frιrot!
      I went to the telephone. It was after 8:30 and the book jobber in Boston would be open. I decided to triple the order I had originally decided upon. Denis would beef about the autograph session, but he'd cooperate.
      Now I was certain of it.

20
ALMA-ATA, KAZAKH SSR, EARTH
24 OCTOBER 1991

      ANY OTHER GENERAL Secretary would have commanded her immediate presence in Moscow before a Star Chamber tribunal. It was a mark of this man's populist style, and his shrewdness in dealing with the often nonconformist scientific element, that he came to her. He dismissed his hovering aides, sat casually in front of her desk in the small corner office of the Institute for Bioenergetic Studies at Kazakh State University, and chatted about the weather.
      Tamara served him tea without hurrying. Afterward she did not resume her normal seat behind the desk but pulled up a side chair next to him. They could both look out the window and see the high Tien Shan's white rampart in the south. The day was brilliant, but the first storm of the season was forecast for tomorrow. He would decline the preferred hospitality of the Kazakh Party Secretary and fly back to Moscow tonight.
      "And tell the comrades of the Politburo your elucidation of the Edinburgh Demonstration, " he concluded, sipping the tea. "Delicious. "
      "I have prepared a prιcis of our work on excorporeal excursion. " She smiled winsomely, a plump, dark-eyed woman whose shining red hair was worn in a tidy knot, and indicated a sealed portfolio on the desk. "It also contains recommendations for the speedy establishment of a corps of psychic observers. I will be honored to cooperate in its deployment, of course. "
      He eyed her over the rim of the tea glass. "Of course. I daresay we couldn't do without you... "
      She shrugged. "I know my people and their capabilities. This EE business is often more of an art than a science. You understand that the operants will require congenial working conditions in order to do their work properly. They are loyal Soviet citizens — you have my word of honor on it — but fully committed to peace. "
      The General Secretary sighed. "This is going to be difficult. "
      "For us, " she said, "it has been difficult for twenty-five years. "
      The General Secretary finished his tea and took up the portfolio. Unsealing it, he leafed through the papers. After a few minutes of silence, he said, "You were not at all surprised to see me come here, Comrade Doctor. "
      "I confess that I was curious about the reaction of the Politburo to the Edinburgh Demonstration, as were all of my people. We did not think you would panic, but we had to be sure. "
      "Radi Boga! You spied on us!"
      "And on the American President and his advisers, and on the leaders of the People's Republic of China, and on the Pope. "
      "The Pope?" The General Secretary was taken aback. "What did he do?"
      "He wept, Mikhail Semyonovich. "
      "And so did Comrade Dankov of the KGB, " the Secretary muttered. "You will be interested to know — if you don't already — that the ever-vigilant comrades on Dzerzhinsky Square were foreskinned to a marked degree at your personal participation in the Edinburgh Demonstration. Dankov demanded the immediate liquidation of you and your entire cadre of wizards. It seems you have deceived your KGB sponsors rather spectacularly. "
      "It was a matter of survival... "
      "As you know, Dankov was made to see reason. There was greater difficulty with the Defense Council. Marshal Kumylzhensky pushed for a pre-emptive nuclear strike. This is still a serious option if we do not have a competent EE inspection team to balance that in the West. "
      "We have sixty-eight EE adepts, most with global faculties. It is an adequate number. The combined EE adepts of the West number more than eighty — over thirty in Britain, perhaps forty-five in the USA. There are also scattered groups of neutralist percipients in other countries. Their numbers will grow, as will our own. "
      The little office was becoming chilly with the close of day, but the General Secretary's balding head had a gleam of sweat. "The militarist lunatics were voted down resoundingly for now. The Politburo knows that the present euphoric mood of our people would never countenance a first strike — no more than it would allow the psychics to be harmed. The people demand — demand! — that MacGregor's proposal be implemented. "
      "There was dancing in the streets of Alma-Ata, " Tamara said. "And in Moscow. And everywhere throughout the Soviet Union! By allowing them to view that telecast — and we are investigating that, too! — we have indeed opened the door to a new age. But that age may not be golden, as you and your idealistic associates hope, Tamara Petrovna. You know that I have been striving for years now to upgrade our faltering economy, to instill a new spirit of industry and progress into our people, to control military adventurism, to fight the ingrained corruption, the laziness, the despair infecting our youth... And now, suddenly, there is this! Our enemies all around us will be thwarted in aggression by the psychic observers. The people will expect drastic disarmament initiatives. They will believe that reductions in our huge defense budget will bring about improved domestic conditions. For a while, they will wait patiently for this to come about. Perhaps they will wait as long as a decade, distracted by our travels to Mars and other wonders. But then... "
      "I read your subvocal thoughts, Comrade General Secretary. We are not a unified nation. Discipline and right order have up until now been preserved among our disparate ethnic elements primarily through the Great Russian bureaucracy, and the people's determination to stand fast and defend the Motherland against the common enemy. "
      Smoothly, he took up the skein of his own thoughts again. "But without that enemy to distract us, the masses will look more critically at the kind of life they live — at the inefficiencies of our system, at the often unjust decrees of the central power structure, at our economy based upon obsolete philosophic principles that falls further and further behind the other industrialized nations of the world... Look into your crystal ball, Tamara Petrovna, you and your psychic colleagues with your shining dream of peace for the future! Will we have that peace in the Soviet Union? Will we be able to adapt fast enough to avoid catastrophe?"
      She turned her face away abruptly, lips tightening. "I don't know. Sometimes I do see the future. And far away... years from now... there is a great change, a time of expanding horizons, when our people will help to colonize the stars as we now seek to colonize Mars... But the near future? I do not see that, Comrade General Secretary. Thank God I do not. The job of guiding our nation through the last perilous years of this twentieth century is yours, not mine — and I also thank God for that. Now take the portfolio with the details of the psychic-oversight scheme, and do what you must. "
      "While you watch, " he said.
      She rose from her chair, turning her back on him, and looked out at the gleaming mountains. "While the world watches. "

21
FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ROGATIEN REMILLARD

      THE SPECIFICS OF the EE monitoring plan were promptly delivered to both Washington and Moscow, and a Summit was scheduled. The much-battered Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty was dusted off, updated, and promised to an exultant world as a Christmas present.
      In the United States, the emplacement of Psi-Eye was considered a fait accompli by the general public — and the White House did nothing to discourage the impression, nor did the Soviets. Most people were happy to believe that vigilant American EE adepts (inevitably dubbed pEEps] had settled in on the job immediately following the Scottish telecast. There were "Big Brother Is Watching You" jokes and voyeuristic editorial cartoons, however, and a tentative panic on Wall
      Street that was quashed by the President in a brilliant personal appeal. Some nay-sayers recalled the madman who had tried to shoot MacGregor with a camera-gun, whose identity was released to the press by the British only after a question had been raised in Parliament. By and large, however, the United States reacted with happy exuberance to the Psi-Eye scheme. It was seen as a virtually foolproof reprieve from nuclear doomsday. The identities (and the numbers) of the pEEps were kept secret, of course; but everyone knew that they were en garde night and day, keeping a mind's eye out for potential Kremlin button-pushers — at the same time that their noble Russian opposite numbers scrutinized the U. S. Joint Chiefs sulking impotently in the Pentagon war-room.
      In actuality, neither the American nor the Soviet authorities achieved a working psychic monitoring effort for nearly three months, until early 1992. There were endless niggling details to be resolved, the most critical of which was: Where do you look? As in the classic BEWARE OF THE DOG sign ploy, however, the mere proclamation of Psi-Eye was as good as its actuality. Neither of the superpowers was willing to risk being caught out trying to steal a march on the other — and although the Americans and Soviets might have had doubts about each other's Psi-Eye capability, they had none whatsoever about Scotland's. At the close of the Edinburgh Demonstration, Jamie MacGregor had remarked offhandedly that the University's independent psychic surveillance team of thirty-two EE adepts was already at work, and would be issuing regular press releases of selected U. S. and Soviet military secrets. The team's revelations were far from sensational; they were not intended to be. But they did provide a continual reminder to the world that excorporeal excursion was a reality, and inspired the two superpowers to get on with the right stuff. Both the Soviet Union and the United States behaved with unblemished probity throughout the Summit talks, the SALT signing and ratification, and the initiation of nuclear disarmament. The threats to world peace came from entirely different directions.
      Here in the United States, a groundswell from burdened taxpayers called for an immediate halt to military spending. The few remaining Congressional hawks, the fundamentalist Red-haters, and the as yet insignificant numbers of meta-skeptics had their objections steamrollered into oblivion. The President, shrewd as ever in his response to consumer demand, hailed Tamara Sakhvadze's call for a World Congress on Metapsychology, and then proposed that the United States host a sister international conference on shared high technology. The Soviet General Secretary said that his nation would eagerly participate in both meetings. Then he suggested that Professor Jamie MacGregor be nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.
      My nephew Denis was closeted with the President for nearly a week, briefing him on virtually every aspect of current metapsychic research. He also testified before the House Committee on Science and Technology, the Senate Armed Services Committee, and a full meeting of the Cabinet. He would accept only an advisory appointment to the Presidential Commission on Metapsychology, but promised to consult with the Meta Brain Trust on a regular basis.
      Figuratively crowned with laurel and trailed by belling newshounds, Denis returned to Dartmouth intending to get back to his researches. It was a vain hope. Post-Edinburgh and post-Washington, he and his little establishment became very big news indeed. Now prestigious foundations stampeded to Dartmouth's door, proffering endowments; and these, unlike the tainted Pentagon grants that Denis had helped to discredit during the Mind Wars scandal, were accepted "for the good of Dartmouth College and for the advancement of metapsychology as a whole. "
      There would be no more dodging of the media, either. Submitting to the inevitable, Denis put his associate Gerard Tremblay in charge of the lab's public affairs. At that time, the vivacious former granite-quarryman was thirty-one years old and had taken his M. D. just three years earlier. In spite of his Franco heritage, he was the member of the Coterie that I liked least. He was a fiery, good-looking fellow with intense presence; but I had always thought him a bit of a brown-nose, suspecting that his obsequious manner might be compensation for an unconscious envy of my nephew. My suspicions were to be eventually confirmed. But until he precipitated the disastrous Coercer Flap during President Baumgartner's second term, Tremblay did an outstanding job coping with the media, with curious politicians, and with the many national and international organizations that suddenly focused their attention on the shoestring research establishment at 45 College Street, Hanover, New Hampshire.
      Tremblay's first PR triumph took place in November 1991, with the interview of Denis by the investigative news program 60 Minutes. CBS was prepared to devote the entire hour-long telecast to metapsychology's Wunderkind. The interview would be combined with a tour of the Dartmouth facility and would show the actual testing of operant subjects, who would remain anonymous. Denis's lab was a prime media target because it had always remained off-limits to journalists during the blizzard of publicity attending the publication of Metapsychology. Heaven only knows what kind of Frankenstein shenanigans the 60 Minutes people hoped to uncover. As it happened, the program was destined to be nearly as memorable as MacGregor's Edinburgh shocker... only this time I was there, doing my thing in front of the network cameras, and daring the world to make something of it.

22
EXCERPTS FROM THE  CBS-TV
PUBLIC AFFAIRS PROGRAM 60 Minutes

17 NOVEMBER  1991

FADE IN
BG STILL SHOT (MATTE) EXT DARTMOUTH RESEARCH FACILITY
A picturesque, rather dilapidated three-storey New England saltbox building, dark gray; resembling a barn on side of wooded hill, it looms almost ominously above a stretch of rain-wet pavement and is framed by bare-branched trees. In FG of MATTE stands reporter CARLOS MORENO, whose hard-hitting questions, mobile woolly-bear eyebrows, and divergent squint have often provoked unexpectedly revealing responses from even the most guarded interviewees.
TITLE AND CREDIT ROLL

SUPERMINDS AMONG US!
Produced by Jeananne Lancaster

CARLOS MORENO
      
      (addressing viewers)
Tonight we conclude our special three-week investigation of the startling new developments in psychic research by meeting a scientist who is acknowledged throughout the world to be one of the most influential in the field. He heads this laboratory at Dartmouth College in New Hampshire... a place that has been, up until now, completely off-limits to reporters. 60 Minutes will be taking you inside this deceptively modest building, the workplace of the man who was described by the President of the United States as "the most awesome person I have ever met, an authentic supermind"... But first, let's meet him in a more conventional setting...
INT BOOKSHOP
Begin with ECU of DENIS REMILLARD, with downcast eyes; then SLOW REVERSE ZOOM to a FULL SHOT of him sitting at table in ELOQUENT PAGE BOOKSHOP signing volumes for a crowd of CUSTOMERS who include students in Dartmouth sweat shirts, professional types, working-class types, retirees. Remillard is slight of physique, blondish, with a pleasant, shy smile. He wears tweed jacket with shirt and tie, exchanges inaudible comments with his fans during MORENO VOICE OVER.
MORENO (VOICE OVER)
Denis Remillard looks more like a graduate student than an Associate Professor of Psychiatry at an Ivy League school. He is only twenty-four years old and he has always shunned publicity — even after his book, Metapsychology, leaped to Number One on national best-seller lists last year. Unlike the other psychic researchers we've interviewed during this series, Denis Remillard doesn't concentrate on narrow areas of mind-study. Instead, he's a theoretician who has tried to fit the puzzling higher mental powers into a larger context.
CU REMILLARD
REMILLARD
I think my book was a success because people are very open to new ideas now. Things that our grandparents would have called absurd — like traveling to Mars — are reality. But the New Physics shows us that even reality itself isn't what common sense says it ought to be!
(quizzical boyish grin, eyes averted)
The universe isn't just space and time, matter and energy. You have to fit life into a valid Universal Field Theory — and mind as well. That's basically what my book is all about. Theoretical physicists and life-scientists have known for quite a while that the old view of the universe as a kind of supermachine just doesn't work. It doesn't explain the natural phenomena we experience, and it especially doesn't explain the higher mind-powers, which have never fitted into a conventional biophysical format.
INT BOOKSHOP — CLOSE SHOT MORENO
Remillard and his fans visible in BG as CAMERA MOVES BACK.
MORENO
(addressing viewers)
As he autographs copies of his book here in Hanover, New Hampshire, in a little shop owned by his Uncle Roger, Denis Remillard hardly seems to fulfill one's expectation of a world-renowned psychologist — much less a supermind. But he was the first person summoned to be a presidential consultant on psychic affairs following the sensational Edinburgh Demonstration. He declined the chairmanship of the President's recently organized blue-ribbon Advisory Commission on Metapsychology... But he has agreed to head the American delegation to Alma-Ata in the Soviet Union, where researchers from dozens of nations will meet next year to discuss the practical applications of mind-power... And last week, Remillard's lab was singled out for a ten-million-dollar grant from the Vangelder Foundation. The allocation has been earmarked for an investigation into ways whereby ordinary people — people like you and me —might someday be able to learn the amazing mental feats that Denis Remillard has studied and written about... feats that he himself performs.
MEDIUM SHOT — REMILLARD, UNCLE ROGER, FEMALE FAN Remillard's CONVERSATION with his Uncle, who has brought over a fresh supply of books for autographing, and the young Female Fan is audible at LOW VOLUME under MORENO V. O.
MORENO (V. O. )
Yes... it's true. Vouched for by no less an authority than the President of the United States. Not only is Professor Denis Remillard a distinguished psychic researcher, but he also possesses extraordinary mind-powers himself!
REMILLARD
(looks up from book to Fan)
Well, it's not the kind of thing one brags about or shows off in bars. But... yes, I am what we call metapsychically operant.
FEMALE FAN
(hesitantly)
Do you mean... you can read my mind?
REMILLARD
(laughs)
Certainly not. Not unless you deliberately try to project a thought-sequence at me. However, I am aware of the general emotional tenor of your mind. That you're not hostile, for instance. That you're fascinated by the idea of higher mind-powers.
FAN
Oh, I am! It would be marvelous to do things like soul-traveling or telepathy or that mind-over-matter thing... whatchacallit?
REMILLARD
Psychokinesis.
FAN
That's it. Just imagine being able to go to Las Vegas and clean up!
The rest of the CUSTOMERS laugh and murmur at this.
REMILLARD
(patiently)
But I can't, you know. Even if I were dishonest enough to try to manipulate slot machines or dice or a roulette wheel with my mind — how long would it take the casino owners to catch on? I'd be tossed out on my ear... at the very least.
More laughs and murmurs from CUSTOMERS.
FAN
But... then what good are the powers?
REMILLARD
You might ask Professor Jamie MacGregor that... Actually, I find my own metafaculties most useful in conducting experiments. I can compare my own reactions to those of the test subjects in psychokinesis training, for example.
FAN
(interrupts, gushing)
Ooh, Professor, do you suppose — ? I mean, would it be an awful imposition if you showed us? I mean, I've seen it done on TV by those Russians, but to see you do it live...
CUSTOMERS
(ad lib exclamations)
Hey!... Wow!... Would you?... Super!... Please!
REMILLARD
(indulgently)
And Mr. Carlos Moreno told you to ask me — right?
FAN
Uh... I'd really appreciate it.
CU REMILLARD looking sardonically into camera. For the first time we see that his eyes are effulgent blue, almost glowing within their deep orbits.
REMILLARD
Your camera crew is quite ready?... Well, PK is one of the least significant metafaculties, so I guess I don't mind doing a small demonstration. After all, we can't let the Scots and the Russians garner all the kudos... Why don't I use these copies of my book?
MEDIUM SHOT. Remillard takes a volume, turns it so that front cover faces camera. He balances book precariously on one corner of its cover, takes hands away, and leaves book poised sur la pointe.
Now it's impossible to balance a book like this, right? Defies the law of gravity.
He balances another book on top of the first, also on its corner. The books do not tremble or totter; they are rock-solid.
And if we balance another book on that... and then a third... and then a fourth...
He does so.
... You know I must be either holding the books up with mind-power, or else I'm some kind of a [BLEEP]ing magician. And if I then extract the bottom book...
He does so, leaving the three upper books hanging in thin air.
... and the top trio remains there, then you have to be positive that something rather out of the ordinary is going on.
CUSTOMERS
(ad lib exclamations, applause)
How about that!... Sheesh!... Eat your heart out, Houdini!
Remillard shrugs. The three books in the air tumble to the table with a clatter. His UNCLE ROGER, the bookshop owner, a beanpole with graying hair and a youthful face, steps forward looking humorously indignant. Camera CLOSES ON HIM.
UNCLE ROGER
Is that any way to treat books? All you have to do is write them. I have to sell them!
He extends his hands and beckons solicitously. All four books fly off the table to him. He grasps them and forms them into neat stack.
CUSTOMERS
(ad lib shouts, a feminine squeal)
God!... Holy [BLEEP]!... You see that?... Sonuvagun!
UNCLE ROGER
You didn't know? Sorry. My nephew should have told you that it runs in the family.

[SCRIPT PAGES OMITTED]

TWO     SHOT — STEADICAM     FOLLOWING     MORENO     AND REMILLARD
Emerging from TELEPATHY EVALUATION CHAMBER, they walk down HALLWAY toward Remillard's OFFICE, continuing conversation begun in chamber.
REMILLARD
Only persons who already possess strong latencies for metafunctions can reasonably expect to develop into operants after training. It's like any other kind of talent: singing, for example. One must first be born with a proper set of vocal cords. Then the person might become a talented amateur without training. Usually, however, the voice must be trained. The singer practices for years, and with luck a great singer might result. But nobody can make an opera singer out of a person who lacks the right vocal cords, or who is tone-deaf. And you can't make a really competent vocalist out of someone who hates to sing,
or who suffers from terminal stage fright.... It's a similar thing when you work to raise a latent metafunction to operancy. Some will fail to make it, and some — we hope! — will sing at the Met.
MORENO
(frowning)
Then all human beings don't have the potential for developing these higher mind-powers?
REMILLARD
Of course not — any more than all people can become great opera singers. This is why my proposal to test all Americans for latent mind-powers is so important. The powers are a national resource. We must discover who among our citizens have the potential for becoming operant — then give them proper training.
MORENO
Sort of like the Astronaut Program?
REMILLARD
Yes... but enrolling both children and adults. Let me try to clarify the concept of latency for you. Our studies have shown that everyone is metapsychically latent to a certain extent. The strength of the latency may vary from power to power. Dick may be strongly latent in telepathy and weak in the healing faculty, while Jane is just the opposite. With hard work, we may make an operant telepath of Dick and an operant healer of Jane. But their weaker latencies may never amount to anything.
MORENO
Suppose I was a latent telepath. Could you make me operant?
REMILLARD
Maybe. Keep in mind that there's no hard and fast line between latency and operancy, though. Maybe you're a natural — what we call a suboperant. All you need is a bit of practice and you're able to broadcast telepathically to the Moon. But suppose your potential is weak. We might train you till your skull warps — but discover that your operant telepathic radius is only half a meter in diameter. Or you can only broadcast at night when the sun's ionization of the atmosphere is minimal, and even then only when you're completely relaxed and rested. You'd be an operant, technically speaking, but your metafaculty wouldn't be very useful. Except possibly for pillow talk.
MORENO
(smiles briefly)
You mention factors that can inhibit operancy, like ionization. Does this mean that there are ways to screen out telepaths — or stop them from using their powers?
REMILLARD
We're only beginning to discover ways to do this. It's very hard to foil
the ultrasenses, such as excorporeal excursion and telepathy, that don't seem to require much expenditure of psychic energy. Things like psychokinesis, on the other hand, can be rather easily frustrated by external factors. And internal, subjective factors can be even more inhibitory.
TRACK INTO REMILLARD'S OFFICE
Angle favoring door as Remillard ushers Moreno inside. The office furniture is old, academic-shabby. Extensive wall bookcases overflowing with books and papers. Computer terminal. Wall hologram of human brain. Painting of Mount Washington, New Hampshire. And everywhere — on desk, shelves, brackets, floor — PLANTS growing luxuriantly.
MORENO
(looking around) 
Quite a conservatory you have here, Professor. You must have a green thumb.
REMILLARD
(examining droopy plant on desk)
Actually, it's more like a green mind, I guess. Now this poor little Paphiopedilum really needs mental TLC, so I keep it close by and let it share my aura as well as the occasional healing thought.
He sits down and motions Moreno to a seat.
MORENO
(puzzled)
Your aura?
REMILLARD
(seeming vaguely annoyed with himself)
The bioenergetic field that surrounds my body — and that of every other living thing. Plants included.
MORENO
(nods, as if suddenly recalling)
It seems to me I've read that certain people can even see the aura that surrounds others... Can you see auras?
REMILLARD
Yes. If I concentrate on it.
MORENO
What do auras look like? What does mine look like?
CU REMILLARD
He is cupping his hands about the sick orchid plant and staring at it with mild intensity.
REMILLARD
Auras look something like glowing, colored halos that pulse and change. Healthy plants usually have a golden halo. Animals and people have more varied colors. Operants have halos that look bright to another operant who concentrates on viewing them. Since you're latent, Mr. Moreno, your aura is quite faint. It's reddish, shot through with flashes of violet.
MORENO (V. O. )
Does the color of a person's aura have any significance?
REMILLARD
We haven't worked out precise correlations yet. The individual aural coloration tends to vary according to mood, health, and the kind of mental activity being engaged in.
MORENO (V. O. )
Any particular significance to my red and purple?
REMILLARD
(looking blandly into camera)
I'd prefer not to comment on that today.
TWO SHOT — MORENO AND REMILLARD
Favoring Remillard and taking in the striking hologram of the brain.
MORENO
(in brisk mood switch)
We were discussing things that can inhibit the operation of the higher mind-powers... I suppose things like liquor, drugs, fatigue, illness — they'd all have an adverse effect on operancy, wouldn't they?
REMILLARD
Oh, yes. If anything, the higher faculties are even more sensitive to such things than the lower ones. But there are all kinds of other factors that can diminish one's operancy as well. For example, what the lay person calls mental blocks.
MORENO
Can you clarify?
REMILLARD
Let's take a more common mind function like memory. We've all experienced forgetfulness. Suppose I'm sitting next to a lady at a dinner party and I can't remember her name. Now why is that? Am I eighty-seven years old — in which case my forgetfulness is to be expected? No, I'm young and compos mentis. But no matter how much I exert my will power, I just can't remember. A psychoanalyst might come up with any number of reasons why. Perhaps the lady is an old flame who jilted me many years ago. Perhaps her name is the same as that of my Internal Revenue Service auditor! Or perhaps the problem is simply a very difficult foreign name that I failed to concentrate on when the lady and I were introduced. Any one of those rather subtle factors could inhibit memory. Metafunctions can be inhibited similarly.
MORENO
How about emotions? Anger, say. Or fear. If a person with strong metafunctions was afraid of the reactions others might have — afraid of hostility — could that make his powers go latent?
REMILLARD
It's possible. A strongly hostile or skeptical group of observers can also inhibit displays of metafunction.
MORENO
Have you ever experienced a diminishing of your own mind-powers because of emotional influences?
REMILLARD
(hesitating)
No. If anything, the adrenalin released by my body in response to such emotions would tend to reinforce my metafaculties. But then, I've been using the powers all my life, from the time I was an infant. When we begin training small children to operancy, we'll probably find that their higher faculties will remain usefully operant under all but the most extreme inhibitory conditions. After all — you yourself are seldom too shocked to speak. Or to see or hear. Or even to react in an emergency.
CU MORENO
MORENO
This testing and training program you advocate. Some people might say it had certain dangers. We'd be setting up a kind of elite mind-corps, wouldn't we? One that might eventually feel justified in seeking political power on the basis of their superior mentality.
TWO SHOT
REMILLARD
I don't think there's any danger of that.
MORENO
Oh?... Do you mean these operants would think politics was beneath them?
REMILLARD
(impatiently)
Certainly not. But there are so many other jobs to do that operants would find more satisfying. Einstein didn't run for President, you know.
CU MORENO
MORENO
(suddenly)
Do you, as a powerful operant, feel superior to normal people?
CU REMILLARD
REMILLARD
(again looking at plant, frowning)
The way you've phrased that question is somewhat inimical. Does a concert violinist feel superior to the audience? Does a mathematician feel superior to a cordon-bleu chef? Does a librarian with an eidetic memory feel superior to an absent-minded professor who won a Nobel Prize?
(lifts eyes and speaks deliberately)
Mr. Moreno, we all do things we know are wrong... like harbor prejudices to boost our insecure egos. One can suffer from shaky self-esteem no matter how well educated or how poorly educated one happens to be. Even television journalists can show bias for or against people they interview... I don't think that I look down upon persons without operant metafunctions. I'd be a fool if I did. I have certain talents, yes. But I lack so many others! I can't play the violin or sing or even cook very well. I'm not good at drawing pictures or playing tennis. I'm a terrible driver because I'm always off in the clouds instead of paying attention to traffic. I tend to shilly-shally around instead of making decisions promptly. So I would be an integral idiot to think of myself as a superior being... and I don't know of any other operants who think that way. If they do exist, I hope I never meet up with them.
CU MORENO
MORENO
How about the flip side of that question, then? Do you ever feel threatened by nonoperants?
TWO SHOT— REMILLARD FAVORED
REMILLARD
When I was much younger I kept my mind-powers completely under wraps because I didn't want others to know I was different. I wanted to be just like everyone else. You've interviewed a number of other operants for your television series, so you know that such protective coloration activity is the usual thing for youngsters who grow up with self-taught metafunctions. Minorities who seem to be a threat to majorities make the adaptations they must in order to survive.
MORENO
Then you admit that operant psychics can pose a threat to normals!
REMILLARD
(calmly)
I said seem to. Persons who are different from others in marked ways are often perceived as threatening. But it doesn't have to be that way. That's what civilization is supposed to be all about — resolving differences maturely, not acting like bands of frightened children. The
gap between operant and nonoperant is only the latest that modern society has faced. We also have technology gaps, economic gaps, cultural gaps, the generation gap, and even a sexual gap. You can refuse to cross the gap and throw rocks at each other, or you can cooperate to build a bridge to mutual betterment.
INTERCUT STOCK SHOTS — MONTAGE
Riotous scenes at London and Tokyo stock exchanges; mobs besiege banks at Geneva and Zurich; Monte Carlo Casino with sign: RELACHE/GESCHLOSSEN/CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE; Time magazine cover: DEFENSE STOCK DEBACLE; newspaper headlines: RUSSIA DUMPS GOLD, OIL LEASE CHAOS, COCA-COLA FORMULA REVEALED, OFFSHORE TAX REFUGES SELF-DESTRUCT; Newsweek magazine cover: WHO WILL WATCH THE WATCHERS?
MORENO (V. O. )
But we've seen the turmoil that rocked the world stock and commodity markets following the Edinburgh Demonstration. And you must know that certain financiers and businesses that depend upon secrecy for their operations look upon telepathy and excorporeal excursion as deadly menaces. Other very serious problems are just beginning to crop up. Operants aren't numerous enough yet to pose much of a threat to society or to the global economy, but what about the future, when the superminds you propose to train begin to invade every walk of life?
TWO SHOT
REMILLARD
Operants aren't invaders from outer space, Mr. Moreno. We're only people. Citizens, not superbeings. We want just about the same things that you want — a peaceful and prosperous world for ourselves and our children, satisfying work, freedom from prejudice and oppression, a bit of fun now and then, someone to love... This invasion of yours: Do you realize you could be talking about your own children or grandchildren? Our preliminary studies seem to show that the human race has reached a critical point in evolution. Our gene pool is throwing up increasing numbers of individuals with the potential for becoming what you call a supermind.
MORENO
(looking slightly shaken)
My children?
REMILLARD
Or those of your cousins and uncles and aunts... or neighbors, or coworkers. In years to come, all humans will be born operant! But that's a long way off, and we poor souls are going to have to endure life in the transition zone during the foreseeable future. I won't minimize the fact that we may have a tough time. Adjustments will have to be made. But all throughout human history society has had to confront revolutions that overturned the old order. In the Stone Age, metal was a threat! The first automobiles frightened the horses and doomed the buggy-whip makers. But what one group sees as a threat, another group may hail as a blessing. Not to belabor the point... but did you notice that the latest issue of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists has turned back the hands of its doomsday clock from two minutes before midnight to half past eleven?
MORENO
(permitting himself a wintry smile)
Is that how you operants see yourselves, Professor? As the saviors of humanity?
CU REMILLARD
REMILLARD
(sighs, fingering the plant)
Sometimes I wonder whether we might be the first scattered spores of the evolving World Mind... and then again, we might be only evolutionary dead ends, the mental equivalents of those fossil Irish elk with the six-foot antlers that were gorgeous to look at but losers in the survival game.
He looks at the plant, which seems noticeably perkier. Opening a desk decanter, he pours a bit of water into the pot.
MORENO (V. O. )
(incredulously)
A World Mind? You mean, some kind of superstate, like the Marxists envisioned? Operancy will lead to that?
TWO SHOT
REMILLARD
(laughs heartily)
No, no. Not a bit of it! No chance of our evolving into a metapsychic beehive. Humanity's individuality is its strength. But, you see... with the telepathy, especially, you have the potential for vastly increased empathy: mind-to-mind socialization on a level above any we've ever known... And it would be such a logical and elegant survival response, the World Mind. A perfect counterpoint to our increasingly dangerous technical advances.
MORENO
I still don't understand.
INTERCUT MYXOMYCETES NATURAL HISTORY SEQUENCE — paralleling Remillard's VOICE OVER.
REMILLARD (V. O. )
Perhaps an analogy will help. There's a peculiar group of living things
called Myxomycetes — or, to give them their more prosaic name, slime molds. A slime mold is either an animal that acts like a plant, or a plant that acts like an animal. Officially, it's a type of fungus. But it's capable of independent movement, like an animal. In its usual form, the slime mold is like a tiny amoeba, flowing here and there on the forest floor engulfing and eating bacteria and other microscopic goodies. It eats, it grows, and in time it splits like a genuine   amoeba   into   two   individuals. In   a   favorable   forest environment there will be thousands or even millions of these little single-celled eaters going about their individual business... But sometimes, the food supply gives out. Perhaps the forest dries up in a prolonged drought. In some way the individual cells seem to realize that it's "unite or die" time. They begin to come together. First they form blobs and then rivulets of slime. These flow toward a central point and combine into a multicelled mass of jelly that becomes a real organism, sometimes more than thirty centimeters in diameter ... and it creeps along the ground. Some creeping slime molds look like pancakes of dusty jelly and some look like slugs, leaving a trail of slime behind. The organism may travel for two weeks, looking for a more favorable place to live. When it stops migrating it changes shape again — often to a thing like a knob at the end of a stalk. In time the knob splits open and releases a cloud of dusty spores that fly through the air. Eventually the spores come to earth, where warmth and moisture turn them into amoebalike individuals again. They take up their old life — until the next time things get rough and Unity becomes imperative...
TWO      SHOT — REMILLARD     AND     MORENO — STEADICAM FOLLOWING —
We discover them as they are approaching the exit of the RESEARCH FACILITY. Moreno is leaving.
MORENO
And you really believe that human minds will have to come together in somewhat the same way in order to survive?
REMILLARD
The idea seems very natural to a telepath, Mr. Moreno. It's only a higher form of socialization, after all. To a tribe of primitives living at the clan level, the notion of a complex democratic society seems hopelessly bizarre. But primitives transplanted into industrial nations have often adapted very successfully. Think of some of the Southeast Asian hill folk who came to America in the 1970s and '80s. A World Mind is quite plausible to operants, and of course it would include nonoperant minds as well.
MORENO
I don't see how!
REMILLARD
Neither do I... at the moment. But that's the payoff that some of us metapsychic theoreticians envision. A society of the mind evolving toward harmony and mutualism that still lets individuals retain their freedom. That's one of the topics we'll be discussing in Alma-Ata next year, at the First World Congress on Metapsychology. We'll deal with practicalities first, but then the universe is the limit! It may take a few thousand years to accomplish a World Mind, but I like to think of the meeting there in Kazakhstan as the first little blob of amoebas flowing together into a true organism. The creature is still tiny and not very effectual... but it'll grow.
CUT TO MORENO CU — AGAINST PROGRAM LOGO (MATTE)
MORENO
(addressing viewers)
Denis Remillard's vision is an amazing one — but then he is an amazing man. Perhaps, as the President said, a supermind. Right now there are at most a few hundred others like him scattered around the world. But tomorrow, and next year, and in the twenty-first century fast approaching, those superminds among us will multiply. And as they do, they'll change the world. How they change it remains to be seen ... I'm Carlos Moreno for 60 Minutes.
FADE TO COMMERCIAL BREAK

23
FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ROGATIEN REMILLARD

      WHY HAD I done it?
      What perverse compulsion had led me to top my nephew's display of psychokinesis with one of my own, thus revealing my most closely guarded secret on a television program beamed around the globe?
      Oh yes, I had been more than a little drunk at the time, having given in to the need to fortify myself against the invasion of my bookshop by
      Carlos Moreno and his squad of muckrakers. But to show my power so flippantly, with such cornball insouciance! I had to be cracking up.
      After the fatal taping session in the shop, when we had all had our giggle and it occurred to me what a piece of lunacy I had perpetrated, I went on a towering binge. I missed the actual 60 Minutes telecast that took place on Sunday, three days later, as well as the debriefing party afterward that was given at the Metapsychology Lab, where Denis and his Coterie celebrated having thrown their bonnets over the windmill. Apparently only one person missed me, out of all that supposedly psychosensitive lot, and wondered where I had disappeared to, and figured things out, and had the compassion to come and ring the bell to my apartment and shout telepathically until I was roused from my stupor and coerced into opening the door...
      Lucille.
      "I knew it!" she exclaimed, pushing inside. "I just knew you'd done something stupid. Look at you! Roger, what are you doing to yourself?"
      "Good question, " I mumbled, grinning down at her. But my drunken insolence quailed in the face of her terrible charity. I must have looked like a sodden scarecrow, half conscious and filthy; but she had helped tend her invalid father for years and had no trouble at all coping with me. She forced me to take a shower, dressed me in clean pajamas, and pummeled my brain until I swallowed a vitamin-laden milkshake. Then she put me to bed. When I woke up ten hours later she was still there, dozing in a chair in the parlor, and my hurrah's nest of an apartment was now spotless and my entire stock of booze had been poured down the drain.
      With my head throbbing like a calliope at full steam and my knees awobble, I looked in hung-over wonderment at the sleeping young woman, trying to think why she, of all people, had come to my rescue.
      Her eyes opened. They were brown and very stern, and I couldn't help remembering how she had sent Denis and me packing when we had first dowsed her out eleven years earlier.
      "Why?" she said quietly, echoing my telepathic question. "Because I know just what came over you when Denis did his thing and you knew the jig was up. Poor old Roger. "
      She stretched, then got up from the chair and looked at her wrist-watch. "Quarter to eight. I have a seminar at nine this morning, but there's time to scramble some eggs. " She headed for my kitchen.
      "What d'you mean you know?" I croaked, shuffling after. "I don't even know! And what the hell right do you have coming up here and interfering with me? Don't tell me the fuckin' Ghost sent you!"
      She began to crack eggs. The sound was like ax-blows against my tortured eardrums. I lurched and her coercion reached out and coolly tipped me into a kitchen chair. I let out a groan and caught my head before it bounced on the freshly polished maple table top. A few moments later she was shoving a cup of coffee under my nose.
      "Microwaved instant, but strong enough to etch glass, " she said. "Drink. " Coercion locked on, stifling my instinctive refusal. I drank. Then she produced a nauseously aromatic plate of eggs with buttered toast. My guts cringed at the loathsome prospect.
      "Eat. "
      "I can't —"
      YES YOU CAN.
      Bereft of will power, I dug in. Lucille sat down opposite me and sipped tea, keeping the compulsion firm by maintaining eye contact. She was not a pretty woman but her face had that high-colored attractiveness indicative of a formidable character. Her dark hair was cut in a simple pageboy with the bangs just touching thick, straight brows. She wore a scarlet turtleneck sweater and jeans, and her hands were raw, the once polished fingernails damaged from the heavy housecleaning chores she had undertaken on my behalf.
      As my stomach filled and my aching head deflated to a size approximating normality, I felt ashamed of my surly ingratitude and more than ever mystified that she should have been the one to think of me. She had been an occasional customer at the bookshop, showing a rather regrettable penchant for fantasy books featuring dragons. Her mind had always closed primly at my avuncular jests and resisted my attempts to put her onto a more sophisticated style of escapist literature. Lucille knew what she liked and stuck to it with Franco stubbornness. She was not even a full-fledged member of the Coterie, but only one of the more talented experimental subjects — a mere student — which made her assertion that she understood my mental state all the more improbable.
      "But I do understand, " she said, reading my subvocalizations. "You and I are really quite a bit alike. Both of us are still trying to adapt, asking questions about ourselves that desperately need answers. "
      I glared at the nervy little chit, mopping my plate with the last of the toast. Her coercion slid aside as I managed to prop my mental barricade into position.
      She only smiled. "There's a person who's helped me to find some answers, Roger. I think he could help you, too. I'm going to come back here this afternoon at three o'clock and take you along with me to meet him. "
      "No, you aren't, " said I. "Don't think that I'm not grateful to you for shoveling me up and putting this place back in order after my lost weekend — but I'm quite all right now. I don't need any help from your friend. And don't think you can force me. You'll find I'm not nearly so susceptible to coercion when I'm compos mentis. "
      She leaned toward me earnestly. "I wouldn't coerce you to come. That wouldn't be any use. But you must, Roger! You know that you're seriously in need of help. Everybody knows."
      I laughed. "So I'm the talk of the town, am I? A disgrace and an embarrassment, sans doute, to my nephew the distinguished supermind! And which one of his brilliant young colleagues have you pegged to drag the black sheep out of his alcoholic wilderness?"
      "None of the Coterie. I want you to talk to my own analyst, Dr. Bill Sampson. He isn't an operant at all. But he has more insight — more caring competence — than that whole damned labful of superior metapsychic pricks. Denis included."
      Oh my God. I squeezed my crusty eyelids shut.
      She babbled on. "When I felt how deeply afraid you were there in the bookshop, with the TV people closing in and Denis put in the position of having to demonstrate his PK, I was just appalled. Then you defied it! I knew right then that I'd have to do something to help you. Take you to Bill. He helped me lick my dragons and he can help you —"
      Lightning struck.
      Now I knew why I had made that lunatic gesture in front of the TV cameras, why I had berated myself so that her mind's ear overheard, why I had admitted her to my squalid sanctum, asking if my own special dragon had sent her.
      It had.
      Poor little kindhearted Lucille! Let me reinforce my mind-screen, hiding from you the blaze of certainty. It had been more than a year ago that I was admonished to break up your love affair with Dr. Bill Sampson, and I put the notion completely out of my mind. But synchronicity is not so easily denied... and here we are, and there the inevitability awaits us.
      Once again I am not a man but a tool. And how is the dirty deed to be done? (Neither she nor Sampson are fools, and any blatant action, such as reporting the prima facie breach of doctor-patient ethics, would tend to solidify their liaison rather than sever it. ) No, I would have to be both subtle and direct.
      All that is really necessary is to show old Sampson the truth.
      The psychiatrist is a normal, but he is clearly enthralled by the metapsychic phenomenon in his beloved. Show him how he has played the romantic hero, rescuing a malleable young Andromeda from the mental rock where she chained herself as dragon-meat. The princess is tender and grateful now; but her chains can be taken up and worn again at any time — and they can be stretched to fit two minds as easily as one when reality inevitably intrudes on the glamour. Then she will destroy the mortal lover as well as herself, surrendering to her dragon's fire...
      Does he think that love will transcend? Then show him what operancy really means — what a mature operant can do — what she will be able to do someday! Now, blinded and gentled, she shrinks from prying into the deeper layers of his mind. But pry she will, and she'll find the petty, cruel, and unworthy thoughts that flit through every human mind, no matter how loving, and in her hurt she'll fling them into his face. Show him how easily it's done! And then coerce him. Show how his darling will be capable of violating his sovereign will, should the mood come upon her. Show him the PK! Give him just a hint of the healing faculty's flip side! And then the clincher. Project the image that every operant, even the most noble, holds deep in his heart when he compares himself to lowly normals. Show him Odd John's truth.
      "I was living in a world of phantoms, or animated masks. No one seemed really alive. I had a queer notion that if I pricked any of you there would be no bleeding but only a gush of wind... "
      Learn the truth, Dr. Bill Sampson. Then find a normal woman to love and leave Lucille Cartier to her metapsychic destiny. Learn the easy way, from somebody who learned the hard way.
      "Roger, " Lucille said. "Please come with me this afternoon. It will all be for the best. "
      "I hope so, " I told her. "God, I hope so. "

24
SUPERVISORY CRUISER NOUMENON [Lyl 1-0000]
4 JUNE  1992

      WHEN THE FANATICS successfully smuggled the second of the Armageddon devices into place, and that place was the Israeli nuclear weaponry works at Dimona, the portents were such that Homologous Trend felt impelled to consult with its three fellow entities.
      "One must admit, " Trend told the others, "that my anatomization of the probability lattices is somewhat disorderly — but that's Earth for you. However, the resultant inevitably leads to still another global crisis capable of disrupting the planetary sexternion — and Intervention. "
      "One's sensibilities churn, " Eupathic Impulse said, upon viewing the analysis. "From this one locus proceed conflicts not only in the Middle East, but also in South Africa, Uzbekistan, and India. "
      "One is chagrined, " Asymptotic Essence said, "given the worldwide flowering of goodwill after the Scottish Demonstration, to note that the group instigating the atrocity stubbornly persists in its ancient tribal hostility mode. Other Earth populations at higher and lower levels of sociopolitical organization experienced positive transformational nuances as a result of MacGregor's ploy. What's wrong with this bunch?"
      "Status Three indigenes, " Noetic Concordance observed sadly, "are a perverse and difficult lot, more likely to stall in metapsychic development than other classifications. Status Threes vest authority in puppet rulers dominated by a powerful priestly caste. The intellectual establishment is subservient, and upward mobility of individuals is limited according to their profession of orthodoxy. The higher mind-powers — even elementary creativity — tend to be repressed, except insofar as they serve the narrow religious objective. The mind-set is intolerant, reactionary, xenophobic, and more than a little silly. Fanaticism is a prime activator of psychoenergies and the view of consequents is minimal. Even this impending catastrophe is seen by the perpetrators as a glorification of the All. "
      Eupathic Impulse said, "One has a sneaking suspicion that this particular terrorist group wants to get its licks in before the inspection teams of the UN Nuclear Nonproliferation Agency include persons adept in farsensing. "
      Trend waved all this thought-embroidery aside. "You three agree with my dire prognosis. Do you also agree that the gravity of the situation demands that we summon Atoning Unifex for a contemplation?"
      "One regrets having to disturb It, " Concordance said. "But if Earth is to be spared this profound trauma, overt action will have to be taken. "
      Asymptotic Essence permitted itself the barest hint of vexation. "Another deliberate skew of the noφgenetic curvature? That will make three inside of fourteen months, including the rescue of MacGregor from the Mafia hit-man and the augmentation of the Alma-Ata group's coercion of the Soviet TV net. How long must we keep this up? If Earth's Mind were treated in a normal manner, it would never achieve coadunation!"
      Eupathic Impulse was inclined to agree. "Intervention in due season is one thing: continued interference with significant nodalities on the evolving mental lattices is quite another. If it were any entity save Unifex commanding this most atypical wet-nursing, one might have the most serious misgivings. "
      "One of the most notable incongruities is our own physical presence here, " Noetic Concordance reminded the others. "One questions why the Supervisory Body does not simply work through the Agent Polities, who are more than a little scandalized by our participation. "
      "One may question, " Eupathic Impulse noted wryly, "but one doesn't necessarily get straight answers. "
      Homologous Trend said, "One must trust Unifex. "
      Eupathic Impulse said, "If It would only share Its prescience!"
      Noetic Concordance said, "Of all our vague and absent-minded Lylmik race, It is the most terribly preoccupied. And weary. One intuits that It would transfer the burden of Galactic mentorship and submerge Itself in the Cosmic All in a trice, were It not faithful to some great overriding dynamic —"
      "Which It declines to share, " Impulse said.
      "We must trust It, " Trend reiterated, "as we have since the dawn of the Milieu, when It selected us four from all the eager Lylmik after manifesting the Protocol of Unification. Unifex has shared... as much as It has been able to do so. You know our racial Mind's limitation as well as its strengths. We are ancient and tending toward stagnation, conservative and over-fond of the mystical lifestyle. Unifex's great vision of a Galactic Mind was able to electrify us, to send us beyond the Twenty-One Worlds in search of other, immature Minds that we might shepherd toward coadunation. Toward Unity. That, if you will, was the great outrage Unifex committed: the initiation of the Milieu. You younger entities have let the memory of it slip away in your earnest contemplation of present anomalies. "
      "Yes, " the three admitted. For some time they filled their minds with the Milieu's essence and drifted, serene.
      But Trend recalled them. "The two Armageddon devices are in place. Action, if it is to be taken, must be taken soon. Let us summon Unifex. "
      They called in metaconcert.
      And It was there with them, glowing in the liquid-crystal films of the star-cruiser's innermost heart, emanating its familiar emotional mix of affection and crotchety longanimity.
      The Quincunx formed. The problem was set forth.
      Unifex told them: "One may take no preventive action. This awful event happens... as it must and as it has. "
      "May we ask why?"
      "To unite the World Mind more fully in pain, as it has failed to unite in joy during the past seven months of premature celebration. This calamity is only one in the ultimate educative series leading toward the climax: pain upon pain lesson upon lesson ordeal upon ordeal. "
      "We suggest, in all respect, that the teaching process might be less radical. As you saw from your contemplation of the problem as formulated, there is a distinct probability that the United States and the Soviet Union will abandon their newborn rapprochement and be drawn into a fresh posture of hostility. The operant human minds will no longer be viewed as an assurance for peace, but rather as a hindrance to necessary war!"
      "Nevertheless, we will not forestall the detonation of the Armageddon devices. " Unifex's mind-voice was sorrowful, but It declined to reveal the thought-processes — proleptic or otherwise — that had led to Its judgment.
      The four subsidiary Lylmik entities came as close to outright dissent as they had ever done in the two-million-year life of the Quincunx. "We suggest that it may be unloving of you to fob us off on this grave matter without resolving some aspect of the paradox. Do you base your decisions upon analysis of the probability lattices, as we do, or are you privy to some recondite data-source that influences your special treatment of the planet Earth?"
      "I may not tell you that... What I may tell you is that the lessons to be learned by the Earthlings must be learned most especially by the operant minds. It is these, not their contentious latent brethren, who must mature in Light if there is to be an Intervention. The majority of the operants must decide freely that their mind-powers must never be used aggressively. Never. Not even in a cause that their intellects perceive as good. And because this truth is counter to one of the deepest imperatives of human psychology, its apprehension will be attained only at a fearful price... a price that will not be fully paid until after the Intervention. "
      The four were aghast.
      Unifex said, "O my friends, I admit that I have not been sufficiently forthcoming since our Earth visitation began. I admit that I have reserved data and allowed myself to be submerged in perplexity. But I have forgotten so much and the chasm between the human mind and our own is so vast... You are aware that Earth's nodalities are more critical to the future of the Milieu than those of any other world — and yet our own role in its mental evolution remains unclear to me. Often I must act through feeling rather than through logic! This world, unlike the worlds of the Krondaku, Gi, Poltroyans, and Simbiari, does not occupy a place clearly defined in the larger reality. I have been able to penetrate its mystery only partially myself, by processes outside of intellection. So I can only beg you to bear with me... and in return, I shall offer you a species of metaphor. If you attend to it, certain aspects of the Earthly paradox may be clarified. "
      "We are eager to experience your metaphor. "
      "Very well, " said Unifex. "We five will contemplate it together, but as individuals and without any metapsychic penetration of the human participants in the drama. We will empathize with the Earthlings to the fullest, and view the spectacle as much on their simple level as is possible for us. Please accompany me mentally now to Japan, where a baseball game is about to be played... "

      It was the final contest of an exhibition series: the first East-West Championship ever organized, and one of numerous goodwill enterprises that had been undertaken in various parts of the world in the joyous aftermath of the Edinburgh Demonstration. For a few brief months, the planet had given itself over to a carnival of hope, reacting to decades of nuclear anxiety. There had been festivals of music and dance and drama and poetry, and there were seminars of knowledge sharing, and there were games. Seven countries had participated in the baseball series, and now it had all come down to a last championship game between the mighty New York Mets and the formidable Hiroshima Carp. The teams were tied at three games apiece in the seven-game series.
      The players, clad in colorful close-fitting suits, enacted the deceptively simple contest before an audience of more than 150,000 fans, who had packed the vast Hiroshima Yakyujo to the topmost tier. Those who viewed the game on television numbered nearly a billion — some twenty percent of the global population — and included many who, like the fascinated Lylmik, were more interested in the symbolic than the sporting aspect of this particular match-up.
      It was a multilayered event: physical, psychological, mathematical. There was even an elusive musical element in its alternation of violent action with intervals of pregnant ennui. Atoning Unifex imparted to Its fellow entities an instantaneous knowledge of the rules, the attributes and eccentricities of the players, and the strategic theories employed by the team managers during the previous games of the series.
      "There are actually a number of metaphors being manifested here, " Unifex said. "As we watch, let us also synthesize and strive to apply the essential wisdom to the larger reality. "
      Then the game began, and for more than two hours the exotic beings were caught up in the symbolic conflict. The game was closely fought until the seventh inning, when the Mets leaped ahead, 4-2. They kept their lead through the bottom of the ninth, and the Carp came to bat for the last time facing a make-or-break situation.
      The Mets pitcher, the celebrated Zeke O'Toole, was no longer in the flush of youth and obviously tiring, but it was out of the question that he should be replaced. Instead, he adopted an excessively cautious technique designed to frustrate and anger the opposition. He posed, ruminated, and eyeballed the Carp players on deck and the waiting batter in an insolent and intimidating manner. The tactic resulted in two strikeouts, and wails of dismay arose from the Carp partisans in the stadium. Their desolation was transformed into fresh hope, however, when the next batter hit a single, and the one after him doubled.
      "Now the climax of the drama approaches, " Atoning Unifex said. "The next scheduled batter is the Carp pitcher, an untalented ball-walloper who will undoubtedly be replaced by a pinch hitter. Yes. Here comes Kenji 'Shoeless Ken' Katsuyama, a redoubtable but somewhat erratic man in the clutch situation. The Carp manager takes a monumental gamble sending him in. If this massively muscled young slugger can connect with the ball, he may very well hit it into the hyperspatial matrix! He would score himself on a home run, and bring in the men on second and third, winning the game for the Carp. To avoid this outcome, one might expect the wily veteran pitcher, O'Toole, to give this dangerous rival a walk to first base. This might set up a double play if the men on base attempt to steal, wiping the Carp out and winning it for the Mets. Or, even if a single Carp should score on the walk, it seems virtually certain that the unagile Katsuyama would be tagged for the third out on a subsequent play, also giving victory to the Mets. Another possibility, more perilous for the Mets, is that with Ken taking first on a walk and the bases loaded, the next batter up might put the Carp into an advantageous scoring position. O'Toole and Katsuyama are both in what humans call the hot seat. "
      "The Japanese fans certainly do not concede defeat, " Noetic Concordance remarked.
      "See how they plead for a home run, " said Eupathic Impulse, "exerting all their collective coercion! What a pity the metafaculty has such a large suboperative component. "
      Homologous Trend displayed statistics on the powerful young batter's past performance. "This Shoeless One does not seem to know the meaning of the term 'strike zone. ' One notes that he has been known to flail away at bean balls. This may influence O'Toole's style of play. "
      "The batter is impatient with the dilatory tactics of the elderly pitcher, " Asymptotic Essence said. "The men on second and third base hold back, wary of the American's reputation as a butcher of base-stealers. "
      Zeke O'Toole was dawdling conspicuously on the mound, but he was given the benefit of the doubt by the Japanese plate umpire. Meanwhile, Katsuyama glowered, pawed the earth, and gripped his Mizuno bat in a strangle hold.
      Atoning Unifex said, "Play ball, you dragass Irish grandstander!"
      Now the catcher was sidling to the right, obviously expecting a waste pitch thrown wide. O'Toole shook his head minimally. A split second later he hurled a sizzling knuckleball high and inside, barely crossing a corner of the plate.
      Strike one.
      There were more delays. O'Toole sketched a series of cryptic signals, then finally threw one very wide for ball one. Katsuyama stomped about, twirling his bat and grimacing. He took his stance and waited. And waited. When the pitch came, curving and slow, he swung heroically. He missed.
      Strike two.
      The Lylmik were aware of Shoeless Ken's mounting fury. He stood in a kind of sumo crouch while a fastball came zinging in, deliberately wide, for ball two.
      O'Toole chewed his cud of spruce gum, nonchalantly cupped the return behind his back, swiveled his head to spear the men on base with his pale and ornery eye, then seemed to bow his head in prayer. The fans hooted and screamed but the complaisant umpire merely waited. At last the pitcher wound up and delivered wide and junky for ball three.
      "This is called a full count, " Unifex said. "One notes that the veteran O'Toole remains cool while Katsuyama is livid. "
      The men on base were ranging out desperately. O'Toole wasted no time but wound up with barely legal celerity and threw a wide pitchout to the waiting catcher. It was intended to be a fourth ball, walking Katsuyama and nailing the man creeping along the base line toward home plate, but it barely scraped the edge of the strike zone and...
      Kwoing!
      Crowding the plate, uttering a martial shout, Shoeless Ken swung his bat in a flattened arc at that hopelessly wide pitch. The connection came perilously close to the bat's tip; but so heroic was the swing that the ball took off like a blurry white meteor into the remotest coign of left field, topping the fence. A tsunami of ecstatic sound engulfed Katsuyama as he ceremonially encircled the bases. He bowed to the crowd. Then he bowed to Zeke O'Toole, who still stood on the pitcher's mound with folded arms.
      The huge electronic display posted the final score:
      
      HIROSHIMA   CARP   5
      NEW   YORK   METS   4
      HIROSHIMA   CARP   WIN   PLANET   SERIES
      4   GAMES   TO   3

      In the Lylmik cruiser invisibly orbiting Earth, the supervising entities studied the baseball game in its totality, frozen in the spatiotemporal lattices like a fixed specimen on a slide, viewed under a microscope at extreme magnification.
      "One observes the obvious historical parallel, " said Homologous Trend. "The old antagonism ritualized. "
      Asymptotic Essence said, "One notes that, in sharing this sublimation with their fellow humans, the two powerful nations speed coadunation of the World Mind. "
      Eupathic Impulse said, "One perceives that you, Unifex, knew the outcome and educational potential of this obscure contest before it began. This reinforces my own hypothesis of a great Proleptic Peculiarity in the planet's sexternion — nodally determined by yourself!"
      The poet, Noetic Concordance, was silent for some time. Its contribution, when it finally came, was almost tentative. "One observes that the American sports fans in the stadium cheered the Carp victory even more fervently than did the Japanese... "
      Atoning Unifex let Its mind-smile embrace the four. "Well done. Hold the collection of metaphors deep in your hearts. Return to it from
      time to time to assist your contemplation of Earth. And tomorrow when the atomic bombs destroy Tel Aviv and Dimona, mourn with humanity. But remember that the probability lattices are not certainties. They can be moved by fervent acts of will. Both love and evolution act in an elitist way. And now, farewell. "

THE END OF PART TWO