[Doctor Orient - 1]
Copyright © 1970 by Frank Lauria
Excerpt from The I Ching or Book of Changes, translated by R. Wilhelm and C. F. Baynes, Bollingen Series XIX. Copyright 1950, © 1967 by The Bollingen Foundation, Reprinted by permission of Princeton University Press, Routledge & Kegan Paul, Ltd., and Eugen Diederichs Verlag.
For Margareta, who supplied the magic...
The call reached Doctor Orient at his club.
He had just finished a light dinner and was at his meditations in the club's small reading room when a gentle, unpleasant probe at the base of his brain disturbed the deep lull of his thoughts.
Shiny with purpose, the probe cut through spider webs of a billion existences.
He didn't resist the intrusion but went receptive, letting the call light up the darkness behind his closed eyes. The tiny synapses, the fine connection points within his body, began to glow warm as the message cleared.
At first a sense of the quality of the message, its weight and consistency, then his brain tasted immediacy and he formed the picture.
Circus.
Having made its intended contact the energy instantly withdrew, leaving him temporarily drained of vitality.
He pushed himself to his feet and made unsteadily for the door. Coatless and shivering he gulped deep breaths of air as he stood waiting for his car to be brought around to the entrance.
He was still feeling giddy as he ducked his long frame awkwardly into the vintage Rolls Ghost. He sat for a moment, running his palms over the smooth wood of the wheel before starting the engine.
He drove with the window open and washed his face with cold air in an effort to get his mind in gear. Moments-- or was it years?-- ago he had been in a lush spatial drift, leisurely exploring the universe within himself, and now he was involved in the total reality of a crosstown drive.
And the call had come from Hap.
Hap Prentice, after three months of silence.
Orient parked northeast on Eighth Avenue and waited.
The circus was in town. Outside Madison Square Garden it was comparatively quiet but inside it would be all noise, color and confusion. He snorted mildly. He wasn't fond of the old show. Too yang.
When he felt ready he stepped out into the street, crossed to the ticket booth, bought a ticket and entered. Guided as much by his sense of smell as by his highly reputed powers, he took the stairs to the menagerie.
It was deserted except for the dusty animals. The performance was in progress in the main arena. He heard the brassy music and the periodic roar of the crowd.
There was a large platform in the center of the room. It was about six feet off the ground and was divided into sections by plywood partitions. Each section was papered with garish three-color posters of some unusual or unfortunate human being. The freak show.
He walked slowly around the platform looking carefully for the right place. A lion coughed.
Orient stopped in front of a stage where a poster done in fiery red and glossy blacks proclaimed:
MALTA
ASLEEP A HUNDRED YEARS
SHE
WILL ANSWER YOUR QUESTIONS!
The artist had depicted Malta as a raven-haired beauty sleeping on a bed of flames.
A feeling of anxiety nudged Orient, and then the probe was there, cutting through his emotions. He looked around, then climbed the tiny steps up to the stage. He went directly to the red satin curtain and pulled it aside.
Hap was waiting.
He did not look well. He was pale and lean with trouble. His blue eyes, once vivid with animal spirit, were set hollowly in his skull, looking like faded coins in their dark scoops.
"Hello, Hap," Orient said softly.
"Hello... Doc... " Hap tried to smile, then gave it up. He pointed to the girl lying on the couch behind him. "Can you help her, Doc... ?" he faltered.
The girl looked still and white under the glare of the naked lightbulb hanging from the cardboard ceiling. Orient brushed past his friend and pulled away the sheet covering her. The poster hadn't exaggerated. Malta was a beauty. Her body was an elongated flow of liquid lines. Sloping breasts rising full to sharp nipples. Stomach long and flat, easing into wide hollow hips extending the narrow shape of her legs. Her skin looked opaque and cool, like the surface of a stone from the sea, its luminosity heightened by a curious absence of hair. All of her, even her pubic area, had been shaved. As he reached for her pulse he noticed an iron ring on her second finger.
Orient's examination took less than ten minutes but it spanned the young doctor's vast knowledge of the medical sciences. Being a surgeon as well as a psychiatrist, he was aware of the variations of possibilities. But the girl manifested neither physical symptoms of disorder nor any sign of catatonia, catalepsy, or brain damage. He questioned Hap as he worked over her.
"How long has she been like this?"
"Two days."
"You took your time, didn't you?" Orient lifted her arm. "I can't find any injury or disease. Of course, I'll have to run some tests."
"You won't need tests... " Hap's voice was slurred.
Orient looked up. "Has she been hypnotized?"
"She's in some... kind of trance. She never told me."
"Did you hypnotize her, Hap?" he pursued.
"No... she went in by herself... always. And I would get her out. But... "
"You can't bring her out, is that it?" Orient pulled back an eyelid and studied the pupil.
"That's it... I feel her... Then something happens to her, something awful... " Hap's hands opened and closed. "She can't take anything like that, Doc."
Orient straightened up and moved closer to Hap.
"Listen to me, Hap, can you rouse this girl in any way?"
"No more, Doc... it's horrible for her."
Orient's fingers tightened on his friend's arm. "It's important that I see the symptoms."
Happleton Prentice nodded.
Doctor Orient stood aside as Hap bent low over the girl. He watched as his former pupil went through the preliminary tuning procedures; breathing, concentration, breathing, then lowering his energy field to negative so it would draw the energies of the girl.
Orient saw that it was taking more effort than normal for Hap to maintain concentration. He began to call her name. He was at maximum negative polarity.
The girl's lips twitched.
"Malta... " he repeated softly.
The girl's mouth opened. She began to speak, her voice a surprising masculine growl.
"Oh say... oh say verna... vernat kio... oh say... "
Orient was on terms with most of the kev languages but the sounds coming from the girl's mouth didn't register anywhere.
As he came nearer to catch the rhythms he glanced at her face and froze. The girl's features, calm before, were now contorted into a rigid grimace of raw terror.
As he watched, her face began to wither with age.
"Oh say... virto oh say... kio kio... Oh say... "
His stomach pulled tight as the sounds rumbled stronger, filling the cramped space behind the curtain, surrounding him.
Hap was shaking with effort, his chest heaving.
"Send her back, man, stop it." Orient's voice scraped through his dry throat.
Hap covered his face with his hands and began to deactivate.
The rumbling began to diminish, departing, it seemed, into the girl's slim body. Abruptly, it stopped.
The muscles in Malta's face relaxed. She looked as calm and young as before. She was still unconscious.
Hap was slumped over on the floor.
It was quiet again in the small room. The music from the arena filtered through the silence like a light cologne.
Doctor Orient took a cigarette case from his pocket and extracted a hand-wrapped cigarette. He snapped the case shut and hefted it in his hand. Absently he examined the oval design engraved in the silver.
The case was his peculiar staff of the adept, given to him by his last master, the venerable Ku. It was the symbol of power and a function of the power. Orient understood on the day he was invested with the case that he would go down from the mountain where he had discovered the serene knowledge and take his place once more in the cities of men.
He lit the cigarette, sharply scenting the little space.
"Can you talk, Hap?" His voice seemed unnaturally loud.
Hap stood up and stretched.
"I'm okay." He yawned. "Just temporary."
Outside a group of people drifted by, laughing. A child began to cry somewhere.
"We'd better get the girl out of here."
Hap smiled sleepily. "Anything you say, Doc." He wrapped the sheet around Malta and tried to lift her from the couch. He couldn't make it.
"Too tired," he grunted finally.
Doctor Orient pulled the curtain aside. It was just intermission and the floor was beginning to fill up with people.
Orient located a Garden policeman and produced his credentials. He explained that Malta was a patient and had to be moved. The special officer nodded and withdrew, returning in a few minutes with a wheeled stretcher and another officer. The four men moved the stretcher swiftly out of the building and across the street and placed the girl in the spacious back seat of Orient's limousine.
Doctor Orient drove slowly to Fifty-Seventh Street and made a left turn.
"Thanks for coming out to help, Doc." Hap shifted uneasily.
"Your friend is in a serious bind."
"You can swing it, can't you?"
"I'll try." Orient swerved to avoid hitting a cab. "You'd better tell me what you've been doing since you left us."
"I hope you don't hold it against me. My leaving like that, I mean."
"No blame, pilgrim. You're a free agent."
Hap leaned his head back against the cool leather seat. "As you well know, Doc, I never wanted to be a telepath. When you approached me and told me about your little team I thought you were the original mad scientist. No, don't interrupt, Doc... Even after you showed me proof of telepathy and proved that I had extrasensory talent, I still didn't like it-- I was one year away from major-league ball and that's the way I wanted it-- well, anyway, I just couldn't stand it anymore around your house and all that telepathy was messing up my mind, so I jumped."
Orient smiled. "I can understand how... "
"Let me get all of this out, Doc. So anyway I decided to go down to Florida for some fishing. Well, fishing didn't help so I started doing a little drinking... the booze didn't help either but it was easier than thinking... and then the telepathy business happened again... One night in Yuba City I was blind drunk and I somehow contacted Malta... "
Malta. The word rippled in Orient's mind.
"How did that come about?"
"I guess I was sending telepathically while I was clobbered, and she heard me."
Orient sensed an imbalance. Telepathy as he knew it was not a chance factor.
"That's not clear to me."
"If you find it hard, think how hard it was for me to swallow. 1 wouldn't either, but she proved it."
Hap's face reflected a stubborn fight with his sense of belief.
"She went into this trance and received thoughts from me. She repeated everything I was thinking."
"How did she go into this trance?"
"She says something funny, some funny kind of doubletalk, almost like the words you heard her say back there."
Orient remained silent, brooding as he drove.
"So Malta and I stayed together after that. It wasn't much of a thing, we didn't have much to say to each other, I was still drinking every day... but she stayed with me and kind of looked after me... "
"How did you wind up with the circus outfit?"
"Well, we ran out of money pretty soon, so we started working a local carnival... you know, mind reading?"
"I know." Orient frowned. He had explained how he felt about commercialism to Hap at the beginning of his instruction.
"It was a good act. She would go into a trance and I would feed her the stuff... in a couple of weeks we were booked into a top spot."
"And you had decided to go into mind reading?"
"No, no, we were gonna stay with the show until Philly. Then we were gonna split up. Malta wanted to go someplace in Europe and I was going to play ball in Venezuela under another name till I got back in shape."
"So what happened to Malta?"
"I don't know. The first night we got here, Malta went into her trance but she didn't answer any of the questions. That was yesterday; and when I tried to bring her out of trance she... well you saw what she went through. Doc, do you have any idea what's happened to her?"
Doctor Orient shook his head. "I don't know," he said slowly, "not yet." He reached for a leather-covered microphone dangling from the dash. He pressed the signal button a few times. A scratchy voice responded from the speaker set between the seats.
"Yes?"
"Sordi, meet me in the garage with a stretcher," Orient said. "And you'd better prepare a couple of guest rooms."
"Very good."
Orient replaced the mike.
Doctor Orient swung the car off Riverside Drive and into the driveway of a narrow four-story building. As they approached, a large aluminum door slid silently up, revealing a spacious garage. Sordi was waiting just inside the door.
"What happened?" the dapper secretary called out, pulling the stretcher toward the Rolls. "Is somebody hurt?" Without speaking, Orient and Hap transferred Malta carefully from the car to the stretcher. "Who is she, Doctor?" Sordi continued, bobbing around them. He greeted Hap in the same breath. "How are you, Prentice? Where've you been?"
"Later, Sordi," Orient said. "Take Malta to the meditation room and then see to it that we're not disturbed tonight."
"Malta?" Sordi whistled softly through his teeth and cracked a wide grin. "That's some patient, Doctor." Then he saw the grave manner of both men, and quickly became very busy with wheeling the stretcher over to the elevator. He waited for Hap and Orient to enter before pushing the third-floor button.
As the elevator started up Orient pushed the second-floor button. "We'll get out here," he told Sordi. "Make her as comfortable as you can."
The doors opened onto a long, wide, high room which served as Orient's living room, study and library. After a backward glance at Malta, Hap shuffled hesitantly out of the elevator after Orient.
Most visitors found the house magnificent. Orient preferred fine, dark wood, rough stone and glass as dominant themes and had combined these elements skillfully and simply, from the terraced master bedroom to the basement surgery room. But Hap was uneasy in the atmosphere of Orient's home. It was too big, too imposing, with its stone-faced walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. But then he was uneasy with the circumstances that had brought him there. He still regarded his own telepathic powers with the same affection he reserved for bad checks. And he saw his experience as Orient's pupil as some surreal form of choir practice.
He braved the doctor's disapproval of alcohol and poured himself a brandy. Then he settled his tired body into a deep armchair and watched the doctor pace the floor as he consulted a thick volume.
His mind went back to the night he had met Orient...
He was playing a night game in Jacksonville. The air was still and moist, and he was already running sweat when he took his first turn at batting practice. Then it happened.
The second ball came in low and curving outside. Hap lunged and smashed it foul off the end of the bat. The ball spun straight and fast directly toward a man in a white suit sitting behind first base. The man didn't move. Apparently he didn't see it coming.
But just before the ball smacked into the man's face it caromed down and away from him as if it had bounced off something solid in midair.
The man sat there calmly, as if nothing unusual had occurred.
Hap looked around to see if anyone else had noticed the ball's strange pattern but everyone on the field was intent on their pre-game warm up. When he dropped the bat and trotted out to shortstop he was still wondering about the foul ball's erratic pattern. He glanced over at the stands and had a strong, uncomfortable feeling that he knew the man from somewhere.
All during the game Hap continued to feel the presence of the man behind first base. Then came the eighth inning. His team was down a run, and he was the second man at bat. The first batter dribbled a slow ground ball to third and beat out the throw. As Hap stepped up to the box, he looked at the third base coach for a sign. The bunt was on.
Hap's eyes flickered over to first base and the man in the white suit. Suddenly he had a crazy feeling that the man didn't want him to bunt. But he shook the thought and concentrated on the pitch. It came in perfectly and he slid his hand to the end of the bat and set himself to push the ball between the charging third baseman and the pitcher. But at the instant of contact his concentration was joggled by a quick picture of the man behind first base, his white suit gleaming like chrome in Hap's mind. The ball went into the dirt foul.
He stepped out of the box and called for the pine tar rag. He looked over for a new sign while he rubbed the handle down. The bunt was still on. He took a deep breath and tried to settle down.
The next pitch was high and outside. The runner was on his way to second. Hap reached up and flicked it just past the rearing catcher behind him. Strike two.
The sign came to swing away. He rubbed his palm on the seat of his uniform and rocked his weight on his heels. And there was a surge running through him as he stared at the pitcher. He knew he would hit the next pitch out of the ball park.
The ball came in high and fast. His hands were wood and he felt the contact right to the muscles under his arms. He almost tipped his cap trotting past first base.
After the game the man was waiting for Hap outside the stadium.
"Do I know you, mister?" Hap said aggressively. He didn't like people bugging him, especially while he was playing. And this guy didn't look right. He was tall and thin, really thin, with hollowed-out cheeks that stressed his high, jutting cheekbones. An inch-wide streak of silver slashed straight back through his long black hair.
The slight slant of his green eyes gave his sun-darkened face a Mongolian cast. His wide mouth turned up at the corners so that he seemed to be constantly smiling over some amusing, unspoken observation.
And he had the strangest hands Hap had ever seen. They were slender and long, dangling loosely from the ends of his wrists like the hands of a basketball player. But the palms were cracked and wrinkled, crisscrossed with a network of short, deep lines like those of a very old man. Yet from his face, which was unlined and smooth, he looked to be about thirty.
Hap didn't like him. He didn't like his long hair, he didn't like his smirk and he didn't like his damned white suit.
"I'm Doctor Owen Orient," the man said. His voice was calm and low.
"Medical doctor?" Hap asked automatically. Most states he played in abounded with doctors of every persuasion.
"A.M.A., but out of practice. Right now I'm involved in private research and I want you to help."
Hap started moving away. "I don't have much time, Doc," he shook his head. "I'm a ballplayer and it's baseball season."
"Do you ever know before you hit a home run that you're going to hit it?"
The question stopped him. He looked around. They were standing in an empty parking lot outside the stadium. The rest of the team had gone ahead to the hotel. Now he was alone here talking to a stranger about something he didn't understand.
He scowled. "What's your business with me, mister?" he said sharply.
"You're a telepath."
"A what?" Hap yelled.
"A telepath," the man repeated evenly.
Hap started walking away.
"Do you remember the ball stopping before it hit me?" the man asked.
Hap stopped. "Yes," he said his back to the man.
"I can prove I did that."
It was a flat challenge. Hap accepted.
Later, he watched Doctor Orient move a bottle of beer across a table, in a small, sluggish bar, and he was convinced. It was the seventh time he had made the bottle go where Hap had pointed.
"And you can read minds, too."
Hap examined the bottle, still considering the possibilities of trickery.
"You're thinking that there's always the possibility of a trick," Orient said.
He looked at Orient's flat green eyes. "Any con man would know enough to say that," he said.
Orient got up. "All I want to con you out of is some time to train yourself to use your own powers."
"Okay, okay, now, sit down a minute." Hap was confused.
"I'll only confuse you further if I talk to you now," Orient said genially. He took a card from his wallet as he paid the bill. "Here's my New York number." He put it down at the edge of the table.
Hap watched the card slide across the table and stop just short of his fingers.
"Just pressing my point." Orient smiled. "Thanks for your time. And remember, with your help we can eventually teach everyone to use their telepathic power."
"What good would that do?" Hap put the card in his pocket.
"You decide that," Orient said.
It took Hap a few weeks before he finally got around to talking to Orient again.
Now he wished he had burned the card to ashes.
"I can enter her trance field," Orient said presently, still leafing through the book. "But if it's an occupied trance it will be somewhat dangerous."
"Occupied trance?"
"Yes, there're some aspects of Malta's reaction that resemble cases of possession."
"What do you mean, possession?"
"No sense in going into it until I'm sure." He snapped the book shut and went over to the crammed bookshelves across the room. He returned, holding another book even larger than the first. He studied the volume in silence for some time.
Hap was just settling down with a second brandy when Orient looked up.
"I'm going to need your help tonight, Hap," Orient said. "Do you feel up to it, or shall we try it in the morning?"
"What do you need?" Hap sighed and put the glass down.
"I want to enter Malta's trance. The entry will be simple enough, as you recall the space of a trance is what scientists refer to as hyper-space."
Hap nodded, remembering the many hours of instruction Orient had given him in parapsychology.
Orient went on, "You know that hyper-space is merely the reverse of our space, so that to enter Malta's field I'll go to a positive pole and let whatever has her draw me in also."
"What do I do?"
"I want you to lock contact with me and just feed energy. Don't project yourself. I can use the energy you send through as a guideline."
Hap thought it over. "Okay, let's try it now. I don't want to leave her there overnight."
"Are you sure you're strong enough to keep sending energy enough?"
"I think I can handle it."
"I hope so." Orient went over to the elevator and pressed the button. He nodded for Hap to join him.
Neither of them spoke as they rode up to the next floor and walked the long corridor to the meditation room.
Malta was inside, still on the stretcher.
Sordi had placed her by the side of the running pool at the far end of the room. Orient checked her pulse rate.
Hap sat down on the floor and took a long breath. This was the one section in the house to which he responded. Everything in the room had been keyed to provide harmonies that would lull its occupants into a gentle, hovering awareness; the light, the shade, the huge rock placed on the thick brown carpet, the slash of emptiness through the length of the room, the running water alive with the darting colors of small fish.
Hap knew the room well. He had spent hours here alone learning how to communicate with himself. The grind of sleeplessness eased as he automatically relaxed.
Doctor Orient sat across the pool, his breathing already as imperceptible as that of the girl on the stretcher next to him.
Hap relaxed further, digging inward for the source point. He controlled his breathing and focused on the bright blue light of a distant sun deep in the universe of his being.
Like a climber testing his ropes, Orient made sure that the psychic gears had beveled and contact between Hap and himself was clear. Then he went in.
He entered slowly, using a technique he had learned in Rome. He reined the thrust of his projection as it leaped into the junction of strongest negative polarity. Electricity sparkling from maximum electrons to minimum electrons, water rushing to fill an empty river bed, the eternal hunt to feed hunger-- the movement is always toward the unnourished, the implication. The universe fills its gaps.
He was in trouble as soon as he pierced the dimension. A great wind constantly threatened to sweep him from contact with the thin stream of energy that was his only control as he spun through the bottomless vapors of some infinite vertigo. Then he sensed it. Something waiting at the center of the wind, something familiar in the midst of the chaos. He felt the pull and he knew that he was being drawn by an enormous predatory presence. He veered and increased his speed.
The maneuver enabled him to avoid disaster. His speed took him past the presence and around it, sending him back toward his junction of entry.
As he hurtled past the negative core he sensed the sluggish maw of it, the thick vortex of raw need vibrating with expectancy, waiting to engulf him.
He fought to keep contact with his line of energy.
He was between his entry point and the attraction of the still-yearning presence. His speed was decreasing dangerously, but sensing direction gave him a spasm of strength. He made it back, straining like some spectral salmon to wriggle out of the net home.
It was a long time before they could move.
Orient regained consciousness first.
He felt a grab of anxiety when he saw the still-sleeping girl. He knew that she was prey for a hundred hunters.
Hap groaned.
Orient managed a smile. The path that Hap had generated had never once wavered and had given him enough leverage" to avoid being trapped.
"I could feel it from my end," Hap said, his eyes still closed, "it was a bitch to hold."
Orient picked a hand-wrapped cigarette from his case. "It's awesome." He struck a match. "It's a huge presence picking up anything in its path. Malta wandered into the hyena's mouth, all right. It just swallows anything that comes along, getting bigger and stronger." He inhaled. "Hap, I think it's a generator."
Hap opened his eyes. "A generator?"
"Yes, a source of power for someone practicing magic." Orient shook his head, smoke streaming from his nostrils. "There's someone in this vicinity building up a negative field."
"Let me get it straight, Doc-- are you telling me that a magician has cast a spell on Malta?"
"Not quite. What I believe has happened is that someone in the city is practicing black magic. Whoever it is, is building up a tremendous amount of negative power in hyper-space. The energy used to feed black magic is negative energy. When Malta went into trance here she wasn't prepared and she was assimilated by the negative presence of the field."
"What happens to her now? Can't we get her out?"
"There's a chance."
"Tonight?"
"I'll need more help. Tomorrow, I think."
"But, Doc, will she be all right like this? Maybe if we moved her out of the area... "
"It's too late for that. We have to pry her away from there now."
"I still don't understand about this magic gaff, Doc."
"Not many people do. I'm not even sure I'm right about this. I'm basing my diagnosis on certain experiments I've made in the past. And the fact that your meeting with Malta wasn't a chance factor physically, but a psychic imperative."
Orient declined to go into any further discussion of his study of the occult. It wouldn't have made any sense to an unbeliever, and he was too tired to clarify. "I'm going to send an emergency message to the others," he said, closing his eyes. "Why don't you give me a boost. Claude isn't far away but Argyle is in Europe and I don't know if I can get a clear contact alone."
The message went and Hap went with it, riding the wave of energy emanating from Orient, the weight of his presence speeding not only the ride but the wave itself. He felt each contact as it was completed, lifting him higher and faster until the wave suddenly broke, one level after another, leaving him in a blissful glide from which he carefully slid-- carefully...
She was young and pretty and not very brave, consequently she was skittish in the dentist chair.
"Don't worry now," Levi assured her gruffly, "you'll feel better when you get out of that chair."
She didn't answer. She ran some water into a paper cup and rinsed out her mouth. Then she sat back in the chair and closed her eyes.
She could hear Doctor Claude Levi working, shambling about the room like a graceless bear, his shaggy bulk incongruous against the sophisticated chromium machinery that webbed his office.
He would be a very attractive man if he shaved off that horrible beard, she mused through her apprehension. As it was, his powerful intensity made him extremely magnetic.
She heard the soft sliding sound of metal fitting into metal.
"Don't panic now," he rumbled.
She opened her eyes.
Above her was a large glass and metal concentric circle. The glass was lit from behind so that there was no glare. The metal gleamed darkly in contrast.
"Just watch the birdie," Levi said, pressing the switch that started the circle turning.
He let her watch the illusion for a while before he spoke again. When he did, his voice was a hoarse whisper.
"Relax, Emma, relax now. Put every thought out of your mind. Just follow the spiral deep into the center. Follow the spiral."
She felt her jaw and throat go slack. She began to breathe more fully, with less effort. Her hands relaxed their grip on the armrests and hung loosely from her wrists.
"You are going into a soft doze now, Emma," he droned deeply. "Your eyes are heavy, they can't stay open."
Her eyes closed and her breath became shallow and regular.
"You're sleeping now but you can still hear me," he continued. "Is that right?"
"Yes... " Her voice was muffled.
"Now you feel better than you ever have before. Is that right?"
"Yes."
"You feel stronger, quicker, faster, more alive than you ever have before. Isn't that true?"
"Yes."
"You have no cares, no problems, and above all you feel no pain. No pain whatsoever. If I were to jab you with a needle it wouldn't hurt at all, would it?"
"No."
"That's good, that's just the way you should feel, Emma," Levi said as he drew his instrument table and his drill closer to the chair.
"And one more thing," he said as he bent closer to her mouth. "When I wake you up you're going to feel terrific, even better than you do now. Except that you'll feel some pain now and then. But it won't bother you. That's just to let you know if something is wrong. Just to warn your body. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Good."
Levi worked quickly. His blunt, hairy fingers were amazingly efficient. He was just packing in the final layer of a wide filling when the probe found the base of his brain.
New York. Traffic.
The picture repeated, then withdrew.
Claude Levi leaned against the chair for a moment before completing the filling. When he was finished he put away his instruments and awakened his patient.
He chased her out of his office before she could finish telling him how wonderful she felt. He told his nurse to cancel his appointments for a few days, and get him a seat on the next plane for New York. Then he went across the yard to the main house and packed a bag.
The man circled warily around the girl.
She dropped to her hands and knees and spit the word at him. "Empty."
He backed away and leaned against the wall.
"Empty," she whispered slyly.
The man threw up his hands and laughed. Then the laugh broke off in his throat, and he stood flat-footed in front of her.
"Full," he insisted.
Her guffaw turned into a cough as she got to her feet and pointed at him. "Empty. Empty. Empty." The cough rose into a shriek.
"Full," he said quietly.
"Empty." She put her hair back in place and straightened her dress. Then she put a hand on his arm. "Empty," she repeated patiently.
He turned. His head flew back, the muscles in his throat shifting like ropes under his skin. "FULL," he roared.
She began beating at his back with her fists, the heavy blows punctuating the methodical repetition of her words. "Empty, Empty. Empty." She was crying.
For a long time he didn't move. Then he closed his eyes, and thrust his clenched fists high above his head. "Full," he whispered.
She stopped hitting him. Her hand lingered, then dropped. She backed away.
"Full," he repeated, opening his eyes.
"Empty," she whimpered.
"Okay, A.S.," another voice cut in, "we're ready on two."
Argyle Simpson stood impatiently while the make-up man dabbed at his face and the hairdresser sprayed his thick black Afro. He was bored. Balancing lights and lining up angles had very little to do with his kind of acting. He was an explorer, a platonic samurai who enjoyed engaging life head on. He liked to spend his nights getting next to some laughs. These days, what passed for laughs was rehearsal with his leading lady-- the producer's daughter, Italian style. He had to threaten to quit the film before she would even consent to rehearse. Now she was telling the paparazzi that she was the only Italian star who used the Method.
He walked over to the set and lifted his arms so that the wardrobe man could cinch his belt and sword. He adjusted the angle of his scabbard and drew himself up, strutting under the lights like the regal warrior he portrayed in the film.
He squinted, looking for the director.
Gregorio was explaining something to the leading lady in rapid Italian. Argyle could only catch a word here and there, but he knew that Amanda Rizzotta wanted her part padded.
He lit a cigarette and paced. He waved the make-up man away and sat down in a chair stenciled with his name. He was finished with his second cigarette by the time they were ready to work.
The director talked them through the scene, then went to take a look through the cameras. Ten minutes later he called action.
Argyle worked smoothly, taking Amanda into his confidence bit by bit, drawing the juice out of the dialogue, insisting that she be honest. He touched her lightly, waiting until the last possible moment to draw her close to his body.
Then the probe was there, tugging at his brain.
He kissed Amanda hard and held her to him. They called the cut for the third time before he pulled his head back and let her go.
Amanda looked up at him, confused for a moment, then her eyes became smoky and she smiled knowingly.
"Nice, babies, very nice, very, very nice." The director was clapping them both on the back. "That was a print."
"Listen, Gregorio"-- Argyle started moving off the set-- "I have to go to New York. Right now."
The director followed him, mopping his face with a pink silk handkerchief. "Now?" he screamed. "Now?" The grips on the set stopped work and watched. "I'm shooting a picture. You don't walk out now, not for anything."
Argyle stopped and turned around to face Gregorio. "Look, buddy," he said amiably, "if you want to sue-- solid! Talk to Henry about the details."
"But I need you." Gregorio stamped his foot down on the floor. "Why should I talk to your agent? You must stay and finish my picture."
"Listen, Gregorio." Argyle put his hand on the director's shoulder. "I'll be back in a few days. And if you still want me, I'll give you a corking finish. I'm sorry to upset you, Gregorio. I know you don't deserve this and neither does Amanda." He flashed a wide smile at his leading lady. She nodded suspiciously. "But I must leave. That's final."
The director weighed the variables. "I'll shoot around you," Gregorio proclaimed. He began shouting instructions in Italian.
Argyle moved away, wiping the make-up off his face.
Contact complete. Hap went into a peaceful doze.
Later Sordi roused him and showed him to his room. Gratefully he crawled between cool new sheets.
He slept soundly even through the sudden thunder squall that blew up during the night.
Doctor Orient was in his study sorting his mail from the silver tray at his side when Hap came down for breakfast.
The sun, streaming through the large window slanting in and over the desk highlighted the room like a massive Von Sternberg set.
To Hap, the lighting was just ordinary daylight, however, and less important than the eggs, fruit, cream, sour cream, toast and coffee on the sideboard. He took a plate and began heaping it full.
Orient was opening a telegram as Hap sat down to eat "It's from Argyle, acknowledging contact," he said.
"Why bother with the wire?" Hap said tersely.
"He's in Rome and not quite the expert you are."
Hap grunted and concentrated on his food. He had never been overly fond of the flamboyant actor.
"Don't you worry about me, Doc." Hap waved his fork in reassurance as he sensed the Doctor's coming admonition. "I won't tilt this game."
Orient smiled at the term. In the game of pinball, when the player pushes the board trying to impose his will on the free-bounding steel ball, the game shuts off. All the lights go out except for one, which dimly signals the loss with the word TILT. If a communicant in a telepathic circle "pushes" the other participants by involving them with vagrant elements of his ego, he risks shorting out the contact. An ego tilt.
Hap ate his breakfast in silence as the doctor continued to read his mail. When Orient had finished with his correspondence he went to the sideboard and poured himself fresh coffee. He drank it standing up.
"Doc," Hap muttered, "you know I'm still confused."
Orient sat down. "Well, so am I. So you're not alone. Tell me something Hap, what kind of person is Malta? How did you spend your time? Where was she from?"
Hap shifted uncomfortably. "You know, Doc, we never did do much talking. I was drunk a lot of the time. I didn't start to sober up until the owner of the show threatened to fire us both if I didn't hit the wagon."
"When was that?"
"Maryland I think. Yeah... that was it. But I never could get her to tell me about herself. We just worked together."
"Think, man, you must have gotten something across in three months."
"Listen, I was dead drunk when Malta pulled me out of the gutter. And I stayed bagged for the next two months. If we hadn't needed the money we probably never would have stayed together as long as we did." Hap stared at his hands.
Orient said nothing, watching him.
Suddenly Hap looked up. "I'll tell you one thing Doc," he said with conviction, "she seemed to be afraid of something."
Orient leaned forward in his chair. "What makes you think that?"
"Well, there were times when she would get very secretive, and kind of fade. She would make secret living arrangements for days at a time. Just show up for work, and fade when we were finished. Then after a few days she would come back."
"Anything else?"
"She acted afraid in other ways. Every now and then we would be late going on, or miss a show entirely because she got a peek of something she didn't like through the curtain."
"Did she seem afraid of coming to New York?"
"No, not at all. She seemed to be relieved that the act was going to split up soon."
"How did your act work, Hap?" Orient leaned back and stretched out his legs full length.
"It worked fine, people liked us."
"I mean, what did you do during the act? Did you guess weights or ages, or predict the future?" He let the question hang.
"I would come out, introduce Malta, then I would pretend to hypnotize her. Actually she would go into a trance by herself. Then I put a hood over her head. I went into the audience and collected things-- you know the kind of stuff-- watches and rings with engravings on them, wallets, photographs. Anyway, I would tell her telepathically what I had in my hand and Malta would repeat what I told her. At the end of the act I would draw her out."
"Was that all there was to it?"
"That's about it... oh yeah... there was something.
"What's that?"
"Every once in a while she would do something on her own. I mean, she would say things I hadn't sent. Like she would read a letter in a wallet, a letter I hadn't even seen."
"Is that all?"
"When she did something like that she would give advice. That was the only time she ever said anything or predicted anything."
"What kind of advice?" Orient got to his feet intently.
"She would tell them to be careful, or to see their doctor. Stuff like that. She only did it a couple of times."
Orient hooked his fingers into his belt and renewed his pacing.
"I'm going to have to do some research this afternoon," he said presently. "Why don't you try to take it easy today? We can't do very much for Malta until the others get here."
Hap turned in his chair. "Will she be all right? She hasn't eaten or drunk anything for a few days now."
"In her suspended state it won't make much difference. At any rate she'll be out tonight, or we'll be in."
"What's that mean?"
"If we make some error and something goes wrong, all of us are going to end up like Malta-- suspended."
"All of us-- who's all of us?" Hap felt his neck burn.
"I believe you've met the other pilgrims who are going to assist us."
"If you mean Simpson and Levi, forget it. They're not going to want to assist. They don't know Malta."
"I'm going to ask them to volunteer nonetheless."
"You think they're going to take a chance like that?"
"We'll see." Orient set his cup down. "Take a stroll in the garden in the meantime. Get some air."
Hap watched him go out.
For half an hour he prowled around the study, deep in thought. When he had called for the doctor he had no idea that Malta's condition was this complicated. Magic. Negative energy. He had thought that she had just gone into a trance too deep for him to reach. But this was something serious. Even Orient was alarmed. Hap knew that he would do everything necessary to help Malta. But to involve two other men in something like this...
He had met the other telepaths who comprised Orient's circle of pilgrims during the weeks he had been under Orient's tutelage. From time to time they would attempt projects, experiments. He had been less than enthusiastic when he was asked to assist them-- surly, as a matter of fact. He had never cared much about their work. He had been too busy resenting the fact that he had telepathic power. Any help he had given them he had doled out grudgingly. Now he would be asking them to risk their lives, or worse.
He decided the doctor was wrong. No one was going to volunteer to help out a jive busher.
Sordi came in and began to clear away the dishes.
"Are you comfortable, Mr. Prentice?" he asked quietly, watching Hap carefully.
"Huh? Oh yes, who wouldn't be after a breakfast like that?"
Hap moved over to the bookcase. He selected a book at random and ambled distractedly to his bedroom.
He lay on his bed, blankly turning pages as he tried to understand the turns his life, had taken since Doctor Orient had found him. Eventually he discovered he was looking at a series of photographs in an album of some sort. Examining it with more attention he saw that clippings from old newspapers were tucked between the pages. He unfolded some of them and began reading.
The first was an account of a young married couple who were completing a film in Mexico. They had written, directed and starred in the film. Their names were Owen and Harriet Orient. The clipping was dated 1925. The next story concerned the same couple. They were in Monte Carlo after an auto race in which Owen Orient had participated, driving his own Bugatti.
As he read Hap realized that Owen and Harriet Orient must have been the doctor's parents. He went back to the album and began picking out faded, brown-edged photographs of the Orients holding an infant in their arms.
He was at the stage in the album where there were a number of pictures of a small boy at play when someone knocked on the door.
It Was Sordi, looking worried. "Excuse me for disturbing you," he said with some consternation, "but do you by some chance have the photograph album?"
"Right. I'm just reading it now."
"The doctor never shows it, you know." Sordi moved closer and extended his hand.
"Okay, coach," Hap handed the album over. "Sorry if I busted in on anything."
"Oh, no blame. You couldn't have known." He backed out of the room.
Hap was overwhelmed. He had found out more about his strange teacher in the past thirty minutes than he had in all the weeks of training at the mansion. He decided to take a stroll in the garden.
When he returned to the house he found Argyle Simpson relaxing behind Orient's desk.
Hap forced a smile. "Howdy, Simpson."
"Well, howdy yourself, Prentice old man." Argyle lifted a gleaming chelsea boot off the desk in greeting. "It's good to see you back in touch, old buddy. I heard you gave up the telepathy business in favor of an athletic career."
Hap's neck reddened. "Look, try to remember that I'm a shortstop by profession and a damned telepath by accident."
Argyle remained at his impeccable ease. "Now there's no need for that sort of paranoia. We telepaths are the pilgrims of the new race, after all." He mocked Orient gently. "Responsibility, Prentice, respon... "
"Yeah? Well, maybe you'll change your mind when you hear what the Doc has planned for our new race tonight."
"And what do you know about that, pilgrim, or is it rookie?"
"Look, hambone, it so happens that... "
"That this isn't the time for personal games," Orient finished as he entered the room. "Hello, Argyle. Did you have a good flight?"
"The film was a bore."
"You won't be bored long here, I think."
"Sounds good. I was just sending this poor fellow up, trying to get a little advance information."
Before Orient could answer, Levi strolled into the study.
Orient smiled broadly. "I'm glad you could come, Claude."
"I'm glad you called." Levi beamed. "Things have been a bit slow in Motown lately. I haven't seen a decent opening in three months."
Levi was an avid chess player, and one of the few people who beat Orient easily.
While Hap brooded at the window, Argyle enjoyed himself watching Orient and Levi's animated conversation. To Argyle, the square, shaggy Levi always seemed to be playing Oliver Hardy to Orient's lank, steely Stan.
"Okay, we're all here," Orient said presently. "Let's get down to business."
Hap shrugged his shoulders and resumed his window gazing.
"This is an emergency," Orient went on. "A friend of Hap's is in trouble."
"What's wrong?" Simpson looked at Hap.
"I think it'll be easier to explain the girl's condition and outline an approach in the meditation room," Orient said.
"A girl, eh, Prentice," Levi boomed. "No wonder you decided to take a vacation."
Hap remained silent as they entered the elevator, rode up one floor and filed down the corridor to the meditation room.
Malta was waiting, still and patient on the stretcher. The four men grouped around her.
"This girl went into a trance and never came out of it." Orient realized he sounded like a lecturer. ‘‘When we attempted to rouse her she underwent a strange transition and produced violent symptoms which seemed to be painful to her. Not only was our attempt unsuccessful, but the symptoms produced have parallels in certain cases of demonic possession." Orient anticipated Levi's question. "I made a complete medical examination, of course."
Levi bowed.
"With Hap's help," Orient went on, "I managed to enter the field of her trance. I found a huge negative presence there which seemed to be predatory. This presence had trapped the girl's energy."
"How big was the presence?" Levi asked.
"In proportion to our space I would say it's approximately the size of our sun."
"And you think all of us together can combine energy to get the girl out?" Levi continued.
"Not exactly. Yes, I do need the weight of your combined presence, but that's not what's going to get her out of there."
"I didn't think so."
"My plan is to re-enter hyper-space and enter the presence."
"What the hell for, Doctor?" Levi objected. "You wouldn't be able to handle energy that powerful."
"I won't have to handle it. I'm going to will my entry and give it a purpose. Code it. The code will be to find the girl's energy. If the program of the entry is fulfilled it will create an actuality in hyper-space. Since any actuality in hyper- space is impossible, the. girl and myself will become antimatter."
Orient looked around at the faces of his students. There was a pause as they wrestled with the idea.
"I see it, I see it." Hap was congratulatory. "When you find her you'll have created an event in hyper-space, and you'll both be blown out of there."
"That's right, you'll have set up a bloody paradox." A delighted Levi smacked his forehead with his palm. "A paradox," he repeated.
Sounds nice, but will it work just that way?" Argyle asked quietly.
"No," Orient answered. "I don't know if the four of us will be strong enough to maintain spatial balance. Doing this means that if something goes wrong we won't be able to get out of there once I take you in. We run a risk of ending up just as you see this girl now, alive but inanimate. Objects for Sordi to dust."
His three students stood silently waiting.
"That's it, gentlemen," Orient said, just as Hap opened his mouth to speak. "If you feel it's too risky you have the option to pass this project... " His voice trailed off as each of his students sent their answer to him in the same manner. A silent, emphatic yes.
Orient sat cross-legged on the floor next to the stretcher. The others did the same, making themselves comfortable alongside the pool.
Doctor Orient began to explore his breath. Soon he felt the energy emanating from the four other communicants. He embraced their power and took it into his own motion. He went back to his first breath... the itch of being, light. He went back further, back to the cluster of primary genes that seeded his reality. Then the first gene-- the code gene that carries the implication of the future and the imprint of the past. There he swam long and warm until he became water. As water he became fire, and as fire he became air... pleasant drifts circling inward... slowly, then whirling stronger, faster... a spinning dip toward center and the great leap to other space... hyper-space... the junction to everywhere...
He entered swiftly this time and increased his speed, accelerating straight toward the now familiar negative mass. This caused the spinning projectile of his energy to shift suddenly like a curve ball and take a steep orbit around the vortex instead of entering it directly. He felt the swirling phosphorescence of the mass, and as he came around and closer he felt the static of Malta's impaled energy.
Entering the mass was entering a nothing-pudding-- an excruciatingly slow-oozing texture. He huddled small, drawing the particles of his electron energy to its nucleus, decreasing its size but increasing its rate of penetration.
His projection, which was the energy of a combined spatial reality-- the reality being the quest to join Malta-- began to fulfill its purpose.
The mass began to shudder and yawn, going into slow, silent convulsion as he approached Malta. His energy settled into place.
The completion created the time.
A cataclysmic split of being.
Nothing.
Eternity. Then seconds.
Doctor Orient regained consciousness ten minutes after he had entered hyper-space. Like a miler at the end of his run, however, he was still in the full stride of his momentum. He tried to use an entry maneuver to guide himself to an easy stop but he couldn't hold... he slipped out again. When he returned, blown back by contact with his entry point, another minute had elapsed. He was still in motion, but now he was able to hold before the entry point deep within himself. He coasted to a stop, the technique his brake.
He began to breathe regularly shortly afterward. The nose, inhale. The mouth, exhale. He checked his watch. Twelve minutes, a long time to be traveling. He got to his feet and fixed his tie. The others were still in trance. He went to the Stretcher and knelt next to Malta.
Softly he called her name. The girl's lips parted slightly. Her head moved. She opened her eyes.
They were deep green.
As usual, Addison Tracey was looking for action.
She walked slowly, with no particular direction, and no particular curiosity, hipping her way through the anxious swarm of people in the city for a weekend fling. All of the people who saw her, men and women, were captivated by the sight of the tall, slim girl, with straight black hair hanging to her waist, and wide, slanted blue eyes which gave her the exotic flair of a Persian concubine. The expensive beaded tunic she wore over the ultra-short suede skirt and the long brown leather coat, flowing cape-like from her shoulders, accentuated the startling effect.
Addison paid no attention to her admirers. She put them down as mental dwarfs, hopelessly stunted by their stupidity and fear. At sixteen she had parsed through more experience than they could find in a lifetime of weekends.
She turned east, wandering now into a section of the city she visited seldom. The streets were comparatively empty here-- it was above the brassy sound and neon hilarity of midtown Manhattan and below the moronic tackiness of the preppy hangouts on the upper East Side.
She was looking for a special taste tonight, something farther out than the well-traveled fare of the Village, where she usually assuaged her hunger. What it was she didn't as yet know, but she knew that eventually she would find it. There was no eagerness in her quest, no sense of adventure. There was only the deliberate movement of her own supple body and the certain knowledge that what she was seeking would reveal itself to her.
It was with this assurance that she walked to the head of the line of people waiting to enter the Seventh Door Discotheque. She had never heard of the place, but the doorman stepped back to let her pass as if she were a regular patron.
It didn't occur to Addison to question his reaction. She had long been accustomed to service.
Inside, the room was a constantly swirling mixture of flashing lights, smoke, loud talk and the insistent blare of programmed rock. She ignored the stares and comments and eased her way to the crowded bar.
A middle-aged man offered her his stool. Addison took it without a smile. The man made a self-consciously genial attempt at conversation then gave it up in mid-sentence when she turned her back on him. She ordered champagne, looking the place over as she waited for her drink.
The Seventh Door was a long narrow room that might have been a renovated railroad flat. It was divided simply into two sections. The bar was located in the front section, and in the rear was a miniature dance floor. At the far end of the rear section a low platform embellished with dayglo gargoyles served as a stage. Tables were jammed into all the space available in both sections. One wall of the rear room was boarded up. Apparently there was some work in progress. The boards were crudely painted in bright colors.
It couldn't have cost more than fifty thousand to put up, Addison guessed as she sipped her wine. She didn't like the place, everything about it was wrong. It was strident and gaudy, and seemed to attract people just as brittle as the decor. Not only was the music too loud, but the souped-up speaker system gave it a tonal quality she found offensive.
She had made up her mind to leave, when abruptly the music quit. Most of the customers left the dance floor, but a few people continued a series of joyless gyrations for a few moments after the tape had stopped.
Addison turned away in something close to disgust. She scorned any lack of control.
The bartender refilled her empty glass without asking. He placed a check next to her glass and stood there, pointedly waiting for payment. Addison raised her head and looked at him. For a full second he looked back into her steady blue eyes before his gaze wavered and then broke. He moved away to another part of the bar.
She smiled as she drank her champagne. People were so weak. She wondered what it was that others found difficult.
The first throb of the electric guitar stopped her hand in mid-air. The first three notes. Three notes and she didn't even have to turn around. She knew that what she had been looking for was on the bandstand. Slowly she put her glass down.
She knew what she would do. She would stay where she was and not look at the bandstand-- just listen-- and when the set was over he would come to where she was sitting and ask her how she liked the music, and then she would turn around and look at him.
And if she liked what she saw she would take him.
She was wrong. The music began to build. The three notes turned and spiraled and changed position like the pea in a shell game. She found herself being drawn gently and surely off the stool toward the sound moving past the bar, past the raucous johns, the overdone call girls and underdone teeny-boppers, past the soft-faced suburban druggists, drifting back into the writhing clump of dancers in front of the stage.
She was dancing even before she reached the dance floor, swaying in a delicious rhythmic movement which just caught the edge of the pulsing rock. Other rhythms closed in around her then, other bodies, but she broke clear to where she could move freely. For the first time since she had left the bar, Addison opened her eyes completely.
She was on one side of the platform. She saw the four young musicians bent over their instruments. Three of them had their eyes closed. The fourth, standing closest to her on the apron of the small stage was looking directly at her.
There was something in his silver eyes she recognized instantly. It was the same taut, metallic expression that came into her own eyes when she watched those stunted humans of weekend dreams she so despised.
She abandoned herself to his contempt, sensing in it a strength she understood. Her body coiled, then uncoiled, with the sounds. She arched her body back and reached high with her arms as though she were in the long, rolling embrace of some towering lover.
The silver-eyed youth lifted his guitar and began to intensify the sound. Repeating the three notes that had called her, over and over in a steadily climbing pattern of variation. The second guitar began to follow his ascent, restating previous combinations as the first guitar laid down a fresh sign on the twisting path upward.
The drummer and organ stayed beneath them, fueling the thrust to the shrill peak of tone. Around her, Addison heard the unbelieving gasps of the crowd as she realized she wasn't the only one who was completely shattered by this strange music.
She danced for what seemed like days. Her body was covered by a fine film of perspiration that soaked through her clothing. Her legs and arms were numb.
And then it stopped, releasing her.
She made her way unsteadily back to the bar. Behind her the group kicked off another tune, but it was just that. There was nothing compelling her now.
She shook off the yahoos who reached out to ask her to dance or talk, and sat down. Her throat was sand. She ordered a split, finished it immediately and ordered another.
"That was some performance, miss."
Addison looked into the mirror behind the bar. The middle-aged gallant was back.
"If you don't want to talk to me, maybe you'll want to talk to my friend Alex over here. He's in television." He let the word roll off his white-coated tongue. "Commercials."
Alex peered out from around his friend's unpadded shoulder.
"That's right," he said, flashing the ring on his pinky as he held out a business card. "That's my card."
Still looking into the mirror Addison took the card and tore it in half. The two men backed away.
"Damned fresh kids," Alex muttered, mopping his face with a handkerchief as he moved off.
Addison composed herself and waited for the silver-eyed musician. When the set was over she saw him in the mirror, threading his way lithely through the crowd until he stood directly behind her.
He signaled the bartender, who nodded and brought him a goblet of orange juice mixed with champagne. The boy took the goblet and, staring at Addison in the mirror, raised his glass in a curt toast. Addison lifted her glass and returned the gesture.
"I'm glad you came," he said. His voice was silken. He didn't smile.
"You are?" Addison challenged. "Whatever made you think I would? I'm here quite by chance, you know."
The boy raised his glass again. "Here's to luck."
Addison turned around and looked into his face. She found it disconcerting. His features were sharp and perfect. His mouth was full. His skin had an unusual quality of smoothness. Not fresh, but ivory smooth. He could have been eighteen years old, or a hundred. Closer to a hundred, she decided, as she looked closely at his eyes. They were a peculiar, almost transparent shade of cold gray. The pupils seemed to be flecked with slivers of bright metal, giving them their intense silver glint. She shivered slightly as she realized that there was no reflection in those eyes, as if they had been cut from a slab of opaque marble.
He smiled slightly. "Don't be afraid, little bird, everything is cool."
She was reassured more by the slang than the smile.
"I'm not a bird who scares easily," she said quickly.
The youth bowed his head in mock deference. "Oh, I know," he said lightly. "You've got heart, Addison."
Addison Tracey had been telling the truth. She didn't scare easily, but when this strange boy spoke her name, a chill hit her behind the knees and began to travel up her back.
"All right." She smiled. "Suppose you tell me how you know my name." There was no trace of fear in her voice.
"Later." He put down his glass. "Right now I have to gig."
"I don't think I'll be here that long." She tried to yawn.
"I think you'll stay, Addison." He looked at her steadily. He turned and waved at the bartender. "Give this lady what she needs, George." He managed to make his voice carry through the garbled bar talk without raising it noticeably. "Put it on the house account."
George made a circle with his thumb and forefinger.
The young man turned and floated back toward the stage.
Addison sipped her wine and watched him disappear into the crowd, then reappear as he mounted the platform. As he lifted his guitar the canned music switched off. He began to pick out a simple tune. A pink spot emphasized the loneliness of the single figure playing a soft blues line. As he went on, the other members of the group began to drift up the stage one by one. First the organ, signaling his appearance with short heavy chords that moved the simple blues line from its country home into the city. As the duet became more sophisticated the drummer came in loud and fast and convinced them to try another place. The three were just driving off when the other guitar met them, chanting something he had heard a long time ago. The pink spot started to rotate and change color. A flashing light began to pop as the group fused and flared, showering the room with brilliant sheets of jagged sound. The crowd was electrified by the transitions, yelling and stumbling to their feet to dance.
Addison, sitting at the bar, was captivated. She watched the audience, galvanized to a pounding frenzy, and she understood that the group playing on the tiny platform had power. Her eyes narrowed to slits as her young mind contemplated what that kind of power was worth. She was still in the rapture of that contemplation when the set ended.
"Well, that's my turn, little bird. Shall we split now?" The soft voice in her ear roused her.
"Perhaps." She looked at him for a long second. "Who's asking?"
"They call me Seth," he said, taking her arm and guiding her toward the door.
Outside, the temperature had dropped. She moved close to him, shivering. He put an arm around her shoulders. "You'll be warm in a minute," he said gently.
They walked quickly to a building located a few doors from the discotheque. Seth unlocked the street door and went in first. The hallway was barely lit by a fading light bulb hanging from a wire. A stairway led into the darkness. To the left of the stairs was an elevator. Seth pushed the button.
The door slid back immediately. The inside of the car was not shabby as Addison had expected but was carpeted and chromed. She stepped inside. Seth pressed a button on the inside panel and the door closed. He pushed the middle button on the panel once and the top button twice. The elevator whirred into motion.
Addison was curious. She was used to new situations involving men, but there were many variables about this boy that intrigued her. She remained calm. When the time came he would tell her what she wanted to know. Variable or constant, men were essentially alike.
The elevator doors opened directly onto a lushly appointed flat. Originally one large room, it was sectioned off by geometrically shaped dividers which had been sculpted from glaze stone. The lighting was indirect and well placed. A white rug with a black pentagram design woven into its center stretched across the entire floor. An oversized round couch covered with suede was one of the three pieces of furniture in the apartment. Scattered throughout were pieces of sculpture done in wood, metal and marble. Addison recognized one of the forms as the work of Giacometti. This boy is full of little surprises, she thought, stepping inside.
Seth snapped a wall switch. Arabic music began playing.
"Would you like a drink?" he asked.
"Not right now." She walked over to the couch and sat down. "You can tell me how you happen to know my name."
He came over to where she was sitting. "I wonder if you would believe me if I told you." His face was serious.
"I might."
He touched her face with his fingertips. "Such a brave little bird," he mused.
"Not so little," Addison corrected.
"Oh, I know," he mocked gently, "very hip for just over sixteen."
"Very good, most people think I'm twenty," She was uncomfortable. Seth's fingers were hot on her neck. She moved away from his caress. "But you still haven't answered my question."
"Addison, you've been bored for a long time now," Seth stated flatly. "You're smart, you look hot, and you're rich. But more than all that, you have a special talent. A talent you aren't even aware of."
"What's the point? You're still circling," she said.
"In a way," he went on as if he hadn't heard her, "at one time I was very much like you are now. I was on top of all the games and I wanted more than just bread. I wanted a certain kind of power, enough power to control others and myself as well. One day I asked for that power-- that's all, just asked-- and I was shown how to get it."
"What are you talking about?" She was interested now. The conversation was making a strange kind of sense.
"You asked for that power, little bird, didn't you? You asked and I'm here to see that you get it."
"I didn't ask for anything, and I'm not sure you're making any sense."
Seth laughed. "I'll show you something, little bird, and maybe you'll understand a little more." He went to a low table against the wall. "Come here," he said.
Addison went over to where Seth was crouching next to the table. He pulled her down next to him. "Look," he said softly, pointing to a bowl filled with dark liquid standing in the center of the small table. He stirred the liquid with his finger.
As Addison watched she saw patterns appear, then disappear, in the dark water of the bowl. Then the patterns began to take shape. She could make out figures forming in the swirling liquid. A woman laughing, an old man mumbling fervently, a young boy. Although there was no sound she could hear what they were saying. They were all asking for the same thing. Each was swearing their spirit to whatever forces would have them in return for their desires.
"All of these people are asking for something, little bird," Seth said evenly, "money or beauty. All those people begging to sell their souls and they don't even know what to ask for. You have a talent, little bird, and you've got an idea of how to use it, and that's why you were called special."
"You did hear." Her voice was subdued. "Then souls do exist. Are you a warlock of some kind?"
"In a way, I practice a kind of magic. Right now I'm collecting talent for the Clear One. And you're a top talent, Addison."
She was silent.
"The Clear One is the source of all power," Seth went on. "By offering yourself to him you can get the full measure of any desire, if he wants you. You took the first step when you asked for mastery over humans, and you have what it takes to get what you want from him."
"When"-- Addison's voice was hard now-- "do I get these powers?" She had already decided to go through with anything necessary in order to follow this through to its conclusion. She was stimulated. For the first time in years she felt fully alive.
"I'll present you tomorrow evening." Seth took her hand and led her back to the couch. "I can give you your basic instruction here. I'm sure you're a quick study."
"That's right." Addison leaned back fluidly on one elbow. She looked appraisingly at Seth standing in front of her.
He stroked her neck idly. "Is there any problem with home?"
She put her hand on his. His skin was cool. A cold-blooded creature. "There's no problem."
"Good." He casually unbuttoned her tunic as he spoke.
"Irate parents can be inconvenient." He slipped the tunic off her shoulders. "You're such a little bird." He stroked her arms and the swelling nipples of her breasts, touching her lightly with his fingertips. Wherever his calm hands moved they created areas of intense heat.
With a small moan Addison pulled him down next to her. She squirmed under his hands, helping him to pull the clothes from her body. He took his time, exploring her slowly, bringing her to a long aching frenzy before taking her.
She dug her nails into his back and put her mouth over his ear and begged him frantically for everything.
Later that night they made love again and he asked her to recite a prayer while they were together. Addison was puzzled, but she did as he asked-- for as long as she could remember what she was doing...
Orient waited until Malta had finished breakfast before going up to speak to her.
When he came in she was sitting up in bed, looking out into the garden.
"Good morning," he said quietly. "Did you have a good sleep?"
"Good morning." She turned from the window slowly. "No dreams. Yes, a good sleep." There was a trace of an accent in her speech.
"Hap was very concerned for you." He sat next to the bed.
She smiled slightly. "He's so good." She pushed her hair back away from her face. There were blue circles around her eyes, and her skin was still very pale.
"Who are you?" she said, suddenly aware that she was talking to a stranger.
"I'm Doctor Orient. I'm an old friend of Hap's. He called me when he couldn't revive you from your trance."
Malta smiled. "There was no need for that. I would have been up in a few hours. Just basic auto suggestion."
"You were in a trance for almost three days." Orient moved closer to the bed.
"That is serious," she said, almost to herself. She looked up. "Are we in a hospital?" she asked apprehensively.
"You're at my home. You'll need a long rest, I think." Orient took her pulse. It seemed normal, but just under the steady throb he sensed a subtle acceleration.
"I think I have been resting too long now."
"Perhaps," he smiled. "How did you manage to get yourself in such a position?"
"Position?" She wet her lips, and withdrew her hand from his.
"I mean in that deep trance."
"My mother taught me how to hypnotize myself and receive thoughts."
"Hypnotism?" Orient frowned. "Was that a hypnotic trance you were in?"
"Yes," she said quickly. "I don't know much about it." Her eyes watched his face for any reaction.
"I see." Orient appeared unconcerned. "Have you done this sort of thing long?"
"What sort of thing?" she demanded.
"I mean, read minds for a living."
She relaxed slightly. "Oh, yes, I did it before I met Hap, but my assistant-- " She paused, then, "my assistant had to leave me suddenly."
"And then you met Hap?"
"Yes."
"You understand that I'm trying to help you?"
"Yes." She turned to the window.
"Do you remember anything while you were in trance?"
She didn't answer him immediately. "No," she said finally. "It was like being in a deep sleep. I couldn't even hear Hap."
"I've had a little experience with matters of trance and I thought that perhaps there was something other than simple suggestion involved with what happened to you."
Malta turned suddenly, her eyes wide. "I don't know what you mean," she said.
Orient continued easily. "I just thought that you might have met with a psychic accident."
"I don't know, Doctor." Her voice was softer now. "I make my living using hypnosis. I don't really believe in magic."
"Not many people do."
"But you do, is that it, Doctor?"
Orient regarded her carefully before he answered. Malta. The name clattered through his mind. He searched her face. The long fine bones of her face. Her chiseled mouth. Her name rose in his thoughts when he looked at her eyes. He knew Malta. He remembered a song. A child's song. "Yes," he said, "I believe in magic."
"Spells? Witches?" She seemed amused.
He waited for the rush of sound to subside. "In a way." He began breathing carefully.
She leaned close to him. "Possible, I suppose." Her amusement shifted suddenly to melancholy. He felt the change and instinctively moved closer. She reached out and touched his face gently with her fingertips. "Have we met? I feel we have." She said.
"We met last night in your trance."
"No." She shook her head vehemently. "I don't mean now. I mean some other time."
"Perhaps." Orient touched her hand. Her skin felt cool but he could feel warmth radiating from her.
"Your touch feels familiar," she said, closing her eyes.
"Familiar?" The ragged sing song of the child's tune expanded inside him.
"You make me sad," she was saying, "sad to recall a sweet touch. Like a song you can't remember."
As she spoke a pang of sheer pleasure pierced his chest, disrupting the deliberate pattern of his breathing.
Orient lifted his head.
She was staring at him, compassion softening the precise curves of her face. "We have the same color eyes," she mused.
The pleasure intensified as she spoke. Her words dropped into his consciousness like stones in a pool, sending ripples of delight across his mind. His brain bounced crazily with the sound of a child's voice singing the same phrase over and over as he relaxed his grip on thought and began drifting inward...
The sharp tickle of grass under his bare legs worried him back from his dream. For a moment his mind refused to function. Then he saw the carved figure of Urvashi and he knew where he was. He must have fallen asleep while he was meditating in the temple garden. He yawned and adjusted his short robe around his shoulder.
A sound behind him catapulted him to full awareness. As he whirled his hand was already easing the sword from the scabbard at his belt.
When he saw her his hand relaxed. A full rush of joy exploded from his throat as he opened his arms and reached out for her.
He rocked her back and forth, still laughing at the absurdity of her loveliness.
"Where have you been? Why didn't you let me know where to find you? If I hadn't spoken to the servant girl, I would never have known you'd come to the sacred garden," she reproached him, her green eyes flashing alternate facets of relief, fear, anger and love.
"Why are you so upset?" he whispered, lifting her face and gently brushing her damp cheeks with his lips. "I just wanted to spend some time with our protectress Urvashi before I sail."
Her stricken expression chilled his amusement, and he drew her close to him. "What is it that's frightened you?" he demanded.
"I've had a terrible dream. I don't want you to take that voyage. Please. For the sake of Urvashi, don't leave me."
"You're as foolish as the old goat woman," he whispered.
She pulled away and he saw her face was grave. "Are you sure you love me?" she said.
In spite of his efforts the smile broke through.
"I love you only, for all time."
"You'll grow tired of me and take another woman." She persisted, playing at her favorite game.
He put his hand over his heart. "By my most solemn oath, I vow to Urvashi that I shall never have knowledge of another woman's love."
Her delighted laugh tinkled in the warm wind, filling him with joy as he held her. He began humming the simple little song they had shared since childhood.
As her voice joined with his, his joy was stabbed by a sudden doubt. There was something he had to remember.
The ragged cadence of the song had made it difficult to concentrate, but even as they both sank to the soft grass, and he moved his hands over the cool smoothness of her skin, the thought clung. He nuzzled her hair, inhaling its peppery cedar scent, trying to shake loose the gnawing anxiety. It resisted, and grew stronger, drawing him... guiding him back...
"Something I must remember." The sound of his own voice cut through a lush blanket of warmth tucked around his senses.
"Is something wrong, Doctor?" Malta was close to him, the cedar scent of her hair lulling him back to the distant garden.
Orient pulled back from her and got to his feet. He took a long, deep breath.
She was looking up at him, her head cocked to one side.
"Are you all right?" Concern furrowed the space between her hazy green eyes.
He looked away. "I'm okay." He tried to subdue the shakiness in his tone. "Just a sudden dizziness. Perhaps a side effect of the roller coaster we were on last night."
"Roller coaster," she half laughed in confusion. "Doctor, I'm afraid your wit is obscure."
He looked down at her, his gaunt face serious. "I know exactly what kind of trance you were in, Malta," he said carefully, "because I was there."
She shifted slightly, coiling away from him.
"Why are you avoiding my help?" He kept his eyes on her. "I know you were touched by a negative force and so do you."
She stared back at him. "We were together just then, when you were dizzy."
"Yes."
There was a long pause as Orient waited for her to speak.
"When I first saw you, I felt that we had met before." Her eyes were soft. "Did you have that feeling, too?"
"You know I did."
Her eyes were pleading now. "Then please understand when I say that you cannot help me. There were only those moments for us, nothing more."
"Perhaps," he nodded, "but what about your trance?"
"I don't know about the trance," her voice rose. "I don't know what happened."
"You must let me help," he said softly.
"Help me," she sighed sadly. "Perhaps you could help me."
Orient waited.
"My mother taught me to hypnotize myself. She had what people called second sight. After she died I was forced to use what my mother had taught me to earn a living."
Orient nodded.
"But as I used my trance I discovered that my powers were erratic. I couldn't always control them fully. But I still had to use them, I was dependent on them." She fell back on the pillow. "I'm so very tired."
Orient put his hand on her forehead. She was feverish.
"What do you mean when you say you couldn't control your power?" he asked. Doubt dragged at his words. He was sure she was avoiding the truth.
"I've had trouble coming out of my trance a few times before. Each time it's lasted longer than the last." She closed her eyes.
"Anything else?"
"When I awake I have a horrible feeling of intense fear, Fear all around me."
Orient straightened up. Malta wasn't telling him everything. He could feel it.
"Can you tell me anything else?" he said.
"No," she said, her voice weary.
"Later, perhaps."
"I'll try." She looked up at him. "I'm so tired that nothing makes sense."
Orient nodded. "I'll look in later. Call for Hap if you need anything."
‘Thank you." She tried to smile. "Perhaps soon I'll be able to think clearly.
Orient left her looking out the window at the garden below.
As he slowly climbed the stairs to his room his doubt gave way to depression. He knew less about Malta now than when he began. But he was more involved. His long training in psychic and emotional control was worthless. It had all broken down the moment he saw her. His brain was making emotional equations, based on need.
He was a fool for expecting better. He'd spent too much time training and not enough doing. He still didn't know how to ride his emotions full speed.
He looked up. He was standing in his bedroom. Still absorbed, he began changing his clothes.
His journey had begun as a search for total freedom. A search for the path that led away from the genetic drama of the marketplace. Away from the cities where emotions are measured and exchanged as game tokens.
Paradoxically, his quest had taken him back to the cities. He wondered if he had taken his journey just to escape a game he couldn't play.
He stepped into a pair of brown Battaglia loafers and looked at his reflection in the wall mirror. He was healthy enough, even younger looking than his thirty-odd years, but he felt stiff and unsure. His lean body showed the result of constant exercise. Another methodical form of training, Orient reminded himself.
His black sweater and custom trousers suggested a dynamically aware city dweller. But they only reflected his taste. He should have worn a plastic bag, he decided. That would reflect his condition.
He moved to the stairs and on his way to the garage tried to concentrate on solving immediate problems. Conflicts were an indulgence. Malta needed positive help.
In a recess of his ear he could hear the shredded echo of a sing-song tune. There was something missing inside Malta.
Something he had to find. There was a void of despair inside her he had to cross. He stepped into the limousine and pushed the button that activated the garage doors. Then he pulled the starter and listened to the deep full roll of the seven-litre, straight six engine. For a moment he heard nothing else.
The Ghost was one of Orient's few material enthusiasms. He'd discovered the Rolls Royce moldering in a barn in New Hampshire, on property owned by an American Yoga instructor. Orient had spent the rest of that summer having the car restored and rewired. Originally it had been built at the Rolls shop in Springfield, Massachusetts, in 1925, during the time that the firm was experimenting with maintaining a factory in the States. The body was a special design by Brewster and bore a strong resemblance to the Bugatti Royale coachwork. It seated nine.
It wasn't a fast car, working up a top speed of perhaps eighty, but Orient wasn't concerned with the Ghost's speed. He had other, more efficient methods of travel. He found the integrity of the workmanship on the car almost spiritual in its attempt at perfection. To him, it was a piece of sculpture that worked.
He lingered on the throb of the motor as he eased the long car out into the crisp fall sunshine. Behind him the garage doors folded shut.
His mind rippled with Malta as he drove. He could feel the emotion washing over his logic. He knew Malta and she knew him. They had been together before today and would be together again. His Karma was intertwined with her time. But he knew the void there. The negative charge within her wasn't casual. She had been drawn more from empathy than accident. The only accident had been the location. She became trapped when she came to New York. But the time had already been established and eventually would have taken her. The time of her.
She was too close to the negative. She could easily come under the influence again. He wondered if she had participated in the forbidden rites. When she had been close to his ear he thought he'd heard... He shook it loose from his mind and concentrated on the view of the Palisades. He parked the Ghost in front of an ornate townhouse in the West 90's that served as a rectory for Bishop Redson. Gargoyles. Very yang.
He wondered if it would do any good to get Redson involved in this. He was still trying to decide when he rang the bell.
Redson's secretary wasn't happy to see him. He tried to smile and block the door at the same time. "Here again, Doctor?"
Orient walked past him. "My research calls for the bishop's own fine hand today, Mr. McGowan."
"He's in conference with the Bishop of Panama." McGowan ran to block the stairs.
"He'll know where to find me," Orient said over his shoulder as he executed a sharp right turn at the foot of the stairs and made for the study.
He spent the rest of the afternoon researching Malta's symptoms. Redson had a large collection of volumes concerning the occult. They were rare books, frequently written in longhand, occasionally illuminated, all valuable, which described the mathematics of magic-- the techniques, measurements and conditions of practice. Redson maintained the collection partially as a connoisseur and partially to aid him in his clerical duties. As a priest he had been chosen to study the secret art on behalf of his church. This wasn't unusual procedure. The Church still trains a few men each year in the occult and there is a rite of exorcism inherent in both the sacrament of Baptism and the process of Holy Orders by which a man achieves priesthood.
It was much later when Redson came in carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and two cups.
"All right now." He set the tray down elaborately. "What's your trouble?"
The man was amazing. Sixty-three years old and he looked like a fullback. He practiced no Yoga, ate no health food, fasted infrequently, was overly concerned with the politics of his calling, and still he radiated the clear open energy of an exuberant young man. Orient grinned at him.
"Good to see you, Bishop."
"Will you cut the hosannas and tell me what you want?" Redson said evenly.
"I'm still not together on it myself." Orient took a Player from the bishop's back and lit it. "But I'll try to explain what's happened since yesterday."
Redson was silent as he listened to Orient describe how he entered Malta's trance. He was especially absorbed in his equation.
"As you know, electrical energy travels from a point of high electron count to one of lower count, from more to less. I discovered after a few months' work with our group of pilgrims that telepathic and telekinetic energy run much the same course. My findings since then have borne out that theory."
Bishop Redson nodded his head emphatically.
"Last night after my second trip into the hyper-space of Malta's trance I realized something else."
"What's that?"
"I believe that black magic creates a passive field in hyper- space, drawing vital energies away from our time-space continuum, while white magic creates active fields and feeds energy to our continuum."
"Very interesting," Redson acknowledged. "It even has sexual connotations. But what does this theory mean to you?" _
"Malta was trapped by a great negative passive field. If I'm correct, that field is being maintained by someone practicing black magic."
"But how can you be sure that the girl wasn't telling you the truth and merely had an adverse reaction to some form of hypnosis?" Redson demanded.
"I was there, Bishop," Orient answered softly.
"Yes." Redson squinted shrewdly at Orient. "I see."
"Bishop," Orient said after an uncomfortable pause, "do you think exorcism would help Malta?"
Redson chuckled. "You've given me pretty slim evidence, Owen."
Orient nodded. "Perhaps." He stared at his wrinkled palm.
"At any rate, I'm committed to do everything I can for her."
"Ah now, be careful, my young friend." Redson shook his head gravely. "Science will only take you so far in these matters. Magic goes far beyond space and hyper-space. The fact that you can find concrete evidence of its energy makes it even more dangerous a factor."
"I understand, Bishop. That's why I wanted to brush up on the rituals of protection." Orient waved a hand at the manuscripts in front of him.
"You know, of course, that if your friend Malta had been possessed by a demon and not merely strolling by, you and your whole crew would be mummified. You were foolish to go into this before consulting me or someone else about protection."
Orient smiled. "You know, Bishop, I studied in Tibet for some time." He reached into his sweater and pulled out a curiously shaped red stone which hung by a silver chain around his neck. Redson's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Is that a Carnelian stone?"
"Correct. It has power to protect the wearer from entry by an evil presence."
The bishop became grave once more. "You know, Owen," he said softly, "you were in serious danger. The Carnelian has power only when the moon is in its ascendancy, and last night was the last quarter. You might as well have been wearing a Nixon button."
Doctor Orient's face showed his chagrin. Bishop Redson was right, and he had been a fool. He had exposed all of them to a terrible risk by his oversight.
Redson rose. His voice was gentle as he spoke. "You did the right thing last night, Owen, but you were impetuous. You must learn to go slowly." He jabbed Orient's shoulder. "Remember, your science is telepathy, not magic."
"One more thing, Bishop." Orient's memory was jogged suddenly and he recalled the sounds that came from Malta's body when Hap had tried to rouse her. "While she was in trance she spoke in a strange language. A language I've never heard before." Orient's mind kept wandering to Hap. There was something else he had to remember.
"Can you remember any of it?" Redson was saying.
"Huh-- oh, yes, a phrase she repeated over and over. It sounded like'oh say.'"
Redson's face hardened. He sat down. "My friend, I must admit I was somewhat dubious earlier, but what you've just told me is interesting. If your friend was possessed, it was by one of the most powerful Presidents of the Dark Legions. ‘Oh say' would be Ose, the leopard, the spirit that breeds insanity, the spirit of things secret and hidden."
As Orient listened his concentration was interrupted by a light, sudden probe at the base of his brain. It receded almost as it connected. Orient stood up. "I have to go back to the house," he mumbled. "Something's happened."
"What do you mean, Owen?" Redson was confused.
"I can't explain." Orient began moving to the door. "I just know I'm needed."
Redson rose and started out of the library. "Wait while I get some things," he called over his shoulder. "I want to go with you."
Moments later they were in the limousine zigzagging toward the Orient mansion through the heavy afternoon traffic. Redson sat in the front, clutching a black leather bag in his lap.
As they drove, Orient reached for the transmitter on the dash. Something was wrong. He had gotten that much from the incomplete message. He berated himself for not taking more precautions. He banged the mike and swore as he tried vainly to get a response from Sordi Over the auto-com.
He brought the car to a sliding stop outside the garage. He led the way inside, ducking his head under the slowly rising garage door. Redson was just behind him, his beefy face scarlet with exertion. The elevator seemed to take an agonizingly long time to travel the two floors to where Malta was recuperating.
Orient ran to the room. The door was open. He stopped short at the threshold. Sordi was lying face down near the entrance. All around were signs of a tremendous struggle.
There was no sign of Malta.
"We're too late," Orient muttered as he knelt to examine his secretary.
"Dead?" Redson knelt beside him.
Sordi's neck was severely bruised. He appeared to have been strangled.
When Addison finally woke up she was still lying on the round suede couch. Sunlight filtered through the heavy white draperies at the far end of the room. She sat up quickly and looked around. She was quite alone. She yawned once, then swung her feet to the carpet and began looking for the bathroom.
She took a long, hot shower. When she had finished she dried herself in front of the mirrored wall, inspecting her body carefully for any sign of change, as she did each morning. Still naked, she wandered out of the bathroom, brushing her hair, and walked slowly about the silent apartment. She went from object to object, examining everything as if she were in a museum. Seth had an important collection; there were two Nevelsons, the Giacometti, a Marisol, a Samaras and a small Calder among the sculpture; and paintings by Gill and Lindner hung on the walls. Eventually she came to the bowl in which she had seen the strange images the night before. It was an irregularly shaped piece made of reddish clay. Crude child-like scribbles were etched into the rough outside surface.
The dark liquid was still in the bowl.
She dipped a tentative finger into it and stirred as she had seen Seth do. The liquid was thick and oily. She withdrew her finger and held it close to her face. It was dry. There was no moisture clinging to her skin. It was as if she had put her finger in air.
She shuddered slightly, then stirred the liquid again. She peered into the bowl, but she could see nothing. Again she disturbed the oily mixture. This time, as she gazed closely, she was able to make out the faint outlines of a face. The image became stronger for a moment, then receded back into the dark waters of the bowl. She made a small sound of impatience as the form faded.
"Don't worry, little bird, you'll get the hang of it." Seth's soft voice startled her.
"Where were you, lover?" she said coolly, unwilling to show surprise.
"I was making arrangements for this evening." He casually threw the packages he was carrying onto the couch.
"This evening?" Addison came over to him.
He ran his hands over her bare shoulders. "Tonight you're going to take your first step, remember? You're going to be initiated into the sisterhood of the Clear One."
"Sounds somewhat sophomoric, doesn't it?" Her fingers stroked the back of his neck.
"Perhaps now, but after you've met the Clear One and Susej you won't feel that way." He twisted away from her and opened the packages. "We have lots of work to do now. I'm responsible for your instruction."
"No application? No interview? Just like that?"
"Everything's been taken care of." His face was serious. "You've been observed, heard and found acceptable. Up until now."
"I'm not sure I want to get involved in this kind of weird setup," she teased.
"Any way you want it, little bird," he said impassively.
Her mood changed. "You know I'll do anything you ask me to," she said quietly.
"Good, then we can begin right away." Seth took a white robe out of one of the boxes and held it out to her.
Addison felt a twinge of disappointment at Seth's casual dismissal of her answer. She had never had this kind of feeling for a man before. The word love had long since been deleted from her emotional vocabulary, but she had substituted for it the word submission. She felt submissive to Seth. She would do anything necessary to stay with him. She took the robe and held it at arm's length.
"What's this?"
"That's what you wear; and this."
Addison's eyes widened as she saw the tiara Seth held in his hand. She was used to artifacts of wealth, but the intricately worked twist of gold seemed just right for an empress.
"This is the symbol of your high position, little bird." Seth read her reaction. "But its value is nothing compared to the gift you're going to receive tonight. As a sister of the Clear One you'll receive the power to perform certain phases of deep magic. When you meet Susej you'll know that the bowl of observance is just a trick compared with what he can do."
"Are there any rules I have to follow?"
"The first and only rule of being is to do exactly as you Wish."
"That's it?" she said, unbelievingly.
"There are procedures and rituals you must follow to get power, but these are just rules of function."
"Will I take part in a ritual tonight?" Addison asked. "Sure. This robe you'll wear is made of plain virgin cotton and when you put it on you'll be taking the first ritual step toward your new baptism. You'll be given a new name and you'll be consecrated to the Clear One.
"Tonight you won't take part in the first part of the ritual, you'll just observe. There'll be many things which may surprise you, but you must not show any emotion." Seth looked at her intently. "You understand?"
Addison nodded.
"After the brothers and sisters have asked Susej to intercede for them with the Clear One, the mass will begin. I'll bring you forward and introduce you to the high priest. Then the rites will proceed. You will enter into these rites completely, holding nothing back. At the apex of the mass the Clear One will appear. If he finds you suitable he will take you physically. Do you understand that part of the ritual?"
An orgy cult, Addison noted. Nothing new, but interesting enough. Again she nodded.
"The rites will continue and I will give you a command. You will do as I ask and the mass will be concluded. And," Seth's voice dropped, "you'll be more than just a member. You're going to have as much power as your talented little body desires. That's why you'll wear the tiara."
As the bright afternoon sun mellowed to a lazy red Seth explained the history of the cult of Satan to Addison. He told her of the cult's existence since the beginning of system. Through Moses, David, Absalom and Solomon. In Babylon, in Rome, in Byzantium. The medieval Satanists in Spain, France and England. The covens in early America, the Sects of Kali in India, the devil worshippers in Russia under Rasputin, and the cult of Crowley which had penetrated modern America through Hollywood. He went into detail about the occult experiments of Hitler.
Seth explained to her how Susej would soon change the world with his immense power and bring all of civilization under a Great Order, the First Order of Satan. Human beings would be taught to worship the Clear One as supreme master of the universe. His high priests and priestesses would rule.
Addison was fascinated. She'd often day dreamed of being an empress. Again Seth read her reaction accurately.
"With the power you'll have you'll be able to communicate with the dead. Imagine talking to Theodora, Josephine or Catherine of Russia. Think of the knowledge you'll have... little queen."
He left her alone with her thoughts then. She lay on the carpet for a long while, listening to Seth whispering strange words as he bent over the bowl of observance.
When Seth woke her it was night.
"Is there anything to eat?" She yawned. "I haven't had anything since yesterday."
"It's better that you don't eat before the ceremony." He handed her the white robe. "Put this on. We'll be going soon." When she had slipped into the robe he adjusted the tiara on her head. Addison ran to the mirror to look at the effect. She was pleased. She did look like an empress, or a priestess. "Is the ceremony going to be held, here?" she called out, her eyes still on her reflection.
"No," he answered from the other room. "And hurry, we have a lot to do."
She left the mirror reluctantly. "I'm ready," she said.
They left immediately. "Wait here," Seth told her when they reached the sidewalk. He disappeared swiftly and silently around a corner. Addison, cold and suddenly alone, pressed against the wall in an effort to find some protection against the high, sharp wind which cut through the thin cotton of her robe. A sense of unreality passed over her. What was she doing wearing this costume, freezing in a doorway? She wondered if Seth were coming back at all. Or would she have to try and flag a cab dressed like that?
She saw his eyes first, gleaming catlike in the dark, coming toward her.
Then he was close to her. She moved against him, trying to get some protection from the raw wind. He reached into his pocket and produced a black blindfold. "Put this on, little bird," he murmured, his eyes searching her face, "and no questions at all from now on."
He took her arm and gently led her forward along the sidewalk. They stopped, and she heard wood scrape against concrete. Then he was guiding her up some stairs. At the top of the stairs he picked her up in his arms. "Fm glad you're here, little bird," he whispered in her ear. He opened a door and moved inside. She heard the door close behind them. He set her down and removed her blindfold.
It took a few minutes for her eyes to get used to even minimum light.
They were standing on a small balcony partitioned with glass on three sides. There was a thin door, also glass, which opened onto a stairway. The stairs ran down along the wall of a large, softly lit room. In the room below them were standing a group of about fifty men and women, dressed identically in black robes.
At one end of the room was a simple arrangement consisting of an altar made from black wood, and two large thick candles which stood on the floor on either side of the shrine. Directly behind the altar a white cross hung upside down on the black wall. The floor was covered with a black carpet which had a white pentagram woven into its center. Addison noticed that the people took care to step around the design as they moved about the room.
"You'd better take some of this," Seth said, offering her a silver flask.
She took the flask and drank. The liquid was bitter and burned her throat. She made a face.
"It's good for you," he said. "Take some more."
She took another mouthful then thrust the flask at him.
They stood watching through the glass. From time to time one of the robed figures would look up toward them but gave no indication of having seen anyone. A two-way glass, she decided.
As Addison waited for the ritual to begin, a pleasant tingle rippled through her stomach. She clenched and unclenched her teeth rhythmically. Addison had had enough experience with drugs to realize that Seth had given her some kind of amphetamine mixture. That would account for the bitter taste.
As her eyes became accustomed to the flickering candle-light she began to take note of the types gathered below. Except for the robes, most of them looked like ordinary businessmen attending a cocktail party with their wives. A few of the men were particularly striking; A skeletal, effete- looking Negro wearing an eye patch, a blond surfer type with a deep tan and huge shoulders, a tall Germanic-looking individual carrying a jagged scar on one cheek.
None of them was as unusual as Seth, Addison thought with mild satisfaction.
For the most part the women seemed well kept and almost elegant. Addison sensed something familiar about one of them-- a tall athletic redhead, who was standing with her back to the balcony, deep in conversation with the thin Negro. As she watched, the woman turned suddenly, her angular face contorted with laughter.
Addison drew a sharp breath. "Mona," she whispered unbelievingly.
"What's that?" Seth's voice was in her ear. "You know that woman?"
Addison looked up at him. "That's my mother. Did you... ?"
"Your mother." Seth smiled. "Well that's a kick."
"Did she put you up to all this?" Addison demanded angrily.
Seth stopped smiling. "No, little bird. No one here is known by his outside name except for Susej himself. It seems that talent abounds in your family."
Addison stared through the glass, unable to take her eyes from her mother, who was now talking animatedly to another woman, who had rushed up to share the joke.
The drink was taking effect quickly on her empty stomach. The pleasant tingle had increased to sensual waves. She felt alert and supremely confident. Her visual sense heightened. She saw everything in minute detail. The subtle gradations between light and shade, the color within color. The blood throbbed caressingly through her body.
"What else did you give me besides amphetamine?" she asked, without turning her head from the glass.
"Belladonna," Seth answered. His voice seemed to be inside her skull.
It suddenly amused Addison that her mother was part of this cult. She conjectured as to the amount of power Mona had acquired.
No matter how much her mother had gained, her daughter would have more, Addison promised herself.
The people in the room went down on their knees.
A short, powerful-looking man walked leisurely through the crowd toward the altar. He was followed by a hawk-faced woman carrying a golden goblet with both hands. The man wore a close-fitting black leather cowl upon which were two gilded horns. In his left hand he held a studded gourd by its long handle.
Seth opened the glass door slightly so that they could hear what was being said below.
The man and his female consort stopped in front of the altar. With his back to the kneeling worshippers, he raised his left hand and shook the gourd. A crisp rattling sound shivered through the silence.
"Susej," Seth whispered in Addison's ear, "the high priest."
Susej began to speak in a high sing-song voice. "Dominum non est dignus. Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law. I proclaim the law of the left hand, the law of the Chaos, sole regent of the Sun upon Earth and the law of Babylon, the Earth and mother of all."
The woman placed the goblet on the altar.
"We are ready, Clear One," the priest went on, "ready to receive the bounty of your limitless power."
Susej turned to the crowd still kneeling before him. "You will make your desires known to the Clear One," he rasped.
The lean Negro stood up and spoke. "Grant me the power to sway men to my thinking, to convince them that my ways are best."
Susej lifted the gourd. "Your wish is granted. You will have the gift of tongues. You will use these gifts to further yourself and the cause of the Clear One."
"Thank you, master," the Negro whispered, bowing his head.
A plump woman stood up. "Clear One, make me famed as a beauty."
"Come here, woman," Susej commanded.
The woman approached the altar hesitantly. Susej grasped the woman by the shoulders. He ran his hands over her body, then over her face. As he did this Addison was astonished to see a change take place in the female's dowdy appearance; her body became firmer, the flesh on her arms tightened, her nose straightened, her eyes became larger, her coarse skin became smoother, her hair shone with luster. In the space of a few moments the woman became lovely.
"You will use your beauty to tempt men into the service of the Clear One," Susej said, pushing the woman back to her place. "Should you become unfaithful to his glorious work you will become hideous and die of the disease that rots the flesh."
Addison's mother stood up. "My husband must have money," she said, her head lowered.
Susej pointed his staff at her. "Where is your husband?" he called out.
"He is away. He doesn't know I worship the Clear One."
Susej pointed his staff at her. "Your husband will conclude certain transactions which will bring him wealth. You will see to it that he's introduced into the service of the Clear One. Should you fail, you will fall from rank and never again know riches. You will live long and live in poverty."
Mona bowed her head. "Yes, master," she said, Addison caught a tremble in her mother's voice.
One after another the members of the cult called up their desires to Susej. Their requests had a sameness: beauty, station, wealth, fame.
Addison saw the physical appearance of two others changed by the hands of Susej. A woman was cured of a spotted skin and an elderly, unhealthy-looking man was transformed into a lean, vigorous specimen.
She felt a rush of exhilaration. She wasn't skeptical any longer. Her mind raced to count the advantages such power would afford her.
When he had finished reviewing the wishes of his supplicants, Susej turned his back on the gathering and began to intone in an intense voice: "By Baralamensis, by the most powerful princes, Genio, LiancMde... " He paused to draw a triangle on the altar with white chalk. "Aglon," he went on, "Tetragram, Vaycheon, Stimilamaton, Exphares Retragrammaton Olyaram Irion Estyion Existion Eryona Onera Orasym Mozm Messias Soter Emanuel Saboth Adonay, Te Adora-- Et Te Invoco!" He passed his staff over the goblet on the shrine.
As she heard the jumble of words, Addison felt, rather than understood, the strength of the priest who stood before the black altar. The meaningless words seemed to penetrate her mind and she found herself moving her lips in unison with the chant. She glanced at Seth and saw that he too was moving his lips, his eyes intent on the squat figure of Susej.
Smoke began to rise from the center of the triangle, a yellow cloud rushing straight up to a height of eight feet or more over the altar.
A woman sobbed.
"... Adonay, Te Adora-- Et Te Invoco!" Susej moaned louder.
A sharp clap of metallic sound shattered through his voice. A man stood on the altar, naked and gleaming, his yellow skin glistening in the candlelight. A tangled mane of matted black hair hung to his wide shoulders, making his huge head seem even larger. His muscular torso tapered sharply to unaturally narrow hips and thin, hairy legs. The creature's face was twisted into a permanent, mirthless grin, revealing broken, jagged teeth. He was fully seven feet tall.
Everyone in the room, with the exception of Susej and his female assistant, lay prostrate on the floor. For a moment there was no sound. In the tiny glass room Addison's heartbeat was clearly audible.
Susej whirled and lifted his staff, pointing it toward the balcony.
"Bring the candidate before the Clear One," he called out.
Seth opened the glass door.
Addison was calm as she descended the stairs. The pounding excitement she had felt earlier was in complete control. She heard murmurs of surprise from the assemblage as she came forward, but she kept her eyes fixed on Susej as she walked toward the altar. She stopped in front of him and held out her hands, palms downward.
"What is your desire?" Susej asked harshly.
"Supreme knowledge," she answered.
"Does the Clear One find the candidate acceptable?" Susej asked, his eyes fixed on Addison.
Addison looked up at the figure looming above her. The eyes of the creature were slitted, almost completely closed. His sharp teeth were stained brown. She thought she saw a red tongue move inside the distorted mouth.
The immense head bent forward.
"So be it," Susej snapped. He reached forward and roughly removed the robe from her body. She let it fall to her ankles, then stepped clear, standing naked in front of the altar. Behind her the congregation rose to its feet.
A discordant, grating music began to play.
Silently the robed members of the cult formed a great circle, with Addison and the altar as its center, and started to move counterclockwise around the room. The music screeched louder.
"The cup," Susej said, his gaze still on Addison.
The human circle moved faster.
The hawk-faced priestess took the chalice from the altar and held it out to Addison, who grasped it at the stem with both hands.
"Let it begin," Susej cried, and struck the cup from Addison's outstretched hands with a sudden downward blow of his staff.
The chalice hit the rug with a dull sound, rolling and scattering its contents. A number of thin white wafers stood out clearly against the black carpeting.
A woman broke from the circle, screaming. She rushed past Addison and wildly began to grind the wafers under her heels. Addison was suddenly in the midst of a yelling mob, all fighting and shoving for a chance to step on the wafers. She glimpsed a crescent of white on the floor. Remembering Seth's instructions to participate completely, she pushed someone aside and brought her foot down hard, crumbling her tiny crescent to pieces. A surge of triumph welled up inside her and she uttered a savage cry of victory.
Everyone was in a frenzy now, leaping wildly as they danced around her. She saw her mother clawing at her robe. A man reached out and ripped it from her back. The whole congregation was tearing off clothing and falling to the floor. Mona was rolling in a thrashing embrace with another woman.
Rough hands brought Addison to the ground. She felt her thighs being forced apart. Everything was a roar of sound and flesh. She saw the creature over her, his twisted, grinning face coming closer. She closed her eyes.
A convulsive shock slammed through her body as he entered her. She writhed uncontrollably, seared by an ice-hot spasm of ecstatic pain. Her nose was filled with a pungent animal odor and she opened her eyes for an instant.
The creature's leering face was above her, and she suddenly saw that he was eyeless. The slits in his head were hollow. She bit her lip to keep from fainting.
The noise diminished, then stopped.
The weight on her body left her. There was a deep, expectant pause.
Someone pulled her to her feet. It was Seth. He led her to the altar.
The creature was gone. Susej was standing behind the table. "Obizuth," he said, bowing his head.
A girl was lying on the altar, her black hair tumbling almost to the floor. She was asleep.
Seth placed something hard and cold in her hand. It was a long silver knife.
Addison looked at Seth, then at Susej, then at the knife in her hand. She knew what she was to do.
Taking the hilt in both hands, she lifted the knife high above the sleeping girl and with all of her remaining strength, brought it straight down.
There was an odd, crunching sound as the blade sliced into the girl's chest.
Addison felt a spray of hot liquid spatter her belly.
It was blood.
For more than an hour Orient and Redson worked intently over Sordi's inert body, applying artificial respiration and trying to stimulate circulation.
Sordi's eyelids fluttered.
Doctor Orient took a deep breath of relief. With Redson's help he transferred Sordi to the bed.
Orient took a hand-wrapped cigarette from his case and looked at Redson. "Now I understand why my mind kept wandering to Hap during our conversation. He was trying to contact me."
Sordi emitted a hoarse groan.
Orient left the room briefly. He returned with a portable container of oxygen. He placed the facepiece over Sordi's nose and mouth. In a few minutes he was able to sit up and tell them what had happened.
"Doctor Levi and Mr. Simpson were out. I was in the kitchen with Hap. I was showing him how to make riso al Ischia. That's wild rice with tomatoes and mussels." Sordi waved a finger from side to side. "But you can't get good mussels in this country."
Orient sat down and folded his arms. He was used to Sordi's milk-train of thought.
"So just when I'm taking the mussels out of the pot I hear the girl yelling upstairs. Hap jumped up and ran ahead to the elevator. I had to take the stairs. When I got here the girl was standing in the middle of the room like a crazy woman. Waving her arms around and walking funny. I looked at Hap and he was just standing there watching her. I said, ‘Hey, what are you doing, miss?' and she started making noises like an animal." He shivered. "Well, I didn't know what to do." Gingerly, he touched his neck.
Orient glanced over at Redson. The bishop was shaking his head and frowning.
"Then she came for me." Sordi seemed puzzled. "She was strong, though. Stronger than me, and I'm in the pink. Then I got scared. I yelled at Hap to help me. And while I'm already half dead he pretends not to hear me." Sordi was waving both his hands now. "But isn't that fantastic? If I ever see that man again, Doctor, I will tell him. I know he's your guest and I respect that, but this man is fantastic." He shrugged eloquently as if deigning to dismiss the whole matter. "I don't understand people in this country," he said.
"I can understand it," Redson said.
"Can you remember anything else that could help us find the girl?" Orient said. A music box in his mind began its spindly tinkle.
A voice behind him shattered the sound.
"Doc, Where's Malta?"
Hap Prentice was standing in the doorway.
Orient walked toward him. "Malta's gone. Sordi's been hurt. He says that you were with Malta."
Hap smiled. "I was with Sordi. We heard a scream and I made for the elevator. I must have pushed the wrong button because I ended up in the meditation room. When I got here I saw Sordi shaking Malta. The next thing I remember is waking up just now in my room."
"But, Doctor, this man is fantastic." Sordi looked from Orient to Redson. "You know what I told you is the complete truth." He squinted darkly at Hap. "You won't tell the truth for some reason, but if you wish to settle this honorably I am at your disposal."
Hap scratched his head. "What kind of game is this?" he said suspiciously.
"Sordi was attacked and almost strangled by Malta. The marks are there. He says you saw the whole thing."
"I remember seeing some of it, but Malta couldn't hurt anyone... she wouldn't... " His voice trailed off in confusion.
Orient turned to Sordi. "Let me settle this, you rest now. I want to talk to Hap some more about this...confusion."
Sordi glared at Hap, and nodded.
Orient and Redson followed Hap out of the room and down the stairs to the study.
Hap sat down heavily. He was shaking his head in wonder as Orient closed the door behind them.
"Malta... " Hap murmured. "She wouldn't hurt anyone."
"Hap," Orient kept his voice even, "do you know where Malta is now?"
Hap didn't answer.
Orient decided to curtail his questioning for a moment. "I don't think you've ever met Bishop Redson, Hap. The bishop is an old friend and he came along to try to help Malta."
Redson extended a hand and moved toward Hap.
Hap leaped to his feet. He backed away from the approaching bishop.
"Hello... hello," he stammered. He positioned himself so that the chair he had been sitting on was between them. He was trembling.
Bishop Redson stopped and turned his back to Hap.
"Perhaps I'd better go, Doctor," he said genially. Suddenly he wheeled, and with blurring speed, threw a twisting overhand right that started from his hip, and ended with a flat, meaty crack on the point of Hap's chin. He crumbled to the floor, unconscious.
"I had to do that, son," Redson said regretfully to the inert figure at his feet. Orient went to his desk. He found a piece of charcoal and a measuring tape, which he took to the bishop. "You'd better bless these before we use them," he said.
"Then you know what's wrong with the boy?" Redson was mildly surprised.
"I had a hunch when Sordi told us that Hap just stood by and watched while he was being strangled, but when he started backing off from that cross around your neck, I was sure,"
Redson blessed the ruler and charcoal with Holy Water from the black bag he had taken with him. When he was finished, Orient took the charcoal and tape and drew a perfect triangle on the floor.
"I received an incomplete message from Hap while we were talking in your library," Orient explained as he worked. "While Hap was trying to call me to tell me that Malta was in trouble, the elemental sent to fetch Malta must have entered him." He stood up. "When someone is trying to make telepathic contact they're very sensitive to outside forces and virtually defenseless."
Redson nodded. "Well, what I came to do for the girl I can do for Prentice. I'll exorcise the spirit immediately before the demon gains power and brings the galoot to harm." Redson took the charcoal and, with the aid of a black silk cord, drew a large circle a short distance from the triangle Orient had constructed. As he drew he chanted in Latin.
Orient knew the words. Redson was making a Circle of Evocation according to the Grimoire of Honorius. He was calling on the powers of light to charge the circle with potency. He invoked the agents Alpha, Omega, Ely, Elothe, Elohim, Sabaoth, Eloin and Sadi for protection.
While the bishop was completing the circle, Orient went to a small chest that stood against the wall near the door. He lifted the lid and removed a dull metal object from the chest.
When he came back Redson had just finished the small outer circle and was inscribing the words "Spiritus Locus" in its center.
They moved Hap near these words. He began to stir.
The two men took their places in the middle of the large circle, the defensive orbit. Redson sprinkled Holy Water around them. Orient held out the five-pointed object for blessing.
Hap opened his eyes.
Redson grabbed at the cross around his neck and, holding it before him, began the Incantation of Dismissal.
Hap let out a single, high pitched shriek.
As Redson droned the words, Hap thrashed about on the floor, moaning continuously. Great beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
"See here that which prohibits revolt against our orders, the true cross and the silver pentacle of Solomon." Orient held the silver pentacle higher. "And those things which order that you return forthwith to your place."
Hap was trying to get to his feet. He fell back heavily on his back, struggling against the sudden weight on his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, his eyes rolling in terror. Suddenly a bilious haze oozed from his mouth, a thick yellow smoky substance. He shut his eyes and lay motionless, his face chalk-white.
Redson's voice grew louder. Again he evoked the eight agents of protection, again he commanded the dismissal of the spirit.
As Orient watched, the smoky substance that had been hovering above Hap's head slithered across the floor toward the triangle he had prepared. The ooze seemed to hesitate as it reached the edge. The stench of decayed meat reached him then, and he started to gag. He squeezed the pentacle he held in his hands and held his breath, clenching his teeth together. There was a steady rushing sound in his ears.
The substance entered the triangle.
Once inside, it began to grow and swirl into different shapes.
It tried vainly to leave the confines of the three-sided figure, spiraling and lurching wildly. For an instant it took the form of a large yellow cat, then, abruptly, it disappeared completely.
The two men stood watching the triangle for some minutes, their hands still holding the cross and the pentacle aloft.
There was no sound in the room except a faint ticking. Orient realized it was his wristwatch.
Lieutenant Roland D'Te was a capable officer, but his elaborate vanity frequently clouded his judgment.
However, since any military structure is essentially composed of aggressive men devoted to dominance, he was able to indulge his vice and, in fact, make it an asset. He was admired by his fellow officers, who named him "The Bishop" for the impeccably somber facade he had chosen.
D'Te had married well enough for his station but after a single careless year the dowry was depleted.
Marie D'Te bore her husband's extravagance easily. She was a gentle creature, who dwelt in the fragile imaginations of girlhood. She loved her Roland and thought of him as being splendid and dashing. It was during the second year of their marriage that she began to change.
At first, when Roland began to spend most of his time at the barracks, she was sad but understanding. Then, when the rumors of his philandering reached her, she became angry. Finally, her anger shook her from her illusions. She saw her husband as he really was, a pompous rabbit of no honor or consequence. She hated Roland for his weakness and she despised herself for having loved him. For months, while her husband pursued his social ambitions, Marie sat alone in her rooms submerged in a reverie of loathing.
Lieutenant D'Te advanced to captain and he allowed himself the luxury of a moustache, which he preened and twirled incessantly. He also found it convenient to rent a flat near the barracks, so that he could be closer to his duties. It was a relief for him to be free of the still, mirror-less rooms of his wife. A man such as he needed a woman of flesh and blood and laughter. Even during his infrequent spasms of desire for Marie, all he felt in response was a chilling distance on her bony hips.
The very same day that Captain D'Te received Marie's letter advising him of her pregnancy, he was called in for an informal chat with the commandant.
It was the reason for his summons and not his wife that preoccupied D'Te as he knocked on the door. When he entered he saw that the colonel was at the liquor cabinet.
"Come in, D'Te, come in," the colonel called, and waved him to a chair in front of the desk. "Relax, I'll only be a moment. You'll join me in a cognac, of course."
D'Te ignored the clumsy attempt at informality. He had learned that only the amateur forgot who he was. He sat at attention while the colonel set two glasses on the desk and filled them.
"Well, well now, D'Te, we haven't spoken since your commission have we?" the colonel said, pushing one of the glasses toward D'Te.
D'Te took the glass in his hand. "A commandant rarely has the time to cultivate a junior captain, mon colonel," he observed: He held the cognac up to the light.
"Quite so," The colonel hesitated for a moment. "Well, it pleases me to report, D'Te, that you've performed all of your duties well and we're impressed with you."
"Thank you, sir," D'Te said. "Shall we drink to duty then?"
The colonel drained his glass. D'Te took a sip and put his glass down. "Well then, D'Te, I suppose we should attack this matter directly instead of flanking it, eh?" The colonel began.
D'Te spun the tip of his moustache tight. "Excuse me, sir," he said crisply. "To which matter is the colonel referring?"
"Well damnitall, D'Te, it's about Lieutenant Cartier," the colonel blurted out.
"Lieutenant Cartier?" D'Te maintained a cool exterior, but his heart had begun to pound.
"Yes, it seems that he feels he has reason to demand satisfaction."
"A duel?" D'Te reached for his glass. "But why on earth?"
"I daresay you might be able to answer that one, DTe." The colonel frowned. "Your attentions to Madame Cartier have hardly been camouflaged."
"I see." D'Te sipped his cognac.
"Of course, any official answer is impossible," the colonel continued. "Dueling is illegal and punishable by tribunal, as you well know. However, it's my personal opinion that it is best to allow two men to settle their affairs as gentlemen. Provided they are discreet."
D'Te looked up to find the colonel smiling at him. He set his glass down.
"Colonel, this affair catches me quite off guard," he said slowly. "For one thing, my relationship with Madame Cartier has been perfectly platonic. And for another"-- he reached into his tunic and produced Marie's letter-- "my wife has just discovered she is pregnant." He passed the letter across the desk. "All things then considered, I'm afraid that I will be unable to indulge Cartier in his little game of satisfaction."
The colonel looked incredulous. "You mean you refuse his challenge?"
"I do."
"And you are aware of the consequences of your decision?"
"I'm aware that it will cause some unpleasant gossip, but I cannot risk the future of my wife and unborn child for the whim of a young officer."
The colonel rose. "All right, D'Te, that's all." He avoided the captain's eyes as he passed the letter back to him unread.
D'Te saluted stiffly, turned, and left the room.
Behind him, the colonel swept D'Te's glass from his desk and into the wastebasket.
The next day Captain D'Te received orders transferring him from headquarters in France to a field garrison in Lebanon. Word of Roland's disgrace reached Marie before he arrived. When he finally came home to tell her the news, she said nothing, but let him strut and brag about his new appointment. When he was finished with his charade she told him of her decision to go with him.
D'Te blustered, cajoled and wheedled. He explained that life in the field was hard enough for a soldier without having to worry about a frail, pregnant woman. He refused firmly to entertain the idea. He even went so far as to threaten to divorce her. But in the end he agreed to let her accompany him.
Marie was neither pleased nor apprehensive. She had remained adamant only because she refused to bear the stigma of Roland's disgrace before her family. The matter settled to her satisfaction, she relapsed into the stony silence that enclosed her intense disgust.
When the couple arrived in Beirut, Marie was in her third month. The crossing had been rough. Marie had not been able to keep any food down, and was so debilitated that she had to be carried to shore.
D'Te's post was located high in the mountains, near a small village that clung to the ancient Roman temple ruins of Balbek, three grueling days from Beirut.
Roland suggested that Marie remain in Beirut, where she could recover her strength, while he found suitable quarters.
She refused.
As D'Te stared perplexed into the icy glow of Marie's eyes, shining bleakly from deep inside the sockets, he began to understand the difference between dislike and malice.
The journey to Balbek took four days instead of three, because Marie needed frequent rest.
She chose their new home from a litter, moved in immediately, then went to sleep for seventy-two hours.
Her first realization when she awoke was that she was hungry.
Her second was that a tattooed woman was sitting next to the bed.
Before Marie could manage to speak the tattooed woman got up and shuffled away.
She reappeared with a bowl of soup and a wooden spoon. Marie ignored the spoon and drank the soup from the bowl, while the woman sat beside the bed carefully wiping her chin and chest.
When Marie was finished she fell back on the straw pillow and slept.
The tattooed woman eased the bowl from Marie's fingers and placed it gently on the floor next to her chair.
The Bedouin woman's name was Petra, and from that day she tended to Marie's smallest need in fierce silence.
During the ensuing months Marie saw her husband more than she had in the past two years. His companionship did nothing to lessen the complete revulsion she felt for him. She knew that Roland's reputation made it impossible for him to spend more time than necessary at the garrison and that the primitive surroundings offered him little diversion.
She did, however, respond to Petra's presence, sometimes chattering lightly to her for hours, even though Petra could not understand what she was saying.
D'Te was in the field the day his son was born. In his absence, Marie named him August. A week later she was dead.
D'Te returned to bury his wife, and made arrangements to leave August in the care of Petra. He left the next day to rejoin his regiment, which was already marching on Damascus.
Petra was a primitive by choice. While still a young girl she made the decision to nourish the ways of her own people rather than beg at the tables of strangers. She was the favorite wife of a chieftain and served as an adviser to the Bedouin, who considered her a sage.
She arranged marriages, settled quarrels and sometimes interceded with her husband for worthy petitioners. She also read the portents of the stars, blessed the newborn and healed certain illnesses.
When it came to August, however, she was merely an adoring servant.
She was cunning in her love for him, only allowing herself its expression if it best served him. She crooned to him for hours, murmuring roughly the legends and secrets of her people, the songs of the festivals and the chants of the holy dancers. Always she began with the same refrain.
"Someday you will lead the way forward... "
But when he cried for no reason she would leave him alone to teach him self-reliance. When he was a year old he saw his father for the first time since his birth. Roland had won honors in the skirmishes in Syria and he was expansive with his son. August was speaking the dialect of Petra's tribe, which boasted a king who had twice defeated the Roman invaders, and Roland stuffed and pampered him, bribing him to speak a few words of French.
After a week, D'Te returned to his garrison, which was preparing to march on Jordan. He was away for two more years. During this time August was raised as the son of a Bedouin chieftain. A gifted child, he learned the history of their people and the science of the stars.
His real father had arranged for a tutor and the prodigy also learned to converse in French. Captain D'Te came home to an unusual boy who treated him with serious respect and who spoke wisely of the affairs of men. D'Te was delighted. He showed August his medals and told him that his distinction in battle had won him a coveted post in the city of Beirut.
"Will you be gone for a long time?" August asked.
"But you shall come with me. We'll have ourselves a good time, eh?" D'Te stroked the scar on his cheek.
The boy thought it over before he replied. "I shall need Petra," he said finally.
"But of course." D'Te lifted August in his arms. "Petra will take care of us both. It's settled then."
August waited patiently until his father had finished kissing him and set him down again.
To Captain D'Te, Beirut was a city of pleasure and wealth. To Petra, it was a crowded, noisy marketplace, where truth was the only commodity one could not buy. To August, it was the garden of Allah.
Roland tired quickly of being a father. His passions, gambling and women, asserted their prior claim on him and took him away from home for months at a time.
Petra confined herself to the flat, going outside only to do the shopping.
August spent all his days in the bustling, twisting alleys, running wild with the other urchins of the city.
With the discipline of the tribe gone, Petra was unable to control the child she loved. She could only scold him, scrub him and feed him when he came home. When his father was home, however, he acted the part of the model son, taking care to speak only in French, and never straying from the house unless his father took him on an outing. By the time he was four he had learned how to tell when his father had won at the tables and how much to steal from his winnings.
Petra observed all this in her customary silence.
One day while D'Te was escorting a lady through the gold market, he saw August playing with a trio of Arab boys. As he drew closer he realized that the boys weren't playing. Two of them were expertly pinning the third against a wall, while August smoothly rifled his pockets.
Roland waited a few days until his tryst with the lady had been competed before taking a course of action. He made arrangements for August to live with Marie's parents in Paris while he attended school.
If August was dismayed by the news he didn't express it, but Petra was inconsolable. That night she left D'Te's house and returned to her tribe in Balbek.
At first August's grandparents vented their hatred for his father on him. They kept August on a disciplined, unloving regimen, reminding him on every convenient occasion that he was there on their bounty because his father was a spendthrift, and worse, the criminal who was responsible for his mother's death.
August kept his own counsel and never complained. In his monthly letter to his father he wrote only of the progress he was making in school and the historic landmarks he had seen in Paris.
He knew that his grandparents were correct in calling his father a spendthrift. Roland was an uncontrollable gambler.
But he had been told of his mother's death by Petra, and she had said that his mother had wished for death. And August knew that Petra saw the truth in all things.
Besides, he had known murderers in Beirut and they were men to be respected-- not at all like his father, who was merely a fool.
In a short time his grandparents were won over by his diligent and respectful manner. They began to relax their discipline and to respond to their emotions. Soon they were as devoted to the boy as Petra had been.
August excelled in school but had only contempt for his classmates. He found them profoundly ignorant of the obvious, and without wit. In Beirut they would be like so many vegetables ready to be devoured by lowly goats. He realized, however, that he had much to learn in the land of his mother, so he kept to himself and waited.
For the next eight years August was the pride of his grandparents. He won honors for his brilliant scholarship and respect from his classmates. His grandfather made elaborate plans for the boy's future, and his grandmother had already begun scheming a suitable marriage for him.
But August had other plans.
His formal education, combined with the broad knowledge of men he had acquired in the streets, gave him strong leverage in his dealings with people. He found himself able to dominate the personality of anyone with whom he came into contact. It was not that he was particularly charming. Directness was his power. His classmates numbly accepted him as their leader. His teachers sought his company. And his grandparents were almost awed by the presence of their daughter's brilliant child.
August had decided that there was one sure way to the goal he sought. The church.
As a seminarian he would have the advantage of a fine education at no cost to himself. He had not forgotten his grandparents' early admonitions. As a priest he could reach the most important men in the world. As a priest he would be able to indulge himself in the infinite ramifications of what had now become his favorite game, the manipulation of humans. And as a priest he would be beyond reproach.
At twelve, all this seemed obvious, but at thirteen he saw that there were levels.
Academically he performed with his customary genius. He had the knack of spotting equations between seemingly disparate elements. His scientific treatises were philosophic, and his philosophy extended from scientific fact. And always there was the absorbing puzzle of manipulation.
The game had become more difficult for August because he found that, while everyone's consciousness could be directed by simple pressures, not all of his subjects remained docile.
During the early years in Paris there had been no resistance, so it surprised him at fourteen, when he discovered he had made enemies.
He withdrew from contact, and waited. He attended to his studies and devotions. He spent all his free time in meditation and prayer. Above all, he conducted himself as a priest.
He understood the church as a science, a method of government. He saw within the rituals of the church the structure of the art of rule.
One evening, he was in the chapel doggedly praying, when he saw the answer on his finger. His enemies were people who did not have enough time to cultivate the usual deep and lasting affection for him. They had known him briefly. Like the scar tissue on his index finger. If contact was casual, some types developed a resentment toward him. It was the natural order of things.
He remained faithful to his formal studies and the practices of his profession, but began to extend his sphere of acquaintances.
When he received word that his father had died in a street brawl, leaving a mountain of debts, it amused August to make the game tangible.
Drawing upon the sum his grandfather had given him when he entered the novitiate, he modestly began to make investments. He developed a passion for economics. He cultivated a system of men in the church who understood money. He spent long hours with the treasurer of his order, who was flattered by the attention of the prodigy.
When he was sixteen, he erased his father's debts.
When he was eighteen, he was tired of the game.
The sum of money he donated to the treasury of his order was large enough to be considered indiscreet, until he let it be known that the money was submitted as part of his thesis in economics. His paper was hailed as brilliant. Professors of philosophy praised it as a splendid example of pragmatic theology, while the scientists lauded its intricate methodology.
August's way to his next experiment was clear.
He delved into pleasure and found that one could learn as much by excess as by denial. He used his newly acquired wealth to create environments that would attract the people in Paris who understood the games of the flesh. And even while he pursued these new diversions he perfected the art of his ritual.
Looking forward to the day of his ordination and the consecration of his hands, he practiced the movements of his Mass. He choreographed his physical Mass to generate the fullest possible celebration of the glorious power of God.
It was during his study of the Mass in the library manuscripts that he first saw a mention of the black mass.
His curiosity was stimulated immediately. Within a month he had grasped its mechanics, and had begun making inquiries.
At first he concentrated on the fringe practitioners of the occult. He was already familiar with astrology through the early teachings of Petra and her people. Once he had even seen her speak to the dead. He sought the acquaintance of the mediums and mystics of Paris, and he found that the same people who courted money and pleasure courted the favors of these transformers of spiritual power.
The day of his ordination was a great event at the seminary. Word of the young virtuoso of theology had seeped upward, and on the day of August's first Mass the chapel was crowded with many powerful members of his order. He didn't disappoint them. He performed a Mass that touched even the most venerable and jaded of the participants.
August had already charted the course his career in the church should follow and with his honors he had no difficulty in gaining the certifications necessary to pursue it.
He continued his studies. He elected to read for a doctorate in Mathematical Theology, under the tutelage of Count Inverna of the Sorbonne. Certain duties of August's new office were suspended to allow him to stay at Inverna's residence while he prepared his thesis.
Inverna, a mathematician, was renowned throughout the academic world as a scholar and educator of great genius. He had devoted all the resources of his position, including the political, to make the universities centers of progressive experimentation rather than catalogues of the past.
August found life with the widower Count stimulating. And the occasional presence of the Count's daughter Malta Inverna was exhilarating. But his first attentions were for the Count.
Inverna was pleased with the company of the celebrated young scholar. When he discovered that his ward had leanings toward the occult he was convinced that cosmic elements had preordained the combination. The Count had long been an adept at certain forms, especially the science of astrology and the tarot He was delighted that he had so much to teach his pupil. August let himself be taught, neglecting to mention his education by the Bedouin.
When the young priest showed him a section of his thesis which delineated the mathematics of astrology, the Count enthusiastically told August something he had never discussed with anyone. He told him that his daughter, the Countess Malta Inverna, had powers of clairvoyance beyond the ordinary. It was for that reason that he had decided to educate Malta at a convent. He wanted to protect her from negative influence.
August suggested that perhaps the Contessa could help them with other phases of investigation. He pointed out that certainly the respected and powerful Count together with a priest of the church would be sufficient protection for the girl.
Inverna agreed readily.
Malta was pleased to escape the confines of the convent.
She had inherited the impatient independence as well as the beauty of her Spanish mother. She was also gratified that her father had decided to take an interest in her. About Pere D'Te she was uncertain.
Count Inverna had been right, Malta was endowed with strong psychic potential. Without training, she was able to communicate with the dead in her sleep. After some study she was able to put herself in trance and predict events, act as a conductor of certain thoughts, and read the message of the tarot cards with great accuracy.
The two men congratulated themselves at finding an assistant of such potential.
Their experimentation ranged the entire spectrum of phenomena until they had explored every shade of spiritual experience. It was only then that August made his next suggestion.
He asked Inverna if he had ever had occasion to attend a black mass. The Count was negative, but his curiosity was challenged, just as D'Te knew it would be.
Some few weeks later the Count confided to D'Te rather proudly that he had attended a rite of the black mass. The young priest congratulated him on his courage and perseverance but warned him against becoming too involved.
Inverna continued to attend the Mass. He became secretive, keeping to his rooms when he was at home. He was frequently absent from the experiments conducted by D'Te and his daughter, Malta. August began preparing a section of his thesis which dealt with the mathematical measurement of the spirit planes. He asked Inverna to arrange to have him go to the Vatican for further study of the occult.
The Count interceded for D'Te with the Bishop of Paris, and August was dispatched to Rome as a special student of exorcism.
Pere D'Te was away for only five months, but during that time he absorbed all of the recorded knowledge of the secret arts held by the archives.
He returned to Paris and Inverna with a profound grasp of technique and his own handwritten book of spells. He had copied the book from the ancient texts, and smuggled it out of the Vatican library, page by page.
When he returned to Paris he was pleased to see that the change he was expecting in Count Inverna's life had occurred.
The Count was obsessed with his cult to the point of considering offering Malta as a candidate. It was easy for D'Te to convince Inverna to introduce him to the cult so that it could be fully investigated before involving Malta. Inverna was relieved that his young friend did not try to dissuade or censure him but accepted his role in the cult of Lucifer as a form of religious experimentation.
August knew even better than Inverna what it meant to accept a candidate as talented as Malta in the name of Satan. While the Count made arrangements to have D'Te attend the Mass, August turned his full attention to the girl.
Malta didn't feel at ease with Pere D'Te. Despite the friendship he had with her father, despite the experiments, despite his gentleness and animal attractiveness, she did not welcome his nearness. She was respectful and obeyed her father's wishes, but there was something that went cold inside her when she spoke to the young prelate.
D'Te knew that the girl was frightened of him, but it had never been convenient for him to persuade her to feel otherwise. He now found it crucial to his next phase that she adore him.
Methodically, he pursued her, manipulating her emotions as he had done with so many others. He was the perfect companion. They spent long hours just walking about Paris, laughing at the nonsense they confided to each other. When Malta was afraid, D'Te dissolved the fear with a quip and took her to a chic cafe, where he plfed her with ice cream and idle gossip. When she was bored he stimulated her with simple but engrossing games. When she was sad he played the clown. And always he taught her things that had never occurred to her before.
Before D'Te's first visit to Inverna's cult, Malta's aversion had turned to affection.
The cult revealed itself to be a loosely organized group of jaded men and women who gathered monthly to revel in orgy. Although some had talent, and all were interested in the worship of evil, they were leaderless. None among them had the proper tools to gain the favor of their chosen master. D'Te changed that. His presence gave the cult more potential than it had held before. He was an ordained priest, his fingers had been consecrated with the key source of Christianity's power. And he understood how to make the ritual the machine of Satan's power.
He attended his first few meetings as an observer, offering suggestions but never participating. In time, however, he allowed Inverna to persuade him to offer a genuine black mass.
It was also agreed that Malta would be introduced to the cult at this mass. When she was told by her father of this new experiment Malta felt a warm rush of pleasure at being able to serve the man she had come to love.
The mass was a masterpiece. For the first time the Cult felt the force which they had sought to invoke. For the first time they understood how the life force which pulsed through their organs could call down a vast universe of energy. And for the first time Inverna realized he was in the employ of Satan.
Hie Count watched as Pere D'Te took his daughter at the apex of the intense ritual, and in spite of his revulsion he heard himself screaming with the rest as he felt the churning sexual presence of the Clear One.
After that the cult began to bud.
D'Te made the ancestral home of Inverna the center of his activities. There was no lack of influential patrons, and the priest had already started to make overtures to certain religious men of his acquaintance. The only drawback to the arrangement was Inverna's stubborn refusal to experiment with human sacrifice. The animals sufficed, but the efficacy of the sacrifice was weakened by the low order of the life offered. It was the German invasion that gave D'Te the fuel for his entry into the orbit of the select.
D'Te managed to maintain the balance of his position during the early occupation of the city and by diverting the operation of his cult he gained the confidence of the Nazis.
The commandant of the German army had implicit faith in the spiritual preordination of a Reich victory, as did his Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler. He was so taken with the magnetism and genius of the young priest that he made the Inverna home his headquarters. This upheaval broke Inverna. He was a daring, perhaps reckless, gambler of consciousness. He had undertaken many grave experiments in the name of man's destiny. He had been strong enough to impose his will upon his emotions. But when he lost control of his honor he lost control of everything.
Count Inverna watched D'Te absorb his home, his life and his daughter. Every day the grate of boots on the marble of his floors reminded him of his cowardice. And every day he saw D'Te prosper. He was unable to restrain the priest from performing his Mass of human sacrifice. The victims that had been so difficult and dangerous to obtain during the period of peace were now plentiful. Inverna was impotent while D'Te accumulated the power of a hundred sacrifices and extended his influence as far as Berlin. The sight of Malta gnawing at the flesh of a child finally snapped his sanity, and he was confined to his rooms. D'Te took the name of the supreme, Susej, and endowed his mistress with the cup of the priestess. He was now a full adept of the Clear One and master of the Mass of Souls. That night, as Malta drained the goblet that made whole the elements of the passive and active, he felt the surging energy joined through his consciousness and he grasped the junction of true omnipotence.
It was politics that gave D'Te his first setback. The war was failing, the tactics of the Nazi high command were straining to shore the crumbling walls of its attack. Pere D'Te calculated the mathematics of the situation and began to draw back his activities. He made it appear that he had been entertaining the invaders only to find their weaknesses.
When the American army arrived in Paris the priest was given an important liaison post by the Allies. But D'Te still had much to answer for. The war had made it impossible for him to maintain his influence over his past acquaintances. Expectedly, the affection his sponsors had once felt for him had hardened into distrust. Rumors of his occult experiments had reached Rome, and D'Te detected the crumbling of his own offensive. He decided to avoid the inevitable inquiries and leave Europe for America, where the authority of the Church was diffuse and where the atmosphere of technology had made the study of the occult a harmless hobby.
He dispatched a long letter of resignation, explaining that the cruel events of war and occupation had forced him to reconsider his vocation. He apologized for his lack of faith, but he pointed out that by resigning he was avoiding the risk of embarrassment to the Mother Church.
That business concluded, D'Te was filled with a new rush of enthusiasm. He was impatient to leave for his new grazing land. The enormity of his vision during the mass of the Priestess rocked his mind with its logic. During the rite his body had not only felt the passive element and active element of the universe, but for one intangible instant of time his body had become those elements. His consciousness became the pure matter of existence and he heard the silence of creation. He would serve evil as the most direct method of achieving what he now understood as his true goal-- to bring the passive element of good to bear under his domination and in doing this, perform the Mass which would also bring the active element of evil to his will. He would be greater than both God and Satan-- the first cause, the prime mover, the new water of a new life, the fertile liquid of a new chemistry of the universe. All existence would be the servant of his eternal dominion.
The night before he left Paris he offered one last mass for his priestess. He wished to endow Malta with her whim for eternal beauty, and to remove a potential obstacle to his future plans.
At the Mass he sacrificed the Count Inverna to the Clear One, giving his heart to the priestess. As she meekly consumed her father's flesh, D'Te felt the earthquake of massed energy rumble through his ribs and he let his bones become the laughter of his master.
Hap Prentice woke up shouting.
He sat straight up in bed as he realized someone was moving about in the darkness.
A light went on. Doctor Orient was at his bedside.
Hap slumped back on the pillow. "What time is it?" he asked, his eyes closed.
"It's one," Orient told him. "You've been asleep for about six hours."
"Doc," Hap said with difficulty, "I had a terrible dream."
"What kind of dream?"
"Malta was in trouble. I saw her far away, calling. I tried to reach her but I couldn't. I kept running and running but I couldn't get to her." He sat up. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to blink his eyes into focus. "What are you doing here, Doc? And what am I doing in bed?"
"Finish telling me about your dream," Orient said. ‘I'll explain later."
"I just kept running and getting nowhere, then something... it was a big cat I think... yeah, some kind of yellow cat came at me and knocked me down." He looked at Orient; "You were in the dream too, Doc. You had a rope or something and you got it around the cat's neck... someone was with you... I don't know who... anyway, you both pulled on the rope and started choking the cat... and it ran away."
"Is that all?"
"No. Then I was alone on this big football field... it was nighttime... I could see a half moon. Then I saw Malta at the end of the field. She was trying to run toward me... she... she was calling out something." He stopped.
"Do you remember what she said?"
"I was just trying... it... I think it was ‘oh say,' ‘oh say.' Yeah, that was it."
"What else?"
"Malta kept running toward me... then she reached me... she was very close... when she got near me she said, ‘I won't go back, I won't go back.' She asked me to help her."
Orient heard the jangle of a tambourine somewhere at the edge of his thoughts.
Hap went on. "I told her not to worry, and I promised to watch her, then she disappeared. I tried to find her, but I was alone on that big field... then I heard her call my name and I looked up and saw her face in the sky... she was crying. I yelled to her to come down but she just kept crying. All of a sudden I felt this awful pain in my chest, like a heart attack. I fell down... I was lying on the ground, looking at Malta crying, and the pain got worse, and then the sky started to spin... and I woke up."
"What's the last thing you remember before that dream, Hap?" Orient pulled a cigarette from the silver case in his hand.
... Hap was silent for a moment. "I think... " he began, "I was talking to Sordi in the kitchen and we heard someone scream. I took the elevator up to Malta's room. I ran in and I saw Malta standing there... I think. I can't separate the dream from what was real."
Orient studied the tip of his cigarette. "That was another reality, Hap," he said finally, "but real. As real as your teeth." He paused. "Malta's gone and I haven't been able to find her. That's real, too."
Hap was still dazed. "She's gone," he repeated.
"Hap, I'm going to tell you what happened. It may not make any sense all the way through, but I'll tell it just the way it was." He looked carefully at Hap. "Do you understand?"
Hap nodded slowly. "Okay," he said. "I'm listening."
Orient told Hap about his possession and exorcism. Hap's mouth hung open with amazement as he listened. He fingered his jaw ruefully. "No wonder my chin feels dented," he observed.
Orient smiled. "It's a good thing Bishop Redson was able to surprise you. You would have torn the walls down." His smile faded. "There's another thing," he said. He paused. "This morning when I went to see Malta I realized that she and I were together in a previous existence." Orient paused. "We were together and in love."
Hap looked up at him. Orient waited.
Hap stared as if he were looking at a face he was trying to place.
"Okay." Hap nodded finally. "You were in love with her during another lifetime. So what?"
"I don't know." Orient examined the long ash balancing at the end of the cigarette. "I thought you should know."
Hap didn't say anything.
Orient waited.
"Okay," Hap said, looking around for his shoe. "So you told me." He looked up suddenly. "Do you love her?"
Orient looked at Hap and tried to remember the music. "I know her," he said. "That's something."
Hap fumbled with a shoelace. "That's right, Doc," he said.
Hap pondered the matter. Amazingly, Orient was really disturbed about Malta. He'd seen the doctor involved with women before but he'd never seen him squirm like this. Until now Hap had been convinced that Orient was a very cold man... Remote... So involved with his work that he forgot about people.
But Malta definitely had his number. And in this lifetime.
Orient's cigarette had gone out. He placed the stub in his case and took another.
"Do you know that I received a message from you while I was at Redson's house?"
Hap shook his head.
"That's when the demon entered you. You were completely unprotected when you opened up to send."
"What kind of demon?" Hap was puzzled.
"The demon's name is Ose. He takes the physical form of a leopard. According to what Redson and I know he's the prince of madness and things secret. If you remember, Malta kept repeating ‘Oh say' over and over in trance. In your dream you heard her call ‘Oh say' across the field."
Hap smacked his fist into his palm. "That's right." He said.
"Malta's in constant danger until we find her, Hap," Orient said.
"Yes, I feel that."
"I have to help her."
"So do I... "
Orient paused expectantly.
"... As far as it takes," Hap finished softly.
Orient leaned back in his chair, his eyes half closed, a ribbon of smoke easing from his pursed lips. He leaned forward. "Hap, up until now you've been resisting your own telepathic power. You always had the choice to develop or not, as you chose, but it's different now. Something else is involved here besides telepathy."
"Demons?" Hap suggested sarcastically.
Orient opened his eyes and looked directly at Hap. "We're up against a master magician. It's another game now."
Hap started to speak, but Orient cut him short with a wave of his hand. "I know you find it hard to believe in these things, Hap, you weren't ready to accept even telepathy. That's why I'm asking you to make a decision. You'll have to accept it on faith."
Hap tried to collect his thoughts. He was still groggy. There was no mistaking the deep sense of purpose in Orient's tone, however.
"Now whether or not you believe in magic makes no difference," Orient was saying. "I'm telling you now that it exists and it's being practiced now, today, in New York City. If you want to stay with the show, Hap, I need more than your cooperation. I'm going to need your complete faith. You're going to have to open your entire spectrum of thinking."
Hap took a moment to reflect. He knew that Orient was highly skilled and intensely dedicated. He thought of Malta. He recalled how all this had begun and how Orient and the others had not hesitated to risk themselves in spite of the way he had put down their earlier experiments. "You have my faith," he said.
Orient stood. "You and I have a lot to do now. Get ready and I'll meet you in my study."
Hap dressed quickly. He still wasn't sure what was happening, but he had seen enough to know that Orient was sincere. He had felt how telepathy worked. Orient had shown him how to direct his power and use it effectively. He knew that the others had received similar training and had benefited immensely from it. He had rejected the knowledge offered him. Out of fear and foolish stubbornness he had resisted the reality. From now on he would walk with it.
When he entered the study he found Doctor Orient waiting for him.
"Get comfortable, Hap." Orient waved him to a chair.
"Do you remember the Old Testament, Hap?" Orient asked when he was seated.
"Sort of."
"Do you remember the story of the Tower of Babel?"
"That was when the world started talking in different languages, wasn't it?" Hap responded.
"Right. Men tried to build a tower that would reach God and were punished for their presumption." Orient paused. "What really happened was a somewhat different story." He sank back into his chair, his hands clasped behind his head.
"At one time when the world was young, all men knew the secrets of their existence. But then certain men became greedy. They began to exploit their knowledge for power over their fellow men. They tried to become as powerful as God and in doing so set themselves up against God." He paused again. "Are you following me?"
"So far."
"Well, there was a great battle for this power that lasted for hundreds of years. The race of man split apart in this war. Destruction was widespread. Men hid from each other, breaking off into small wandering tribes. They devised languages among themselves to protect themselves from their enemies. In the havoc and confusion, most of the recorded knowledge men possessed was destroyed. What little knowledge remained was jealously guarded. The good men guarded their secrets to prevent the evil men from misusing it, and the evil men guarded their secrets in order to exploit the naive."
"Things don't seem to have changed."
Orient's smile acknowledged the insight. "As time passed, all the knowledge became more and more diluted. Records continued to be destroyed. Men who practiced the ancient rites were hunted and killed. And so the world lost virtually all of the knowledge it had originally possessed until, today the hundreds of religions that exist have only fragments of that information as part of the doctrines handed down from age to age and carefully maintained in spite of upheaval, pestilence and war. Judaism, Catholicism, Buddhism and the rest all have small pieces of the whole truth. Sometimes it's been so twisted as to be unusable, perhaps even dangerous to man.
"But in every age, in every place, there have been men and women who have stumbled across certain secrets and have used this information for themselves. The practice of magic seems far removed from the technology of space travel, but nonetheless magic does still exist. There are those who believe, and I am among them, that man can't travel the tremendous distances of space by ordinary propulsion. That the most efficient and fastest way of traveling through space is not with rockets but by astral projection. But I'm digressing. The point is that the world is still not ready to accept telepathy or astral projection or magic. But these secrets exist and must be nurtured and passed on until the world is able to use them for the benefit of the universe."
Orient stretched his arms. "Our world seems to be going through some long-drawn-out Karma right now, and it'll probably take another five thousand years before it's ready."
Hap tried to absorb what Orient was telling him. As the Doctor spoke, Hap had gone into a state of receptivity so that he would have less trouble understanding. Orient had explained to him months ago, at the very beginning of his training, how the conscious, rote mind automatically discarded information it couldn't handle emotionally or which conflicted with already formed concepts. This was the first time Hap had acted upon what Orient had taught him, and it worked. He was able to make connections he would have missed otherwise.
"You were asked to work with us not only because you were a telepath," Orient continued. "All human beings are telepaths, to some degree. You have strong powers, certainly, but more important, you were the kind of man who could be trusted not to misuse your strength."
Orient rose from his chair and walked to the window, where he stood looking out into the darkness. "I was disappointed when you ran away, and I was even more distressed to learn that you were using telepathy for commercial gain with your mind-reading act," he said quietly. He turned to face Hap. "But that doesn't matter. The important thing is that Malta is in the hands of a magician of evil. He was able to take possession of you once, and he'll try to influence you again."
"What about the... demon?"
A light knock at the door interrupted Orient's reply.
Sordi came in. "Bishop Redson," he announced. He avoided looking at Hap.
Redson came bustling into the study, carrying his black doctor's bag.
Orient crossed the room to greet him. "Hello, Bishop." He extended his hand. "I'm glad you could come."
"How's our patient?" Redson nodded toward Hap.
"He's fully recovered, thanks to you." Orient looked at Hap. "I want you to meet Bishop Redson, Hap."
Hap unconsciously rubbed his jaw. "Howdy," he said, measuring the bishop.
Redson beamed innocently. "Howdy, son." He turned to Orient. "What can I do for you, Owen?"
"I'm going to try to contact Malta. I plan on using Hap as my escape hatch. I'd like you to give him maximum protection against entry while he's in an open, receptive state." He looked at Hap. "If Malta is possessed-- and we must assume she is-- then you'll be my only protection against attack."
Hap nodded slowly. "Like the last time," he said softly.
Orient felt for the leaden vibration of a tilt somewhere between them. There was none. All flow was balanced.
"Don't you have your own method of defense?" Redson asked.
Orient looked up. "Yes, of course. But its nature is physical. We need a powerful spiritual defense." He waited. Red- son knew what he was driving at. Orient watched Redson tug at his ear as he considered his decision.
"I see." Redson frowned. "Do you have a religion, friend?" he asked Hap.
"I was born a Catholic, but I don't practice any."
"Are you willing to let me hear your confession, Hap?"
Hap hesitated. "How will that help?"
"I can give you Communion. The consecrated wafer is the strongest protection on earth against entry." He looked at Orient. "I may have to answer for this later, but I believe the situation warrants stretching a point."
"I'm ready to do anything I have to," Hap said.
"Then let's get to it," Redson said, reaching for his black bag.
Orient left them alone. He went to the meditation room and sat beside the pool. He relaxed his mind, letting the pattern of his breath loosen the cat's cradle of tension threading through him. He separated gently from emotion and entered the reality of his heartbeat. For a while, he listened and considered the reality of Malta against the rhythms of his existence. Malta. He had never felt a presence as unique or as troubled or as familiar. He tasted his own chemistry and began to examine the long chain that was the source of his life. He went back along it, sensing the junctions where the past of his cells linked to the present...
He peered into mirrored corridors and saw the fragments of a thousand events and faces... faces... he heard the chimes of struck glass rising and falling... and he saw a thousand faces of Malta shifting and melting in the mirrors oozing shapes, changing form and expression but they were all Malta and he knew all of them... He knew...
Suddenly the mirrors splintered, shattering the light... and then there was the Om of his heartbeat signaling direction. He reached blindly for his instincts, and he was pulsing breath, each swell of his body bringing him closer to the shore of consciousness...
He opened his eyes. He saw fresh colors. He moved his shoulders and stretched. His body felt supple and new.
He reached for his silver case and snapped it open. As he took a cigarette he whispered, "Om Aing, Ghring, Cling, Charmuda, Yei Vijay... " the ancient Brahman mantra for the consecration of Bhang.
Later, when Orient returned to the study, Redson was standing at the window, still wearing the vestments of his office.
The bishop turned. "We're ready now, Doctor," he said.
Orient looked at Hap.
He shrugged. "Let's go, Doc."
"All right, Hap," Orient said. "If I make contact, I won't stay long, just enough to find out where she is and how she is. If you feel hostility or danger, turn off."
Hap closed his eyes. He began breathing in a deep, regular pattern.
He drifted for a moment, then began descending far into himself, stopping only when he sensed the energy emanating from Orient. He let his own energy be drawn to Orient's vibration... closer... until both pulses were joined. He locked and held, remaining firm against the strong current of Orient's flow. He sensed Orient's energy straining toward completion and pulled back to slow the now surging rush
The stab of cold cut the momentum of his breath and almost stopped his heart. He closed his body to pain and reached his energy forward to maintain contact with Orient. The chill dashed against his lungs and he began to shudder violently. With his last controlled cycle of breath he pulled back toward thought, dragging Orient's spastic presence behind him.
When he opened his eyes he saw the drawn face of Orient hovering over him. "What happened?" He tried to sit up, then fell back when he felt the dull ache in the center of his brain.
"We were hit hard," Orient said softly.
He struggled to a sitting position. "Malta?" he murmured.
"She's dead." Orient's voice was flat and far away.
Hap squeezed his eyes shut. The ache in his brain subsided, leaving him empty.
"How do you know she's dead?" he said.
"Yes, exactly, how?" he heard Redson growl.
"It's true," Orient said. He seemed tired.
"Malta was trying to escape some powerful influence when she found you, Hap. She wasn't strong enough."
"Where is she?" Hap said.
"I don't know." Orient turned away. "But we have to find her. And right away."
"What do you mean, Owen?" Redson said.
"I mean that Malta's dead and that whoever killed her is still using her body for his purposes." Orient moved toward the door.
Hap jumped to his feet and grabbed his arm. "What are you saying?" he yelled.
Orient turned and looked at Hap. The shortstop's hand lifted from Orient's bicep and fluttered uncertainly in midair. "I must be nuts," he apologized. "But you know what happened in there."
Orient smiled. "I know," he said. "If the bishop hadn't given you Communion we would have been finished."
Redson cut in. "You said that whoever killed her was still using her body?"
"Yes," Orient sat down and stretched his legs out in front of him. "Her spirit is in the control of whoever killed her. She can be used as a messenger, or as an informant, or her powers can be joined with someone else's, giving her master tremendous leverage."
Master. Hap bristled at the word. "Are you a hundred percent sure?"
"I will be soon," Orient said quietly. "How will you be so sure, Owen?" Redson asked. Orient studied his curiously wizened fingers. "I'm going to hold a seance," he said.
In Muriel Destiny's world there was a place for everything, and the better part of her forty years had been spent in putting everything in its proper category. She had decided to make nursing her profession, because she had been attracted by the order and inviolability of the hospital routine.
It was this same aura of inviolability which had first drawn her to Pere DTe.
He was a French priest who had volunteered his services to the private Beverly Hills hospital that employed her. He took no payment in any form for his work, and the directors of the hospital were pleased to have the Church so represented at the institution.
For months she had watched him minister to the sick, never missing his daily rounds, comforting them with the words of his God and, more important, maintaining a systematic ritual that reached even within the confines of their illness.
Being a practical woman, Nurse Destiny had little use for religions, but she recognized the great strength of the stocky priest
One evening she stayed in the hospital after her shift to watch him perform Mass in the chapel. Something alerted her senses as she watched him smoothly make the signs of his ritual. She watched his hands, hands which she knew had been consecrated, hands which had been endowed with the power to change a piece of wafer into the actual body of Christ. She watched those hands as she had watched the hands of hundreds of surgeons and for the first time she wasn't disappointed. The hands of Pere D'Te were perfect. They had both power and the grace of power, and Muriel Destiny knew that they were the hands of a saint.
That chance off-duty visit changed her life.
At first, it was merely a slight alteration of routine. Instead
of going directly home after her tour was completed, she would linger for evening services. She did this every night for three weeks, telling herself that she admired the dedication of the man to his work.
It was on the first night of the fourth week that he first spoke to her. She was walking out of the chapel after service, when the high, musical voice called to her. She recognized the voice as his immediately.
"Nurse Destiny?" Pere D'Te was beside her. "I've been meaning to speak to you; do you have a moment?"
She was momentarily flustered by his proximity. She found herself unable to speak. She nodded.
D'Te took up the slack. "I know you're not of our faith. Yet I've noticed you at services. Are you interested in Catholicism?"
"No, not at all," she stammered.
"Then why do you attend Mass every evening?" His eyes burned with a secret smile of their own.
Her confidence returned. "It's you. I come to see you."
"Why, what about me do you find so interesting?" He took her elbow and they began to walk together.
"There's... there's something about you that's strong, something I admire. You seem so dedicated to your calling."
"Is that what you're looking for in your own life, strength?"
"Not exactly."
"Perhaps you are looking for a higher discipline?"
"Perhaps."
"Are you interested in being of service?"
"To you or to your religion?"
"Tome."
"Yes," she said emphatically.
"Tonight I will call and discuss it with you."
They had reached the front gate of the hospital. "Tomorrow come and tell me what you have decided," he said. Then he left her.
Muriel waited until midnight for word from Pere D'Te, but he neither called nor visited. Somewhat disappointed, she went to bed.
That night she had a dream. In her dream she was asleep in her bed. She awoke to find Pere D'Te standing at her bedside, wearing a white robe. He leaned over and kissed her. She felt the warm intrusion of his searching tongue in her mouth and the sure touch of his fingers as he stroked the inside of her restless thighs. For hours they made furious, frenetic love, sending her into shivering raptures of intense delight, delight she had never known existed.
When she woke up, she found that her sheets were stained with blood.
That evening, Nurse Destiny went to services at the chapel as usual. Afterward, Pere D'Te found her outside. He smiled when he saw her. "You were a virgin," he said.
"Yes." She didn't ask him for an explanation.
"You will not attend these services any longer," he told her. He handed her a card on which was written an address. "In two days go to this number. There you will receive instruction. You will be shown how you can take part in a new order of the mind and body which will bring you all you desire. This is the beginning of a new time for you, sister." He turned to go.
She put a hand on his arm. "Will you... are you coming to see me again?" she said, her voice low.
He looked at her sharply. "If you wish," he said. Then he left her.
When she went to the address D'Te had given her, she met a thin Negro man who wore an eye-patch and introduced himself to her as Malpas. He explained the nature of the group Muriel was going to join, and gave her detailed instructions for her to follow. She listened carefully and questioned nothing.
The following week she was initiated into the cult. It was that night that she discovered that Pere D'Te was known as Susej to the worshippers of the Clear One.
Destiny submitted to the sexual rites without passion or regret. To her, it was merely a formality she had to entertain in order to remain close to Pere DTe. She was completely in love with him.
She served him well after that, carrying out his every wish wordlessly and efficiently. For the first time in her life she felt fulfilled. The only moments that marred her happiness were those nights when she was required to attend the rites, for it was there that she saw the green-eyed priestess who assisted Susej during the ceremonies. She resented the girl's nearness to him, and she was jealous of the important part this girl played in his rituals.
After the first night, Nurse Destiny did not take part in the orgies. She stood aside at those times, being content with the midnight lover of her dreams: Pere D'Te, who came to her after she was asleep, robed in white silk like some sweet- fleshed angel of Sodom; Pere D'Te, who transported her into paroxysms of delicious frenzy night after night after night.
During the day, Nurse Destiny served the Clear One in a unique capacity. The hospital which employed her catered to the ills of the wealthy. As she attended her patients she would study them closely. If the patient was seriously ill she would make guarded suggestions as to how they might recover their health. With few exceptions they were all eager to listen. In return for their cure, they would become subjects of the Clear One. She also watched for those patients whose condition was not particularly dangerous, but who she felt would make valuable servants for her master. She had a flair for her mission. She was never too quick to make her offer, nor did she explain anything too fully lest the patient change his mind. She worked like a hunter, trailing her prey patiently and revealing herself only when she was sure of the kill. She was highly selective, going after only the biggest game, those who had sufficient wealth or influence to significantly further the work of the cult. In less than a year she had brought thirty new members into the service of the Clear One, all of high station and all with an extraordinary desire for absolute power. By the end of that year Susej was at the threshold of his great plan of conquest.
Only one thing continued to gnaw at her contentment with her new life-- the sight of Malta, the black-haired girl who stood beside Pere D'Te during the rites. Destiny had grown to hate the girl and her brazen proximity to Susej. Deep inside herself she vowed to somehow be rid of the priestess.
Destiny watched and waited, stalking the girl, looking for any sign of weakness, any sign of wavering faith.
In time she found what she was seeking.
As the cult prospered and the great plan was formulated, Destiny sensed a troubled spirit within the green-eyed priestess. She watched closer now, feeling her moment approaching.
The priestess was holding back. She performed her functions with diminishing enthusiasm. Nurse Destiny circled nearer, waiting for the right time to rid herself of her rival.
And the night the priestess made her fatal error, Destiny was watching.
A girl was being prepared for sisterhood in the cult. She was the daughter of a powerful financier, and her father was ambitious for the girl. He wanted her to be trained as a priestess and endowed with occult powers. She was twelve years old.
Malta, the high priestess, was to give the child instruction. Nurse Destiny made sure she was within hearing of the priestess and her young pupil. She heard Malta tell the little girl to go away from her father. She watched the little girl being put into a trance by Malta, and she saw Malta place an amulet around her neck. While the girl was in trance Malta gave her directions for escape and safety. Then she sent the girl out through one of the side passages in the temple.
As she turned to enter the room of worship, Malta saw Nurse Destiny standing in the shadows. The black-haired priestess did not hesitate. She slipped out of the temple, taking the same route the child had used.
Destiny went directly to Pere D'Te and told him what she had seen. His eyes betrayed his anger and confusion. "It will be difficult to find her," he said finally. "The priestess has many powers. But she will be found, and punished beyond the grave."
Nurse Destiny was satisfied.
She continued her work, performing with even more zeal than before. Soon after the disappearance of Malta, Pere D'Te told her that the activities of the cult were to be moved from California to New York City. Destiny was honored when he told her that she was to be elevated to the rank of high priestess. He also told her that she was to play a key role in the second phase of the great plan.
In New York she worked hard helping D'Te set up his new headquarters. The cult, aided by the members it had already recruited, became a potent force. D'Te was commander of a large, obedient and influential army. His success seemed imminent. It was only a matter of striking at the right time.
Muriel Destiny felt herself fulfilled in every way except one. She still desired the complete elimination of her former rival.
Then, one day, the priest came and told her he had located Malta. "Tell me, my priestess," he teased, "shall we try to reeducate her to our work? She does have very broad powers, you know."
Muriel was adamant. "Her very presence is a danger to us. The sooner she's removed, the sooner the great plan can proceed without fear or encumbrance."
"Quite right, Destiny." D'Te chuckled. "Truly you were born to serve the Clear One. When we've achieved our objectiveness you will see how generous he can be."
Muriel waited eagerly for the fruition of her own private plan. And finally her patience was rewarded.
She watched as Malta was brought in and sacrificed to the Great One during a rite of initiation.
She now had everything she desired.
She did not ask for elevation of power, she did not ask for wealth, she did not ask for beauty. She asked only to go to sleep and hold her tryst with her incubus lover.
Sordi was still arguing his case as he set up the table in Orient's study.
"Doctor," he said softly, reprovingly, "after all this time don't you think you should let me help you with these experiments?" He glanced at Orient. "You know, on Ischia, where I was born, there was a woman who could talk to the dead. Her name was Signora Santangelo and she told my mother when I was still a child that I had the power. And one night I was walking along the beach near the castle at Punto d'Ischia and I saw a boy who drowned. He called to me from the water and asked me to pray for him." He paused to quickly cross himself. "And in my dreams I have seen the future."
Orient continued to study the charts on his desk.
"Well, what do you say, Doctor?" Sordi asked from across the room as he placed the candle in the center of the table and lit it.
"Your intentions are good, but your timing is bad." Orient didn't look up. "I promise you that we'll talk about it soon, but right now please call the others. We have some work to take care of."
"I understand, Doctor." Sordi nodded, pleased that Orient had consented at least to consider his request.
Orient shook his head slowly as Sordi went out. For months his secretary had been after him to include him in the experiments. He'd already considered the possibilities of Sordi's psychic bent and he knew that while the fastidious Italian did indeed have strong talent he was extremely superstitious. Orient had found that his best results were achieved with minds that were uncluttered.
Bishop Redson, Argyle Simpson and Levi filed silently into the study.
Orient stood and motioned them over to the round table.
As Argyle and Levi found chairs, Hap came in and joined them.
Redson sat to one side. His religion forbade direct participation in a seance. He had, however, given Hap permission to assist Orient.
"Gentlemen," Orient began, "as you know, the goal of our pilgrimage is to educate humanity in the technique of telepathic communication." As he spoke he walked slowly to the wall and pressed the light switch. In the sudden gloom the glow of the candle rippled long shadows across the room. "Tonight," he continued as he came toward the table, "we're going to take another path and try to make contact with the dead."
Hap winced at the last word. Argyle and Levi looked at each other.
"Whom are we going to contact?" Levi ventured.
Orient sat down at the table. "Malta," he answered. "I have reason to believe she died or was killed shortly after she left this house."
"She left?" Argyle's eyes flicked from Hap to Levi, and held on Orient. "Just what happened while we were out, Doc?" he asked.
Orient met his stare. "I don't know what took place, yet. Even though we managed to break Malta's trance, we didn't find out what was causing it. My guess is that Malta was held by someone with tremendous occult powers. Before she left, Malta almost killed Sordi. Then Hap was attacked."
Hap cut in. "Doc there's something that's been sticking in my craw. If it's true what you say about my being possessed by something, then why didn't I leave with Malta? Why did I hang around?"
"You were left behind to kill us, Hap," Orient said.
"Kill? You mean all of you?" Hap looked around the table. Levi was smiling. Simpson wasn't.
"Most certainly," Orient said serenely. "If the bishop hadn't been along I probably wouldn't have known until it was too late."
"Sounds like a rumble to me," Argyle observed, squinting at Hap.
"That's where it is. Things are involved that go much deeper than our other experiments. We're not testing any more, and"-- Orient looked around the table-- "there isn't any choice. All of us are in as much danger as Malta, maybe more."
"Why us?" Levi asked.
"Because we here present the only threat to whoever is using the forbidden power. As civilization progresses technically it believes less in the spiritual. Anyone who is able to wield occult power is virtually unopposed, because lack of faith precedes ignorance. And ultimately, to be ignorant is to be helpless."
"Well, that's a drag," Argyle snorted. "I thought this was a little old twenty-four-hour gig, and now I'm being held over to play policeman."
There was a long awkward pause before Orient spoke.'
"There's always the chance that I'm wrong," he began. "I want to hold the seance tonight to establish the facts. I want to be sure that Malta is dead, and if she is, I want to know how it happened. If I'm wrong, that's it-- I'm wrong. But if Malta was killed, then none of us is safe unless we fight."
Argyle was the first to break the silence that followed. "Okay, Doc, you'd better tell us how to go about this nonsense."
Orient felt his tensed jaw muscles loosen into a smile and realized he'd been worried. "We start by making contact in the normal way." He pulled his chair closer to the table. "I'll take it from there. I'll get in touch with my control and the control will find Malta for us."
"What's a control?" Hap asked.
"The control is a spirit guide who is able to transverse the different levels of spiritual planes, and physical planes, for that matter. My control was a member of the Cheyenne tribe in his last existence. We've had good rapport in past seances."
"Then you've done this a few times?" Redson was surprised.
"Oh yes." Orient half turned in his chair to face the bishop. "In the last three years I've conducted eight seances. The first two were shaky, but when I found Little Bear and he agreed to act as my control the others went smoothly."
"Little Bear, eh?" Levi was still perplexed.
"Actually, it was a fortunate meeting for me. We've become quite close."
Levi frowned and shook his head.
"Well," Orient said, turning to the others, "let's get to it. Unless"-- he looked around-- "there are more questions."
No one spoke.
As he began his breathing pattern Hap concentrated on the bright point of flame above the candle.
Contact was instantaneous.
Hap felt the energy within him contract and expand as it was passed from man to man, then came back to him. With each cycle the energy intensified, building momentum until it no longer pulsed but surged steadily through him. Then the transition, and instead of energy flowing through his being he felt his being flowing through the energy and he knew that they were at maximum communication.
He felt Orient lift out of the current and leave the circle.
Hap raised his eyes and saw Orient's features distend and his head begin to bob loosely from side to side. His mouth was working spasmodically.
Suddenly a guttural voice scraped from deep inside Orient's throat.
"Does my... brother call... " The voice rumbled, out of synchronization with Orient's twitching lips.
Orient spoke with great difficulty. "... Greet... Bear... " he managed.
"... Bear... welcomes... he... ready to track... forest of souls to... find... whom brother seeks... "
The voice loomed louder. "Little Bear... knows... " Orient's face was streaming with sweat.
"... Bear has... waited for his... brother's... call
»»
"... Seek... Malta... to speak... " Orient faltered.
"She... will come... " The voice faded.
In the silence that followed Hap thought he could hear the sound of the flame's struggle to escape the wick.
Orient lurched violently forward. The muscles in his neck stood out as if he were straining against some great weight
Hap felt a chill breeze across the back of his neck.
Then he heard her voice.
Softly at first, then rising loudly and hollowly from Orient's tensed throat. Hap struggled to maintain his concentration. He fixed his eyes on the candle flame.
"... Speak... only a few words... " Malta's voice rang a note of profound sorrow. "... Not yet release... escape from... seven... door... "
Orient's body began to tremble.
"... Must rest... " Malta's voice began to rise in pitch until it was almost a falsetto. "... Escape... seven door... find per a'te... per a'te seven
" Malta sobbed, "per a'te... pain... "
"By the blood of Christ, I know that name!" Redson boomed.
Hap felt the sudden drain of energy as contact broke.
Orient slumped heavily across the table.
Hap wrenched his stare from the candle and looked wildly around the table.
Argyle and Levi sat stiff and still, their faces frozen in shock.
Redson turned on the lights.
Nearly half an hour passed before Doctor Orient had fully recovered from the strain of the seance. Argyle and Bishop Redson watched silently as Levi worked over the unconscious figure of the man slumped over the table.
Stunned and depressed, Hap sat staring at his own folded hands, trying to comprehend the reality of Malta's death.
Finally, Orient blinked and pulled his head away from the smelling salts Levi was pushing under his nose. He sat up and yawned, rubbing his temples with his long, slim fingers. When he opened his eyes he saw Hap, sitting mute and miserable across the table.
"I'm sorry, Hap," he said.
Hap didn't answer.
"I know how you must feel," Orient continued. "But now that we know for sure what's happened, perhaps we may be of some help to her."
Hap lifted his head. "I'll be okay in a bit, Doc. I'm just getting used to the idea that she's gone."
"I know, I shouldn't have lost my control like that, Owen," Redson said. "I could have caused you harm."
Orient shook off the apology. "I know most of what was said, but not all of it. How about filling in for me?"
"She said that she wanted to escape," Levi began.
"She also said to find the seven doors and something called Per D'Te," Simpson added. He turned to Redson. "You said you knew the name."
Redson nodded heavily. "Yes I do, that's why I lost control. You see, Per D'Te or more correctly, August D'Te, is the name of an old classmate of mine."
Simpson's jaw dropped.
"We were both chosen by the Church to study certain rites of exorcism in Rome," Redson went on. "We spent some months at the Vatican library doing research in the archives."
"A priest?" Levi muttered.
"An ex-priest," Redson corrected. "After he resigned it was rumored that he had been conducting experiments forbidden to a priest. This was many years ago, in Paris, I think, just after the Second World War."
"It seems to fit now, doesn't it?" Orient said.
"I'm afraid it does, Owen," Redson sighed.
"What do you mean, gentlemen?" Levi asked.
"The only man who can perform a Black Mass is a fully ordained priest," Orient explained. "His fingers are consecrated when he receives the sacrament of Holy Orders and endowed with the power to change the wafers and wine into the actual body and blood of Christ."
"It's called transubstantiation," Redson filled in.
"How does all that affect non-Catholics?" Simpson demanded. "Are you saying that the Catholic Church is the true religion after all?"
Orient smiled weakly; he was used to being kept neutral by Simpson. "Not exactly, although I'm sure that Bishop Redson can give you a good argument on that point. As I was telling Hap earlier, there are many forms of the same power. Catholicism is a very strong form. You must remember that in the Western world the Church managed to hold the franchise on much of man's recorded knowledge through a thousand years of destruction and ignorance. The black mass itself can be a tremendous generator for evil energy, being the reverse of the Holy Mass, which calls upon the powers of light and good. Every action has an opposite and equal reaction."
"D'Te is a scoundrel," Redson blurted out suddenly, "and I'm afraid we're in for a bit of trouble."
"How's that, Bishop?" Levi asked mildly.
Redson regarded the bearded dentist for a moment. "Because," he said finally, "the man was one of the most brilliant theologians I have ever encountered, and he has a tremendous knowledge of the occult."
The room was quiet for a few seconds. ‘
"That explains how Malta was first trapped in her trance." Orient reflected aloud. "D'Te has been conducting a black mass and generating his energy field here in New York. Malta was drawn in to D'Te's field and held." "But why did he have to kill her?" Hap's anguished voice broke into Orient's theory.
"I don't know," Orient said softly, "but I promise you we'll find out."
"That might be difficult, Owen," Redson said.
"Yes," Orient took the silver case from his coat pocket. As he lit his cigarette the smoke's acrid odor imbued the room. He studied the case as he spoke. "Yes, that's true, but we must help that girl. She still isn't safe... after all she's been through."
A door slammed somewhere in the house.
"Remember now, that D'Te has been inside your home through the girl and through Hap," Redson warned. "Sordi was involved and by now that devil knows all about you and me."
"That will make tracking him rather tricky," Orient agreed.
"And extremely dangerous."
"Perhaps you'd better tell us something about this classmate of yours," Orient said.
"The fellow came from France. Brilliant, had a great career ahead of him, exceptional student, everyone thought highly of him. He had a bit of the rebel about him and sometimes bordered on the heretic. Almost got himself suspended a couple of times. The man managed to step on more than a few toes."
"What did he look like?" Levi asked.
"Short, stocky, wavy hair, thick eyebrows. He might look different after all this time. God knows, I do."
"Anything distinguishing about him?" Orient asked.
"His eyes, quite piercing. And he had a terrific temper. A willful man."
Orient pressed, "Did you spend much time together?"
"None. We didn't get on from the start. We just did our studying and kept out of each other's way."
"And you never kept in touch?"
"No. Of course the clergy is a small world. I heard bits of gossip from time to time. He was involved in some special work and then I heard was suspected of performing some sort of heretical experiments."
"Occult experiments?" Orient asked.
"They must have been. These matters are always highly confidential, but the man was always obsessed with the subject. Even when we were at the archives he seemed to be more wrapped up in the old manuscripts of deviltry than he was in his devotions."
"Can you run some sort of a check on him?"
"I'll do that, but you've got to promise me something."
"Which is?"
"That you move from this house this very night. I say none of you are safe here."
Orient smiled at the bishop's concern. "Agreed."
"The whole bunch of you telemumbo scalawags can stay with me at the archdiocese for as long as I can stand you about. I've got all the conveniences there. You won't have to pack even a handkerchief."
As Redson issued his invitation, the lights suddenly dimmed.
"Hey," Argyle said, "you paid your bill, Doc?"
Orient's face went grave. He held up his hand for silence.
From another room came the high tinkle of breaking glass. A door slammed violently.
Orient started to get up. "Bishop Redson!" He called out as the lights flickered weakly then went out completely, plunging the whole house into utter darkness. Almost immediately, objects began to fly around the room at tremendous speed. "Duck," Orient cried, as a book smacked against his shoulder, spinning him off balance. The room reverberated with the crashing of ricocheting objects. Chairs, bottles, inkwells, ashtrays all whirled madly about the study, shattering as they connected with the walls, the fragments pelting the crouched occupants with stinging force.
Redson realized immediately what was happening, but before he could act his neck and shoulders were seized with a numbing paralysis. He couldn't speak. Fishlike, he opened and closed his mouth, vainly trying to squeeze the words of dismissal through his constricted throat. When he tried to move, his limbs refused to respond, and he fell sprawling to the floor.
Orient also knew what was happening.
His home was being attacked by malevolent spirits. Poltergeists. Finding himself unable to function physically, he withdrew into himself and attempted to contact the others telepathically. It was arduous, he couldn't send freely, he had to maintain a field of protection around himself because of his sensitive state. His hand went to the Carnelian stone around his neck. Using all his concentration, he shut out the turbulence around him and steadily sent instructions to the others huddled in the roaring blackness.
For a long time he pushed against the cottony fabric of resistance and then, at last, he broke through, to Levi.
"Keep the image of a golden swastika set in your thoughts... " Orient sped his silent commands, sending out a mind picture of the symbol that had preceded the cross as the prime sign of faith. "... Think of the image bathed in a blue light."
Levi caught the picture and used his own power in conjunction with Orient's to assist in reaching Argyle, then Hap, until the four men were all concentrating on the same image, the golden swastika.
The intensity of the attack increased. A low, terrible moan pierced the darkness. The heavy table overturned. Doors continued to slam. The mansion shivered with the sounds of splintering glass. The telepaths held their concentration, each helping the others from wavering.
Redson, lying flat on the floor, felt the crushing weight on his back desist, and suddenly found his voice. For one panicky moment he was unable to recall the words he sought. His brain buzzed with confusion. Then his head cleared and he remembered.
"Apage Satanus!" he cried out, his voice cracking. "Lord deliver us, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost... Apage Satanus." The turmoil began to diminish.
Orient broke off telepathic communication and began to speak. "Adonay Tetragrammaton... " He called out the ancient words of dismissal from the Grimoire of Honorious.
The noises stopped. Instantly all was still, except for the contrapuntal sounds of Orient and Redson intoning the rites of departure.
The lights came up, blinding the six men momentarily.
The room looked like a beach after a hurricane. Nothing had been left standing. The floor was littered with haphazard debris of papers, books and cracked glass. Windows were broken, furniture was overturned and smashed. The foul stench of decayed meat hung in the air.
Orient helped Redson to his feet.
"It looks as if you'd better get out right now, Owen," the bishop said, surveying the wreckage.
White-faced and dazed, Sordi staggered into the study. Levi rushed to assist him, setting him down on a large pillow before examining him for possible injury.
"I've never seen anything like it." Sordi shook his head sadly. "It's fantastic."
"Sordi, you'll be staying with the rest of us at the bishop's home for the time being," Orient said.
His secretary nodded numbly.
"Well, come on now," Redson said. "We can't lose any time."
Argyle and Levi took hold of Sordi and helped him to his feet. "But Doctor," Sordi protested, "I can't leave the house in this condition. I'd better follow."
"Don't worry," Orient said, "everything will be taken care of in the morning. Right now it's important you rest."
They filed out through the scattered rubble. In the few minutes that the poltergeists had been present, they had reduced the entire mansion to a shambles. In the garage tools and parts had been wrenched from storage and thrown randomly to the ground. The walls were scarred where the heavy metal implements had struck.
Even the Rolls had not been spared. Not only was the once-gleaming machine covered with a film of dust, but it had been dented and scratched in a dozen places. Inside, the glove compartment had been forced open and its contents strewn around the floor.
For a moment Orient felt a dull twinge of dismay as he saw the condition of his favorite toy. He shrugged the feeling off, reminding himself that such is the way of all things physical. Everything is born, lives and dies. The only constant is change, and to expect objects to preserve their newness is to beg certain disappointment. He started to open the door.
"Wait," Redson ordered. He took a vial of Holy Water from his black bag and sprinkled it over the limousine, whispering in Latin as he moved around the car. Orient understood that the bishop was protecting the car from further attack. It would be disastrous if the poltergeists reappeared while the car was in motion.
When Redson had finished, the six men piled into the Ghost and made their departure from the Orient mansion.
"One thing, Doc," Hap ventured as they pulled away. "Why did you tell us to concentrate on a golden swastika?"
"What swastika?" Redson demanded.
"During the excitement I managed to contact our pilgrims telepathically," Orient explained; "I gave them a pagan but effective sign for the dismissal of evil spirits. As you know, Bishop, the swastika was a common sign of faith before Christianity gave us the cross."
"And before Hitler twisted its meaning," Simpson added.
Redson shook his head slowly. "Telepathy," he muttered.
No one spoke again during the short drive. Orient brooded. The muscles in his back ached and his brain throbbed with defeat. Malta was dead. He had been called to help and he had failed. The jangling edge of an insistent tune cut through the nerves at the base of his skull, mocking his emotion. He shifted his thoughts to the mechanics of his situation. While in Tibet he had earned the robe of an adept but he had long neglected the arts of magic. He had devoted all his attention since that time to the science of parapsychology, experimenting only with telepathic and telekinetic phenomena. This was his work. He was certain that with the use of these dormant senses men could eliminate fear. His method of education was almost completely devised now. But all that would have to wait for a while. D'Te would never stop until all opposition was eliminated. And there was no one else besides Orient and his pilgrims who could offer any kind of resistance-- damned small resistance at that. He would have to get himself back into psychic shape, limber up his spells and procedures. More than that, he had to prepare the others for the coming changes.
They arrived at the bishop's home exhausted.
"How do you know that same jive typhoon won't hit this place?" Argyle demanded when they got inside.
"This house is built on consecrated ground," Redson explained. "And there's a chapel downstairs. No spirit or elemental would ever dare enter a consecrated house of God."
"I want you all to settle yourselves and try to sleep," Orient said wearily.
"Go into a receptive state before you do so I won't have any difficulty communicating with you during the night. There isn't any danger of entry while you're here, so you can relax completely."
For once the three pilgrims were too tired to ask questions. Orient and Redson went to the library, while the others were taken to their rooms.
"What now, bucko?" Redson's curiosity was insatiable. "What are you planning to do tonight?"
"Simple," Orient said. "While they're asleep I'll communicate with them telepathically and teach them some of the defenses and spells they'll need to fight your friend DTe."
"Like a mystical Berlitz record, eh?"
"Exactly." He managed a smile. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get to it before I run out of ectoplasm." He fell into a deep armchair and went into concentration.
He began, as always, with his breath, charging his psyche With the energy he would need to send out a sustained message.
He transmitted the knowledge that he had accumulated as a second hierarchy neophyte in Tibet. These forms incorporated most of the lore that could be found in the books of Solomon, Honorious and Albertus Magnus. It also took in certain spells not available to Western occultists. In this way he thought to perhaps confound D'Te, who was obviously a dangerously advanced adept. He hoped it was enough to protect his pilgrims.
He worked for a long time, sending and resending so that the new information would become permanently and precisely imbedded in the consciousness of the sleeping telepaths.
When he was finished he found himself alone in the library.
He went to sleep right there, on the worn leather armchair.
The room was in perfect sync.
Seth coolly surveyed the inflamed crowd through the glass of the control booth while his fingers stoked the fires of their excitement. Mute the drums. Bring the bottom guitar up. Hit the button for one color wall. Cut the other lights and play the wall against the funk. The kids on the dance floor responded. They muted their movements, keeping close to the guitar. Everyone. Even the bartenders had respect. The heads at the tables bobbing in time. He brought the drums back up and flooded all the walls with splashes of color. At the same time he shifted the recording level. He pulled the organ forward and blended both guitars with the drums. As the weight of the rhythm coaxed new meanings out of the lewd blues line the organ was laying down Seth started the overhead colors rotating and the crowd began making noises. Everybody; the dancers, the sitters, the waiters, the barmen. Their human sounds kicking the feeling up. Sync. He opened the recording level, and let the sound spill over the edge of the tape before he cut. A perfect take.
The control booth was Seth's latest innovation for the Seventh Door. The twelve-track board coordinated with the lights and made the room into a recording studio. Everything live. He touched the electronic altar of his particular ritual lightly with his fingers. He was finished with the performer change. Now he was the man. Producer, director and creative arranger. He was ready for the next phase.
He looked out across the room at Addison, sitting in the rear, deep in conversation with a boy. The bird sure eats them up, he mused as he saw the rapt devotion on the boy's face.
Another boy approached the table where the couple was sitting. He tried to speak to Addison. She shook her head, her face blank. The boy backed off, his shoulders hunched with dejection. That was last week's acquisition, Senator Dade's son Alex.
Seth smiled dreamily in the light-punctuated darkness of the control booth as he speculated upon the changes. Confusion. Resentment. Alex goes to Susej for some advice or perhaps a special favor. Susej soothes and provides. A new girl, a new scene, a position of prestige among his peers-- they always grabbed for the prestige-- and Alex is in. Sync. His yawn was like a wolf's tongue flicking past his pointed teeth, his lips drawn tight and high. He snapped the switch, cutting the lights on the control board, and went out into the room.
He headed for the bar where his current, and last, project was waiting for him-- Joy. If heiresses were distributed in cans, hers would be labeled tall, thin and frantic. Her father was the largest arms manufacturer in the country, and he had raised himself one nervous child.
"It was insane," she stage-whispered. "Was it a take?"
He grimaced and signaled for a drink.
Joy watched his face for reaction, for some approval. Her hands fluttered on the bar.
Deliberately, he swiveled on his stool and turned his back to her.
He was bored. Any John could do this kind of work. After this one he could leave the physical seductions for the studs. He thought again of Addison. Substance. A heroine fit for him. But not right now, not until the Great Plan started to swing. He returned his attention to Joy.
She gushed a smile of relief and touched his arm tentatively.
As he went through the motions his mind kept drifting to the next few months, when the operation would be steamrolling. Susej going public, coming in direct contact with thousands of people. That was Seth's contribution. The key to the plan. A man like Susej needed constant public exposure to maintain maximum effectiveness. The more worshippers of his mass the more juice he could generate. Susej had told him that if somehow the power could be maintained, even at a mediocre level, for a long period of time, then a new combination of consciousness could be achieved. And Seth's answer had been a simple one. Television would keep Susej's image constantly there, inside their heads. At the same time Susej makes his move, he begins his saturation of communications; the records, the films, all with their own special message, all created by him. Behind it a network of civil power; police, politicians, execs. And at the base, fueling the organism, would be the kids. His kids. All chosen for their special manipulative abilities and all well connected. A crack corps that would learn to rule an entire generation. With him at the top, piping the tune.
He looked down at Joy. "Let's get out of here," he said.
"Where are you taking me baby?" She tried to sound casual.
He leaned close to her ear. "For a little ride," he whispered.
Addison was feeling good.
She threw her head back and laughed at something Raymond was saying.
Raymond gritted his teeth; he had meant to be taken seriously.
He pressed his point. "Goddamnit, why don't you listen to me?"
"Raymond"-- Addison muffled a giggle-- "do you know what you're saying?"
"Of course. I have an income to draw on."
The smile left her face. "I'm a lot to take care of."
He started to speak, but she cut him off. "I don't mean money, Raymond," she said. "I mean other things, more important things."
"Look, I know I can take care of anything that comes up."
She looked at him steadily. "Be sure baby, because I'm going to call you on it,"
"I'm sure," he said, his voice telling him he wasn't.
Her hand went across the table and covered his. In the corner of her vision she saw Seth leaving with Joy. Her eyes narrowed. She had a certain respect for the way Seth handled things. Next to Susej he was the most powerful member of the cult. At least half of the Great Plan had been his conception. He was in control, always. His life, his music, his musicians, and even her, were under his absolute direction.
"What's the call?" Raymond was saying.
"I want you to be the kind of man that takes what he wants, no questions asked."
"That's easy," he boasted.
"We'll see." She touched his mouth with her fingers. "But for now, how about some champagne to celebrate us?"
"Don't you want to leave?" he asked.
"I'm a working girl, Raymond, and I'm thirsty." She mussed his hair. Be patient, baby, you'll get what you want," she said.
It was exactly one bottle later that Seth returned for the last set. He was late. Joy was trailing behind him, her eyes pin-pointed from shooting speedballs, her clothes disheveled from making love.
The group was already on stage, waiting for Seth to appear. He took his time crossing the tiny dance floor.
Addison moved when she saw the light go on in the booth.
As she crossed to the stage one of the musicians straightened up and hit a chord. Instantly the group responded and started feeding sounds into the amplifier. Addison mounted the platform and waited for the ride to build before coming in. When she did, her voice was tough and level.
If you see old Bill when he gets home this mornin'
If you see old Bill when he gets home this evenin'
If you see old Billy when he gets home
tell him leave them downtown hookers alone
this mornin' this
evenin' so soon...
Addison beveled into the excitement she was causing. The room started revolving colors and she began to work, moving the crowd together.
You see old Sal she bakin' bread this mornin'
You see old Sal she bakin' bread this evenin'
You see old Sal she bakin' bread
Someone come and tell her Billy was dead
this mornin' this
evenin' so soon...
She looked down at the wild-haired kids bunched in front of the bandstand and lifted her arms. They lifted their arms. She opened her voice. They began to shout. She could see Raymond at the table, moving with her.
She said oh God it can't be so this mornin'
She said oh God it can't be so this evenin'
She said oh God it can't be so
I saw old Billy just an hour ago
This mornin' this
evenin'so soon...
She angled her shoulders like a cowboy drifting down a dusty street and eased it out.
Well they're takin' Bill home
in a hurry-up wagon this mornin'
They're takin' Bill home
in a hurry-up wagon this evenin'
They're takin' Bill home in a hurry-up wagon
his feet all twisted and his toes are draggin'
this mornin' this
evenin' so soon...
She finished driving but subdued, thrusting smoothly as the organ went crazy behind her. She looked down at the homage in the faces of the people in the room and she knew that nothing could stop the Great Plan from making the changes.
A few days later, before he began his mass, Susej met with Seth and Addison for their report. He was pleased with what they told him.
"Are you sure about the girl?" he asked Seth.
"Joy's freaky, but she's not right for us. She hasn't got talent for anything except crisis. She may be rich, but her mind's useless. Why bother?"
"I've heard she has talent," Addison couldn't resist saying.
"She's a waste of time."
"No matter," Susej rasped suddenly. "I have a use for her."
Seth smiled distantly.
"And the boy?" Susej turned to Addison. "You're sure of him?"
"I'm sure."
"Very well." He regarded them both, a benign smile creasing the leathery skin of his face. "You are both about to know the bounty of the Great One. Seth, you shall be at the head of his own empire. You shall create a music of worship, and you, Obizuth," Susej addressed Addison by her ritual name, "shall create the music of a deep ritual. Soon you shall be shown a new art."
Addison felt a flush of triumph. Her eyes went to Seth.
"Now I want the girl Joy," Susej ordered. "I shall prepare her."
Seth turned and left the room.
"The girl will serve," Susej confided, touching Addison's hair.
His hand evoked a curiosity in her. She said nothing.
"Joy will be my gift to you," Susej said softly, as he stroked her hair. "When I first saw her in the Bowl of Observance, when she first offered herself, I knew that finally I had found the proper vehicle for your greatest moment."
"Why is she so special?" His touch was a tingle of pleasure that spread through her neck, loosening her shoulders.
"Because, little one"-- his voice seemed to be inside her ear-- "she bears your birth sign."
Addison sighed as the ecstasy of his unnamed promise pulsed through her body.
Seth returned with Joy. He noticed immediately that something had changed. He looked at Addison and smiled.
"Come here, Joy" Susej said gently.
The girl came. She looked close to hysteria. The inexpertly applied make-up, and the way her shoulders drooped under the robe she wore, made her look as if she had just been caught trying on her mother's clothes.
"Frightened?" His voice was soft
Unable to speak, she nodded.
"There's no need, Joy. You have nothing to fear here."
She flinched when she heard her name.
"Do you know what you must do?"
The girl bit her lip and looked at Seth.
"I explained everything in detail," Seth said, smiling at Joy.
The girl began to tremble. A large tear furrowed the pancake on her cheek. She started to speak, stopped, then started again, "I. .. I'm sick, you know?" she blurted finally. "Maybe not tonight but another... "
Susej took the girl's face in his hands. "Nonsense," he whispered. She stopped trembling.
"You will be well." He dropped his hands and turned to Seth.
"She will serve." He said. Joy remained where she was, staring straight ahead.
"Tonight this girl shall serve you, little princess." Susej smiled at Addison, then abruptly he left the room.
"You're on your way, little bird," Seth remarked approvingly as he contemplated the unmoving figure of Joy.
"I wonder exactly where." Addison smiled.
"Only Susej can tell you that right now, but"-- he looked at her, his eyes curiously flat-- "perhaps soon I'll be able to bridge that gap for us."
The atmosphere in the room of worship was one of electric hilarity.
The robed men and women formed and reformed in excited groups, their conversation rushed with expectancy. Each of them had the same obsession. Susej. Each of them spoke of the priest with enthusiasm, repeating over and over the facets of his brilliance.
Addison slowly edged her way through the room to where her mother was standing, talking to a beefy, worried-looking man. Her father. His mouth was twitching and perspiration beaded his red face. When they saw Addison approaching, both Mona and Ralph Tracey stared as if they were seeing their daughter for the first time.
Addison thought she detected a glint of jealousy in her mother's strained smile. She was right. Mona was unable to understand how Addison had come to enjoy so powerful a position with Susej.
"How nice to see you!" Mona's voice carried its usual insincere lilt
Ralph nodded and grunted something close to a greeting. He wasn't relaxed these days. His wife and daughter had become ominous to him.
"How nice to see you two!" Addison returned her mother's tone. "Everything has been going splendidly since we were privileged to join Susej."
"Yes, business has certainly picked up. Good man," Ralph managed to say.
"He certainly seems to like you," Mona said.
"Yes." Addison smiled sweetly. "Thanks to the wisdom of Susej all our affairs will prosper."
"I'm sure you'll see to it that we're not in want," Mona said, her voice hard at the edges.
"Depend on it, Mona," Addison purred, moving off toward the center of the room. She looked for Seth, then remembered that he was up in the balcony with Raymond and Joy. She wondered about Joy.
The brittle hiss of a rattle cut through the thought. She kneeled.
Susej ambled across the length of the room, followed by Muriel Destiny. She held the gold Chalice of Change in front of her. When the stocky priest reached the altar he shook the studded gourd he carried in his left hand and sent shivers into the silence with the rattle. He turned and paused, regarding his kneeling congregation for a long moment before he began. "Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law," he intoned musically. "Dominus non est dignus. I proclaim the law of the Left Hand, the law of Chaos, sole regent of the run upon earth and the law of Babylon, the Earth and mother of all."
Muriel's bony hands reached out and placed the chalice on the altar.
"We are ready to receive the bountiful, limitless, power of the Clear One." He raised his hands high in the air. He looked out across the room and smiled. "Make your desires known to the Clear One," he commanded.
Addison watched as one by one the members of the cult came forward and repeated their litany of wants. As always, the requests were a repetition of the system of vanities; money, fame, beauty. Addison was satisfied that her original choice of supreme knowledge had been superior.
When he had heard the petitions of his congregation, Susej began to speak. His voice was low, conversational, as he told them of the new glory that would come to them all. He told them that they were the children of a new age of mankind. Their concerted effort within the framework of the Great Plan would bring all the bounty of the Clear One to their house. As he went on his voice rose in intensity rather than volume, carrying his words directly and sharply to each of them. Addison felt tears well up in her eyes as she realized the magnificence of Susej. The beauty of his quest
Susej swept from his announcement of the coming tide of the Great Plan to the first words of his mass.
"By Baralamenis, by the most powerful prince Genio, Lianchide... "
He drew the triangle on the altar. "... Te Adoro ET TE INVOCO... " he called out, passing the gourd over the Chalice of Change.
There was a crack of sound.
Addison couldn't see the Clear One, he was only seen once, but his presence tingled the nerves under her skin, and she felt the signal of his caress inside her thighs. She knew that Raymond could see him from the balcony. She couldn't guess what Joy saw.
"Bring the candidate before the Clear One," Susej droned.
Raymond held the banister as he came down the stairs. Seth followed, his hands at his sides.
The boy peered anxiously around the room. He stopped in front of the altar and stood awkwardly. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, avoiding the looming presence of the Clear One.
"What is your desire?" Susej demanded.
"The... the power to rule," Raymond mumbled.
The priest held out his hands. "Does the Clear One find the candidate acceptable?" he asked.
Addison felt the acceptance.
"So be it," Susej ruled. "Remove your habit."
Flushing, the boy stepped out of his robe and stood naked before the altar.
The atonal sounds began.
Addison rose to her feet and joined the forming human circle. She began to shuffle counterclockwise around the room, her feet moving erratically with the weight of the circle. Destiny took the chalice from the altar and placed it in Raymond's quivering hands. The circle began to move faster, lighter now.
"Let it begin," Susej exclaimed, and struck the chalice from the boy's hands, spilling wafers to the ground.
The circle broke. The space around the altar became a writhing, scratching mass of struggling humanity as they all pushed and fought to crush the white wafers under their feet. The competition intensified, raising them to grunting pitch and they began ripping at their robes and clawing at each other's flesh.
Addison, rolling on the floor in a violent, deliriously grinding embrace heard Raymond's wail pierce the jumble of sound. Then Mona's warm tongue snaked into her mouth and held her in a long searching kiss. She pulled away, cuffing Mona sharply across the face, and soft implosions of release shuddered through her belly as she heard her mother's unrestrained groans of pleasure.
"Enough," Susej proclaimed the end of the saturnalia.
Addison looked up. Raymond lay on the floor in front of the altar, sobbing.
The priest raised his staff and began a chant Addison had never heard. "Helon-Taul-Varf... "
Joy walked stiffly and slowly through the room toward the altar.
"Agla-Serugeath-Casoly... " the strange words continued.
Joy came forward until she reached the priest. Susej lifted the girl in his arms and placed her on the shrine.
Muriel approached. She placed the Chalice on the floor next to the altar. With a swift motion of her hands, she split the girl's robe down the front. Joy's body looked bone-thin under the shifting glow of the candles. Muriel took the rigid girl's arm and placed it so that it hung free over the golden cup.
"Lucifer, Ouyar, Chameron, Aliseon... " Susej began once again. As he went on, Muriel took a silver knife from the folds of her scarlet robe and, with a single, sure stroke, opened the vein at the girl's wrist. Gently, she adjusted her arm so that the blood ran into the chalice.
"Esmony, Eparinesont, Estiot, Dumosson... " Susej continued his prayer. "Danochar, Casmiel, Hayras... "
He turned and went to the cup. He picked it up and held it above his head. "This is the Chalice of Supreme Sisterhood. This is the cup of Supreme Knowledge," he said, his eyes closed. "This is the hour of Uranus in the Twelfth House. Let the Priestess of the Great One now be endowed." He held the cup out at arm's length.
Muriel stretched her fingers to take the chalice from his hands. Susej pushed her away roughly. He held the cup out once again.
"She who drinks from this cup will join in the sacrifice made here to the Clear One and will be favored to perform the Rite of Ose. Obizuth, Obizuth, come to the bounty of the Clear One."
Addison was startled to hear her name called out.
"Obizuth," Susej called again.
Addison rose and went to the altar. Numbly she accepted title cup from the priest.
"Drink," he commanded sharply.
Her first reaction was to gag, but as the blood touched her lips she felt a wave of exultation. She let the thick, warm liquid pass over her tongue. Her brain exploded with whispers, she heard a hundred chants repeated simultaneously inside the chamber of her skull.
Eagerly she drank from the cup. With each swallow she felt new glories filling her spirit, new words pouring into her consciousness. She threw her head back and drained the chalice.
When she had finished she opened her eyes, and saw the face of Muriel Destiny.
The woman's face was pinched with rage. Addison's eyes narrowed. She let the cup fall to the floor. She knew that she was looking at the face of a dangerous enemy.
For two weeks Orient went through the motions of trying to find Malta.
During the day he made the rounds of the police, hospitals and newspapers. At dusk he returned to the Bishop's mansion and contacted private sources by phone. Redson's activities coordinated with Orient's search. He sent a description of Malta to all the parishes in the city and notified religious services to contact him if the missing girl was located. Orient felt sure that the quest was hopeless, but it was comforting to know that all possibilities had been covered.
He also started his pilgrims on a crash course of the techniques of psychic defense. He took them along carefully using die step-by-step methods of the martial arts.
There were problems. Of the three, only Levi had complete faith in occult force, and he had no experience. Hap was adjusting to telepathic control but he was still unprepared for even a skirmish with counter forces. Argyle juggled his skills nicely, using his consciousness to enjoy his art. Of late, however, Orient had detected some ego stress in Argyle that was disturbing his balance. Even so, his grasp of technique would make his occult learning rapid. Redson couldn't figure in this, because his law imposed some limitation on the tools at his disposal. It also made him an unlikely subject for telepathic experimentation. But of all of them his psychic weapons were the strongest. No power of the Left Hand could crack the links of consecration. The presence of the host in Bishop Redson's chapel was ultimate protection against entry.
The element most destructive to the enthusiasm of the circle was that they had absolutely no sense of the immediate need to formulate emergency procedures. None of them; not Claude, not Argyle, and certainly not Hap, had any idea of the persistence of occult attack.
If they hadn't been able to communicate in time, the poltergeists would have intensified. And that alone might have been enough to stop them-- for longer than death. Taken broadly, their basic telepathic training gave them a good feel for spiritual defence. He decided to run through physical defense first...
He started their first lesson with the breathing pattern, drawing them together into a state of mind which would make it easy for truth to penetrate the consciousness and find its level.
He explained the efficiency of certain stones and metals. Using mind pictures he described the symbology of defense, the pentagrams and mystic signs that afforded protection to the user. He gave them each a carnelian with a tiny piece of nitrate embedded in its center to wear around their necks. Then he pulled the communication to a deeper level and discussed the chemistry of protection, the balances and physical algebra of their use. He concluded by impressing upon them the necessity for remaining within the confines of Redson's home after dusk, carefully measuring for them the weights that made night the province of the Left Hand.
After they had absorbed their choices and had broken intense contact he gave them the first defense against influence.
"A basic domination technique is to stare a victim down. Claude, as a hypnotist, you might have found that true." Orient didn't pause to allow Levi to jump in with his usual long description of the tools of modern hypnotism. "Just avoid staring back at whoever it is. Keep your eyes on the spot between his eyes and repeat your invocations of protection."
"How is this going to help Malta, Doc?" Hap interrupted.
Argyle stood. "For once I agree with the rookie. This is interesting, but we came running to help the girl. We can't help anybody if we stay here practicing defense. We need a little offense around here."
"Maybe another seance?" Hap offered.
"No good."
"But if you think she's dead, what difference does it make? We're safe here," Hap persisted.
"Malta's dead all right-- that's a fact," Orient stated emphatically. "And it's also a fact that she's being controlled by some influence." "Owen's correct, boys," Levi said. "And we're safe here, but just barely. Another seance might lead to serious consequences."
Simpson looked at Hap. "I should have known better than to side with you, Prentice," he said. He turned to Orient. "But what kind of offense have we got?"
Orient took a deep breath. That was the key question. "We're not ready," he said. "There's one weapon, but that's not to be used lightly." He hoped he wouldn't have to use it at all.
"Then this thing with Malta is light?" Argyle's logic was shattering.
"Listen." Levi scratched his beard. "Anyone who can control spirit elementals and set them on us is a heavy man. A master. The potential levels of energy involved are tremendous, and this D'Te can make the changes. He can do it. He did it to us, remember?"
Argyle remembered. And suddenly he was curious.
"But there must be a general plan, Owen," Levi suggested.
"There is a plan." Orient raised his eyes and smiled when he saw Levi's curious expectancy. "There is a plan, but it's loose. And it depends on D'Te showing his hand."
"He'll show," Levi growled. "For a heavy man like that the most important thing in life is wielding power. There's no such thing as a power hermit."
"That's what I'm counting on," Orient said. "If we move first, we lose Malta."
"But she's dead, Doc." Hap was confused.
Orient said it slowly. "Malta's dead, but she's still being controlled by an influence. By keeping her in suspension he can use her power for himself."
"Can he hurt her?" Hap asked softly.
"Yes."
"Bad?"
Orient nodded. "He could destroy her spiritually. She would be just like one of those mindlessly evil poltergeists. A wandering elemental with no destiny. Eternal displacement." Having said it, he tried to put it out of his mind.
"Then it's hopeless."
"Not at all." Orient came back to the problem. "Power increases the need for power. When the influence shows itself again we'll know what to do."
"What about Malta?" Hap's despair was contagious. Orient was beginning to feel it, too, recalling suddenly the smooth feel of her hair.
"Remember that Malta must have been involved to come to this. It's partially her Karma for delving into forbidden practices."
"But she was trying to escape," Hap reminded him.
"That's what makes me believe there's a chance," Orient said quietly.
"So we just wait," Argyle said.
"That's step one." Orient said.
Simpson wondered. There was something he wished he knew, something he hadn't considered before. Perhaps Orient was wrong. Perhaps D'Te had something to teach them.
"How about some chess Owen," Levi interjected. "We could all do with some relaxation."
"And some food," Argyle said, moving toward the door. "The soul food around here doesn't do much for the flesh."
"Right, Simpson," Levi chimed. "What's wrong with Sordi lately?"
"A little fasting might do you some good," Orient said. "And it's a wise thing to eat very little when you're trying to generate occult energy."
"Maybe your head works like that, but I generate best behind good grease," Argyle said.
Hap followed the banter to the recreation room, hanging behind the others as he brooded over things he half understood.
Once in the recreation room each man settled into his own pleasures.
Levi set up the chessboard, took a black and a white pawn, passed his hands behind his back and then offered his closed fists to Orient. The doctor tapped Levi's right hand. Argyle spread his fingers, revealing a white pawn in his palm. Orient took it and placed it at his king's three. Levi dropped his pawn opposite.
Behind them Argyle explained the world of show business to a preoccupied Hap. As each guest appeared on the television show they were watching, Argyle delightedly commented on their off-stage realities.
"Ordinarily I would never have agreed, but when the producer explained that it was necessary to the film I said I would do the scene in the nude," an optimistic starlet was saying.
"Man, that lady would agree to take off her clothes at a supermarket opening," Argyle retorted.
"What are you yelling about now?" Bishop Redson said genially as he sat down between Hap and Argyle on the couch facing the tube. "These people are wild. They're still trying to sell the apple-pie image to a pate audience. That chick's seen every ceiling in Beverly Hills and she's trying to come on like the Flying Nun."
Redson sat absorbed as Argyle popped each balloon in turn, confiding such information as who was having trouble with bookings, who was a noted deviate, and the esoteric hobbies of the host.
"That guy?" Redson pondered. "Are you sure? He always seems so tough."
"Plays for the other team, and in trouble with the tax man," Argyle said firmly. "I worked with him in Spain and when he couldn't convince me to sleep with him, he asked me to lend him some bread."
"Did you give him the money?" Redson asked.
"Of course-- he happens to be a good actor-- and he's the only cat who ever paid me back."
Sordi wheeled in a table of food.
"About time you got here," Argyle said, jumping to his feet
Levi completed a swap of rooks then rose and followed Argyle to the table. Orient pondered the inadequacies of his defense.
"Aren't you eating, Bishop?" Argyle called.
"Not me. I had myself a decent meal earlier. I wouldn't serve that mess of oats and grass to my horse."
"You know, Doctor," Sordi said as he set a plate of salad at Orient's elbow, "it's not healthy to serve this food. It's not even food. Why don't you let me make some fettuccini, some scaloppini. This stuff you order is fantastic. You'll all get sick." He stood over Orient accusingly, hands on his hips.
"This is what we'll eat right now Sordi," Orient said, still studying the board.
"You got my vote, Sordi baby." Argyle grunted, sat down in front of the TV and regarded the contents of his dish ruefully. Sordi stalked out of the room.
Orient's position was untenable. He dropped his king.
Levi had joined the circle around the tube. He knew the game was over.
"How about some food, Hap?" Levi nudged Hap.
"Yeah, thanks," Hap said, rising slowly.
"The man's got something on his mind," Argyle observed as he ate.
"There's plenty of stuff to choose from to worry about," Levi said.
"And what have you decided to do, Owen?" Redson asked casually.
Orient frowned. "We're just going to sit tight"
"... Stay in at night and try not to fight," Argyle added derisively.
Redson turned to him. "Yes and for once you're being smart. You're all dealing with a power greater than you can conceive and if you try going against it you'll be in serious trouble. I agree with Owen."
"I think he's being smart." Levi put in.
"Hold it." Argyle threw up his hands. "I was just jiving a bit, Doc. As far as I'm concerned, we'll play it your way."
Orient looked up. "It's difficult, but remember we're vulnerable. When the time comes we'll make our move, but it's got to be good"-- he looked around at his circle of pilgrims-- "because we'll only get one chance."
"Another game, Owen?" Levi asked innocently.
Orient declined the queen's gambit and concentrated on defense. It took Levi twenty-three moves to penetrate and checkmate.
Orient stretched his legs under the table. "That's number fourteen to my seven," he said.
"That Indian defense is not foolproof by any means," Levi cautioned. He scratched his beard and stood. "Well good night, Owen. See you tomorrow." He waved vaguely in the direction of the others.
Orient watched him go out. Redson was faithfully watching an old movie-- all fan. Hap sat next to him, his dinner plate in his lap, looking dumbly at the screen. The food was untouched.
"Okay, Hap, why don't you go up to bed." Orient got up and went over to the couch. "It's worse to worry about things you can't help. Just relax and trust me." He took the plate from Hap and guided him to the stairs.
At the stairs Hap stopped and turned to him. "I'm just a little down about Malta, Doc, but I'll get with it," he said.
"I know you will," Orient confirmed. "And remember to wear your carnelian from now on."
Hap took the chain and stone out of his pocket and placed it around his neck as he went up the stairs.
Orient returned to the recreation room. Redson was at the Suez with Tyrone Power.
"Bishop, I wonder if you would mind staying up till dawn tonight?" Orient said.
Redson looked up. "What for?"
"I want to find out where Malta's body is being kept."
"How?"
"I'm going to do some traveling on the Astral."
"Astral?" Redson pondered the word. "That's new to me Owen."
Orient enthusiastically launched into an explanation. He enjoyed nudging Redson into considering other realities. "By going to sleep in a certain way one can move on the Astral Plane," he said leisurely. "Everyone at one time or another does travel the Astral, but very few have the control to accept the notion and recall their experiences."
Redson said nothing, his pink face flushing with concentration.
"The Astral Plane is quite different from hyper-space. Hyper-space is physical, for each reaction there is an opposite and equal reaction. Hyper-space is to earth space what a negative is to a photograph.
"The Astral Plane has nothing to do with the dimensions of the material universe but is the doorway to a higher form of existence, of which the entire universe is but a single facet. When humans die their spiritual energy proceeds to the Astral, there to be physically recombined and reincarnated, or if karma in the physical universe has been resolved, to go on to the next phase of essential evolution.
"You can, with training, develop sufficient control to enable you to move freely on this plane. You develop a new sense of direction." Orient paused to take a cigarette from his case. "Dreams are a manifestation of Astral travel."
"Did you learn this trick in Tibet?" Redson demanded.
Orient struck a match. "Actually I learned how to maneuver on the Astral during my previous life in the latter part of the Victorian period. But I first discovered the plane during an Egyptian incarnation."
"Well I don't follow any of that business." Redson shook his head.
Orient shook his head sadly. "I know. Your dogma doesn't include reincarnation."
"And it don't exclude it either," Redson corrected. "Well how am I going to be any use to you, Owen? I don't know anything about this Tibetan dogma of yours."
"I need the protection of your chapel."
"You've got it," Redson assured. "Try getting a little protection from Tibet and see what happens," he added.
Orient went on. "I think it's perfectly safe if I go in just before dawn when the influence will be weakest. Entering from the chapel should give me all I need to find out where Malta is."
"I don't like it, Owen." Redson sounded adamant. "I think Argyle's prodded you into something foolish." He watched Orient's reaction carefully.
"The truth," Orient said slowly, "... is that I didn't want to involve the others in this. I decided to do this yesterday." He stared at the tip of his cigarette.
"Just because you decided it on your own doesn't mean that it's safe," Redson reproved. "Why don't you just stick to your waiting plan?"
"Because wherever Malta is, is where the influence is operating from. We need that information." Redson looked doubtful, and Orient regretted that he had not explained the whole matter differently.
Redson checked his watch. "I won't change your mind by dawn. You're as stubborn as your father was. But I'm strongly advising you to forget this business until later, when you know who you're dealing with."
"That's just what I intend to find out," Orient said, depositing the stub of his cigarette in the ashtray. "And you make a great pentagram."
For the next few hours they tried to talk of general matters, but the conversation always seemed to come back to Malta.
"I'm sorry I never had a chance to see the girl," Redson mused. "And hearing D'Te's name after all these years still has me wondering."
"You said he was involved in special studies with you in Rome."
"And he learned his lessons far better than I did. The man was living in a palazzo while I was taking a cot where I could find one."
"Wealthy?"
"Well endowed. He had reaped all sorts of honors before he came and many people were interested."
Orient got up and went to the window. "I think it's time," he said, peering out. He wondered if he should chuck the whole idea.
Redson led the way to the chapel. It was located in the cellar of the house beneath the main stairway.
The chapel was small. They had to move the pews out to make room for Redson's pentagram. Using chalk he drew the figure on the stone floor with mathematical precision. He made sure of the proportions before allowing Orient to lie down in its center. Orient made himself comfortable and immediately began a deep breathing pattern. As he relaxed his body, he drifted his mind to Malta. The last thing he saw was the bishop setting down a folding chair nearby.
As he fell asleep Orient willed his energy to flow in the orbit of the Watcher Plane, that level where his projection could view the affairs of Earth.
He found himself high above the East Side of Manhattan.
His projection was in the form of a teen-aged African boy, dressed in a garment made from some sort of metallic fabric. Orient knew this form from past experiences on the Astral. He realized that the youth of his projection indicated his relatively new stage of spiritual development; there would be other reincarnations before he passed on to the Buddhistic level of existence. He also knew that if he found it convenient he could change form at will, becoming anything desired; man, woman or animal-- his facility having developed with each cycle of existence.
He glided swiftly toward his destination, coming to a hovering halt over a block somewhere uptown. He recognized vibrations from the entire section, and let the flow of his orbit bring him closer to the ground.
He was standing in front of a red canopy carrying the logo of the Seventh Door discotheque. Thin rhythms tinkled through his consciousness. He sensed powerful emanations and held, pausing to absorb the signals, checking for any vibrational turbulence which would signal the presence of dangerous elementals.
He decided to move inside the building, his projection pouring through the doors like smoke through a filter.
Inside it was completely dark. Orient's projection could see clearly, its senses not dependent on physical stimuli. The floor was empty. In one corner, chairs were stacked on tables.
He was moving across the dance floor and into a small glass-enclosed room. He passed through the electronic control room and through a door which opened to a passageway.
Orient felt the hovering ozone of evil all around him. He decided to find what he had come to find and return to his physical state as quickly as possible.
He was in an opulent bedroom fitted with drapes of heavy silk, and a large canopied bed made from ebony and inlaid with ivory and gold leaf. On each of the four black walls was a large mirror framed in silver. The rug was white and embroidered in its center with seven circles laid in an overlapping pattern to form a flower design. Orient recognized the Key of Solomon, a potent talisman for conjuring infernal spirits.
He passed through this room and into the temple. It was a large black room dominated by an altar made of black wood. The carpeting as black as the walls, the white pentagram, the large black cross hanging upside down... he knew immediately he was in the room of worship, the sacrificial block of the coven.
And then he saw Malta.
She was under the altar. Her body had been placed in a crypt beneath the table of power. Both her hands clutched the handle of the silver dagger imbedded beneath her breast.
Orient felt the icy brush of a chill turbulence and understood the approach of an evil presence on the Astral.
He took the form of a wasp and flew to a spot under the altar table.
The presence entered the temple.
Orient saw a sleek yellow leopard come through the side wall. It stopped in the center of the room, circled, then stood facing the table where Orient was hiding. The animal's great jaws parted in a lazy yawn, and Orient felt the fetid stench of the cat's breath.
The leopard stood there for a long moment, its tall twitching nervously. It seemed to Orient that the cat's red eyes were looking directly at him. The thick silence in the room compressed, squeezing his skin taut. Finally, the animal stretched, yawned again, and padded out of the room, gliding through the far wall.
Orient recognized the leopard as the Astral form of Ose, the powerful Prince of Madness. He hesitated, then rose from his hiding place and flew across the room and through the wall in pursuit of the cat.
He was outside. Far above him he saw the leopard bounding away at tremendous speed. Still in the wasp form, Orient flew faster, trying to keep the cat within sight. Higher and higher he rose, not even taking notice that the Astral surroundings had changed. He concentrated on the animal, determined to trace the source of D'Te's power. He strained forward as the loping figure of the cat receded, grew smaller, then abruptly disappeared.
It was only after he had lost the animal, and wearily turned for home that he sensed he was in unfamiliar territory.
He was flying through a cloying blue mist over a vast field of vegetation. As he circled, in an effort to find his direction, the mist became denser, clouding his perception. He dropped lower, searching frantically for a clear path. He was rapidly becoming exhausted. He flew closer and closer to the tops of the strange Astral plants which now seemed ominous, looming like some soundless luminous jungle.
Suddenly one of the plants lifted and opened its leaves.
It was then that he realized where he was.
He was skimming a field of carnivorous vegetation.
Desperately he beat his tiny wings, trying to lift himself higher, but his energy was gone; he began to drop.
He twisted his will in an attempt to change his form into that of an eagle, but it was too late. Ose had lured him to a level of Astral where his will would not respond.
The plant spread its leaves wide to receive the wasp.
Orient stung the blades repeatedly as they began to close over him. He knew that if he could not escape the Astral his physical body would decompose as in death, and his soul would be unable to make its way to its intended destination on the journey of existence. He would be eternally trapped between the physical and spiritual.
As the darkness closed over him, he heard the sizzling juices of the plant as they rushed up to begin the process of digestion.
He screamed a final prayer.
A slow motion tumble through a frothing sea of churning space... a booming, echoing, wipe-out in the gaseous surf of consciousness... then he was sucked violently down and around, whirlpooling into a spinning free fall at ever increasing speed...
When he regained consciousness Doctor Orient saw Redson kneeling at his side, his eyes closed tight, his hoarse voice rumbling Latin phrases, his stumpy fingers clutching a cross.
He tried to get up. The blood rushed from his head and he tasted the acid liquid of nausea in his throat. He dropped back on the floor.
"Now take it easy... " He heard the bishop's voice coming from a great distance. He shut his eyes then opened them immediately as he felt the vertigo of fear returning.
"Help... me up... " he managed.
He felt Redson's hands under his shoulders. For a moment there was no sensation in his feet, and his legs bent clumsily under him. He heard the bishop, closer now, grunting with effort. Then his knees locked and he took a few steps toward the chair. He almost passed out when he turned to sit, but then he felt the solid support of the seat beneath him and he leaned against the cool surface of the back of the chair. Methodically, he began breathing control, continuing the pattern until his body adjusted, and the tingle of normalcy returned to his senses.
Redson was talking excitedly. "I saw your face go white, dead white, and you began trembling all over-- that's when I decided to use a little prayer and precious Holy Water on your worthless carcass... "
"A good thing... " Orient mumbled. "I was... just about finished. I was... made a bad mistake."
"Yes, you think you're clever with your reincarnation and Tibetan folderol, but you're going to be in a serious fix if you don't go slowly." Redson's voice rose.
"True enough." Orient inhaled deeply and fought back the vivid jumble of impressions at the bottom of his thoughts. "But we're in a serious fix, no matter what happens."
Redson stared at Orient. He took a long time to speak. "What are we up against?" The question hung softly in the silence.
Orient pulled his thoughts into sequence. "I was detected and Ose led me into a trap. If you hadn't been nearby I would have been powerless."
"You're sure it was Ose?"
Orient nodded. "And D'Te sent him. Malta's body is under the shrine in his temple."
Redson began erasing the chalk lines of the pentagram with his foot. "Where is the temple?" he asked, inspecting the floor.
Orient looked over at the bishop and smiled. Redson was brushing the chalk from his shoes. "Thinking of investigating D'Te yourself?" he asked.
"I'm thinking of investigating the validity of your Astral Plane." Redson continued to work on the pentagram.
"I'm going to hold the location until we decide what we can do," Orient said, almost to himself. "There's so much power there that even daylight is risky." He rose unsteadily to his feet.
When Redson was satisfied that the pentagram had been removed he joined Orient at the door of the chapel. "Do you know you were out for only seven minutes?" he said, as they went slowly up the stairs.
Argyle woke up thinking.
He squinted into the sunlight blasting at the window before jumping out of his bed and drawing the blinds. He had trouble reading his watch. It was ten o'clock.
He walked slowly around the room as he tried to pull the scattered elements of the dream together. Doctor Orient. The girl. Dancing. He decided to take a shower.
While he was shaving he remembered the most important part of the dream.
The place. The nightclub where Orient had been dancing with the girl. The Seventh Door. That's what the voice had said at the seance. It kept repeating "seven door, seven door," And in his dream he had seen the awning.
Seventh Door. And inside Orient was dancing with the girl. Very solemnly, while she hung in his arms laughing, her head flung far back. He wondered about Orient. Up front the man had a wild mind. Orient had helped him develop his telepathic potential to the point where it was really making his life sing. But on the other hand he didn't feel that he owed Orient anything. As a matter of fact, neither did Orient. The Doc demanded no particular loyalty, and he set the training up on a completely unemotional basis, keeping the transference factor down to a minimum. Argyle liked Orient for that. That's why he was willing to help him. Orient wouldn't be going through these changes if it wasn't vital.
He went to the closet and pulled out a suit. He was seeing his agent and the bastard would insist on a public lunch.
As he selected a tie he considered another possibility. Suppose that there was something out there Orient wasn't reading. He had already opened up one channel, and suppose there were others that Orient didn't even know about. Orient had a wild mind, but Argyle wasn't crazy about his life style. Orient was a little too dedicated, a little too involved with his science. He never loosened up enough to get sweaty. And Argyle had learned that men who didn't understand their physical nature were ultimately deluded. A man had to feel life to understand it. He wondered if there was something at the Seventh Door for him. He finished dressing and went downstairs to breakfast.
Later, when Orient came down to breakfast he found Bishop Redson waiting for him.
"Good morning, Owen," Redson boomed as soon as Orient entered the dining room. "Have you decided what you're going to do?"
Orient ignored him and sat down. He stared at his empty plate and hoped the bishop would wait a few hours before demanding conversation. His hopes were shattered immediately.
"Well?"
Orient shook his head slowly from side to side. "Just have to wait, Bishop." He poured himself a glass of papaya juice.
Redson drummed his fingers on the table. "Simpson went out," he said finally.
Orient dropped a dollop of yogurt onto his soy cereal. "Would you pass the honey?" he requested, not looking up.
Redson pushed the jar across the table. "You know where she is. Why can't you inform the authorities? Tell them there's been a kidnapping and a murder?"
Orient watched the shelves of honey settle on the yogurt. "All that would do would be to inconvenience D'Te. In fact, it would ultimately inconvenience us. He'd remove the body to some other location. And then we wouldn't know where it was."
"He could do that now."
"No reason to. He knows that there's nothing we can do to him right now."
"Why can't we work up a spell of destruction and take care of him here and now?" Redson demanded, pounding his fist on the table.
Orient waited until the juice in his glass had stopped moving before answering. "To use the words of destruction is forbidden," he said quietly. "To call up negative elements you must become part of that reality. D'Te wins if we destroy him using negative energies. It proves that his way is most effective, that destruction is the destiny of existence."
For a long moment the only sound was the fretful tattoo of Redson's fingers on the table. "You're right, Owen, of course." He reached for a Player. "But that means that this man can just do as he pleases while we sit and watch."
"That's not entirely true." Orient poured a second glass of juice. "There are a number of things we can do-- provided he makes the first move."
"Like what?"
"Depends on what he does."
Levi shuffled into the dining room, scratching his beard. "Mawnin." He sat down next to Orient and reached for the juice. "You decided what you're going to do?"
Orient leaned back and looked up at the ceiling.
"We don't know yet, Levi." Redson turned in his chair and gazed out the window. "We just have to wait."
Levi leaned toward Orient. "Have you ever thought of hypnotizing the bishop?" he asked.
"Hypnotize him? What for?"
"Well, perhaps by using hypnotism we can remove the psychological blocks that prevent the bishop here from enjoying the delights of telepathy."
Orient considered the idea. "You know," he began, "that's very interesting... "
"Ridiculous," Redson snorted.
"No, it's not a bad idea at all, Bishop," Levi corrected. "I could make it easy for you to accept new techniques."
"What he says is true," Orient put in. He was already taken with the prospect of teaching Redson to communicate telepathically. If they were successful with Redson, who was committed to the old mathematics of sin, they could probably open up other potential telepaths with the process. "Let's try it. I promise you it will be interesting, and if it works you'll have helped us solve a tremendous problem."
Redson glared at the two men. "I don't like it," he said.
"Don't be afraid, Bishop, I'm painless," Levi said.
"Really, Bishop, you should give it a try," Orient urged.
"Okay," Redson replied, "but I don't believe you can do it."
Redson was right.
Orient and Levi tried all that afternoon, but at the end of the day they still hadn't managed to hypnotize the bishop.
"And I'll tell you something else," Redson declared as they left the study, "I didn't find it to be the most interesting experience of my life either."
"The man's head must be made of solid bone," Levi confided loudly to Orient as they entered the recreation room.
Hap and Argyle were sprawled out on the couch watching television. Redson went over and plopped down between them.
Orient and Levi took their places at opposite ends of the chess table.
In a few moments Argyle was regaling the bishop with stories of his day.
As Orient set up the pieces he heard Redson's delighted howls as Argyle described lunch with his agent and a brace of starlets. Hap, as usual, was absorbed in his own thoughts.
"Then the redhead asks me if I think Amanda Rizzotta is sexy. And she got insulted when I told her that Amanda is about as sexy as a plate of eggplant. Henry's been telling her all this time that she's the American Rizzotta."
While Orient was listening, Levi swept his knight off the board and checked his queen.
"Do you know this guy?" Redson asked as a comic was introduced to the television audience.
"He's crazy," Argyle informed him. He once asked me to leave his table because I wasn't laughing at his jokes."
"Did you leave?"
"Of course not. I told him that he'd better come up funnier or come up strong enough to throw me out himself."
Orient removed Levi's bishop.
"Checkmate," Levi said, quietly dropping his knight into place. As they began setting up another game, Sordi came in with the food.
After dinner Orient took Hap, Levi and Argyle into the study for a review of their defensive patterns. He tried to make the exercise interesting for them by also teaching them the basic methods of telekinetics; the technique of moving objects through space using the physical energy of the mind. At the end of the evening Levi and Simpson were exercising control over small objects but Hap was finding it difficult to even budge balls of paper.
"Don't worry, Hap," Orient said as they drifted over to the recreation room after the session, "you'll get it. Your defensive techniques have really shaped up in the past few nights."
"Yeah, terrific." Hap sighed, moving off toward the couch.
Orient didn't really feel up to another game of chess, but Argyle and Redson had decided to watch Joe Kirk on television, and the program was not one of his favorites. It had an interview format that served as a crude device to allow Kirk to insult his guests. Orient found Kirk personally repellent. He objected to the man deliberately embarrassing and berating people in the name of journalism.
Orient began setting up his pieces.
The urgency in Redson's voice stopped Orient's hand in mid-air. "Owen," the bishop was whispering, "come here. Now." He got up and went to the couch. Levi followed. Redson pointed at the TV screen.
Kirk's guest was a stocky man dressed in a white robe. Kirk introduced him reverently as Susej. Susej spoke a few words about something he called "the Clear Power." He invited members of the audience to step up and discover this power for themselves. Kirk refrained from calling the man a fool and a fake as he usually did but echoed Susej's request for a subject.
"What is this, Bishop?" Orient knew the answer before he asked the question.
Redson jabbed his finger at the screen. "That man. Susej. That's D'Te."
"Are you sure?" Hap half stood, crouching awkwardly in the cold glare of the screen. He looked at Orient expectantly.
"Yes, I'm sure," Redson murmured, as Hap sat down. They watched in silence as the camera focused on an old woman walking uncertainly down the aisle. She walked with difficulty and had to be helped up the stairs by an usher.
"Sit right here, mother." Kirk rose to assist her. He led her to a chair in the center of the stage. She sat down very slowly, her limbs stiff. "What's your name, dear?" Kirk boomed. "Speak up so we all can hear."
"My name is Mrs. Sterling," the woman said waveringly, "and I'm eighty-six years old next week."
Kirk led the audience in applause.
"Now say hello to Susej, dear," Kirk said. "He's a good man and he's going to help you if he can."
"Well, I watch your show on the TV every night, Joe," the woman said.
"Well, that's wonderful, Mrs. Sterling, and now, this man here, is going to help you."
"Well, I hope so." She smiled nervously.
"Well, I think he can, Mrs. Sterling, or I wouldn't be wasting your time or the time of our audience," Kirk said. "Now suppose you tell Susej what's ailing you."
The woman thought. "I can't walk so good," she finally said. "I get these pains in my knees, you know. And I don't see so good any more, even with my glasses."
"Susej," Kirk asked, "do you think you can help Mrs. Sterling?"
Susej ran a hand through his short, thick hair. "I believe I can," he said, getting to his feet. "You understand that I am not a healer. I am here as an emissary of the. Clear Power. But I would like to help this woman if only to show your viewers the positive effects of this power." As he spoke he moved slowly over to the woman's chair. He stopped directly behind her and put his hand on the back of her neck.
"This woman is suffering from bodily cysts," he announced. "I will end this affliction. It won't be apparent to those watching, but I'm sure everyone will be able to see that Mrs. Sterling will leave here in better health."
He circled the woman, his hand still on her neck. He closed his eyes as he moved around her and whispered something under his breath. As Orient watched, the woman began to show signs of increased vitality. She sat calmly, displaying none of her previous trembling. Susej pulled the woman to her feet. She rose securely, the stiffness gone. Gently, he removed her glasses. He took a piece of paper from Kirk's desk and gave it to her. "Can you read this?" he asked.
"Just a minute now," Kirk put in. "I want everyone here and at home to know that Mrs. Sterling is holding a contract in her hands. The print is fine. It's extremely difficult to read, even for me. And I'm a perfect specimen." The audience tittered appreciatively.
The woman began to read aloud in a clear steady voice. She had some trouble with pronunciation but none with her sight. She stopped and looked up at Susej, her eyes wide and grateful. "Mister, this is amazing," she said breathlessly. "Bless you, mister. I feel like I got my strength back again. Bless you."
Mrs. Sterling left the stage amidst a din of enthusiastic applause.
She walked down the stairs and to her seat unassisted. She left her glasses with Susej.
"Well, let's go," Hap shouted.
"Shh," Orient said, his attention focused on the screen.
"You have just seen a man whom I consider to be the greatest man on earth today prove to you that he can help all of us," Kirk was saying. "This is not the only proof of his power. From now on I am going to make sure that this man, Susej, is able to reach everyone in this country." The Camera moved in on a tight shot of Susej's face, the magnificent eyes, the thick, sensual lips. "I am going to make sure that everyone in this land of ours has the opportunity to be helped by Susej."
Susej nodded gravely.
"Tonight was Susej's first appearance on network television," Kirk went on, "but, ladies and gentlemen, I can assure you that it will not be the last. Susej is going to be my guest for the next week, and at the end of that week he is going to make his most important statement. A statement that will benefit all our lives."
Susej stared directly into the camera.
"Now I want to wish you all a most pleasant good night and I hope that you tune in tomorrow to see more of this man Susej, who can perform miracles." As the credits rolled over the screen, the camera pulled back until Kirk was in the picture with Susej.
Orient reached over and snapped off the set.
"Well," Hap jumped to his feet, "let's go to the TV studio and grab him."
"Relax," Argyle said. "The show is taped in the afternoon. All you would find now is the night watchman. " He looked over at Orient. "But you are going to do something, right, Doc?"
Orient shook his head. "Not right now," he said quietly.
"What the hell are you talking about, Doc?" Hap yelled. "That's the man who killed Malta."
Orient looked around at his circle of pilgrims. "Yesterday I told you that D'Te would show his hand. Well he has. Now I'm telling you that if we hope to beat him we have to pick our spot. You'll just have to trust me."
Hap snapped his fingers in disgust and made an elaborate procedure of sitting down.
"Tell me something, Argyle," Orient said. "What do you know about Kirk?"
It was a moment before the question registered with Argyle. He had been contemplating the immense vitality of Susej. "Oh, not much," he said finally. "Used to be a small town newspaper man. Started with a local interview show and found out that the customers liked it when he really put it to somebody and made them squirm. He's made a lot of noise since then, but he's still a small-timer."
"Does he have a lot of power in the business?"
"He owns a dynamite Neilsen. Thirty-million pairs of eyes a night. Owns a few radio and TV stations besides."
"Then he could put Susej over?"
"If Susej delivers on a promise like he gave tonight, Tiny Tim could put him over."
Redson looked up at Orient. "What are you getting at, Owen?"
"With a man like Kirk to help him, to certify him and put him before the public, Susej would have no trouble finding thousands of converts."
"Especially if he can restore their health," Levi added. "If I didn't know better I'd be a charter member of his scene."
"Exactly," Orient went on. "So now we know who D'Te is, where to reach him and what he intends doing."
"The question is, Doc," Argyle said, looking intently at Orient, "What do you intend doing about it?"
Orient jammed his hands into his pockets and frowned. He was tired. He had no way of attacking Susej. The most important thing for them to do right now was to be very patient and wait. He knew Hap and Argyle found it difficult to accept. He also knew that if they lost faith they would lose everything. He could feel Argyle's eyes on him. There was something else eating at Simpson besides a need for action. He couldn't pinpoint it, but it was there. "I have some research to do first, but when we meet for our instruction tomorrow night we'll have a plan," he said.
"Well, all right, Doc. That's more like it." Hap grinned.
Argyle said nothing. He had already decided what he was going to do.
Levi scratched his beard as he considered the implications. "There really is no way for us to fight Susej at his level," he announced. "He has more offensive pieces than we could ever acquire even if we turned to negative magic tonight. But sometimes, the way you set up your defense determines the attack of your enemy. You limit possibilities to known factors. I remember a chess game I had with a Dane, Ben Larsen. It was beautiful. I was down three pieces and suckered him into an early rush." His voice trailed mellow as he savored the memory.
"Do you know what he's talking about?" Bishop Redson asked Orient.
Orient began to pace the floor. "He's saying exactly what I've been trying to explain to Hap and Argyle. There are two things we could possibly do. We can try to prevent him from making his cures or we can provoke him into casting the spell of destruction against us."
"How does it help if he destroys us, Doc?" Hap said.
"If the intended victim of destruction isn't hit," Redson put in gravely, his eyes on the cross hanging from his neck, "then the energy of the spell returns to the person who called it up and destroys him."
Orient stopped his pacing to make sure Hap understood, "Once the energy has been called up you can't send it back. It must destroy. Every time you invoke the spell you take almost as great a risk as your victim."
"So if we can choose our spot we'll at least be able to put up enough resistance to make it an even-money affair," Redson added.
Hap nodded. "You mean get him to go for us when he doesn't know we're ready. I used to fake shoe trouble to get base-runners to break on me."
"That's it," Orient said. "That's why it's important that we wait until he's vulnerable."
"What makes you think he's vulnerable?" Argyle's voice was pleasant but his question froze in Orient's mind. For a moment they locked eyes and held. Orient was the first to look away.
"Each time you roll the dice it's different," he said quietly. He wanted to say more, but this was something only Argyle could calculate.
"There are some guys on this earth who can really handle dice," Argyle reflected.
Orient went over to the table and took one of Redson's Players. "Never saw a man who was perfect every time."
"I wonder if you can get so perfect that you can't be anything else but perfect," Argyle said.
Orient didn't answer. It was a question he had often asked himself.
Argyle took his time as he prepared to go out. He had no compunctions about ignoring Orient's advice and leaving the house at night, but he wanted to avoid an unpleasant scene. He just wanted to see for himself if Susej had anything to say.
He remembered Orient in his dream. Orient hadn't been open to begin with. He knew something about the Seventh Door. There was a reason why he wouldn't come out with it. Susej was a special man. Perhaps Orient was resisting a change that was special.
Argyle couldn't let him influence his thinking. No man was perfect. Orient had said that himself.
Argyle took a long, warm shower and then finished with a brisk rinsing of cold water. He felt good. There was a certain exhilaration that always preceded his entrance into a new scene. New people, new combinations. But tonight he felt more than exhilaration. He'd felt this way a few times before, and each time the feeling had been rewarded with a major transition in his life.
He decided to put on his black silk cowboy shirt for the occasion, but after due deliberation passed over the scarf. Tonight it was all business.
He opened the door of his room and stood there listening for a long moment. The house was quiet. He pulled on a pigskin coat and belted it, still listening for any sign of activity. Then, suddenly annoyed with himself for his timidity, he stamped out into the darkened hall, walked briskly down the stairs and out the front door into the night.
At the Seventh Door Argyle had to stand in line for twenty minutes before someone recognized him and let him inside.
His annoyance quickly gave way to curiosity as he stepped into the whirling lights and stop-action motion of a discotheque revving at maximum revolutions. The place was full of beautiful children. They all had the same basic moves and the same look; a glossy collage of one-part show business, one-part drug cowboy and one-part art nouveau. He worked his way through the crowd toward the bar. It wasn't easy. The flow was constant, the music was loud and the talk was fast. These kids weren't mawkish tourists, they were stylists. Even the dancers crowded into the small floor managed to make room somehow for original passes. As he waited for the bartender to come his way he studied the room.
The usual baroque marketplace. The main customers. The sellers; very young, ultra hip. That flat, devastating style that comes with early success. And the buyers. The plump, smug men and lean, nervous women who operate the machinery of that success.
He ordered a Bloody Mary, and when it was served, toasted his own inflated market value. By the time he was ready for his second, he had the sources of the action pinned: the young couple standing near the large mirror on the other side of the room, an adolescent lounge lizard impressing two sweating businessmen, a fat buyer standing at the other end of the bar, two fashion gays rapping with a group of jaunty English types, and two girls, both in red, dancing in the center of the elegant tangle on the floor.
A special style emanated from these people-- a style that suggested power. He noticed one of them looking his way. It was the girl-half of the young couple across the room.
A fox. Long legs, short skirt. Long black hair and even from that distance something ancient and composed in her slanted eyes. She left her friend and started moving toward him.
Very professional, he thought, watching her graceful approach. People moved carefully out of her way as she came closer to where he stood. He saw a few of them following her with their eyes. He didn't blame them. Up close she made his first judgment seem conservative. Her skin was a natural bronze that set off the violet in her eyes. Fine long neck. The silk blouse and leather skirt emphasized the fluid lines of her body. When she spoke her voice was just the right combination of melody and intonation.
"You're Argyle Simpson," she said. Her smile made him glad she was right.
He grinned. "You should have been at the door when I was tryin' to get in."
"The crass public." She brought a cigarette up to her mouth. "Please accept the house apologies."
Argyle struck a match. "This your store?"
She shrugged her shoulders and smiled another kind of smile. One that said she preferred to own nothing. "This is Seth's special toy. He invented it himself. I just help him."
"Special?" Argyle looked around. Then he saw the acoustical paneling covering the walls and ceiling.
"We record here." She took his hand. It felt good. "Let me take you on the grand tour, compliments of the management."
He pulled her back to him. "The management has the advantage," he said leaning close to her.
"Addison." Her breath was warm against his cheek. Then she was moving ahead of him, still holding his hand, leading him across the floor through the sudden push of people having a good time. As they neared the mirror where he had first spotted her he realized that the mirror was the glass panel of a control room.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Simpson."
The voice was softly penetrating and went with a cool hand. He looked up into the strangest pair of eyes he had ever seen. Cold silver.
"My name is Seth," he was saying. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Argyle. But then, they always were. Good publicity.
"Nice place you have here." Argyle struggled to make his voice carry above the noise.
Seth smiled and opened the door of the control room. He snapped on the lights and held the door as Addison led Argyle inside. Seth closed the door behind them, shutting off the sounds from the main room. The room was small. The floor was covered with a thick green carpet. There were a couch and some chairs at the far end, near a door. The control board dominated the front section.
"It's a full twelve-track setup," Seth said fondly. "With some gimmicks of my own. Would you like a drink?"
Argyle decided to keep him talking. "Thanks, no. Do you ever record with the place full up like tonight?" He moved to join Seth at the board. Watching the soundless movement through the glass absorbed him immediately.
"Everything I record for Addison I do live. She has a special animal quality that communicates to an audience. I have a theory about that." Seth looked up at Simpson and smiled. "The vibrations and excitement of an audience at a performance should be engineered the way the performer is." He moved to the center section of the board. "From here I can control the lighting in terms of spectrum chords." He fingered the organ-like keyboard and Argyle saw a ripple of light start red and finish violet as it traveled across the room, illuminating the animated crowd. "I can raise the sound level and the color level or play them off against each other," Seth continued, opening the stops on his board as he spoke. "So we can get the crowd moving fast or slow, depending on the effect we need for the track."
"How's it working out?" Argyle was really interested. He calculated the relationships to his own profession.
"Dynamite. Our first two albums are already mixed. Took me four days of live takes. Addison's on her way."
Argyle turned. She was stretched out on the couch on the other side of the room. "Talented girl." He wondered how old they both were. She looked about nineteen, he could be thirty.
"That's just what I said when I first met her." Seth's smile was private. Then it became public. "You know I've been wanting to get in touch with you," he said. "About some business."
"In what way?" Argyle tensed automatically. This cat didn't want an autographed glossy of them shaking hands.
"I want to expand other phases at the same rate as my music operation. I've already arranged distribution for Addison's first album. I'm now producing a film vehicle for Addison, using the track from the second album. We'll be able to follow a gold album with saturation." Seth stared out at the crowd through the glass.
"What happens if Addison's first album bounces."
Seth didn't turn around. "It won't," he said.
Argyle believed him. The narcissism Seth projected was alloyed with a relentless kind of strength. He had met a few like him before and he knew that they were capable of anything-- except failure. "How can I help you?" he said. "If you want me to act in your film you'll have to get in touch with my manager."
"I want you, Mr. Simpson"-- Seth turned to face him-- "but not as an actor. As my director."
"Director?" Suddenly he was off balance. Seth had touched one of his buttons. Always at the back of his head there had been the yen to take an O for direction.
"Plus a lot of production points," Seth added, "including a few points of the music end."
Argyle forced himself to meet Seth's steady stare. "Interesting." He smiled. "But not what I had in mind."
"Of course not." The voice jerked Argyle's head around. Susej was standing at the other door. He was dressed in a plain black suit, but he still exuded the exotic flair he had projected through the tube as a robed healer. It was his wide-set eyes, the size of his head, the muscular shortness, the way he smiled. Argyle almost moved forward toward him. Then he remembered who and where he was and tightened up.
"Mr. Simpson has a more ambitious use for his talents," Susej said, "or do I presume?"
Argyle decided on a wide, open grin. "Where did you come from?"
Even though his actor's body maintained its loose posture, thoughts were tumbling through his mind like laundry in a machine. He looked from Susej to Seth, and then to Addison, still stretched out on the couch. "Are you in the music business as well as the healing business?" he said evenly.
"I'm interested in youth," Susej said, coming closer, his voice heavy with an emotion Simpson couldn't identify. "The young hold the most promise, and need the wisest counsel. I am interested in anything that will further the cause of the power I serve." He was standing next to Argyle now, at the control board. He looked out through the glass at the swarm of children in the main room. "The young are exuberant and unafraid of change."
"And what is the power you serve?" Argyle asked softly.
"You." Susej turned. "You are the power I serve, Mr. Simpson, the power that is the birthright of every human being." He smiled.
Argyle felt a warm blanket settle over his muscles, easing the tension at the base of his neck.
"I came at an opportune time, Mr. Simpson," Susej continued. "Seth sometimes projects his own enthusiasms into the work of others. You have another, unique potential that I wish to speak to you about." He lifted his hand and let it drift toward the chairs. "Would you mind talking now or shall we discuss at some other time?"
"We can talk now." Argyle moved across the room with Susej. The man gave him a feeling of complete confidence. His presence seemed to draw off conflicts, leaving him refreshingly secure. He had been right. There was another channel to light up. "You knew I was coming," he said.
The priest smiled. "Would I have been any use to you if I hadn't known? The Bowl of Observance permits me access to certain people. Even unusual people such as yourself."
"There's so much to be done," Susej confided when they were seated. "Each of us is interdependent upon the other, a chain of pure energy girdling this planet. Can you imagine, Mr. Simpson, the possibilities, if every human being on earth could consciously link that energy with the rest of humanity?"
Argyle could imagine. Susej sounded a lot like Orient in his thinking.
"My life is devoted only to this purpose, to give every human being the power that is his birthright. And with your help, Mr. Simpson, it will be a reality. Seth has put together elements of persuasion that will make the task simple." He looked fondly across the room at Seth, sitting hunched over the control board.
"Time," Seth called out. He put on a pair of earphones.
Addison rose and began straightening her skirt. She smiled sleepily at them both and started across the room. There was a rush of sound when she opened the door. Then it was quiet as the three men watched her ease fluidly through the crowd to the platform. As she mounted the stage she was gowned in streamers of green light from spots all over the room. Then her body stiffened and she began to sing.
They couldn't hear the outside sounds in the control room, but the vibrational level seemed to intensify.
Just Seth's concentration, Argyle decided, but as he watched Addison use her body he knew that she was generating something else in that room.
Susej's voice broke the silence. "It is young creative minds like Seth's and Addison's that find ways to remove people's fears and make them ready to receive the change of the Clear Power."
"Persuasion must be constantly supported," Argyle said suddenly, remembering something Levi had once told him about hypnotism.
"Exactly, Mr. Simpson, and it is within my power to affect immediate physical cures. And soon my representatives will be among the populace doing this same work of the Clear Power. Those we do not reach on a personal basis we will touch-- and touch constantly-- through the communication systems. The elements of support are perfect. Tangible, physical evidence, constantly available. And when the Clear Power is allowed to enter, there will be the unending ecstasy of release."
Argyle nodded. His brain was alive with plans.
"Tell me, Mr. Simpson, why does your group withhold its precious secret from the world?" Susej asked, his eyes amused at Simpson's startled reaction.
"What do you mean?"
"With the technique of telepathy man could become great. With the technique of telepathy and the Clear Power man could become greater than God," Susej said fervently.
Argyle understood completely. Not three generations from now when selective instruction would begin to have effect. Move now. Now. And we could hurl into the next phase. Orient was wrong about holding back on it.
"And you could find your deepest wish gratified, Mr. Simpson," Susej's persuasive voice seemed closer. "You could easily find the way to unite Africa and lead your people to the fulfillment of their destiny. The great destiny of the African race as directed by you, Mr. Simpson. Truly it is a dream worthy of your talent."
Argyle didn't question how Susej knew his most secret, and most precious, wish. His main button. It was there, out there. This man knew and understood.
"The Clear Power will give you the key to that dream." Susej's voice seemed to be right inside his skull now. Argyle felt his consciousness envelop the voice.
Suddenly the quiet in the room shattered. The grunt of Addison's rough voice riding the amplified crest of a booming organ throbbed through the small room. Underneath, the contrapuntal squeals and yells of the kids forced his ears open as Addison's sound intensified its thrust.
He was there, right there in the full slide of the ride. And he could build enough momentum to roll right through history. He would own history.
History.
He tried to think.
Addison's voice crashed against his brain and inside Susej was whispering...
History. He held on to the word.
The sound was relentless, Susej's voice serene within the careening music of thought. His mind fought down the desire to embrace the voice.
Addison's voice was a rising chant; Indian, Arabic, African, Chinese.
The game was so simple, and so beautiful.
History.
Then he felt the riff and knew the bargain. History is a shuck. The old concept. Telepathy eliminates history time and moves out into another equation. Trade telepathy for yesterday. He tried to squeeze Susej's voice out of his thought. The voice resisted.
He painfully formed the image of the golden swastika as every vibration in the room battered his efforts. He reached out for Orient and dropped into a chill pocket of fear as he realized that if he opened his consciousness he would be taken.
He forced a more vivid image of the swastika and tried to remember the prayer.
The voice twisted through his thoughts.
"You can resist, but only for a moment. Eventually you will come to the wisdom of the Clear Power and when you have ascended you will call up your pilgrims to the ledge of your new vision. You shall be the herald-- and the fusion of your technique and my power will create a new universe." The voice congealed in his mind.
Simpson made a single, staggering lunge for the door which was now far, far across the room. He held the picture of the swastika and looked for the blue light. The blue light.
Susej's voice faded then droned louder.
The door. He reached out.
He never made it.
Orient woke up late. He lay in bed and let the fuzziness subside before slowly getting out of bed and going to the mat. He stretched his body. Today it was important that his consciousness be perfectly tuned. He extended his head back, loosening his neck, lifting his arms, arching his back, trying to feel the pull of muscle from his fingertips to his chest.
He began the warm-up exercises. Leg ups, tumbles, hand- Stands. The yang series. Then he sat on the mat and went into the ying forms. The careful breathing and stretching of Yoga.
He concluded with a prolonged headstand and when he got back to his feet walked around the room for a few moments, before sitting down on the bed. He took a cigarette from his case and leaned back on the bed. As he smoked he went into a casual meditation using the case as a concentration object.
His mind built constant patterns of Malta. Even the emptiness was relative to her presence. He stood up and began to get dressed.
When he came downstairs he found Redson, Levi and Hap in the recreation room. The three of them were huddled around the TV set watching the news. There was a collective glumness about them that disturbed him immediately. A profusion of newspapers was scattered at their feet.
"D'Te made quite an impression last night," Redson said, before Orient had a chance to greet him.
"The papers are full of Susej," Levi added, his eyes on the TV. He reached into the pile and picked up the Times. "Just for helping one woman?"
Redson sighed. "D'Te's way ahead of us, Owen. There was a press conference arranged after the program and he gave the reporters a dose of his cures."
Orient nodded. "No wonder he's getting front page coverage."
Levi picked out a copy of the Daily News from the jumble and tossed it to Orient. "One member of the press was cured of a case of gout he's been carrying for seven years. Luckily he has national syndication."
Orient scanned the story. "Kirk himself arranged the conference. Calls him the most important man in the twentieth century."
"The bastard probably has a piece of the action," Levi growled.
"But what action?" Hap said suddenly. "What is this guy D'Te or Susej doing that's worth all this?"
Levi was the first to speak. "For one thing, the religion business is a sure profit operation. No taxes."
"The more faith Susej acquires," Orient said quietly, "the more energy he wields for his rituals. The fuel he needs is faith. If he can hold the faith of a great number of people he can direct extremely powerful energies."
"So you think that's what he's after?" Redson said.
"Using all the communication media-- the newspapers, television, magazines-- there's no limit to the number of people he can reach," Levi suggested.
"But why did he wait until now to make his play?" Hap persisted.
Orient paused. "That's a much better question than you might think. Perhaps there's a special reason for his choosing this particular time."
"I don't follow you, Owen," Redson said.
"It's just a hunch. I'll have to do some research this morning." Orient looked around the room. "Where's Argyle?"
"He had to see his agent about that Rome business this morning." Redson yawned, flipping through the pages of the Daily News.
"When was that?"
"About ten this morning."
"Ten this morning?"
Redson looked up, his brow furrowed. "Yes, Owen, that's what he told me yesterday."
Orient shrugged and went to the library.
He settled at the table for a long morning's work. It was complicated. Even though he felt reasonably calm everything told him that time was getting short. He was still disturbed about Argyle. The balance of his pilgrims was shifting. He reached for the phone and dialed Argyle's agent.
"Henry Winston Agency," a pert voice informed him.
"Mr. Winston, please. I'm looking for Argyle Simpson."
"Both Mr. Winston and Mr. Simpson are out. I don't expect to hear from either of them today. Would you like to leave a message?"
"If you hear from Argyle ask him to call his doctor."
"Thank you, Doctor." The phone clicked off.
Orient disconnected with his fingers and dialed another number.
"Waxoff," a voice answered. "Hold on." Then the phone went blank.
Orient held his patience. He was used to J.J.'s frantic pace. U. prided himself on his network of connections. Promotions, suggestions, quips, quotes, items, decisions, predictions; J. J. Waxoff was the marketplace incarnate.
"Okay," Waxoff said. His voice had the breathless quality of a communique from the front.
"J J., Orient. Need a ticket to a show."
"Which?"
"Kirk's TV show today."
"Tough ticket. I was planning to make it myself. If you're in on it, must be hot. What's the angle?" J.J. was very close to his mouthpiece.
"Can't tell yet, that's why I need the ticket." Orient hoped he wasn't too late. If J.J. couldn't deliver there wasn't anywhere else to go.
"I can get one to you." The answer removed the anxiety. "But I'll expect some kind of report. I feel this." JJ.'s radar was still infallible.
"Send it by messenger." Orient gave him the address. "Thanks."
"Later." J.J. switched off into another deal.
Orient rallied his concentration and, by the time the envelope arrived, had calculated the equation. Hap's question was answered.
He checked the time and the address on the ticket. There was still an hour before the program started He decided to walk.
If his group of pilgrims couldn't maintain a harmonious control, even telepathy would become difficult.
Orient took the winding path along the river at a fast clip, trying by sheer physical effort to free his tensions.
Argyle was impatient, Hap still weak, Levi fairly stable. Redson missed some points but was reliable. But they all needed more knowledge of this man. This was a safe risk. He could hold protection against Susej before the sun went down. He wanted Susej to know that.
The defensive posture they were forced to maintain put stress on communication. Unity might depend on a successful, visible, confrontation. But... he wondered if this wouldn't be rationalizing an ego need.
He stood for a moment, looking across the water, trying to empty his mind. He went back to the first breathing pattern he had learned as a neophyte. He concentrated on the great sea of nothingness, then let his concentration ride with the drifting swirls of the river, the liquid forms, the beginnings of consciousness...
When he turned again toward the structures of New York, it was as if returning from a place far away. A place uncluttered with the compounded desire of men. He hummed the "Hare Om, Hari Om, Hare Krishna" to himself as he continued to walk to his appointment. All along the way he read the Ching signs of his fate. In the trees, the sidewalks, the tawdry grace of the perfect seagulls, was the assurance that all would pass as it should pass. He was refreshed by the news.
When he reached the block where the studio was located he saw the large crowd milling in the street, carrying signs, choking traffic. A line of policemen was patiently trying to contain the demonstrators. They weren't having much trouble. There were no dissenters. All the demonstrators were there as a tribute to Susej.
There were the usual group of unkempt children but today they weren't on the defensive. Others stood beside them; businessmen, housewives, old women,, the white right and the black right, the new left and the old guard, all joined together in the name of Susej. The crudely scrawled balloons, posters, and banners proclaimed their belief in the healer, but more significantly, their faith was imprinted on their fragile, human faces. The reality of their need settled over him like a fall of dead leaves. He put his head down and went inside.
The studio was larger than usual for a television show.
The seats were arranged in an ascending horseshoe shape around a wide raised platform. There was a podium just in front of the stage where members of the audience came to air their views. Orient saw an empty seat near the podium and sat down.
He was early. The audience was just beginning to stream in. It struck him that the people taking the seats around him weren't the ordinary citizens that usually attended Kirk's show. They had the look of game players. The ones like J.J. who measured the worth of a painting or a film or a person by its significance to their season. And with them, the luminously brilliant faces who provided the objects for the game. These were the people who decided what was valuable. The excitement that charged their presence was unmistakable. Then something else struck him, which started his heart pumping faster.
Outside, the crowd had been parading with hastily painted expressions of their enthusiasm for Susej. There had been only twelve hours for them to prepare posters and banners. But many people in the audience were wearing machine-made ribbons and buttons. Susej had been getting ready for this surge for some time.
Orient started a deep breathing pattern, imposing a controlled calm on his pounding apprehension.
The warm-up man, a congenitally congenial type with horn rimmed glasses, came out on stage.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," he began predictably. "Welcome to the Joe Kirk show. For those of you who are new to our Joe, let me just say that our leader is known as Mr. Kind."
The audience wasn't amused.
"Seriously, folks," he continued smoothly, "we here of the Joe Kirk Show believe that controversy is the healthy, American thing. We want you to participate in our little forum here.
"When the time comes just step right up and speak your mind... Of course, I can't guarantee you won't suffer..,"
A wave of appreciative laughter.
"Our guest tonight is a man whom Joe believes to be the most significant human being in the history of man. Now," he raised his hand, "now, I know that's some mouthful, but you stick around and see if you don't agree."
He went on, mixing homey humor with hard sell. Toward the end of his spiel he admonished everyone to laugh and clap as they were cued by the electric signs in the studio. "Just to make sure," he yelled, "let's see how loud you can clap right now." Everyone clapped with enthusiasm.
He cupped his ear with his hand. "Louder... let's really smack them hambones together... "
Orient was tempted to limber himself up by using his telekinetic power to send the man spinning into the wings.
As the applause rose in volume Joe Kirk came out and walked directly to his desk. Ignoring the applause he sat down and pretended to study a sheet of paper.
As the clapping subsided he looked up into the camera.
"Hello," Kirk began. "The man I'm about to introduce is an extraordinary human being. He has the power to see into the future, explore the past and to heal the afflicted. Last night, on camera, in this studio, this man performed what I consider to be, in my own humble opinion, a miracle. Apparently you feel the same way, because your calls and telegrams poured in. Well, he's back tonight. And any night he feels like it. I hope he'll be with us for the next two hundred years. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Susej." The applause lights flickered unnecessarily. The reaction to the robed priest's entrance was spontaneous.
For a moment Susej stood in the center of the stage, looking out into the cheering audience. His penetrating eyes seemed to touch everyone in the studio. The audience suddenly became subdued.
Orient hunched lower in his chair.
"Thank you, my friends," the priest's voice was high and clear, "I am honored by this opportunity to be with you again." He turned and sat in the chair next to Kirk's desk.
"Susej," Kirk said, "last night you did a very amazing thing. As a matter of fact, for those who haven't seen the newspapers or heard the news, last night, the man sitting right here with me cured five people of illnesses they've had for years. I think that's awesome, Susej."
"Was it?" Susej shook his head. "I don't think so, Joseph. The very basis of the Clear Power is that I must use it to help others. I am only an emissary. It is you for whom it is intended." He lifted a hand.
Kirk's voice was low. "Can you teach this power to others, Susej?"
Susej beamed. "Most definitely. I have a number of students at this time. When our learning centers have been established, men and women who are interested can attend, and learn the methods of harnessing the forces available to every human being."
"Susej," Kirk said, lighting a cigar and leaning back, "what exactly is the Clear Power?"
The priest shifted in his chair. "Well, Joseph," he began, his eyes on Kirk. "Once I was an ordained priest. I found that my religious affiliations were preventing me from true knowledge. There is a great inorganic energy in the universe which can be used to serve man." He paused. "To serve man. To give man all he desires." His eyes swept across the audience. "And this energy will enable any one of you to become wealthy, to improve your physical appearance and to cure yourself of any disease."
No one spoke, or stirred, or even coughed.
Orient looked around. The men and women in the audience were leaning forward in their seats, wholly intent on Susej.
The priest was comfortably aware of the rapt attention he commanded. His high voice was controlled, musical. He moved his hands with casual grace. .
"Can you explain further, Susej?" Kirk said.
"Well, why don't we invite the members of the audience to come up and ask me what they wish?" Susej murmured, looking down toward Orient. "I feel some disturbing elements tonight but I'm sure that communication will overcome all."
Orient started moving with the priest's first few words but he still finished third in the race to the podium. A large, lace-veiled woman and a short, thin man wearing a hat were in front of him. He tried to loosen the bunched muscles at the base of his neck as he waited. His hand squeezed the case in his pocket and he concentrated on his breathing pattern.
"I'm glad you said that, Susej," Kirk was saying. "By the response I think that's what most of our audience has been waiting for."
"I have been just as anxious." Susej smiled.
"What is your name, madame?" Kirk glowered at the fat woman.
"My name is Brenda Hart; I would like to ask Mr. Susej...
"Susej. Just Susej, Brenda," Kirk corrected, flicking the ash of his cigar impatiently.
"I would like to ask"-- the woman paused-- "Susej if this power is a religion."
Susej regarded the woman fondly. "No. There are certain forms one must follow but to gain this power one must throw off the untruths of the past. The first rule is to live for yourself alone. This is the basic law of the universe."
"Do I have to believe first to get this power?" the woman asked shyly.
Susej smiled. "No. Just ask me what you wish. If what you ask is given to you then you will have true faith. If you believe in the Clear Power I will know it."
"Do you think you could help my sister's son?" The woman looked from Kirk to Susej. "He's very sick. My sister's husband doesn't have any money now."
Susej stood up. "Your family's health will be improved and you will also prosper, this I can promise you. Our audience will not be able to see the results but you will, and in your heart you will know the truth of the Clear Power. And you will have faith."
The woman stood for a moment, unsure of what she had heard.
"Thank you, Brenda," Kirk said. "And you, sir," he said automatically, then he stopped and peered dramatically as he recognized the face. He stood up, walked around the front of his desk and down the steps to the podium, and shook the man's hand.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Kirk called out, still holding the man's hand, "we are honored tonight by the visit of one of the great journalists, great columnists, great stars of our business... Martin Weldon."
There was immediate applause from the audience.
As Weldon turned to acknowledge the hand, Orient saw for the first time the large growth distorting his chin.
"What brings you here tonight, Martin?" Kirk asked.
Weldon's hand went to the side of his mouth. "This year, this silly thing," he touched the tumor on his face, "came up, and the doctors don't seem to know what it is." Weldon's voice, once breathless and biting to millions of gossip-starved Americans, was muffled and indistinct. "I don't like this overgrown peach here and I saw what Susej did for that woman last night. I want to see if Susej can help me." He pushed his hat back on his head and looked up at the stage.
Susej bowed low. "I will try."
"Well if you can, I'm on your bandwagon, brother." Weldon tried to smile. His skin had an unhealthy blue pallor.
Orient pushed his breathing. He felt Susej and pushed harder, gambling that the daylight would weaken the priest's power. He was sure he could hold him. And if he could stop this cure he would stop his momentum.
Susej began a hoarse, whispering chant. Orient strained to pick up the words. Then he recognized the chant.
It was an invocation to the demon Ose, as written by Gerbert, the sorcerer who rose to become Pope Sylvester II, and who was a supreme adept of the Arabic forms of power.
Orient charged his being, taking in a single, unending flow of air through his nostrils as he carefully intoned the Spell of Annulment.
"Elion, Esarchie, Adonay, Jah... " Orient whispered the secret words passed down from Albertus Magnus, the Dominican priest who discovered the secret of artificially created life.
Instantly Orient's mind froze in the cutting wind of some nameless snowstorm. He was pushing through waist-high drifts, his teeth chattering with uncontrollable fury in the deep, bitter chill of the white snow. He couldn't see. His eyes were iced half-shut and all around him was the swirling whiteness. White.
The audience stirred. Susej seemed to be taking a long time with Weldon.
Orient tried to get up. His chest was heaving in shivering convulsions. He staggered erect and stumbled forward into the howling whiteness...
In the audience someone coughed. Someone started to whisper. "Shh," someone else said.
Something black loomed up in front of Orient and he crawled toward the relief of its color, the promising hot shadow across the flat, unblinking white...
Inside it was warm.
He lay on the floor for a long time, waiting for the sudden pain in his fingers and wrists to subside. Then he heard the words. The deliberate singsong of a mass being said in reverse. He looked up.
Susej was standing before an altar of polished black wood, intoning the words of his mass. Calling up the icy storms of nothingness... And kneeling beside him was Argyle...
Orient felt the brief warmth drain from his limbs as he saw his friend across the length of the floor. His mouth opened but no sound came. Argyle turned his head.
The words of Susej's mass drummed against his thoughts like hard rain... he let them scatter to shelter...
Orient opened his eyes to thundering applause. The entire audience was on its feet, roaring Susej's name.
Just in front of him Weldon was embracing Kirk.
He looked up to the stage. Susej was sitting in his chair. When he met Orient's eyes, his mouth curled into a mocking apologetic smile. He bowed his head slightly,
Weldon had taken the microphone and was shouting through the din.
"Mr. and Mrs. America, I would like to invite the members of the State Department to meet this man. After thirty years of scooping every top story on the big beat I have to admit that Joe Kirk has scooped your reporter." His hand poked at his cheek. The tumor was gone. The flaccid skin just under Weldon's jaw was the only indication that a growth had existed there.
"You saw it and I felt it, and from now on I'm working for Susej, the greatest man I have ever met," Weldon concluded.
"Thank you, Martin," Kirk's voice rose above the stomping and cheering that followed Weldon's remarks. "I know that what you say, you'll do, and when you let the whole country know about Susej's great work you'll be helping millions. And I know that's what you've always worked for." He put his cigar in his mouth and began clapping his hands, pushing the applause to a peak as Weldon waved, adjusted his hat, and took his seat.
"And you, sir, what's your question for Susej? I think what you just saw should answer most everything," Kirk was saying. The applause diminished to complete silence.
Orient suddenly realized Kirk was speaking to him.
"Sir, do you have a question or did you come up to wave at your mother?" Kirk called out as he went up the steps and across the stage to his desk.
For a second Orient's eyes were locked on Susej. Then he turned and started pushing his way to the exit.
"The man's obviously been frightened by his hairdresser," Kirk remarked behind him.
A wave of laughter accompanied Orient to the door.
Argyle was hungry.
His head had ceased throbbing, but the wretched emptiness in his stomach remained. He looked at his hand.
A wide iron bracelet had been locked around his left wrist. A long chain was attached to the bracelet. The other end of the chain was secured to a thick overhead pipe. Not uncomfortable but not deluxe.
He stood up and started going over the area of his confinement in detail. The only furniture was the cot he had found himself occupying when he awakened, and a chair over across the room, near the door. As he moved he repeated the prayer of protection to himself.
The pull of the chain against his stretched arm stopped him short of the chair. He retreated in a large half-circle, kicking at all the floorboards, looking for a piece of loose wood. Everything was solid. But not for him. He reached up and grabbed the chain with both hands. Lifting both feet off the floor he threw his full weight on the pipe and pulled. It held without a tremble.
Argyle sat on the cot and checked his pockets. Empty.
His free hand went to his neck. The stone was gone.
He took a deep breath and continued the thread of his prayer.
He tried to remember what happened. The last clear recollection was the music blasting into the control room. The girl. Susej talking at his head with that mellow voice. Jiving him. He remembered the flash of understanding, tumbling to the game when he felt Susej's sudden rush of greed punctuating the word. History's a time shuck. Susej was offering beads for power that was infinite. If telepathy was valuable to Susej, that meant he couldn't duplicate it.
Then he felt anxiety stab at his chest, jogging him back to his prayers. Something close by didn't feel right.
The door opened. Susej walked in smiling.
"Ahh Mr. Simpson," he said, his voice curiously grating, "you're up. Did you rest comfortably?"
Argyle concentrated on the breathing pattern, running the prayer along each breath, fusing the words to the rhythms of his body.
Susej came nearer, his eyes never wavering from Argyle, until he was standing directly in front of him.
Argyle gritted his teeth and fixed his gaze on the spot between Susej's eyes. Last night he'd been tremendously attracted by the sheer animal dynamics of the man, now he was physically repelled by the priest's closeness. Something foul and decayed emanated from Susej.
He remembered the sign of defense Orient had taught him, and tried to call up a picture of the golden swastika.
"Your simple charms are a waste of energy and time, Mr. Simpson," Susej said gently. "At best they are a temporary diversion. But reason. We can make any agreement you wish. In time I will have your talent anyway. If I use my methods to obtain your technique they will leave you destroyed as a man. You will have nothing-- and I will have what I want." His voice rose in pitch.
"Apage Satanus," Argyle whispered to himself.
Susej stepped back. "You are a foolish man," he said slowly, "but I will attempt to reason with you still. Look." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a balled-up white handkerchief.
"This might interest you." As he spoke he carefully separated the folds of the handkerchief and took out a small black figure. "Do you know what this is, Mr. Simpson?" Susej held it close to Argyle's face.
It was a tiny black doll. It was made from black clay. There were small objects imbedded in its surface. It was the source of the foul emanation he had felt around Susej. He twisted his head away from Susej's hand.
"But why do you turn away?" Susej chuckled as Argyle put the cot between them. "This is a powerful instrument of your people, Mr. Simpson. This is the form of the Clear One Shango. Everything about this doll is yours: your hair, your fingernails, a piece of your shirt. I was very thorough."
Argyle tried to direct the words of his prayer at the doll, not as an attack but as a blessing, the most effective defense form.
Susej stood regarding the doll. "I am going to let you keep it for a time. It will stay here with you and absorb your patterns. Shango will be my instrument of entry. When you finally succumb it will be he who holds your consciousness. And you will succumb, Mr. Simpson."
Argyle shook his head savagely.
"Oh yes, Mr. Simpson," the priest nodded, "you cannot maintain a constant defense night after night; as soon as you drift into sleep, Shango will be here to receive you." He placed the doll on the chair and turned to leave. When he reached the door he stopped, one hand on the knob.
"Do you know who Shango is, Mr. Simpson?" he said, his back to him.
Argyle shut his eyes against the sudden surge that washed cold against his brain. He didn't want to know anything about Shango.
"Shango is you," Susej said. He closed the door behind him.
Susej was gone but the intensified anxiety vibration that had signaled his entrance remained behind him, churning Argyle's thoughts.
Reaching Orient was out. He wondered if Susej was telling the truth about falling asleep. He decided he was lying, otherwise he would have taken over while he'd been unconscious. But he couldn't chance it. He had to stay awake. He opened his eyes.
The first thing he saw was the doll sitting on the chair, facing him.
He groaned aloud.
He had forgotten to ask his host for something to eat.
Orient didn't even bother to check Argyle's room when he returned to the bishop's home. He went to his own room, undressed, pulled the covers over his head and went to sleep.
Later, Sordi awakened him. "Mr. Simpson isn't back and his bed hasn't been slept in," he said apprehensively.
Orient smiled. Sordi did have his own ways of knowing what was going on.
"I know," he said casually.
Sordi set the tray he was holding on the night table. "You'd better eat something," he said.
Orient stretched. "I will," he replied through a yawn.
Sordi waited.
Orient looked up. "Thanks," he said by way of dismissal, knowing that it wouldn't register.
Sordi shifted his weight from foot to foot.
Orient inspected the tray. "Ahh, papaya juice," he said, reaching for the glass appreciatively.
"Listen, Doctor, why don't you let me help you?" Sordi burst out.
He considered it carefully. Perhaps it was time. Certainly Sordi's risk was as great as anyone's. He stood up and went to his closet. "I'd rather have you help me find Argyle."
"Has Mr. Simpson been kidnapped, too?" Sordi followed him across the room.
"Yes. And beginning tonight you're going to sit in on our meetings. After dinner I want you to join us in the study."
"Very good," Sordi said gravely. "But, Doctor... " he paused uncomfortably. He turned away.
"What is it, Sordi?"
"I can't eat that food."
Orient grinned, and realized he had been holding his breath. He was jumpy, running scared like a quarterback who'd lost his pocket. He needed loosening up.
"Eat what you like," he advised, easing Sordi toward the door, "but eat very little."
Redson and Levi were waiting in the recreation room. The bishop was on the couch in front of the blaring TV and Claude was at the chessboard perfecting his game. Both men looked up when he came in.
"I'm worried, Owen," Redson said, waving his book.
"Argyle hasn't come back," Levi rumbled.
Orient nodded. "Argyle's with Susej," he murmured.
"What the hell do you mean?" Redson roared.
He looked at Redson and turned both palms face up. "That's all I know."
"How do you know?" Redson's face was red with anger.
"I went to the Kirk show today and Susej told me." Orient sat down. "You'll see it on tape tonight."
"You're not making sense," Redson said. He followed Orient to the couch.
Orient took it slowly. "Argyle is with Susej. Whether he went voluntarily or not I don't know. That's all I know."
"Do you think Argyle would go to D'Te voluntarily?" Redson demanded. "He was hypnotized," lie said, glaring at Levi.
Levi came over to the couch. "What happened? Where did you go today?"
Orient went over his attempt to block Susej's cure.
"I wanted to see if Susej could be faced down. I thought that I could hold him during daylight. I think I could have, too, except that Susej is holding Argyle."
"Is he possessed then?" Redson demanded.
"You know,"-- Orient thought it over-- "I think we can assume that Argyle is being held against his will."
"How's that, Owen?" Levi asked.
"Of course he's being held against his will." Redson slapped his leg in exasperation.
"If Argyle had decided to throw in with Susej I would have had trouble. A telepath is vulnerable against attack by a telepath. The fact that he was neutral means that he hasn't been persuaded."
"Of course," Levi said. He scratched his beard. "But what happens to Argyle now?"
"We go get him, of course," Redson boomed, moving to the phone. "Now we call the police."
"No." The edge in Orient's voice stopped Redson in the middle of the room.
"No," he said more gently, "we can do nothing to help Argyle. Susej has him and that's it."
"What do you mean?" Redson said, returning to the couch. "Don't you care what happens to Argyle?"
"What happens to Argyle happens to me," Orient said quietly, "and you and Claude."
"There must be something, Owen," Levi said.
Orient looked at his wrinkled hands. "Susej has Argyle. If we move against him Argyle dies. If Susej succeeds in possessing Argyle we all die."
No one spoke.
"Today," the newscaster on TV said warmly, "Martin Weldon, noted syndicated columnist, was cured of a cancerous tumor by Susej, the amazing healer who recently has been appearing on the Joe Kirk show. Stay tuned for the Joe Kirk Show at 11:30 tonight for the taped sequence of that cure."
Orient stood and pulled his shoulders up against the weary gravity that was draining his energy.
Hap came ambling in. "Sordi said that Argyle's gone," he said, his voice ragged.
"That's right," Orient said. "He's in trouble, and we're in trouble."
"We can't seem to stop him, can we?"
Orient stared at Hap. "Not yet."
"Do you think he'll kill Argyle?"
"I hope not."
Hap sighed and shook his head.
"What do you think, sport, do you want to keep trying?" Orient asked.
Hap nodded. "I can cut it," he said.
"Perhaps we'd better get to work." Orient moved to the door.
They all followed him to the study.
"This morning," Orient began, when they were all comfortable, "I made an astrological calculation on the star map. Something Hap said gave me the idea."
"Something I said?" Hap looked at Redson.
"Yes," he continued, going to the desk, "you wanted to know why Susej hadn't made any attempt before. I checked the star maps and I found out why." He looked around. "There are cycles of the moon and planets. Certain conjunctions are favorable to the practice of magic. We're approaching the phase of Uranus in the twelfth house. Most effective conjunction."
"Uranus is a strong period, huh?" Hap screwed up his forehead.
"That's it. The last time it occurred was 1941. After this week it won't happen again until 2027."
"When, precisely, does Uranus pass into the phase?" Levi asked.
"Eight days from today." Orient sat on the edge of the desk.
"Eight days and then what?" Hap ventured through the building silence. "Eight days and it's king's bishop and mate." Levi looked at Redson. "He's right at the door."
Redson shivered.
Mouth open, Sordi made the sign of the cross.
"Lesson one." Orient pointed at Sordi. "The bishop will tell you that the Church disapproves of superstition as much as I do. Everytime you make the sign you must be very careful to do it properly and for a reason."
Sordi looked at the bishop, then at his right hand.
"You'll begin basic instruction right now. From now on you must follow all of these exercises very carefully. Understand?"
Sordi nodded.
Orient turned to Hap. "You'll take over his coaching. Teach Sordi the basic meditation position. No more. Teach him the form and the first prayer of protection. No more than those words."
For a moment Hap was confused. Then he remembered the way they taught baseball at spring training. The basics. Always the basics, over and over.
"Okay, my man," Hap said. He led Sordi to a corner of the room. "Sit right down there on the floor. And take off those fancy shoes."
"But my trousers!" Sordi protested, looking toward Orient for help.
Hap pushed down on his shoulders. "Sit, rookie. You're here to work."
Levi and Redson joined Orient at the desk as Sordi began the painful stretching of the first Yoga position.
"You know, Owen," Levi confided, "I bet that if I hypnotized Sordi we could cram the technique into him in two hours."
Orient shook his head. "No good. The technique depends on clearing the obstacles to efficient thought We could teach Sordi the end result of the technique but his mind would still be jammed. Instead of clearing his thought it would eventually throw his logic off balance. Very dangerous to all of us, especially Sordi."
"I fully agree," Redson put in angrily. "This is no time for parlor tricks."
Orient turned to the bishop. "But you're going to learn to be hypnotized. I want you to work with Claude."
"Hypno... but why?" Redson exclaimed.
"Because," Orient said patiently, "I'm going to need your trance."
"What's this, Owen?" Levi came closer.
"A man like Susej has one vulnerability, his ego. His conception is in horizontal terms. Basically artificial. That's the destructive force of negative magic-- it's an attempt to impose the abstract will on the natural flow of existence. Arbitrary, chaotic values. So his basic power is an ego gratified beyond human possibility. Growing as it feeds. Any challenge to that kind of ego must be met. I intend to challenge Susej. And he will accept."
"You mean the spell of destruction," Levi said. "Dangerous gambit, Owen."
"But that's insane, Owen," Redson protested. "You admit that Susej has you cornered."
"Exactly. That's why we have to try it."
"But what about Argyle?" Redson persisted.
"My plan is to be used only as a last effort. But we have to prepare. There are only seven possible forms Susej can use to destroy us. I'm familiar with the forms, and if we choose the time of the challenge then surprise is out." Orient stood up, "Think, bishop," he said, "think what we'll be up against if Susej succeeds in possessing Argyle and the telepathic technique. With telepathic momentum his power would be a hundred times as great. He could perform rituals on a gigantically intense level. He could reach directly into people's minds."
"And think what happens when Susej gives the technique to his followers," Levi pointed out quietly.
"What do you mean? I don't get the connection," Orient said.
"You said yourself that if only the end result of the telepathic technique is used, it throws the mind off balance."
"Yes," he said, "that's right." Orient heard his own voice from a great distance as he contemplated a planet of madmen.
They remained at work for the next two hours, breaking to catch the Kirk Show. Levi had made fair progress with Redson, and Sordi attacked his basic studies with gusto after his initial hesitation. Already he had grasped the principle of form. Hap was elated with his charge's progress. Sordi had not expected less from himself.
"Sordi," Orient said as they left the study, "from now on you must consider yourself not as my secretary but as my student. The duties you performed professionally you must now consider part of your training. Keep your new path always in front of you."
Sordi stopped at the door. "Does that mean I don't get paid any more?" he inquired.
It took some effort but Orient managed a straight face. "Not at all. A practical student is already proceeding at a good pace."
"Okay." Sordi nodded gravely. "I'm a student."
There were only occasional glimpses of Orient until the time of Weldon's cure. It seemed to Orient as he watched Kirk run down the steps to the podium that he could still feel the vibrations building. As the camera took close-ups of Weldon and Susej during the actual cure he shuddered with a sudden chill that started in his grin and spread up to his chest.
"It's taking a while," Levi commented.
"You're holding him." Hap clenched his fist.
The camera moved from Susej to Weldon, then back to Susej. The priest's face was taut. The brusque geniality was gone.
"You were foolish to go it alone, Owen," Redson said, staring at the tube.
"Quite a while," Levi muttered.
Then the camera caught the change. Close on the growth receding, almost imperceptibly at first, then a steady deflation until Weldon's mouth returned to regular shape and his jaw line was normal.
The ovation pierced the room. It sounded much louder than Orient remembered. Then he saw a glimpse of himself behind the podium, eyes still closed.
"There you are," Hap pointed.
Orient winced as he saw himself, gaunt and clown-like, his ragged hair and gangling limbs making him seem younger than his thirty-one years. He looked too young, too thin and too scared.
Orient watched himself open his eyes and blink as Kirk embraced Weldon.
"You held him for a good long time, Owen," Levi said.
"Shh." Redson strained to hear Weldon's words.
"He's a very famous man," Levi remarked as Weldon announced his intention to bring Susej to Washington.
Suddenly there was a close-up of Orient. He seemed confused, peering around as if he had wandered into the wrong building.
Orient shook his head as the camera ruthlessly replayed his graceless scramble for the exit and Kirk's parting blitz.
There was an embarrassed silence.
"You must have held him for two or three minutes," Levi said finally.
"That's right," Sordi agreed loyally, "but why didn't you let me know you were going? I could have laid out your blazer."
Orient grew increasingly restless as the program continued, and he wandered into the study. He had no enthusiasm for any further study of Susej's methods. He could almost feel the priest's emanations through the tube. Diffuse, perhaps, but sufficient to make him uncomfortable. He knew about Susej. He'd been there too many times, and he'd been forced to retreat like a yelping puppy each time.
Distractedly he studied the bookshelves. He saw the familiar gray and yellow jacket of The I Ching and took the volume down. The Book of Changes.
As he took the book to the desk, he searched through his pockets for three pennies. He had two. Luck was still running like lemonade, he mused ironically. Then he saw a few coins in an empty inkwell. Two nickels, two pennies. He took one and looked at the date. 1919. Okay.
The age of the coin meant that it had passed through many hands, gathering countless impressions of energy before chance brought it to him for his purpose.
Orient knew that the very nature of the I Ching was grounded in chance. One consults the advice of the I Ching according to random tosses of three coins. The heads of the coins have a number value of two and the tails a number value of three. The three coins are tossed and the result is added to form a total.
The only totals possible are six, seven, eight or nine. Odd totals form straight lines and even totals form broken lines. The lines are placed one above the other to form a pattern, called a hexagram. According to the chance pattern formed by six throws, one is directed to advice-- wisdom from the mathematicians, mystics and philosophers of ancient China who constructed the book.
To some the I Ching is merely a fortune-telling device of surprising accuracy. Orient approached The Book of Changes as a form of prayer, where the seeker makes the associations.
He tossed the three coins. Three heads. His total was nine, a straight line. He drew a short straight line on a piece of paper. Next to it he wrote the number nine.
His next five throws were eights. Broken lines. Five broken lines on top of a straight line.
He looked up his hexagram in the chart in the back of the book. The chart showed him that his hexagram was called FU and was located in section 24 of Book I; the Text
He turned the pages until he found his hexagram.
24.[*For Orient's entire Ching, see Appendix] Fu/Return (The Turning Point)
The ruler of the hexagram is the nine at the beginning. This is the line referred to by the Commentary on the Decision in the statement, "the firm returns."
The Sequence
Things cannot be destroyed once and for all. When what is above is completely split apart, it returns below. Hence there follows the hexagram of RETURN.
Orient read through his hexagram quickly until he came to the Judgment.
THE JUDGMENT
RETURN. Success.
Going out and coming in without error.
Friends come without blame.
To and fro goes the way.
On the seventh day comes return.
It furthers one to have somewhere to go.
Orient read the hexagram through. He read it again, meditating over the words and their relationship to his problem.
The optimistic stress of the hexagram relieved his anxiety, but it solved nothing. He knew it wasn't supposed to. All the I Ching could provide were the associations. It was up to him to make use of them. The seventh day. He wondered if he should take the Ching literally. He also wondered if his own leanings toward superstition should be attended to.
As he stood reflecting on the meaning of the advice, Sordi poked his head into the room.
"Hap says there's something you should see," he said shyly.
Orient put the book down and went back to the recreation room with Sordi. ‘This is big, Owen," Levi said, waving his arm for Orient to come forward. "... Crippled since she was two years old, Miss Mulnew has been confined to a wheelchair for fourteen years," the newscaster disclosed amiably.
Orient felt tired. He found it hard to ask the question. The answer was as inevitable as change. "Is that Kane Mulnew he's talking about?"
"Right." Levi's voice matched the significance of the newscaster's remarks.
"... Weldon personally flew to Washington this evening, taking with him his physician, Dr. Benton Fine. He conferred with Vice-president Mulnew for fifteen minutes and then the Vice-President saw advance tapes of tonight's Kirk Show." The newscaster went on, "The Vice-President conferred with the President and then issued this statement. ‘The legitimate, documented evidence of this man's ability to heal certain afflictions has been brought to my attention. After intense deliberation I have consented to allow Susej to attempt to cure my daughter Kane. As a father I must try any reasonable means to better my daughter's health. Men whose reputation I value have assured me that this decision is well advised. I pray to God that they are right.' This announcement was followed by a statement by Martin Weldon that Kane Mulnew would be flown to New York next week, where Susej will publicly affect her cure Saturday night. More details will follow."
Orient went over to the TV and shut it off. "All right then," he murmured, as the decision dissolved into the pinpoint of light on the tube, "seven days it is. Next Saturday." He looked around at the men in the room. "Agreed?"
No one knew what to say.
On the third day Argyle went into a new awareness.
After sixty hours of resisting sleep and incessant repetition of the prayer his mind slipped into the cool pool created by the fusion of breath and will. The words of protection flowing into his chemistry, the grime of three sleepless days emphasizing the fading, changing inevitability of being. The birth change, the death change, the changes before and after, the billion tiny changes in between. The awesome insignificance and infinite significance of existence. The distances. He looked at the bracelet on his wrist and slowly shook his head.
He was into it now and he felt his body shift inside, as the relentless pressure coming from across the room eased up. He let the liquid of his new energy close in around him and swam free, away from the insinuating, probing, enticements of Shango. And yet even as he held his breath he knew that he had lost something to the doll across the room. This new water was just a puddle in a desert. A big, thirsty desert.
He stood up and walked around the room. Every now and then he lifted his arm against the chain to test his strength. All of his movements were extensions of the prayer.
He took a chance and spoke out loud.
"Alas,"-- he held up his left hand and addressed the bracelet, mildly surprised at the sudden croak of his voice-- "poor Yorick." He turned to the empty cot. "I knew him, Horatio," he confided.
He was relieved to understand that each of Shakespeare's words was a facet of the natural protection of the universe.
He went to the cot and stretched out. Secure that his prayer would continue to pulse through every cell with each heartbeat, he closed his eyes.
On Thursday both Newsweek and Time came out with Susej on their covers. Every possible angle had been explored. Susej's letter of resignation from the Church was exhumed, photographed and reproduced. It was brief and sincere. There were comprehensive investigations of all his cures. His activities since entering the United States were reviewed. Everything in his past was in order. The disclosure of his brilliant scholastic record had prompted a search for his early published thesis. The discovery of one of the few remaining copies of the review sent bidders frantically to Paris. Everyone who had personal contact with the priest reported enthusiastically. Statesmen, showmen, money men, and religious men alike had only high praise for Susej and his work. An unreleased album titled "The Clear Power" had already accumulated an advance sale of 250,000. It was rumored that Kane Mulnew would head a foundation to administer the affairs of Susej after her cure. The priest himself flatly denied and declined any financial support. The proceeds from Saturday's rally had already been pledged to charity. Yankee Stadium, designated for the event, had sold out in a matter of hours. The television interests were still in serious negotiation over the television rights.
"D'Te seems to have the knack," Orient said, violently throwing the magazine against the table. He was tired. He had been pushing hard; studying, teaching, fasting, using every waking moment for preparation.
"But why upset yourself with all this?" Redson said lazily. "You've made your decision. Worrying about his impact on the public isn't going to help you, is it?"
"Okay." Orient rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers "you're absolutely right." He opened his eyes. "But it still has me worried."
"It doesn't take some people very long to cause the same impact and they're working without any supernatural energy," Levi remarked from the chessboard.
"Yes, but their potential is limited," Orient said. "Susej is just beginning. By the way"-- he twisted in his chair to face Levi-- "how are you coming with the bishop?"
Levi looked up. "Very nicely. He'll be ready by tomorrow."
"Amazing," Redson observed. "The quack has managed to clear my headaches."
"I wish you'd let me teach you a few breathing patterns," Orient said.
"No thanks, Owen." Redson smiled. "I'm sure it's all worthwhile but I'm not looking for anything else right now."
Orient nodded,
"But you might reconsider your decision to challenge D'Te Saturday," Redson reminded him gently. "I'm going to be precious little help to you when the time comes. Aren't you being a little impetuous?"
Orient closed his eyes against the steady drumming of emotion against the base of his brain. It didn't help. Redson was dangerously close to his fears. Perhaps his own exaggerated responsibility for Argyle was causing him to overact. Perhaps it was he whose ego had been challenged. Perhaps he was recklessly gambling his pilgrims' lives out of some kind of vanity. Some kind of retribution for Malta. Malta. Even now, through the churning possibilities of his thoughts he could hear the tiny, tinny music box melody and smell the cedar fragrance of her hair.
He opened his eyes and saw the four-color face of Susej dominating a collage of American life. He was doing the right thing. If Susej was successful Saturday he would have enough strength to break through any protection. Then through Argyle he would have the key to telepathy and a power that could shred even the barriers of consecration. There was no choice about Saturday.
He looked at Redson. "You can back out if you like," he said.
"Don't give me any nonsense about backing out now," Redson said angrily. "I'm just thinking that you might be overestimating your own powers."
Orient shook his head. "If Susej could break through to us he would have done it by now. No, he doesn't have enough power yet to crack your chapel. But if he makes it Saturday he'll be strong enough for almost anything."
"You just relax and let me handle your trance, Bishop," Levi said as he studied the problem on the board. "You'll be a big help."
Orient picked up the phone and dialed J.J.'s number.
"One minute," JJ.'s voice flicked, then the dull quiet of hold.
"Okay, Waxoff here."
"Orient. How about that ticket?"
"Not easy this time, Owen," J.J. said.
"It's important to me."
Orient tapped his finger on the mouthpiece while J.J. paused to consider.
"It'll cost me a favor," J.J. said, "so you'll have to make up the difference."
"How much?"
"Not money, a favor is all."
"Anything specific in mind?"
"Something I've been trying to get you to do for three years/'
"A seance?"
"Exactly. For a special group of friends."
Orient started to refuse, then held up. If he was still able to pay off J.J. after Saturday it was worth bending a principle. "All right," he said finally, "send it over."
"You'll have it tomorrow morning. Now how about my report?"
"Report?"
"Of course. You promised me a full profile on Susej after the Kirk show. I caught the tape. Sensational you weren't."
"What do you want to know?" Orient's grip tightened on the phone.
"All about Susej. What's the hang-up?"
"He wants control, that's his hang-up."
"Sure he does, but what about the cures?"
"They're legitimate."
There was a long pause. When J.J.'s voice returned it had another tone. "You mean it's worth getting into?"
"I mean it's worth staying out of." Orient stressed it even though he knew it was useless. J.J. was curious now.
"Okay, thanks." J.J.'s voice cut through his regrets. "Probably see you Saturday." The line was disconnected.
Orient hung up. He was drained.
A tax was being levied against his dwindling resources with each move. Even Sordi was feeling the intensity of the bite. He thought of Argyle. The immense price. The enormous pressure he must be enduring.
He tried to think of something else. Even an empathetic link between them could be used by Susej. And he had too much already.
"So you're going then?" Redson was saying.
Orient nodded.
Redson stood. "Well, then, I guess it's time for my lessons. What do you say, Claude, ready?"
"Minute," Levi rumbled. He was bent low over the board, the implications of a knight furrowing his brow. He pushed a pawn forward. "That does it," he bragged. "If Larsen had used his pawn against the Russian he'd be king now." He beckoned to Redson. "Take a look at this, Bishop."
"Let's get to work, Claude," Redson wailed. "I can't be worried about a game now."
"Okay," Levi said, leaving the board reluctantly, "but you're missing a rare opportunity. Perhaps I can give you a P.S. that will help you appreciate the game."
Redson ignored him. "Listen," he said to Orient, "are you sure you want me to use the Pentacle of Mars?"
Orient nodded.
"Why that talisman in particular?" Redson asked suspiciously.
Orient leaned back on the couch. "Because it's the planetary pentacle which suits the conjunction of Susej's planets on Saturday. And because it's one of the only pentacles in Mars which isn't a talisman for attack, or personal gain."
"Well, that's just what I mean, Owen," Redson boomed, "we can't hold anything back against D'Te. You said yourself that Saturday is our last play."
Orient smiled. "Have you learned the invocation from the Pentacle?"
"Sure."
"And the game plan?"
Redson frowned. "Saturday afternoon I received communion. Saturday evening I let Claude put me into a receptive state. While I'm under I repeat the invocation of the Pentacle of Mars. At the right time you enter the field of my trance."
"Exactly." Orient sifted a cigarette from his case. "And the right time will be after I've challenged Susej. At that point I won't need any offensive momentum, I'll need an impenetrable defense. And that will serve as my offense."
"C'mon, Bishop, get with it," Levi drawled impatiently. "If a warlock sends a spell of destruction and it fails, the curse returns to the sender. Now how about getting to work now that you've interrupted my game?"
"Just a minute, Claude." Orient held up his hand. It's important that he understands this completely. Now"-- he turned to Redson-- "do you remember the words?"
"Their swords shall enter into their own heart, and their bows shall be broken," Redson recited.
Orient lit his cigarette and waited.
"Ahh," Redson said after a moment, "obvious, isn't it?"
"You're damned right." Levi scratched his bearded chin disgustedly. "Took you long enough."
Orient felt a slight sense of relief. "Good," he said, "so you see that the Pentacle is a strong one. With the protection of your state of grace and Claude's and Hap's combined energy, we should make a tussle out of it"
Redson grimaced. "I'll do it, but I don't think I'll ever understand it."
"What about Sordi on Saturday?" Levi asked.
Orient shook his head. "Sordi will only be able to give us moral support." There was a pause. "Why not get him out of harm's way?" Levi said quietly.
Orient picked up the magazine he had thrown and carefully placed it face down on the table. "There is no such place," he sighed.
Raymond flicked an imaginary speck of dust off his wide moire silk tie and cleared his throat.
Seth felt a vague annoyance growing at the incessant sound that accompanied Raymond's presence. He slipped the tape into a metal container and scrawled a take number on the label with a marking pen.
"Did you get DeMann?" he said.
"Yeah, put him down for twenty-five thousand long ones and double on the singles."
Seth grunted. Raymond did have a feel for distribution. Unfortunately, the kid was hung up on a very limited scene. Unfortunately for him, he had no feel for ritual. The only ceremony Raymond could grasp was cashing a check. Of course, Seth reflected, placing the container in the out box, Raymond's blind greed made him eminently trustworthy. All he wanted was the pennies.
"Did you speak to the magazine people?" he asked.
Raymond cleared his throat. "We got an issue on the album and Addison, an issue on the film and an issue on Susej."
"What kind of print order?"
"A mill."
"What about tomorrow?"
"All set. I checked out the system at the stadium and I sent tickets to everybody on the list."
Seth stood at his control board idly fingering the dials, staring out into the deserted discotheque. Tomorrow night he would direct Addison's greatest-- and last-- album. Tomorrow night the people would be dancing to the full music of Susej through Addison. And then he and Addison would both take their places with Susej in another reality.
"Okay," Seth turned slowly and leaned against the control board, "now Raymond, everything you've asked for you shall have."
Raymond stiffened automatically. Seth still made him nervous. "What do you mean?" he said, too quickly.
"I mean that you've got the whole music operation as your special toy"-- Seth smiled genially-- "just like that."
Raymond cleared his throat. "Thanks," he said.
Seth had seen some films of Governor Chase's campaign. The Governor had the same grating habit of clearing his throat. "As of Monday you take my chair." he said. "When Addison's first two albums are out you'll be responsible for developing new talent."
"What about you?"
"I'm going to form a corporation that will hold the music company as part of its function. You'll be directly under me, and Susej."
You, and ten-thousand others, he thought as he watched the smile form soft and smug on Raymond's face.
Ten-thousand minds shaped by pecking aspiration into a perfect bureaucracy. Sync. Seth's smile broadened and he leaned confidentially toward Raymond.
"Now you're going to come with me to see Susej," he said softly.
Raymond's face fell. "What for?" he said, his voice hushed.
"You're going to learn something," Seth said, knowing that all that would register with Raymond was fear.
Argyle Simpson was time inside of timelessness; a growing act of existence traveling toward some distant potential, the prayer his leverage and his direction. Occasionally he could feel the strangely ponderous turbulence of some other need veering him. from his flow, but always there was the firm leverage guiding the shape of his motion.
Even as the three men entered the room he understood their presence only as a temporary form randomly created by elements. Their form, however, he understood as extensions of the turbulence. He felt for the prayer and found it pounding faithful time.
"Good evening, Mr. Simpson."
It took Argyle time to remember the structure of words. When he did die other structures of his physical reality came roaring into his mind. And then he felt the vibration. Weaving insinuations and structures actual and potential through every promise of his being. Stroking his chemistry with the persistent whisper of a new direction, a new sensation.
He looked past the man speaking, to the source of the emanation that pulled steadily at every electron of his existence. Shango.
"Have you been well, Mr. Simpson?" Susej said gently, coming closer.
"Fair enough." Argyle found his throat dry and constricted.
"You don't sound well, Mr. Simpson." Susej gravely shook his head. "Perhaps you should consider the inevitability of your position."
Argyle stood up and held out his hand. "Unlock this chain," he said evenly. As he spoke he felt the prayer punctuate each word.
Susej smiled. "Do you know how long you've been here, Mr. Simpson?" He went on, not waiting for Simpson to answer. "You've been here six nights," he said, pausing to make sure Simpson had heard him, "and in that time no one has made an attempt to help you. Your teacher, Dr. Orient, is helpless. He has no power, Mr. Simpson, he is merely a dabbler who had developed a facility. And he does not dare face me again."
"Again?" Argyle caught the sequence through the insistent demands of the doll.
"Your doctor was humiliated. He has conceded you to me.
"In that case," Argyle retorted, "why do you need chains?"
Susej seemed delighted by Argyle's logic. "Of course, Mr. Simpson, it is up to me to take what I wish. Tonight I shall take your technique. Or rather, you will give it to me. You will scream for me to take it from you."
Argyle felt the probing turbulence blocking his flow, opposing his leverage.
"What if I agree to give you the technique?"
Susej nodded. "That would be wise." He reached into his pocket and took out a small key. "You would be free, and you would be in a position to bargain. I do not enjoy these methods, Mr, Simpson."
Argyle waited.
Susej went to the chair and placed the key next to the doll.
"All that is necessary is to go to Shango, Mr. Simpson," he said, "and you will be free."
Argyle still waited. He was using almost all his conscious energy to prevent the turbulence from surging through his balance.
"Go to Shango, Mr. Simpson," Susej was saying, his words mingling with the turbulence, sending the full weight of its huge spin crashing against his direction.
"You know yourself that Orient is a methodical man," Susej was saying. "You know yourself that his imagination will eventually limit you. You are greater than Orient, Mr. Simpson, why enslave yourself to mediocrity?"
Argyle braced his consciousness as the heavy monotonous cycles thundered against his prayer... he knew that with each contact something was being lost...
"Seth, go to Shango," Susej whispered.
The large shadow behind Susej separated and a single figure went to the chair, emerging slowly into Simpson's focus. The cat in the control room. He squinted across at the remaining shape behind Susej. At first it was a vague recollection but then he pinpointed the memory. The signifying monkey at the discotheque.
Despair tugged at his concentration, as he realized that he was scrambling to catch up. His direction had been changed.
"Shango," Susej said.
Seth the cat crouched at the chair and put his finger on the doll.
A bristling shock of pleasure brought Argyle to his knees.
"Shango," Susej said again.
This time the sensation started in his stomach and spread out to the ends of his nerves, shattering the prayer and sending him careening wildly through the roaring turbulence. He sobbed as the ecstasy intensified, sizzling the billion fibers of his body into something beyond pleasure, and beyond pain. He heard himself screaming somewhere far away.
And then, abruptly, it stopped.
He was rolling on the floor, his breath coming in choking gasps. And someone was still screaming.
Someone else.
He lifted his head and saw feet shuffling to the door.
He closed his eyes and let his head come to rest against the floor.
Nurse Destiny wandered fitfully from room to room, muttering angrily to herself. For seven days she had been in the frenzied grip of jealousy. For seven nights she had gone to sleep and her incubus lover had failed to appear. No Susej came to pleasure her. Her rage mounted with each passing hour.
She knew what was wrong. The young girl Obizuth had stolen the favors of her priest. Susej had cast Destiny aside in the rites of the priestess and now he had forsaken her entirely.
The Great Plan had begun, and Susej had no further use for her or for followers lured out of sick beds. Now there were many eager to join the cult, anxious to gain the powers of the Clear One.
Destiny paused in front of a mirror and ran a bony hand through her tangled hair. An acid-faced woman stared back at her. She was ugly. And old.
If she had been selfish and asked for youth and beauty, Susej would have revered her and made her a high priestess like the young bitch who sat at his left hand now.
She turned away from the glass and continued her aimless shuffle through the passageways beneath the temple.
"I will pray to the Clear One himself," she mumbled. "The Clear One knows my loyalty, he knows what I have done for his work." Large tears ran down her face. "I loved him and he's turned away from me. I did everything for him and never asked for myself and he's turned his back on me." She pounded the wall with her fist. "She took him away... bitch... bitch... I hate her... Clear One, hear me... hear ME!" Her voice rose to a trembling shout. The only answer to her anguish was silence. She weaved slowly along the hall, wringing her hands and sniffling curses which fell unheard and unheeded in the dusty corridors.
She came to the room behind the altar, the sanctuary of the priestess Obizuth.
For a moment she stood swaying in the dim light of the hall. Then, with a desperate moan, she hurled her body against the door. It slammed open. Destiny fell on the white rug, inside, still moaning.
Addison had been taking a nap on her canopied bed. She sat up and looked wildly around her, her eyes rolling in a spasm of panic.
When she realized it was Destiny, another kind of excitement welled up inside her, replacing her fear with the cool tingle which precedes victory.
She let her face register open disgust at the unkempt woman on the floor. "You are not allowed in here. Get out," she commanded.
Destiny got to her feet.
"Don't you know that I am Obizuth the priestess? You could be put to death for your offense."
Destiny stood unsteadily in front of the bed. The moans turned to sobbing snarls. "You're going to suffer." She gestured with a mottled hand. "Not me... not me... he needs me... you're just a tramp... "
Addison's face hardened. "Get out or you will regret it... old woman," she whispered.
Destiny screeched and swept a bottle of perfume up from the vanity, flinging it with the same wild motion.
Addison leaned easily to one side, letting the bottle smash against the mirror behind her. "Get out, you old hyena." She laughed.
Destiny scrambled on to the bed, her arms stretched out for Addison's throat, her hands opening and closing like claws, feverishly reaching to tear the breath from the harlot's lungs...
It was seconds before she realized that she could not get to the girl. There was a barrier between them she could not cross.
Again and again she strained to scratch the superior smile from the painted face. Again and again she threw herself forward in a frenzied rush for the soft white throat. She screamed in frustration and raging anger while Addison sat calmly laughing at her futile efforts.
"Cease! I command you to stop this!" Susej's voice brought Destiny up short.
She fell at his feet, weeping muffled pleas for forgiveness.
Susej looked down at her. "Don't you know that Obizuth is under my protection?" He smiled. "You cannot harm a priestess of the Clear One." He pulled her gently to her feet. She tried to turn her face away from his but he intensified his grip, his fingers digging deep into her thin arms. "Look at me, Destiny," he ordered.
She looked up, her body heaving convulsively with fear and hysteria.
The short priest's eyes found hers and held them. Immediately she relaxed in his hands. She stopped shivering.
Susej released her. "You are a useless woman," he said quietly. "But because you have served me I will not kill you. You will leave this temple and return only when I call for you. Do you understand?"
Destiny rubbed her bruised arms. She tried to form the word but couldn't. Finally she nodded.
Addison watched her leave, her face reflecting her amusement and contempt. She lay back on her bed and contentedly stretched her body. As she shifted her legs, her robe fell back to her hips. She turned her head.
Susej inhaled her smile.
"Leave us," he said hoarsely to the figures standing in the doorway. "I would be alone with the priestess."
Seth and Raymond silently backed out of the room, closing the door as they left.
The pressure was almost gone.
The probe had diminished its constant demand on his consciousness, leaving him free to think.
Argyle lifted his head. The room was empty. The key was still on the chair. Next to the doll.
He reacted immediately.
He began by quelling the fierce excitement within himself, using the breathing pattern to channel and calm the anxiety drive. As his concentration steadied his mind explored the key, feeling for its substance.
A few tentative passes and he had its specific structure, the elements that combined to preserve its reality.
As he immersed his consciousness into its substance, he sensed the dim energy being generated by its inert presence. He synchronized his brain cycles to the slow pulses emitted by the key, working carefully, making sure to establish complete empathy before exercising leverage. Then he tried.
The key moved to the edge of the chair. The doll wobbled and fell over on its side.
He built the empathy to a peak, increasing the speed of the ponderous cycles.
The key fell off the chair, and began scraping across the floor towards him. As he reached his hand out, the doll toppled off the chair. For a terrible second he felt the brush of the turbulence freeze the sweat on his body.
His first instinct was to recoil from the doll but he fought the fear away. He had to act while his mind was clear.
He closed his eyes and gripped the thread of empathy. When he opened them again the key was close. But now the doll was only a few feet away.
He looked at his hand trying to pick up the key and saw that his fingers were trembling. When he had the key he glanced over at the doll. It seemed closer.
He pushed himself to a standing position and backed away as he unlocked the bracelet. When he was free he started unsteadily across the floor. Then he stopped, swaying on his feet.
The doll was between him and the door. He took a deep breath and lurched forward, kicking the doll out of his path. It landed right side up in the corner of the room.
When he reached the door he hesitated, then went to the right, remembering that Susej had turned left. Holding cm to the wall for support he managed to make it to the door at the end of the hallway. As he put his hand on the knob he heard the sound of feet coming from the other end of the passage. He opened the door just enough for his body to slip inside and closed it behind him.
He was at the bottom of a flight of stairs.
Using the banister as a vaulter's pole he took the stairs three at a time. When he reached the landing he heard shouts at the bottom of the stairs. He looked around. There were three doors to choose from.
As he started moving toward the door directly in front of him, someone yelled and he heard feet pounding on the stairs.
Adrenalin snapped through his body, accelerating his rush.
He hit the door with his shoulder and almost fell to the sidewalk. He was outside. The shock of cold air revived him further and he lunged forward into something that started as a half trot and ended as a flat-out sprint.
He cut diagonally across the street, turned the corner, and pushed his heaving lungs another block to the far corner. Still running now, but slowly, he made it to the end of the next block and turned right.
An empty cab was rolling slowly down the street, its top light bright and warm in the night. He tried to whistle, gave it up and went out into the middle of the street waving his arm. The cab rolled on past him, the driver staring straight ahead.
He yelled and started to run after the cab, then came to a disgusted stop as he realized the effort was useless. He turned and began walking quickly to the next corner, listening carefully through his labored breathing for any sound of pursuit.
When he reached the end of the block he looked up and checked the street signs. Sixty-fifth and Third. The familiarity of the location gave him a slight lift and he headed west at a fast, easy clip.
The streets were dark and deserted but faded streaks across the sky were already silvering in anticipation of the dawn.
He was halfway between Third and Lexington when he heard the leathery fluttering behind him. As he turned a gray shape came hurtling down against his shoulder, jolting his arm numb with the impact and sending him sprawling against the sidewalk.
As he twisted his body around he saw the creature swooping down at him again, folding and unfolding its great wings, extending bony talons for his eyes.
He crossed his arms in front of his face and turned his head away.
"Apage Satanus," he croaked.
The expected contact didn't come. Simpson looked up and saw three large eagle-like creatures hovering above him. He got to his feet and staggered to a car parked in front of him. It was locked.
The creatures were circling faster, coming down lower with each pass. He started running blindly to the corner. He was almost there when a dull, heavy blow caught him at the base of his spine and sent him crashing against a telephone booth. He whirled and pressed his back against the glass, bringing his arms up crossed in front of him and yelling the words.
This time one of the creatures hit him, glancing off his arm and leaving a hot red smear across his skin.
He scrambled into the booth and forced the door shut just as another of the creatures dove straight down against the glass panel, rocking the booth with the force of its impact.
Then they were all around him, crashing their feathered bodies against the sides of the booth and hacking at the glass with their sharp beaks. The air whined with their shrill cries and the continuous scratching of their claws against the booth.
A jagged fissure appeared on the glass.
The three creatures concentrated their attack on that spot, swooping up and then hurtling down, dashing their beaks against the ever-widening crack. He looked around wildly, realizing that his strength was finished. And then, through the noisy tangle of thrashing bodies, he saw the sky.
It was almost dawn.
He took one long, deep breath and prepared himself to reach out for Orient.
He let the wave build slowly, slowly, feeling through the turbulence he knew would be there, feeling for his balance. And then Orient was there and his mind relaxed and let the soft implosions at the base of his brain take over his consciousness. His body shivered with a sudden rush of emotion as he felt the pulsing presence of Hap and Levi join the strong steady beat, and he knew he was home.
The noise had stopped.
The creatures were gliding away, their huge wings beating ponderously against the gilded tint of dawn. A profound stillness settled over the streets as he watched the black shapes become smaller, then disappear into the dark side of the sky.
Argyle moved wearily out of the booth and started walking west, his teeth chattering in the damp frost of morning.
Argyle poured himself a third cup of coffee and leaned back in his chair.
"I just can't understand it," he repeated, "the cat had me, had me." He looked at Orient. "And then blank. Nothing."
"You say you heard someone yelling?" Orient said gently.
"I think so. I can't be sure what was going on. All of a sudden I was alone."
Orient waited.
Simpson shook his head. "He wanted the telepathy bad, Doc," he said.
"Did he say anything about Malta?" Orient asked, trying hard to hold back the rush of emotion that started with her name.
Argyle swirled the coffee in his cup. "No," he said slowly, "but he did say he had you beat."
Orient didn't answer.
Orient turned. He was smiling. "That's right," he said, "you proved that didn't you?"
Argyle's forehead furrowed. "Do you think he let me go on purpose?" he asked suddenly. "Maybe he's using me as some kind of setup, like Hap."
"No." Orient stopped smiling. "You were too useful to him. He just wasn't able to keep the squeeze on you and use his power somewhere else at the same time."
Argyle nodded. "I guess you're right." He looked up and met Orient's eyes. "I'm still not sorry I went, you know. It might have turned out different, but I had to find out for myself."
Orient shrugged. "No explanation necessary. We all have responsibility to explore anything that seems like further knowledge." He strolled back to his chair and sat down. "Anything else we might use tonight?"
"You're really going up against him?" Argyle said happily, "What made you decide?"
"Only thing to do. Now what about Susej-- anything you noticed?"
Simpson stared at what was left of his coffee. "He's not alone," he said carefully. "He's got a slick bunch of people behind him."
"So we've gathered from his publicity. Right now he's public celebrity number one."
What he was saying didn't register with Argyle right away.
Orient picked up the puzzled expression and explained what had been happening since the priest's first appearance.
"Of course, what Susej is doing is big news. The entire media is covering him day by day."
"The cover of Time?" Argyle was still having trouble with the implications. "In a week?"
"The man can cure."
"Yeah." Argyle shook his head. "Yeah, it figures. The whole music angle, too. He must have been setting this one up for a long time."
Orient stared out the window. He remembered the people outside the studio.
"And tonight he's going to cure Mulnew's daughter?"
"That's right," Orient said quietly, his palms suddenly cold with the memory of his last meeting with Susej.
He told Argyle about the confrontation at the television studio. "I just couldn't get enough leverage," he concluded. "I thought I could use the element of surprise, but he was waiting for me."
"That's right." Argyle snapped his fingers. "He said something about a bowl of observance."
Orient nodded. He should have expected an adept as advanced as Susej to have mastered the technique.
Argyle broke the long silence that followed. "You left something out, Doc," he said softly.
"I don't follow you."
"Sure you do. You forgot to tell me that the reason you couldn't get enough leverage was because he was holding me.
For a moment Orient was silent. "The only thing that bothers me about the whole thing," he said finally, "is that it was recorded on video tape."
Argyle grinned. "That's biz," he said. "Now you know what it's like to see yourself in a flop."
Orient stood up and stretched. "Perhaps you'd like to take a nap before the festivities begin," he suggested. "Claude can explain the strategy after you've rested."
"No good, Doc, I'm so tired I won't be able to sleep. The best thing would be to just hang out with the fellows until you're ready."
Orient nodded. He checked his watch. It was past noon. Time to begin.
"One thing, Doc." Argyle delayed him as he turned to leave. "I hope you're going flat out tonight. Susej is contagious."
Orient tried to imagine what it would be like at the stadium. "How far I go depends entirely on him," he said.
As soon as Argyle came in Hap and Redson surrounded him with questions.
"Are you sure about those three birds?" the bishop demanded.
"Let me see that scratch they made on your arm," Hap added.
"But the prayer was effective." Redson closed his own circle.
Argyle raised his arms high above his head and waved his hands. "You'll see it all in my next release, gentlemen. Now why don't you sit down and let Doc talk business?"
"I won't take much time," Orient said, waiting for them all to settle down before going on. "I won't be here tonight, so we'll have to go over it now just to make sure." He leaned against the table and folded his arms. "All of you will go to the chapel at sundown. When you hear from me, Claude will hypnotize Bishop Redson. When the bishop is in trance the rest of you will merge communication. Hap, you see that Sordi just concentrates on the prayer of protection."
Hap nodded, his eyes on the floor.
Orient turned to Argyle. "Do you think you're strong enough to work?" he said.
"Stronger."
Orient reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. He passed the envelope to Argyle. "Take one and pass it," he instructed.
He waited until everyone had taken one of the linen squares. "On each square is imprinted a Pentacle of Mars. I want you to keep the Pentacle with you from now on. Hap, you take Sordi's for him."
Redson carefully put his Pentacle on the coffee table. "I'm afraid it smacks somewhat of the graven image, Owen," he said, "but I'll keep the concept in mind."
Orient smiled. "Sustained," he said, "but I want to talk to you about that sometime." He pushed himself to his feet "Well, unless anyone has any questions I'll be on my way."
"Maybe"-- Redson's heavy voice broke the pause"-- maybe you should wait a little longer, Owen. Argyle's back now. Perhaps you should see what happens."
Orient was annoyed to find that he had to think it over before he answered.
"We couldn't stop what happens if Susej makes it tonight, he said. "No one could."
For the next two hours Orient tried vainly to relax. His brain was whirring with a hundred details, emotional elements that refused to combine. And there was the fear. He knew that the best way to evaporate his fear was to empty his mind, but he couldn't achieve the balance, the harmony needed for control.
Each time he began the breathing pattern his thoughts would drift to Malta and topple the balance.
He decided to take a long walk.
It was a perfect afternoon.
Orient walked slowly through the streets, his mind and body completely receptive to the lemon-bright rays of the sun. He thought of nothing except the physical reality of earth spinning around a small star... the solar system; a cluster of particles held in place by some cosmic need. The need.
From birth to death all existence a need. The ever restless yearning of a universe realizing its infinite potentials.
He was at one of the entrances to Central Park. He went into it. As he walked he felt the raw vibration of creation guiding his thoughts to the potentials of his human race. He stepped off a narrow path and approached the gentle slope of a large rock.
The area around the rock was deserted and when Orient reached the top he saw that the tree branches cut off one side from view. He looked across the flat meadows to the gleaming columns of New York.
He stood for a moment then took off his coat, spread it out on the ground and sat down facing the shimmering towers of his city.
He let his already rhythmic breath intensify, allowing his thoughts to go back to the deep sun that centered his being. The first light. His light...
The slap of breath exploding light into his birth. The long dreamy drift through zooming fragments of consciousness. The first impression of cause. The itch of flesh. The efforts of movement. The focus of recognition.
He made the sound and knew he had accomplished it. The sounds became words and fenced his dreamy into a geometry. The dreams. The dreams absorbed the lines. He often wondered why the dreams disappeared when he was awake.
The sharp emptiness of the dream. The plane. The airplane. Night after night and then even when he was awake. The sharp emptiness of the dream.
And suddenly the new dream. The feel of the light from both of them. The calm light.
For a long time he was separated from his direction. The instinct pulsing constant. The impulse of his movement guiding him closer. The dream.
The old man. High above the emptiness. His mind opening to the dream. His mind opening while he was awake. Opening. Slowly adjusting to the light. The new light. The variations of light. The cold light.
The journey. The crawling inevitable journey to the dream... welcome opening his mind to primary light... The slow accomplishment of recognition... The growing facility of focus enabling recognition of variations... recognition of the billion species of light. The incomprehensible sense of the primary light. The primary light. The single source.
He focused on the memory of that sense and felt for the primary light.
The deep sun of first light. Om.
The center. The need. The first light. The primary light. The need. Om.
He opened his eyes to the pastel shadings of a brilliant sunset. Streaks of purple and pink clouds lingered to form a soft counterpoint to the brazen entrance of flashing neon across the walls of the city.
He stood and stretched wide, opening his nose to the minty taste of plant-purified oxygen.
As he turned to pick up his coat from the ground he saw her and the blood dropped from his stomach, sucking air from his lungs.
Malta was climbing up the slope.
The sharp shiver of wind moving through the branches emphasized the profound stillness at the summit of the rock.
A crowd of emotions danced in his mind as he watched her approaching, her pale skin luminous against the dark silk of her tunic. Then she was hurrying the last few steps up the slope, running lightly to him and he felt her long smooth arms under his palms, cooling the sudden moist flush of his hands.
Inside his arms Malta was a slender ripple of whispering flesh huddling against his chest. As he held her close to him his brain screamed the question. Reluctantly he moved his hands to her shoulders and drew back from her.
"Is something wrong?" she said. Her smile was sad and tired.
He didn't answer. He looked into her face and squeezed her shoulders, trying to comprehend that she was here in front of him.
"I had to see you," she was saying.
"Where were you?" he managed finally. "Where did you go?"
"I wanted to be by myself, where I could think." She searched his eyes. "You must understand how I felt. You and Hap and all those questions."
"We thought you were dead," he said softly.
She pulled back, rubbing her arms with her hands. "Dead? What gave you the idea that I was dead?" she said, smiling uncertainly.
"I contacted you. You told me about D'Te and the Seventh Door." As he spoke his thoughts began to fall into sequence. "I contacted you in a seance."
"But you did contact me," she said. "Last week I had a terrible dream. An Indian was pulling my hair, pulling my hair. Then you came, and he went away. That's when I started looking for you."
The tinkling music swirled loudly through his brain as he reached out and closed his arms around her.
"I wanted to find you," she said, her voice muffled. "I wanted to tell you the truth about myself."
Orient let the warmth of her body linger against him, soothing the awkward tautness of his body.
"I wanted to tell you about D'Te. I was running away from D'Te when Hap found me. I know now that you can protect me from him." She held his wrists and stepped back. "Will you help me now?" she said.
He struggled for the questions darting through the waves of sound inside his head. He felt her thin fingers holding his wrists and understood that she was waiting for him to answer. Somewhere far away an ambulance was wailing. "But the seance." He looked down into the clear sea green of her eyes.
"You contacted me while you had a seance. But since I'm not dead you contacted me the same way Hap did." Her eyes darkened with amusement.
She took his hand and held it to her neck. "I'm not dead," she repeated gently. "Don't you know me?"
His mind leaped at the words and he felt the warm, soft skin of her neck making the word a reality. He knew Malta. He had always known her.
She was kissing him, her mouth moving over his face, her breath leaving moist impressions of heat on his skin. When he slid his hands across the silk clinging to her breast, she shuddered, and relaxed under him, her weight pulling them both down to the ground.
He pushed the dress away from her hips and felt the cold shock of air on his back as she pulled at his clothes. Then his face was against her belly, kissing the smooth, smooth softness there. He remembered the smell of her and his nerves caught fire.
He lifted his body as she shifted under him, then pressed down into her dissolving hips.
As he entered the wetness of her, his thoughts convulsed and folded inward, the monotonous imperative of the song drawing him far away... far back... and yet close...
The thick, damp grass of the temple garden dabbed cool patches on his fevered skin. She clung fiercely to his body, whimpering and thrashing beneath him, her teeth stinging his neck and her warm tears soothing the pain. His thoughts began to bud and drop away from him, and his nerves bristled with the truth.
They were joined like this now in the temple garden and were also locked together through all the cycles of existence. She yelped and he felt himself opening, his body warm with the light of Urvashi.
He buried his face in her hair and she began to breathe the singsong of their childhood rhyme against his ear.
His passion surged as the song caressed his brain and he thrust deep inside her, reaching for the cedar scent of her hair. Eager for the smell of her.
The scent eluded him. Her voice blanketed his thoughts, muffling the memory. He reached out again.
But the scent was barely an echo, dim and fading.
Confused, he lifted, and the memory of her became sharp, tearing through the thick fabric of the droning voice. Then he understood and the metallic taste of disgust soured his tongue.
There was no cedar scent to the hair of the heaving woman under him. Only the heavy fumes of oil mingled with the greedy stench of lust.
It hadn't been her song that pierced his mind. Not the prayer that they had shared since childhood. He had been tricked into breaking his vow. His vow. The vow that protected their love.
Roaring with fear and rage, he pinned the woman's shoulders to the ground. Then he recognized the sullen face of Ka, the temple servant, and his hands leaped for revenge.
But as his fingers closed around her thin neck, her croaking laugh crumbled his anger. Drained and helpless, he crawled to the statue and knelt before the impassive goddess Urvashi.
As he looked into her calm face he was gently torn away from his frenzied sorrow, and pulled back from the garden, the fading sound of Ka's strident laughter following him, through all the twisting corridors of his existence... mocking his presence in the universe...
Orient was standing on the rock.
The girl was still lying on the ground, looking up at him, a sly smile pouting her lovely mouth. She was a child.
His legs shivered in the chill of the evening wind as he drew on his clothes.
The girl stretched her arms, her uplifted hands an invitation.
"Why did you leave me?" she moaned. "Come back to me." Her body arched up, her narrow hips writhing with unquenched passion. Dead. His brain was battered by the jabbing repetition of the word.
"Why were you sent here?" He squeezed the question through his constricted throat.
"I came to give you Malta," she said.
"Malta's dead." He closed his eyes.
"The power can give you Malta," she crooned. "The power can give you any woman you desire. The power is greater than time."
"She's dead," Orient repeated.
The girl laughed. "Malta's yours. Everything can be yours."
He opened his eyes. The girl was moving toward him. She stood in front of him, her breasts cupped in her hands, her fingers deliberately stroking the stiff, throbbing nipples. "Come back to me," she whispered, her violet eyes opaque with desire. "I will give you Malta."
Orient saw his wrinkled hands reach out for her, his cracked fingers opening and closing with pathetic longing.
He roared and twisted away, cold fury dashing against his weakness. Blood poured over his eyes as he clawed at the ground and his fingers found a heavy stone.
Sobbing with effort, he lurched and lifted the stone high above his head with both hands, anticipating her crushed skull.
But she was already moving away, gliding swiftly down the slope and into the shadows at the base of the trees, melting out of his sight.
Dead. He let the stone fall to the ground.
Malta was dead and he'd been tricked into severing the bond between them. The child had been sent to weaken him... to confuse him. He'd been deceived into breaking the bond.
He remembered his twitching hands reaching out for the girl.
She had showed him his weakness. She had been sent to drain his faith. And she had won. And Malta was dead.
He stood alone in the stillness at the top of the rock repeating the word.
After a while he picked up his coat and moved off in the same direction the girl had taken.
Halfway down the slope he threw up.
He checked his watch as he stood sagging against a mailbox, waiting for a cab. According to the time given on the ticket the rally had begun five minutes ago. He could figure on a fifteen-minute delay at the stadium but he had to maintain his timing with Levi. A cab came toward him, and he loped heavily to meet it, his legs working with agonizing slowness.
Inside the cab he huddled into a corner, going over the long deliberate pattern of efficient breath. As his body opened and relaxed he focused his entire being into concentration on his first purpose. The light.
But even as he sensed the illumination, his mind was raked with fear and drew back. He had severed his bond with Malta. He had added momentum to the cycle of loss that pursued their fate.
He reached gingerly past the stinging fear for the presence of the light. He was calm then and the ragged emotions scratching at his brain moved back and were replaced by the sure steady pulse of the prayer.
His car moved slowly in the heavy traffic and Orient's eyes kept going to his watch, the long spaces of his meditation intersected by his concern with time.
Twenty minutes later they weren't even close to the stadium and the cab had stopped again in the congestion. He concentrated on the light and felt the soft connections being made as he reached Levi.
He withdrew the contact instantly as a cold turbulence came up to meet the flow. His body oozed sweat under his coat, causing his shirt to stick uncomfortably to his back.
He hoped the contact had been long enough. He wondered if excitement would make Redson resist tonight. He breathed deep and gave his being over to the purpose.
The purpose.
The light.
When they finally reached sight of the stadium he stuffed some bills into the driver's hand and stepped out into the stalled traffic.
The street in front of the stadium was clogged with people and cars. A dull, steady roar was coming from inside the high walls and outside there was a constant blare of confusion as the automobiles tried to move through the throngs jamming the street. He worked his way through the noisy mob to the entrance at the far side of the street. Further down the block he saw a cordon of policemen checking tickets.
He was relieved to see that the crowd had slowed the progress of the rally. The line of people still waiting to get inside was thick and long.
As he shuffled through the gates he sensed the raw energy being generated by the exhilarated crowd and was overcome by the sodden weariness of his own plodding body. He wondered if he should turn around and go back to the serene quiet of Redson's home.
Woodenly he passed through the gate and let the slow crush of people take him inside.
He moved with the flow, following it along the corridors behind the arena until the walls broke, dividing the flow into rapid streams, and he emerged onto a ramp running above the steep slant of the seats. He stared out numbly at the faceless, restless swell of massed humanity around him.
The powerful lights heightened the presence of the huge gathering, accentuating the rise and fall of color and movement in the stands.
Thousands of folding chairs had been placed on the playing field, expanding considerably the seating capacity of the already vast stadium. A wide aisle slashed through these seats from the competitor's rooms at the far end of the arena to a large platform set in a clearing at the center of the field. A ribbon of uniformed policemen, two seats deep, seamed both sides of the aisle.
In front of them, Secret Service men were positioned at intervals along each side of the path.
The file of civilian police extended past the seats and up the low slope of a ramp that connected the platform to the stadium floor. The platform itself was surrounded with soldiers, their polished chrome helmets flashing under the lights.
The twelve chairs on the platform were arranged to form a semicircle around the cluster of microphones. There were two stationary, and four hand-held television cameras on the stadium floor. A boom camera floated over one side of the ramp. On the other side, behind the Secret Service men, was a dark knot of photographers.
As Orient searched his pockets for his stub he recognized the cocky stance of Martin Weldon in front of the microphones. The murmur of the crowd underneath the flat echoes of the loudspeakers carried away most of his words.
An usher scrambled up the steps, looked at his ticket and directed him down to the lower section of the stadium. In the lower section another usher directed him further down to the boxes.
His seat gave him an almost unobstructed view and he could clearly make out the twelve honored guests seated on the stage. They were well-known, influential men and women from every strata. Orient recognized Joe Kirk, the governor and the mayor among them.
Weldon raised his arms and the murmur of the audience lowered, making his words distinct.
"... this man who represents every principle of faith is here tonight at my request because I feel that you"-- he paused and looked around into the stands-- "you, the people of America, should learn for yourselves the great power of faith."
Weldon pushed his hat back on his head and reached into the pocket of his coat. He pulled his hand out and held something over his head.
"I want to demonstrate for you the oldest example of this power," he said. "All of you go into your pockets and purses and take out an ordinary paper match."
A buzz from the crowd as they shifted in their seats. Orient saw people passing books of matches down the aisles. He emptied his mind and began burrowing into himself, reaching away from the noise to the calm orbit of his concentration.
"An ordinary paper match, one-twentieth of a cent... " Weldon was saying. "But if we all light this match at the same time, its light will be as great as the light of day." He turned to the people on the stage and said something that couldn't be heard. He turned again to the microphone and held his hands out in front of him. "When I count to three the lights are going to go off. I want you all to strike your match and hold it out in front of you."
He waited for a moment, poising his hands before starting the count
Orient felt a spasm of cold shoot through his thought as he opened his mind to increase the efficiency of his breath. He held the pattern and continued his slow free fall toward the deep light.
"One... "
The turbulence whirled in again, buffeting his direction.
"Two... "
He veered back at a shallow angle and the turbulence crashed against him, sending him toward the barren stream of another orbit.
"Three."
The lights went out and the noise hushed as the stadium submerged into complete darkness.
The sudden flare of eighty thousand beads of flame evaporated the darkness, illuminating the entire arena with a full rosy glow that rippled with the delighted sigh of the spectators.
Orient saw two men walking down the aisle to the platform. Just behind them, six men, dressed identically in tan raincoats and brown hats, accompanied a girl in a wheelchair. Susej followed the wheelchair, walking alone, his head bowed.
"Mr. and Mrs. America, your sweetheart and mine, the first lady of courage, Kane Mulnew." The sound of Weldon's voice was lost in the great roar that rumbled the walls of the stadium.
As the roar diminished the arc lights came up, the brilliant beams glazing the soft surface of the match glow.
When the girl reached the stage, the roar rose to a new peak.
Susej stood at the base of the ramp, waiting until the girl had received her ovation before mounting the platform.
He stood behind the wheelchair, head down, while Weldon waited for the noise to subside.
"Tonight"-- Weldon was standing with his hat placed over his heart-- "tonight, we are all privileged to be here"-- he paused-- "to see a great miracle, and learn a great lesson, and receive a great gift. This man"-- he pointed behind him with his hat, his face toward the microphone-- "is here to give us the gift."
Orient hugged the familiar fabric of his entry point as the looming force of the turbulence battered at his hold. He let the prayer fuse his grip and pushed back into the chill fury of the winds...
"I ask only for complete silence," Weldon said, "and I give you Susej."
There was no sound in the stadium as the priest slowly raised his head. Weldon stepped away from the microphone and sat down.
Orient pushed back through the howling storm and felt for the orbit of his faith.
Susej passed his hands over the girl in the wheelchair.
The winds came hurtling against Orient, tearing him brutally from his prayer, sending him toward the churning center of the whirlpool.
Orient pushed out as he left his leverage and hurled himself away from the freezing momentum of the vortex. He pierced the icy skin of motion and found the huddling combined presence of his pilgrims. He twisted like some phenomenal end to make the completion.
The priest was standing well back from the microphones, but his whisper carried through the stillness in the arena.
"Helon. Taul. Varf." He was chanting the spell of destruction.
Outside the bubble of their orbit the winds drew back and began to intensify.
"AGLA. CASOLY. PAN." Susej's voice grew louder, cutting through the thick hush in the stands and over the field. It began to rain.
Orient intensified the orbit, spinning it faster as the winds buffeted their flimsy balance.
"LUCIFER. OUYAR. CHAMERON."
The girl sat motionless in her wheelchair.
"VENITE BEELZEBUTH."
A juggernaut of frozen suns exploded against Orient, splintering his thought into dissolving snow crystals. The pilgrims' interlocked orbit was dispersed and he was directionless, tumbling blindly through the wildly spreading blizzard.
His own being was dispersing uncontrollably, thinning like some volatile gas through the alien void. Then he sensed the glow of Argyle's devotion plodding through the storm, and the warmth made him whole, the glow guiding them all back to a precarious orbit formed by the unstable elements of a faint prayer.
"VENITE BEELZEBUTH." Susej's words hissed like molten steel, searing the soft patter of rain into a cloying steam.
The crowd sighed and shifted furtively.
Orient felt the orbit define itself with renewed authority as it rotated through the senseless turbulence.
The crowd rustled. The cure was taking more time than they expected. Doubt dampened the crisp vibration of unerring power humming through the charged spectators. Doubt was sagging the thrust of the priest's momentum.
Each time Orient withstood Susej's force he gained advantage. Each time Susej failed to scatter the prayer he lost mass, the weight of the crowd's faith scraped against the friction of fear and settled into the gummy substance of uncertainty.
Susej's energy stretched toward the circling presence of Orient's defiance. The specific identity of the prayer began to pulse, sending the sure rhythms of the pilgrims' synchronized faith through the atonal screech of the void.
Susej stumbled over the final syllables of his chant, the mistake rendering the spell useless. Without pausing he began again, carefully intoning the words, leaning on their syncopation-- stressing the rise and fall of his voice until the throng started nodding, their heads bobbing time to the drive of his incantation.
Susej's irresistible cadence gathered the full concentration of the crowd, and the energy converged inside him, heavier than anything he had wielded before. Recklessly he hurled the perfect words against the rearing sky, his voice slurring with the intoxication of limitless power...
Orient felt the orbit collapse and he was abruptly wrenched back to consciousness. He shut his eyes. A collective grunt of satisfaction escaped from eighty-thousand ecstasy- riddled worshippers as the energy accumulated to proportions far greater than its potential, imploding then exploding again, accelerating past its existence. Then something began to emerge from the motion. With a single thrust it separated from its birth, twisted, and began to swallow an entire universe of actuality.
Orient tried to reach back into himself against the tremendous, increasing weight that was squeezing pain into every nuance of his being... he reached back into the pain...
The sudden plummeting of the boat crushed him against the deck. The wood buckled and splintered as the hull smacked against the glazed, unyielding surface of the water. As it struck, the shivering boat spun and nosed straight up, sucked upward by a mounting surge of sizzling water.
He knew he was finished. Another moment and the vessel would surrender to the mindless rage of the strutting typhoon. The blood whirled in his body, spinning him into an endless vertigo.
He opened his eyes and screamed her name against the whining blackness that was rushing up to meet him. The luminous figure of a woman, drifting serenely through the howling sky, cut off the cry in his throat. He strained to glimpse her face as he rolled in the pitching darkness.
Then he saw her, hovering above the churning waters.
A sob of triumph bubbled on his lips as he recognized the calm face of the goddess Urvashi. He tried to rise but failed, the force of the storm swatting him down to the slippery surface of the broken deck.
Urvashi was motionless, in the spiraling, restless force of the gale. He began crawling toward her across the disintegrating deck, never taking his eyes from her sublime face.
The vessel listed and lazily started to crumble. He gripped the rail and pulled himself into a crouch.
In the fraction of a thought that he clung to the rail he comprehended that Urvashi had come to claim her forfeit. He had broken his solemn vow and tasted another woman's love. He had let the servant girl delude him and now he would be set adrift in the void-- his destiny lost to him because of his weakness.
Urvashi held out her arms. With a grunt of impatience he leaped out over the foaming waters. He flew to the goddess like an arrow dispatched from Rama's bow, his fingers grabbing for the fold of her glistening sari. But his flight became a sickening drop to the waiting darkness, and he was pulled down to the water's frigid belly.
He let himself be devoured, calling the name of his love as life was squeezed from his lungs and the brine stuffed his mouth, smothering the last feeble twitch of his will...
Time compressed... he was dying in countless lifetimes... all his existences collapsed at the junction of his death... crushing together before they exploded...
Orient's eyes were forced open by the relentless pressure on his throat, his vision stretching into a blur as his eyes pushed out from his skull. He kicked out, his hands gripping the arms of his seat. And then the blur collapsed, washing away every memory of his vision...
A dark blue sun fed at the brown sky. He was at the outskirts of a low, sprawling city situated on an immense plain of rubble. As he neared the listing rows of shacks he saw that they were made of thin slabs of rusted metal. There were no windows. He walked with great difficulty through the tangle of refuse that was everywhere. Tin cans, hub caps, gears, shreds of cloth and page after page of newspaper congealed into a hostile soil.
Around him, small groups of people, their faces hidden by coarse gray cloaks, stepped deliberately through the snarl of junk, bending low to examine the objects at their feet.
Every so often one of them would rise, holding something to his cloak, turn, and shuffle slowly toward the interior of the city, where he became part of a great line of hooded figures all going in the same direction.
He joined the line and began moving with it. For a long time there was only the curious soundlessness. Then he heard the gibbering yelps of words said backwards.
The line moved slowly forward. The thin sounds grew stronger.
The line stopped. He pushed forward through the hooded figures.
He arrived at the base of a great pile of twisted metal shored up by heaps of moldering litter. At the cap of the hill, high above him, the priest stood chanting over the naked body of a black-haired girl lying on a table. A silver dagger protruded from the space between her breasts. The priest's hands caressed her writhing belly as he sang.
He began the stumbling climb to the distant summit. He moved slowly, not knowing where he was or the reason for his need to reach the crest. He wanted to stop, to rest and think, but his body responded only to the need to reach the priest.
His foot went out from under him, throwing him forward on his chest. His hand reached out to check his slide as the ground gave way and he began slipping back. His fingers dug into the crumbling soil and grabbed a piece of smooth metal. He slid for a short distance, then stopped.
He pushed himself up to his knees, his hand still gripping the chunk of metal. He opened his fingers and saw a silver case in his palm. He started forward again, holding the case in front of him as he crawled.
The priest touched the shaft in the girl's chest. The case was a snake in his hand, lashing wildly around his arm.
He whipped the snake away from him, crushing its head against the corroded door of an automobile. The snake twitched and became a gem-crusted scepter.
The priest's hand closed around the silver shaft. The girl jackknifed, a convulsive shock jerking her knees to her belly.
As he reached the scepter it became a single, radiating jewel, a shimmering stone that vibrated with an intense light. A light whose source was generated in the center of the jewel itself.
He felt his ultimate senses quiver in the presence of the precious fragment. It was the light. The source of all light. He remembered his quest and realized he had achieved completion. He bent close to the stone but he did not touch it.
"Why do you hesitate?" the priest barked. "Is that not what you seek?"
He looked up. The priest was smiling down at him, his restless hands moving over the girl's arms and neck.
"Yes," he said, "I seek the light."
"It is there in front of you. The light."
He nodded.
"It is yours, now."
"We will create a new infinity," the priest insisted.
The priest moved his hand to the silver knife in the girl's body. He reached down for the light.
"I am master of all this. I have given you your light," the priest said softly.
As Orient's fingers touched the source of his quest his reason exploded into streaking flares of desire.
"Take it, it is yours," the priest commanded.
His hand became beautiful around the stone, the light charging his fingers with a warmth that penetrated his thought and soothed the confusion there.
"Yours," the priest whispered.
His being began to gnaw on the priest's bargain. He held the light to his body and looked warily around him. He was alone.
He held the fragment above his head and called to the hooded figures gathered around the base of the hill. One of them began making the climb up the treacherous slope.
He held the light in front of his face and stared directly into the source. Now he had won everything he had sought through a maze of lifetimes.
He knew now that he was greater than his quest. Greater than the light.
He looked at the liquid chunk of incandescence resting on rotting metal. "And you?" he asked, not knowing how the words had been formed.
The priest pointed to the dark sun. "That is mine," he said.
He looked up questioningly.
"I wield my sun. You, your light. Together we will share the destiny of existence. Together we can combine into the new water of a new universe," the priest whispered.
"What do you propose?" he asked, eager to learn.
"I propose causing the movement from the potential of the All to the actual of the All. I propose an eternity of gratification."
Orient crouched on the unsteady slope, staring at the light and listening to the excitement of the thought.
"We," the priest thundered, "we will be the All. We will be the first cause of a new direction. We will be greater than being, nothingness, plus, minus... greater than existence."
He listened, nodding his head.
"You and I will be infinite over a finite existence. An existence stamped with the impression of our consciousness."
He nodded. It was true. It could be so.
He tried to stand, his hand hovering over the light.
A snarl of exultation curled his mouth, his lips twisting over the sweet taste of infinity melting on his tongue.
He knew now that he was meant to lead existence forward. He threw his head back and roared a challenge at the priest's dark sun.
The priest began to laugh then, and he laughed with him, not knowing why.
His laughter became a shriek of fear as he saw the hooded figure approaching him. He clutched the light to his chest and backed off. The figure stopped. The long, gray cloak fell away.
A beautiful child was standing before him. She stretched out her hand. Chuckling at his foolish fright, he dropped down to one knee and nodded to her. He mused on the treasures he would show her as she moved nimbly toward him.
She was almost within reach of his outstretched hand when the awkward, halting cadence of a rhyme touched his memory. His memory.
Orient drew back, looking up as a sudden flood of consciousness rushed to fill him.
Malta was shuddering with effort, straining to form the nonsense words, her face running with tears and her body lifting against the bursts of pain that riddled her senses.
He remembered his name and his love for her. He began to sing the child's song, his voice rising as hers trailed off. Then he felt the pure momentum of combined faith congeal inside him and he was strong with renewed balance.
The priest's hands gripped the shaft in Malta's body, transforming the fading notes of her song into an unceasing wail.
The child was at Orient's side. She touched his hand and Malta's wail became a scream of terror.
Orient repeated the words of the song, chanting stubbornly as the girl pressed her hand against his mouth, warning him to be silent. He remembered her face. She was the child who had tricked him. She was the girl who had come to him as Malta.
He pushed at her hand and she fell away from him, sliding down with the crashing waves of refuse, rolling faster and faster as she neared the bottom.
He looked up.
The priest was tugging at the dagger imbedded in Malta's... chest. She was whimpering with fright, trying to tear his fingers away.
"You must stop," the priest said calmly, "or you will lose everything."
"What do you mean?" Orient demanded. He held the stone above his head. "I have the light."
"Without my sun you have nothing. With me you are infinite. With me you will lead existence to a new destiny."
Orient shook his head. "You are one and I am four," he explained. "And soon I will be eight and then sixteen... until I have become all consciousness and all consciousness becomes infinity."
The priest started to speak, but Orient cut him off.
"There will be no leaders to take existence forward," he said. "Existence will join to fulfill its own potential."
"We will create a new ritual of change," the priest insisted.
"The natural ritual of natural change will create itself," Orient said.
"No," the priest said, "my will shall be done." His hands began pulling the shaft from Malta's body.
Orient felt the purpose snap his wrist as he hurled the chunk of light at the priest. The stone struck him in the face, shattering into a hundred flashing fragments. The priest staggered back, reeling at the edge of the summit. Orient saw a section of the hill under the priest's feet collapse, breaking away intact so that for an instant he stood poised, balanced like a dancer on the slow sliding crest, before the wave parted and he skidded headlong down the crumbling slope.
Orient crouched low on the unsteady surface as the priest tumbled past him, then he turned and began working his way to the summit.
When he reached Malta he cradled her in his arms, rocking her against his chest as he crooned the child's song.
She pulled away. "The knife," she said sadly, "you must take it."
"Why?" he whispered, knowing the answer. Knowing the emptiness.
"So that I may die and fulfill my Karma," she said. She touched his cheek with her cool hand. "Everything in me resists death. But it must be."
"I can't lose you again." Orient held her close and inhaled the cedar scent of her hair.
"Please, you must," she insisted, "or I will never be free to love you again, through other cycles."
Reluctantly he took the long handle in his hands. Malta's hands tensed and scratched at his wrists, a sudden surge of fear arching her back. She sobbed wildly, coiling away from him.
He wrenched the knife from her body and the sobs became a long, low groan that cut short as she fell through his arms to the table.
A sound below him pulled him away from his grief.
The priest was trying to crawl from beneath an avalanche of refuse. The young girl was tugging at the rubble that pinned him.
A cluster of hooded figures was lurching toward them, clawing at the air as they moved. Other groups were flailing at each other, fighting among themselves, digging objects from the ground to use as weapons.
He saw an old woman reach the child and slash her throat with a jagged piece of metal. Three cloaked figures converged on the priest and began pounding methodically at his helpless body with heavy objects.
Above him, the dark sun careened in the departing sky, the wild thunder of its fall twisting into a roar of blackness. Orient felt the sound and dove through the darkness toward the three points of light that promised dim warmth against the sudden cold...
A drenching rain was beating down on the stadium. Orient sat stunned in the drumming downpour, staring ahead as streams of water wriggled down his matted hair, and along the sides of his face, slipping under the neck of his damp shirt.
On the field the policemen were clearing a path for the men who were wheeling Kane Mulnew back along the aisle. One of the men had thrown his raincoat over her and two others held umbrellas over the chair.
Orient looked back into the stands and saw the wide, silent lines of people bunching at the exits.
The television equipment was rapidly being removed from the field and the seats on the arena floor were almost empty.
Just as Orient understood that Susej had failed he understood that he had gained. The faith of millions had been frustrated.
It would take time before that faith would be offered again.
His eyes went to the platform.
Susej stood alone, watching the receding crowd. He turned his head and looked up at where Orient was sitting. For a long moment he stared up at Orient. Then he started walking very slowly and deliberately down the ramp.
Something inside Orient trembled, then gave way as he watched Susej take a few careful steps, stagger, then fall to his knees.
Orient felt the last clinging ebbs of alien energy recede from his body, releasing his consciousness.
The priest was falling forward, rolling heavily to the edge of the grass, and coming to rest at the feet of one of the soldiers.
The priest's head fell back, his face staring up at the hard, steady rain as the soldier knelt beside him. The soldier waved frantically to the dugout. A pair of policemen, carrying a stretcher, ran toward the inert body.
Susej was finished.
And Malta was free.
Orient waited until the swarm of men at the arena entrance had swallowed the stretcher and closed it off from sight before getting up and moving to the stairs.
When he reached the street he found the rain had slackened to a drizzle.
Fu/Return (The Turning Point)
above K'UN the receptive, earth
below CHEN the arousing, thunder
The idea of a turning point arises from the fact that after the dark lines have pushed all of the light lines upward and out of the hexagram, another light line enters the hexagram from below. The time of darkness is past. The winter solstice brings the victory of light. This hexagram is linked with the eleventh month, the month of the solstice (December-January).
THE JUDGMENT
RETURN. Success.
Going out and coming in without error.
Friends come without blame.
To and fro goes the way.
On the seventh day comes return.
It furthers one to have somewhere to go.
After a time of decay comes the turning point. The powerful light that has been banished returns. There is movement, but it is not brought about by force. The upper trigram K'un is characterized by devotion; thus the movement is natural, arising spontaneously. For this reason the transformation of the old becomes easy. The old is discarded and the new is introduced. Both measures accord with the times; therefore no harm results. Societies of people sharing the same views are formed. But since these groups come together in full public knowledge and are in harmony with the time, all selfish separatist tendencies are excluded, and no mistake is made. The idea of RETURN is based on the course of nature. The movement is cyclic, and the course completes itself. Therefore it is not necessary to hasten anything artificially. Everything comes of itself at the appointed time. This is the meaning of heaven and earth.
All movements are accomplished in six stages and the seventh brings return. Thus the winter solstice, with which the decline of the year begins, comes in the seventh month after the summer solstice; so too sunrise comes in the seventh double hour after sunset. Therefore seven is the number of the young light, and it arises when six, the number of the great darkness, is increased by one. In this way the state of rest gives place to movement.
THE IMAGE
Thunder within the earth:
The image of THE TURNING POINT.
Thus the kings of antiquity closed the passes
At the time of solstice.
Merchants and strangers did not go about,
And the ruler
Did not travel through the provinces.
The winter solstice has always been celebrated in China as the resting time of the year-- a custom that survives in the time of rest observed at the new year. In winter the life energy, symbolized by thunder, the Arousing, is still underground. Movement is just at its beginning; therefore it must be strengthened by rest, so that it will not be dissipated by being used prematurely. This principle, i.e., of allowing energy that is renewing itself to be reinforced by rest, applies to all similar situations. The return of health after illness, the return of understanding after an estrangement: everything must be treated tenderly and with care at the beginning, so that the return may lead to a flowering.
THE LINES
O Nine at the beginning means:
Return from a short distance.