[Doctor Orient - 2]
Copyright © 1972, 2001 by Frank Lauria
For my parents, and for John Hohnsbeen,
Don and Nancy De Mare, Alice Rydh, Ray Lofaro,
H.B & Bruce Gilmour, and of course,
Ragass-- who know what to blow...
Oh, that magic feeling,
Nowhere to go
-- John Lennon
New York, 1969
Sordi still couldn't believe it.
He shook his head sadly as he looked around the room. The gold afternoon light poured through the terrace doors and filtered through the dust, illuminating the particles. That relentless New York grime he had come to despise in the three years he had lived here. Tonight he knew he would even miss the dirt.
He liked this room.
He liked the dark brown wood beams that stretched across the ceiling. He liked the open sweep of partitionless space extending from the front terrace facing the Hudson Palisades to the rear balcony overlooking the herb garden. He liked the taste of fresh fish grilled on his circular chrome fireplace. He liked his private entrance. He liked everything about the place.
And he didn't like having to leave. He couldn't comprehend the necessity. It had happened too quickly.
His ticket was in his pocket and his money had been deposited in the Bank of Naples, but he couldn't understand why it had to be done.
If there was some good reason for destroying a perfect way of life, perhaps he could feel better about leaving. But there had been no explanation. Finished, that's all.
Survival was no problem. The doctor had provided him with enough money to live on for a few years. There was still his family home on Ischia. A little investing and he'd be all right. But he just wasn't ready to retire so soon. Working for Doctor Orient had given him a taste for learning. Serving as his secretary had been like being an assistant to a university scientist. The doctor had taught him how to use his mind. And he had taught the doctor how to cook. It had been a warm, stimulating experience. And now it was over.
He shrugged his shoulders. He would never understand.
He walked slowly across the inlaid wood floor to the terrace. The darkening red sky over the river was streaked with violet. Lights were beginning to appear in the windows of the high-rise apartments facing the city.
He had known something was wrong last summer.
Doctor Orient should have gone to the house on the Cape as usual instead of staying in the city and becoming involved with that project. It certainly would have been better than getting mixed up with Doctor Ferrari. That man had brought trouble with him the first day he arrived.
First it was the detectives poking around everywhere, upsetting the routine. During the four months Ferrari was there they came every day to search the house. It was just as well that he hadn't been allowed near the laboratory or the study during those months. He'd been kept so busy making coffee and fixing snacks for the cops that he wouldn't have been much help to the doctor anyway.
Then it was the way the doctor was working. Ferrari kept him in the laboratory for two and three days sometimes. The doctor stopped eating and got too thin and nervous. Just when he thought he'd succeeded in teaching Doctor Orient something about food.
And finally the arguing every night.
Sordi shivered and went inside as a cutting wind blew up from the river. He closed the terrace doors carefully. He'd never heard Doctor Orient raise his voice in anger until those last few months.
Sometimes, in spite of the security of the Secret Service men, he had seen the young girl in the wheelchair arrive. Five men would surround the car and take her inside so quickly that he could catch only a glimpse of them from the stairs.
After the first month everything had become relaxed and the detectives began spending more time in the kitchen. But even they didn't seem to know very much about what was going on. The girl was the daughter of some big politician from California and was getting special therapy for her legs. They called the girl Judy but he didn't believe that was her real name.
The detectives had become friendlier toward him as time passed, helping him around the house and always commenting on his clothes, but the cold, flat look in their eyes was always there. There were some kinds of Americans Sordi found it difficult to like.
He had known the girl was cured even before they had told him. One day he saw her coming out of the study. She was walking very slowly between Doctor Orient and Doctor Ferrari. They helped her into a wheelchair that was outside the door. Three weeks after that, the detectives told him they were going to miss his cooking.
On the same night that he had seen the girl come out of the study, the doctor and Ferrari had their first argument. He had gone to the head of the stairs to see if something was wrong. He could hear Ferrari's infuriatingly coarse voice interrupting the doctor's words, the sounds becoming progressively louder. They went on like that for two hours. Finally Ferrari stormed out of the study and left. The doctor slammed the door shut and stayed in his study until the next night, refusing to eat or open the door.
After that, there were many more arguments.
Then Ferrari, the detectives, and the girl stopped coming to the house. The doctor had spent three weeks just sitting in his closed study day after day. Until the day Doctor Orient came and told him it was finished, he was selling the house.
Sordi picked up his Louis Vuitton suitcase and walked toward the stairs. No matter, he reassured himself, tonight I'll be in Roma and it will be a new beginning.
When he came down the stairs, he saw Doctor Orient waiting for him outside the study.
He was so thin these days, even thinner than the time he had the trouble with the crazy girl. His dark skin was getting sallow from being indoors so much and his green eyes were washed out and dim.
Doctor Orient was tall and usually carried his frame with the alert poise of an athlete, but now his wide shoulders slumped and his long hands dangled unenthusiastically from his wrists. Even the white streak
in his long black hair seemed to have gotten wider in these last few months. He had always been a private man, but lately he'd become unreachable. Sordi dropped his bag and looked into his face. Six months ago the doctor had looked like a boy of twenty-five. Tonight the lines stretched deep under his jutting cheekbones, pulling down at the upturned corners of his mouth. He looked burned out.
But his hand was firm and, when he spoke, Sordi could hear something beyond the words of farewell. The sincere awareness of three years of friendship.
Suddenly he wanted to take the doctor by the shoulders and shake him. Ask him point-blank why the hell all this stupidness.
But he didn't.
Instead, he picked up his bag, put his hand on the doctor's arm and said, "It's a nice night, should be a good flight. You know where to get in touch with me."
The doctor nodded and Sordi knew that he wouldn't forget. He jammed his hand into the pocket of his long leather coat, pulled out a small ball of tissue paper and handed it to the doctor. "That's yours," he said.
At least on Ischia, he reminded himself as he walked away, you can depend on people.
Orient stuffed the ball of tissue into his shirt pocket as he watched Sordi leave. He felt depressed. Sordi's craggy expression was always a masterpiece of innocent diplomacy but it wasn't difficult to see the confused hurt in his face.
He turned and went into the study.
The room was completely empty except for the desk and two chairs. The books that had once stuffed the shelves, overflowing into every corner of the room, had been crated and taken away. The paintings, star charts, and diagrams had been taken down from the walls. The microfilm reader, film projector, slide projector, screens, videotape equipment, and editing table were gone. Everything had been stripped away from the long room except for the massive rolltop desk under the high, slanting skylight.
The man who bought the house had insisted that the desk be included as an item of contract. Orient had agreed; all he was concerned about was cutting all ties as quickly as possible.
Right now Andy Jacobs was hovering over the desk like an impatient old bullfrog, his tongue flicking nervously as he waited to snare the remaining signatures required to liquidate the estate.
"Let's get goin', Owen," Andy croaked the sole but persistent bit of wit that he employed every time he saw Orient.
Orient walked slowly over to the desk, picked up the gold fountain pen lying on the blotter and began signing his full name, Owen Orient III, wherever the attorney pointed his blunt, hairy finger. And with each signing, Andy would repeat another variation on his position.
"Do you think it's fair tribute to everything your parents, and you, worked so hard for?" Reasonable, never angry, pausing patiently for Orient to scrawl another initial. "There are ways I could handle the estate. You would never have access to a single penny, but you could pass it on to an heir. A son perhaps. Could happen, you know, Owen; thirty-one is time enough to find the right woman. Everything is change." Gruff but gentle, even throwing in a bit of Eastern thought to lure a response.
"Owen, you could take some more time to consider the house on the Cape." Chiding but patient, asking only for rationality. "Why, I spent many summers there with your parents before you were born, boy." Firm. Appealing to his sense of heritage.
Orient grunted, nodded, and kept signing.
When it was finished, he slowly screwed the cap on the pen and straightened up. He felt a quick pang when he saw the expression of genuine concern on Andy's face; a sense of loss that
began to widen when he recalled Sordi's wounded smile. Perhaps he should have gone to the airport with his friend. He tried to shake off the emotion. It was all the way it had to be.
"You know, Senator," Orient reflected, "I'm willing to bet you never would have lost that seat in Washington if you hadn't decided to retire."
Andy Jacobs carefully arranged the papers into neat piles. "Leaving yourself with nothing isn't funny, boy," he said softly. He began separating the assets from the liabilities.
"Getting rid of the books and manuscripts with a big chunk of your life to begin with. But you give that radical school"—Andy gave Orient a moment to ponder the responsibilities of tradition—"all your immediate assets"—he paused again to give Orient time to consider the gravity of money—"to establish a school of psychic research." He scratched his lumpy nose while he tried to find some emotional connection to the words. Finding none, he continued.
"Throwing the income from your father's films into establishing neighborhood hospitals was a magnanimous but unnecessary gesture," he said, his hoarse monotone floating calmly on a righteous current of reason. "Your estate had always been set up to donate more than its share to charities."
Orient sat down on the edge of the desk and folded his arms. At least he had to let Andy have his summation address.
"I personally fail to understand why the property income couldn't be used to provide some trust for your later years." The senator moved his bulk regretfully so that he could peer directly into Orient's face.
Andy may be getting on, Orient noted, but there's still plenty of brimstone in those bloodhound eyes. He began to become uncomfortable under the old senator's persistent scrutiny. Andy had been his friend, adviser, and attorney all his life. He had arranged his affairs after the death of his parents, and had always tried to protect him. Now there was no way to prevent disappointing him.
"Owen, I'm telling you as an old friend who wants to keep you from a grave mistake." Andy came closer. "Getting rid of your estate is one thing, but giving up all claims for your medical research to
Ferrari is morally disturbing to me, boy, and it should be to you."
He glared at Orient.
"Throwing away your money is foolish, Owen, but throwing away title to your work is destructive. Your unique contribution to humanity. The fruit of all your labor and sweat and brains. And don't tell me your name had anything to do with it," Andy squinted triumphantly, his voice rising to a heavy growl. "I drew up the original papers myself. Ferrari had agreed to your wish that Project Judy never be published until you gave the word. Why turn around and hand the whole thing over to him now? Including the rights to your discoveries? Why, Owen?"
Orient examined his fingers. The senator must have unnerved plenty of witnesses in his heyday. And right now he had another fish squirming.
"Why hand your work over to Ferrari?"
Orient waited, not sure that Andy expected an answer.
"Curing the daughter of the Vice President is a great step in what could be a magnificent career. Burn your bridges if you must, but don't demean your profession." Andy turned his back and walked to the window. The prosecution was at rest.
Orient sighed. "Listen, Senator, all I want to do is remain anonymous on that project. The bulk of my experiments will be carried on in my name by the universities. And they'll also have access to the neuropsychic techniques I developed for Judy. It's the knowledge that's important, not my name. I'm doing this precisely so that the resulting publicity from Ferrari's papers won't overdramatize the other fifty projects. That would demean my craft." Orient had come to his feet and was punctuating his words with short jabs of his finger.
"You're letting Ferrari appropriate and exploit your work." Andy came back to the desk and stood directly in front of him.
Orient sat back on the desk and shook his head. He was becoming excited too easily these days. He'd have to begin getting back to his meditation routines. "Ferrari is getting only his rightful share of Project Judy's success," he said slowly. "Don't forget that his neurosurgical results were just as important in effecting a cure as my therapy."
"He's getting the whole pie. Everything. Including publishing rights, research grants, recognition, and who knows what else." A crafty look came over Senator Jacobs's face as he pulled still another card from his overstacked deck. "He might even take a Nobel Prize one of these days." He offered the prospect casually.
Orient frowned. "I didn't discover a universal cure, Andy, I just helped heal one person. It's not the same thing." He stood up and began pacing the floor. "This isn't something I've done impulsively, Senator," he said quietly.
"All right, Owen." Andy moved his ponderous body to the other side of the desk. He slowly put each stack of paper into separate compartments of his briefcase and then, with great effort, pulled out a thick document from the bag. He tossed it onto the desk. "This one does it. Sign that and you're worth absolutely nothing in terms of tangible property."
Orient looked at the senator and grinned. "You were holding out. You thought you could talk me out of it."
"Always a chance when you know you're right, Owen," Andy intoned sorrowfully. Orient signed his name six more times, initialed two corrections, and it was done. "Hate to see an opportunist like Ferrari get you so worked over," Andy ventured as he zipped his briefcase.
Orient winced. "Let it be, Andy," he said softly.
Senator Jacobs took Orient's arm as they walked to the door. "You're a good man, Owen. Tough customer to talk down." He stopped at the door and plucked his hat from the rack. "Guess it's foolish to ask if you want to borrow some money."
"There is one thing." Orient went back into the study and returned with a reel of videotape and a leather-bound notebook. He handed them over to the senator. "I'd consider it a favor if you held onto these for me."
"Of course," the senator rumbled as he unzipped his briefcase.
"Now, are you sure you don't want me to keep these papers for a month or so?" His face remained impassive.
Orient shook his head.
Andy Jacobs nodded, jammed his hat down on his head and opened the door. "I think your father sired a damn fool," he said amiably. "Good luck."
"Andy." The senator wheeled, still hoping for a change of decision. Orient held out the gold pen he had used to sign the documents. "You may as well keep this," he said.
Senator Jacobs snatched the pen out of Orient's hand and lumbered across the pavement to the waiting limousine.
Orient smiled as he waited for Andy's car to pull away. It would be at least thirty days before those papers moved from the senator's desk drawer. He closed the door and walked slowly back to the study.
He sat down at the desk and stretched his long legs out full length. So that was it. The stillness in the house was amplified by the muted whine of a siren somewhere outside. He half-turned in his chair, trying to unloosen the uncomfortable knot in his lower back. He'd been bending over signing papers for at least an hour. He must be out of shape. During these months with Project Judy he had been away from the meditation room. Just as well. He'd have to learn to achieve release without the aid of artificial environments. Orient snorted and sat back. Exactly the point. He was living inside an egg.
He had been fed, clothed, rubbed, and rested like some prize cat for most of his life. Even when he made the penniless journey on foot to the monastery high above Nepal, there had been advisers, dons, letters of introduction—all greasing the solitary path to Ku.
Now he would have only what he had learned. If he had learned anything.
He remembered something. He reached into his shirt pocket and drew out the ball of tissue Sordi had given him. He unwrapped it slowly.
There was a rectangular silver object inside the paper. A case of some sort. He looked at the design on its surface. It was an exact replica of the oval figure etched into his silver cigarette case.
Orient shook his head. The cigarette case was something he carried with him everywhere. Sordi must have had a terrible time getting hold of it for long enough to copy the design. Especially with the Secret Service men all over the house.
He opened the case. Neatly tucked inside a silver pocket was a pack of Bambu cigarette paper. His favorite brand. Orient smiled. Sordi.
He examined the design again. He remembered the untroubled sense of achievement, the confident acceptance when Ku had given him the inscribed cigarette case. No question then of his purpose or his worthiness. He snapped the thin cover of the holder shut.
Putting the silver case back into his shirt pocket, he stood up. He wouldn't wait until morning, he decided, he'd take a shower and leave the house tonight. As he walked up the stairs to the bedroom, he tried to free his mind of all his regrets. He wasn't getting anything he didn't want.
He finished his long hot shower with a hard spray of cold water from all nine nozzles, enjoying the fresh tingle of stimulated blood racing under his skin.
Afterward, as he brushed his long wet hair back away from his face, he had an urge to visit the meditation room once more before the new owner converted it into a bedroom. Still naked, he padded up the dark stairs to the third floor and went to the door at the end of the hall. He slid the door aside and switched on the lights.
Different areas of the room lit up; sections of the high ceiling, portions of the textured walls, parts of the translucent flooring around the now empty pool. Some areas glowed a soft white, others a deep amber. In one corner an indirect blue spot and a yellow patch of light combined to create a hazy green focus. All of the lighting had been carefully arranged by Orient to entice a tension between light and shadow. The only object in the room was a massive rock standing on the floor at an angle to the pool. At one time the pool had been the home of a swarm of brightly hued fish which swam through constantly running water.
Orient had a faint feeling of pride as he looked around the room he had designed. His purpose had been to provide an environment which would serve to lull its occupants into a receptive state of awareness. The rock, the pool, the light, the shadow, had all been juxtaposed carefully to create an atmosphere of dynamic serenity. And even without the fish it still worked.
He sat down on the carpet, between the stone and the pool, and began the physical movements that were the first stage of his meditation.
At first the stretching and loosening of his stiff muscles was awkward. He stopped, rested; then began again.
He concentrated on limbering his spine, focusing his energy on the delicate network of nerve endings woven through the socketed flex of bone and fleshy fiber. As his body started to respond, he began the breathing. The very first patterns. The nose inhale. Opening the solar plexus and igniting the first connections. Focusing tighter with each cycle of breath, fusing his mind to the rhythms.
He swam back through his being, toward the light, the chemical spark of his presence. The luminous combinations of his reality were an infinite swirl of shifting shapes around him. They began to separate, revealing geometric clusters of memory. The flash of birth. A childhood toy. His parents. The Dream.
His energy fluttered, twisting to avoid the pain. He deepened his breathing patterns, trying to recapture the glittering calm.
The Dream. His parents. The plane crash making the dream real.
Suddenly the swirls were blurred with thoughts.
Ferrari. He remembered the man as a thrust of appetites; ever-expanding lusts for learning, pleasure, fame, and emotion. Enormous capacities for love, hate, and competition. A driving, brilliant child who demanded to taste everything available. Orient had worked with, learned from, and fought with Ferrari, but he had never been able to match that consuming hunger.
The thoughts shattered his concentration. He began again, trying to fuse his breath to his will.
He floated back and the swirls loomed, unfolded, and became the incandescent imprint of the mountain. He went back to the first hour of the first day. The first momentary glimpse of the cave. The tiny tent where he had lived during his apprenticeship to Ku of the Fourth Level. Entering into the second, by second, existence of that splendid isolation—the Serene Knowledge... The focus slipped again and whirled him back to the turmoil-the confusion—Ferrari...
Once again he went back to the primary pattern—controlling his breath—his energy yearning for the pure soaring awareness of the mountain...
He continued the pattern over and over, like some solitary swimmer diving for a lost tool, until he fell into a dreamless sleep there on the soft carpet.
The sound of heavy thumping and men shouting downstairs woke Orient. He looked around.
Excellent.
He had fallen asleep in the meditation room. His great decision to leave the house had faded. He rubbed his eyes. When a man has nowhere to go, he told himself, it makes no difference what time he begins. He stood up and stretched carefully. Another shout jogged him fully awake. The movers were delivering the new owner's household.
Suddenly aware that he was naked, he left the room and went quietly down to the bedroom. He washed, brushed his teeth and hair, and began to get dressed. He was buttoning his shirt when a squat, muscular man with a dirty white handkerchief tied around his head opened the door. He took a well-chewed cigar butt out of his mouth and pointed it at Orient.
"Who the hell arc you?" he grunted.
"I'm the old owner. I've been packing some last things."
"Old owner been out of here two days already." The man moved closer. "He's a doctor. You don't look old enough to be no doctor."
Orient reached into the pocket of his suitcase and handed the man his identification.
The man put the cigar butt into the corner of his mouth and wiped his hand on his shirt as he studied the passport and driver's license.
Satisfied finally, he passed them back.
The man lingered while Orient packed some towels into the bag Sordi had prepared for him. He looked around for his pigskin windbreaker. He tried to take his time but the man's presence made him uncomfortable. He suddenly wanted to get as far away as possible from the house. He picked up the suitcase and started out.
The man went ahead and opened the door. As Orient passed him, the man broke the long silence. "You look like a kid, you know that?" he confided.
"It's the vitamins," Orient said, moving quickly to the stairs.
The sun was shining and even though the air coming across the river was cold, Orient could feel spring only a few weeks away. He stood on the sidewalk and took a long breath. He looked at the river for a moment, then began walking downtown.
He maintained a steady pace for twenty or thirty blocks until he became extremely thirsty. He tried three luncheonettes before finding a sidewalk stand that sold fresh-squeezed orange juice. Over his second glass he began to approach full consciousness. He was standing just off 86th Street on Third Avenue. He wondered where it was that he'd turned east. He ordered another glass and tried to get his thoughts functioning. He'd have to find a place to stay. Then he would decide what to do after that. He looked at his watch. It wasn't there.
Then he remembered. He had left it in the bathroom along with his toothbrush, razor, herb shampoo, pine-tar soap and the other essentials in his toilet case. They were lost. He wouldn't be going back for them.
He'd been born in that house and this morning he had been an intruder. He set his jaw as he realized how final—and how impersonal-were the transactions of change. There had been no real possession. Merely the illusion supported by time. He was learning already.
Orient was mildly dismayed by the bill for three glasses of orange juice. Four dollars. His hundred-dollar stake money wouldn't take him very far. He was so out of touch that he had no idea how much it cost an ordinary man to live for a few weeks. He decided to go to the park.
As he walked slowly west toward Fifth Avenue, he pondered how ill-prepared he was for life outside his hothouse. Ever since he had entered Stanford at fifteen he had been isolated from contact with people on a normal human level. There had been girls, even at sixteen, but he was committed to work and there had been little time for developing relationships. There were studies in mathematics, science, and languages. Then medical school, his psychiatric specialization, and the great transition after he comprehended Jung and Reich. During that period he had begun his experimentation with ultranormal phenomena.
After that he had pursued an intensive study of the occult, that period closely followed by his immersion into yoga. Then came the journey to Tibet and the development of the telepathic technique.
And with all that training he had absolutely no idea of how he was to live like an ordinary man. How to find the channel between his awakened consciousness, and mankind's simple karma. He snorted. Perhaps he should try a mind-reading act.
At Fifth he crossed and turned uptown, walking for a few blocks until he found a small entrance to Central Park. He walked the curving pathways for awhile, then sat down, still only half-aware of his surroundings. He looked around.
He was sitting by himself. A short distance away, a man with red shoulder-length hair was sitting on a bench across from him. The man had a magazine in his lap and was rolling a cigarette. He was wearing a black cowboy shirt emblazoned with silver eagles on each shoulder. Rodeo must be in town, Orient mused. He went back to his thoughts.
Through all the experiments with his communicants, he had been unable to bridge one vital gap. Common understanding. Probably that was why the tape was a failure. A twinge of defeat scratched at the memory of the uncompleted reel of videotape he had turned over to Andy.
His definitive statement.
His intention had been to make a visual presentation of everything he had discovered concerning human telepathic potential. He had also had a further ambition; he set out to blend science and art so skillfully, that not only would the viewer understand telepathic technique, but his own dormant powers would be stimulated to awareness in the process. Ultimate communication of communication.
He hadn't been up to it. He had completely scrapped most of it. Pretentious footage of colts being born, birds in flight; a worthless cliche.
Still, the tape project was the one thread of his life he intended to pick up and use again. He smelled burning leaves.
He automatically turned toward the source of the scent. The cowboy was sitting head back, looking at the tops of the trees, smoking a cigarette. He became aware of Orient watching him and slowly got to his feet. He bent down and carefully adjusted his jeans over his high brown boots. Then he straightened up and gave Orient a long deliberate stare.
Orient felt a vibration of recognition. There was something familiar about the red-haired man. The cowboy turned and began strolling up the path, the smell of burning leaves fading after him. A wave of comprehension washed over Orient's mind. The cowboy was a potential. Orient watched him disappear around a curve. And the cowboy hadn't been smoking tobacco.
A few months ago he would have done everything possible to recruit the cowboy's telepathic talent. Help him understand and develop it. Today the man was just another stranger. He had his own potential to develop.
He'd have to find some kind of work he could do. Medical research was out. It would be another form of removal. He needed something that would put him in touch with people. He stood up, picked up his bag, and started walking through the park.
His mind jumped back to the cowboy. Potentials weren't commonplace after all. In the past four years he'd found only eight. And five of them weren't able to complete their training. Maybe he should have tried to talk to the man.
He veered off the path and walked across the grass to a group of rocks. He climbed up onto the lowest ledge and leaned back against the stone, gazing at the distant 59th Street skyline.
He needed some place to stay. Perhaps a hotel with weekly rates.
But even that was only a temporary measure. In a few days he'd be out of money and in the same situation. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. He picked up his bag and began walking slowly south toward the skyline. By the time he reached the zoo he was hungry.
In the past he often enjoyed long walks along the Hudson and through the park, but he had always avoided this section, with its cramped cages and musky stench of animal flesh moldering in captivity. Today, however, he saw the gaudily decorated outdoor patio of the cafeteria and decided to stop for something to eat.
He went inside, took a tray, and looked for some food that approximated his own special diet. The closest he could come was a jar of yogurt, honey, a carrot and raisin salad and chocolate malted with a raw egg. He was pleased to discover that the whole meal came to less than he had paid for three glasses of orange juice that morning. He made a mental note to eat here more often.
Carrying his full tray and suitcase proved to be an intricate maneuver so he sat down at the first available table. He set the bag down next to his chair and looked around. The long-haired cowboy was sitting at the next table, grinning broadly at something his companion, a pretty blond girl, was saying.
When he saw Orient, the only change in his expression was a slight narrowing of his clear blue eyes. A moment later, however, he leaned over and whispered something to the girl and they both got up from the table. As they passed him, the cowboy glanced at Orient while continuing his conversation with the girl.
Orient calmly ate his salad. Potentials usually experienced an unexplained sense of agitation or anxiety in his presence. During his experiments he had discovered that this was due to an increase in the amount of electromagnetic energy produced by the brain, disturbing the field. Like static on a radio or the extreme fluctuations produced when charging a dormant battery.
He speculated again on the possibility of contacting the cowboy, then shrugged off the thought. He had to do something positive about his own battery before he could develop someone else.
When he was finished, he sat watching the crowd, regarding it with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. The profusion of balloons -and colors complemented the vitality that emanated from the people strolling through the area. It occurred to him that all of them appeared to be holding a definite claim on their life, and that they fully intended to keep possession. He wondered where it was they found their title.
He picked up his bag and moved off the terrace toward the interior of the park, deliberately avoiding the cages.
He wandered for a time, trying to free his mind of all thought, allowing his instincts to guide his direction. When he got to Central Park West, he veered downtown, continuing on to Columbus Circle. He saw a subway entrance, went down the steps, bought a token, and took the first train that came, still letting fate call the turns.
The subway was crowded and Orient, unused to the ground rules of public transportation, was pushed aside and stifled in the jam before he decided to get some fresh air a few stops later.
He looked around. He was at the Fourth Street Station at Washington Square. Interesting. He had always had an affinity for Greenwich Village but his visits there had been limited to brief excursions with friends.
He walked up the stairs to Sixth Avenue, he ambled slowly to Eight Street and turned east. The street ended at the entrance to a small, barren-looking park, and a sign informed him that he was in Tompkin's Square. He crossed the street and entered the park.
A large group of old people lined the benches at the entrance. As Orient passed, he noticed they had strong-boned Slavic faces; his ears could pick out here and there a few words of Ukrainian.
A short distance ahead he saw the fenced recreation areas teeming with Puerto Rican and Negro youths doing gymnastics on high bars, playing softball and handball, or just standing in groups of four or five, smoking and talking.
Across from the playground a fantastic swarm of young people were sitting on the grass talking, sleeping, eating, playing musical instruments, or watching passersby. They all had the same ragged elan Orient had noticed in the neighborhood of the zoo. Both boys and girls were dressed in exotic mirrored vests, velvet tunics, chain belts, Arab robes, renaissance gowns, fringed buckskin jackets, swirl-dyed sweatshirts, Indian headbands, flag-striped shirts, Foreign Legion uniforms, and embroidered musketeer capes. For a moment Orient was reminded of the marketplaces of the Middle East and India. The whole scene had a wild tribal quality.
Orient sat down at the edge of the grass.
As he leaned back and relaxed, a small group of bearded young men dressed identically in flowing oriental shirts and blue jeans arranged themselves nearby. They were carrying guitars and crude drums made by stretching goatskin over large cans. They settled into a circle on the grass and began to play; first softly, then gathering increasing intensity.
A thin boy of four or five dressed in a green suede Robin Hood outfit, complete with feathered hat and buckskin leggings, ambled over to where he was sitting, plunked down beside him and calmly rested his chin on Orient's knee.
Orient was momentarily uncomfortable. He looked around to see where the child had come from. "Don't be uptight, it's all right," a pleasant feminine voice called out. Orient looked up and saw a young girl at the edge of the circle of musicians beaming at him. She stood up and walked toward him.
She was barefoot and dressed in a mini-skirted version of the child's Robin Hood costume. Her wavy chestnut hair hung almost to her waist and Orient saw that a large silver Ankh, the loop-topped Egyptian cross of life, was dangling from her wide belt. She sat down next to him and looked directly into his face with her wide brown eyes. "You must have a nice soul," she said seriously. "Julian won't sit down with just anyone."
Orient smiled. Something about her manner dispelled any discomfort he felt. "I'm not very used to children."
"Children are more aware than adults," the girl said. "They feel pure vibrations, you know."
Orient nodded. "Perhaps I do."
The girl wasn't conventionally pretty, but when she smiled, her small, sensitive face radiated a deep sense of joy. She studied him for a moment. "Perhaps you do at that," she said finally. "I'm Sun Girl."
"Sun Girl?" Orient repeated.
"That's my name," the girl laughed, delighted at Orient's confusion.
Orient thought it over. "My name is Owen," he said.
"That's weird." Sun Girl leaned back on the grass.
"Hello, Owen," Julian said gravely.
They fell silent, listening to the music as it built in volume and force. Most of the young people on the grassy area gathered around the musicians, until they were packed into a tight semicircle around them, swaying and moving with the escalating rhythms. Julian had gotten to his feet and was jumping about in imitation of the twenty or so couples who were dancing to the insistent sounds. Sun Girl began to clap her hands in time to the loud, throbbing beat.
Orient saw that some of the neighborhood athletes had joined the garish crowd. Most of them, however, were still standing behind the wire fences of the recreation areas, watching the revelers impassively. A few—very few—were moving to the music.
The old people on the benches were gone.
Someone passed by and dropped a cellophane-wrapped sandwich and a few apples into his lap. Orient looked up. A dozen boys and girls dressed in overalls and carrying shopping bags were circulating through the crowd distributing food. He looked questioningly at Sun Girl.
"Pig People," she shouted over the noise. "They always show up when something groovy is happening. Like magic." Orient munched his sandwich, too amazed to answer. He felt like a visitor to a curious new country. The air became pungent with the smell of burning leaves, and the driving music was nudging more and more people up to dance. The crowd was moving and laughing ecstatically.
Orient caught a glimpse of the cowboy. The man was smiling broadly, snapping his fingers and swinging his long red hair from side to side. Orient stood up to get a better look and suddenly noticed that the athletes who had been standing in the play area were in full-scale exodus from the park; scrambling up fences, dropping to the sidewalks on the other side and running down the street like a small army of well-trained guerrillas.
A moment later the music and noise was split by the sounds of sirens, whistles, and tires screeching against asphalt, as the park was surrounded by wailing squadrons of police cars and trucks. Helmeted police leaped out of the cars and covered the exits.
The music stopped. For a long time everything was still except for the dying whine of the sirens. No one moved. The rotating emergency lights on the cars flashed in the lowering darkness like electronic heartbeats.
A policeman with a bullhorn awkwardly mounted the roof of a squad car. His voice came to Orient as a disembodied echoing rasp. "This is an illegal assembly. Please move out of the center area NOW!"
No one moved. "Everyone will MOVE OUT of the park NOW!" the voice repeated without emotion for all of its emphasis.
Orient felt the tension in the crowd stretching tight. He began to perspire as a stifling blanket of claustrophobia wrapped itself around him.
The crowd began inching forward. For an instant it seemed to be heading straight for him. Then the tension snapped, unleashing a rush of fury that literally staggered him with the force of its rage.
Everyone was yelling and shoving. The young people shrieked obscenities and incomprehensible phrases of hate, partially drowning out the repetition of orders from the bullhorn. The police advanced quickly, shouting directions to each other as they moved.
Everything was a jerky m61ange of movement. He was whirled around in stumbling circles, his arms and legs twitching like a puppet dangling in a high wind. The young people converged and pressed forward. Orient was pulled along with them, trapped in the surging crush.
"Off the PIGS!... Motherin' Pigs... MOTHERS!"
"Get 12 working... Unit 12 over THERE... DAMMIT, MOVE!"
"RAMSHACKLE THOSE PIGS... Gimme somethin'—gimme SOMETHIN'!"
Girls and boys began ripping concrete chunks from the sidewalks and hurling them at the police; bending and rifting frantically as they clawed at the ground for some weapon. Bottles made heavy arcs in the air, shattering at the feet of the police. A policeman went down and was quickly surrounded by three others who shielded him with their bodies as they helped him back toward the squad cars. The rest of the police split into groups of four or five and began charging toward the crowd. A series of flat POPS exploded dully and clouds of dank, stinging gas erupted from the ground near Orient, searing his eyes and sending him reeling backward.
He was stunned by a sudden blow against the side of his face. He tried to move forward but he couldn't. He was on the ground, his face pressed against the dirt. He realized that he hadn't been hit but had fallen down. His leg was lying on top of something soft and writhing and wailing to get loose. He rolled over. Julian was lying next to him.
Tears had cut brown furrows through the dirt caking the boy's face and he'd lost his hat, but now that Orient's leg was no longer pinning his body he was quite calm. He crawled up to Orient's chest and looked into his face. When he saw that Orient's eyes were open, he leaned over, "Let's get out of here," he whispered.
Orient sat up, pulling Julian close to him. He saw two policemen chasing a boy who had an American flag draped around himself. The boy stopped short, spun around and changed direction. One policeman staggered off balance but managed to grab an edge of the banner. The boy jumped away, shedding the flag and leaving the policeman holding an empty piece of cloth. But then the other policeman rushed up to the boy from behind and swung his nightstick against his neck, knocking him down. He dug his fingers into the boy's long hair and began dragging him toward the exit. Two girls leaped on the policeman's back. He continued to drag the boy by the hair, jabbing his free elbow back into the body of one of the girls who was pulling on his arm.
The other policeman, the flag still clutched in his hand, whacked the girl's bare legs methodically with his club, each blow raising long red welts on her shins and thighs. Three more policemen ran up to help and carried the still struggling young people away.
As the area cleared, Orient saw a small building about twenty yards in front of him. He got to his feet and went toward it, moving in a half-crouch, holding Julian against his chest with both arms. The boy started kicking.
"Mommy. Wait for Mommy," Julian cried out. He pointed back to the area they had just left.
Orient turned and saw Sun Girl peering through the dust and fumes, squinting through inflamed, tearing eyes. Her hands were stretched out in front of her as she moved haltingly through the melee. She was half blind and yelling hysterically for Julian, her voice raw as she called his name again and again.
Still crouching, Orient went back and tugged at her arm. She pulled away. "I want my boy—my boy—DON'T TOUCH ME," she screamed, her face contorted with desperation.
"He's here," Orient yelled, pulling her toward him.
"I'm okay, Mommy," Julian called out.
Orient grabbed Sun Girl's hand and began moving toward the building. A whirling crowd of people moved across the grass threatening to cut them off from shelter. Sun Girl fell heavily toward the ground as Orient began to run. He let go of her hand and sprinted the last few yards to the building. He deposited the protesting boy against the wall and ran back to the grass. Then he pushed his way through the scuffling throng, pulled Sun Girl to her feet and guided her to the side of the building where Julian was waiting.
Sun Girl held Julian close as the boy gently touched his mother's eyes with his tiny fingers. "Are you all right, Mommy?" he asked over and over.
Orient saw a door. He pushed against it and it opened. He came back and led Sun Girl and Julian inside, closing the door behind them.
Silence.
Orient blinked hard, trying to focus through the stinging blur of his sight.
They were in a public lavatory.
Sun Girl sighed and sat down on the floor, leaning her back against the wall. Julian sat next to her and put his head in her lap. He tried to rub his eyes, but she held his hands firmly. "If you rub it, it gets worse," she said softly.
Julian nodded and closed his eyes.
Sun Girl looked at Orient, screwing up her face as she tried to see clearly. "It's you," she said, "the one with the funny name."
"That's right." Orient looked around for the washbasin. He washed his hands, then put his head under the faucet and let the water run over his eyes. "Come over here," he said to Sun Girl, "and bring Julian."
Sun Girl tore a strip from the sleeve of her blouse and held it under the water. She took the wet cloth and carefully washed Julian's face. Orient started to speak but a familiar tug at the base of his brain interrupted him. The gentle probe of telepathic communication.
The picture formed.
A confusing streak of movement. Orient felt a quick snap of anxiety. The picture faded, then formed again. A policeman. The picture drained away. Orient looked at the door. Someone was trying to contact him.
Automatically he went receptive and felt another alien pang of anxiety. It was someone nearby. He headed for the door. "Policeman, policeman," Julian was saying. "Help! Help!"
When Orient opened the door, he was assailed by the screams and stinging fumes. Using all his concentration, he emptied his mind and went receptive, reaching out for the strange sense of anxiety, using the presence to guide himself through the tumult.
As he crossed the grass, a policeman charged toward him, his gas mask and upraised club giving him the unearthly look of a giant insect waving some deadly antenna. Orient dodged and began to run.
The policeman sprinted after him but was bowled over by the body of a girl who fell kicking directly under his feet.
Orient looked around wildly. His nose was starting to run and his eyes were overflowing with burning tears. He blinked hard as his mind tried to hold firm to the fluctuating anxiety signal. He felt close to the source of the call.
Then he saw the cowboy. The potential. He was lying face down next to a tree. Nearby two policemen were trying to subdue a girl who was shrieking curses and a boy whose face was streaming blood.
Orient ran to the other side of the tree and, keeping his body low, pulled the cowboy next to him against the trunk, unnoticed by the policemen who were still struggling with the couple.
Orient made a fast check for broken bones. There were none. The cowboy must have involuntarily called out when he was injured. A series of short metallic explosions unloosed fresh billows of gas over the field.
Orient grabbed the cowboy under the shoulders and began dragging him toward the building. Halfway there his path was blocked by a trio of youths who were heaving stones at a group of police. The police charged them, heading straight for Orient. He dropped to the ground, protecting the unconscious cowboy with his own body.
Something heavy cracked against Orient's wrist, numbing his arm to the shoulder. A foot came down on his kidneys, sending an excruciating jolt of pain through his midsection. A surge of nausea came up bitter in his throat and his knees jackknifed against his chest as he tightened his body against another kick.
It never came.
Orient opened his eyes and saw that the police had converged on the rock throwers and were driving them back toward the exit. He slowly got to his feet, the pain in his lower back preventing him from straightening up completely. He looked down at the cowboy. The man's eyelids fluttered. He was conscious.
"Get up," Orient yelled, pulling the cowboy to a sitting position. The cowboy shook his head and tried to see through the hair hanging in front of his face. He brushed the hair away from his red, swollen eyes, revealing a shallow gash on his forehead. When he saw Orient, he tried to grin.
"Well, goddamn," he drawled. "You again, huh?"
"Come on." Orient helped the cowboy to his feet and headed for the building, his body still bent from the pain in his side.
When they reached the lavatory, Orient dropped to the floor and lay very still until the agonizing knot binding his back and stomach diminished to an uncomfortable throb. He flexed the fingers of his injured hand, sending a fresh shock of hurt through his bruised wrist.
"That's gonna hurt for a while, man," the cowboy said from the washbasin. "You better stick it under this cool water here."
As Orient painfully and slowly got to his feet, Sun Girl came over to help him.
"Well, well, well, you meet the damndest citizens in ladies' johns these days," the cowboy chuckled. "Sun Girl, what are you doing in here with trash like my buddy and me?"
"Only trash around here is some loudmouth dude," Sun Girl smiled. Then she saw the gash on his forehead and the smile faded.
The sound of loud voices pulled everyone's eyes to the door. The voices rose and there were the shuffling sounds of a struggle outside.
The cowboy went to the door but Sun Girl's voice stopped his hand on the knob. "Not yet, Julian's here."
The cowboy looked over and saw the little boy, asleep next to the wall, wrapped in his mother's green suede jacket. He took his hand off the knob. The sounds faded.
"You'd better let me take a look at that cut on your forehead," Orient said. The cowboy ambled over to the basin, and stood impatiently, shifting his weight from foot to foot as Orient washed away the coagulated blood matted with hair and dirt from his forehead.
When the wound was clean, Orient examined it closely, checking for signs of a fracture.
"You got a real touch there, man," the cowboy congratulated.
"You should have been a sawbones or somethin'."
"I am a doctor," Orient muttered, "and you should probably get your skull x-rayed for a possibly hairline fracture."
"Ain't no billy club hard enough to crack this bean," the cowboy snorted. He extended his hand. "I'm Joker, Doc," he said, "and this female here is..."
"I've already introduced myself, thanks," Sun Girl snapped.
Joker released Orient's hand and lifted his arms in surrender. "Damned if I don't apologize to you, ma'am," he said with exaggerated courtesy. He winked at Orient. "Women's Lib, you understan', Doc." Then his blue eyes narrowed. "Now you wouldn't be some kind of nark or something, would you, Doc?" he said, his voice light and bantering. "You been doggin' my trail all day now."
"A what?"
"You know man, a cop's stool." Joker leaned casually against the wall but Orient could sense the cowboy tensing with suspicion. Then he remembered.
"My bag," Orient said.
"Right, man." Joker touched his forehead gingerly and winced. "What's your bag is all I'm asking."
Orient turned to Sun Girl. "I left my suitcase out there."
"Anything important?"
"Some clothes, but mainly my passport and other identification."
Orient looked at the door.
"Now, now." Jolter moved to the wall and sat down next to Julian, "Like Sun Girl says, it's no time yet to go out there after anything." He reached into his pocket. "Since you ain't no nark, why don't you just help me get rid of this evidence here?" His fingers came out of his pocket holding three thin cigarettes.
"Well, that makes sense." Sun Girl sat down against the wall on the other side of Julian. Orient hesitated, then sat down cross-legged on the floor facing them. Joker passed him one of the cigarettes, gave another to Sun Girl and put the third between his tips. He looked through his pockets for a match, the cigarette in his mouth jerking up and down as he continued to talk. "This stuff will get you into trouble around here. And by the way, Doc, I wanna thank you for pullin' me out of there. Wouldn't do for the man to bust me for disturbin' the peace and incitin' to riot or somethin' and find me holding this reefer." He struck a match. "Uh, uh, Doe," he muttered, lighting his cigarette, then holding the flame out to Orient, "I'm truly beholden."
Sun Girl blew out the match Joker held in front of her. "Not three on a match," she said firmly. Wearily Joker lit another match. "Sun Girl, you just got a head full of notions," he said, shaking his head as he watched her light her cigarette. Orient took a deep drag, letting the smoke linger in his lungs and ease the tightness in his chest. It had been a long time. Since before Project Judy.
The smoke tasted good in his throat and he felt warm and easy, like taking a hot shower after being caught in the rain. He looked up and saw Joker staring at him.
"Hey, Doc," Joker said quietly, "you look like you've smoked that stuff before."
Orient nodded. His mind was slipping into a receptive state and he could feel the serious probing under Joker's words.
"Well, who'd you score from?" Joker smiled. "I can't know every head in this town, but I sure know most every connection."
"Score?" Orient asked. He looked at Sun Girl.
She was staring at him curiously. "He means where did you get it," she said, "and Joker, you're being a drag. Owen helped us out, remember?"
Joker started to laugh out loud, remembered their position, and clapped a big hand over his mouth. He looked sheepishly at the door.
"You got to pardon me, Doc," he stage-whispered, "Just professional curiosity, you understand."
Orient smiled. "A friend of mine used to bring me a supply every month."
Joker nodded wisely. "Was he giving you a good price?" He turned to Sun Girl. "Just talkin' a little straight business now, that okay with everybody?"
"Business," Sun Girl pouted. She leaned her head back against the wall. "He didn't charge me anything." Orient stared at the burning tip of his cigarette. "He knew it was for religious reasons."
Joker gestured at Orient. "Now that's the biggest bushel of crap or the most interesting thing I heard today." Something occurred to Orient. "Tell me," he said, looking up, "do you two know each other?"
Sun Girl smiled. "Joker knows every available female on the eastern seaboard." Her features were plain, but the extraordinary alertness of her large soft eyes and the expressiveness of her small face made her something more than beautiful.
Joker shook his head slowly and grinned. "Nothin' wrong with that."
Orient put the small nub of his cigarette out on the floor. When he lifted his head, he saw that Sun Girl was staring at him, her wide eyes appraising.
"You're a pretty man, Owen," she said.
"Now that's somethin' special, Doc," Joker said. "I been trying to get this girl to admire me for a whole year, you understand."
Orient smiled. The throb in his body was still there, but it was no longer uncomfortable. His body felt whole and supple and he unconsciously began the process of charging his mind. His brain tingled as the rigidity that had built up over the months eased and his consciousness started to absorb energy instead of blocking it. He agreed with Joker that Sun Girl was special.
"Well, maybe you two want to hang out in this here john all night but I got things to do," Joker said, rising stiffly to his feet. He carefully stretched the kinks out of his knees before going to the door and opening it slightly.
"Can't see nobody," he announced. Orient got to his feet as Jolter opened the door wider. He followed him outside.
It was dark and silent in the tiny park. The air was still prickly with the chemical stench of gas. Sun Girl came to the door carrying Julian in her arms.
"Everything cool?" she whispered. "Everything's fine," Joker answered, moving toward the grassy field. "Now let's see if we can't find that bag of yours, Doc."
All they found at the end of a half-hour search through the scarred, littered area were a few gray tear-gas canisters and odd articles of clothing. They went back to the building where Sun Girl was waiting for them.
"Find it?" she asked Orient. "I guess it's gone." Orient thought of the time and effort it would take to replace the identification. "No bag in sight." Julian lifted his head from his mother's shoulder. "Ralph the Rat took Owen's bag," he said. "I saw him."
"Well, that makes it easy, Doc." Jolter started pushing Orient and Sun Girl toward the far gate. "You just come with me and we'll straighten the whole thing out." Joker took Julian from Sun Girl and led the way two blocks east to Avenue C. As they walked, Sun Girl held onto Orient's arm.
Joker took them to a renovated building in the center of a block of tenements. They went up three flights until they came to a blue door painted with a golden eagle identical to the ones embroidered on his shirt. Joker unlocked the door and switched on the lights. The room was large and simply furnished. The floor was covered with a blue rug, and one wall was completely pasted over with posters representing various sporting events including football, basketball, boxing, yachting, karate, horse racing, and bullfighting. The other walls were paneled with deep brown cork. Three mattresses covered with madras fabric and placed on the floor against the walls served as couches. A mosaic-colored Tiffany lamp hung over a heavy wooden table in one corner. A turntable and amplifier rested on a low wooden plank supported by tapestry bricks against the poster wall. Two speakers hung on the wall on either side of the plank. Orient saw that there was another eagle-blazoned door across the room.
Joker waved toward the couches. "Why don't you people just set while I take care of this bag business." He opened the door and went inside the other room. Orient sat down on one of the couches and watched Sun Girl make a very sleepy Julian comfortable on one of the other mattresses. When she finished she came and sat next to Orient.
"I've never thanked you for helping Julian and me," she said. She leaned against him. "Thanks, Owen."
"What was that all about anyway?" Orient asked softy. The warmth of her body felt comforting and good next to his. "I heard it was just going to be a free concert. If I knew it was going to be trouble, I would have taken Julian somewhere else." J
Joker ambled back into the room. "Boy, that was some rumble."
"We were just talking about that," Orient said. "Do you know how it happened?"
"Same old story, Doc. The man told the freaks in the neighborhood to stop congregating on the premises so naturally they want to know why. When the man couldn't lay no good reason on them, I guess they figured their rights were being gorilla'd by the authorities. Unfair, y'understand."
"I get the drift," Orient said. He realized he'd have to replenish his vocabulary.
"Hell, I just went down to the park to groove on some sounds and hang out with some of my people. If anybody told me there was gonna be a scene, I'd a taken one of them tours to the Statue of Liberty or somethin'."
"Speaking of your people," Sun Girl said, "did you call Ralph the Rat?"
"Easy now, don't go associatin' me with that street snake." Joker glared at her. "He's got the bag all right. It's all set."
"Good." Sun Girl nestled her head on Orient's shoulder.
"Well, uh, don't let me disturb nothin' around here," Joker said pointedly.
"We won't," Sun Girl said sweetly.
Joker grinned. "Maybe I should have listened to my pa and been a sawbones at that." He moved to the door. "Just give me a holler when the Rat shows," he grinned again.
Sun Girl stayed huddled close to Orient for a long while. They were just falling into a genre doze when a knock at the door roused them. "Joker," she called lazily, not moving her head from Orient's chest.
"Okay, comin'," Joker called through the door. He emerged shirtless and barefoot, wearing a pair of tan leather jeans. He had a damp towel draped around his heavy-muscled shoulders and his hair was wet and plastered close to his head. "Takin' a bath, y'understand," he said to no one in particular and opened the door.
A thin boy with a Fu Manchu mustache and dark glasses was standing at the door. He was wearing an oversized black overcoat which was buttoned all the way up to his neck and he was holding Orient's suitcase.
"That it?" Joker asked.
Orient nodded.
Joker reached into the pocket of his jeans and took out a small, khaki bank envelope. He handed the boy the envelope. Without a word the boy passed Joker the suitcase, turned, and left. "Gucci," Joker commented, setting the bag down in front of Orient. "Not bad."
Orient opened the bag and checked the contents. His ID was intact and even the copy of the I Ching that Sordi had thoughtfully tucked into the side pocket was still there.
"Anybody got an I Ching with him probably ain't no nark," Joker confided, winking at Sun Girl.
Orient closed the bag and stood up. He was relieved about his bag but he still had to find a room somewhere.
"Say,"Joker said slowly, "you got a train to catch or somethin'?"
"No, but I have to find a hotel."
Joker cocked his head to one side. "You on the run?"
Orient smiled. "In a way." He picked up the bag and held out his hand. "Thanks, Joker, I appreciate your help." He looked down and saw Sun Girl frowning at him.
Joker scratched his neck, paying no attention to Orient's outstretched hand. "Now just a damn minute here, Doc," he said slowly,"You got no place to stay, right?"
"That's right."
"Welly well, Doc." Joker grinned, grabbed Orient's hand and began pumping it up and down. "I can't stand goodbyes but I sure dig hellos. You're a right interestin' fella and I'd sure like the chance to get into your head some. Why don't you plan on just stayin' here for a little bit until you get yourself settled?"
Sun Girl exhaled a deep breath of air she'd been holding in and took the suitcase out of Orient's hand. "I thought you'd never ask him," she said.
Orient started to say something but she cut him off. "Don't argue with that freak, Owen," she said, setting the bag down next to the wall, "he gets violent."
"Then it's settled." Joker headed for his room. "I got some business tonight so I'll see you in the mornin'."
Sun Girl followed him to the door. "Give me sheets and a couple of pillows," she called after him.
She came back to Orient and took his arm. "You do want to stay, don't you?" she asked quietly, studying his face with her large eyes.
"I guess I'd be proud, ma'am," Orient smiled.
Sun Girl giggled and put her head against his chest. "Easy now, stranger," she said, "there isn't room in this drugstore for two buckaroos."
Joker came out budding a wide leather belt studded with coins over his hips. He had changed into another version of the shirt he'd been wearing earlier; silver velvet embroidered in white with the familiar eagle design. He took the sheets and pillows he was carrying under his arm and threw them at Sun Girl.
She caught them in midair and went to work stripping the cover off the mattress and spreading the sheets over it.
"You're in good hands, Doe," Joker said, running a comb through his hair, "so don't worry about nothin'. Tomorrow we'll have a long talk about things." He stopped combing and looked at Orient. "I got a funny feeling we got lots to talk about."
Still combing his hair, Joker went back into his room. A few minutes late he returned carrying a suede portfolio. He opened the pouch and took out a small bank envelope similar to the one had given to Ralph when he delivered Orient's suitcase. "This one's for you," he said, tossing the flat envelope with an expert twist of his wrist so that it sailed across the room and came to rest against Orient's bag, next to Sun Girl's feet.
"How was that?" he said, heading for the door.
"Show-off," Sun Girl called over her shoulder as Joker left.
Orient stood for a moment trying to gather his thoughts. Apparently his fate had guided him well. But he was still unsure. He watched Sun Girl tucking the sheets under the mattress. "You don't have to go to the trouble of making my bed," he said finally.
Sun Girl stood up. "You mean our bed, don't you?"
Orient looked at her. She was poised like a deer, ready to take flight at the slightest unfamiliar sound. He smiled and nodded slowly. She smiled back at him. "That's what I thought," she said. She finished arranging the sheets, then went to the door to Joker's room.
She paused, her hand on the knob. "I'm going to take a shower," she said softly. "Why don't you get some rest?"
Orient sat down on the edge of the mattress and began taking off his clothes. His twill trousers were torn and his light-colored jacket was smudged with grass and dirt stains. His Battaglia loafers were scuffed and dusty.
He realized he was exhausted. The sheets felt stiff and clean against his bruised skin. He stared up at the ceiling, his head resting on his palms.
He heard the door open behind him: Sun Girl padded across the rug wrapped in a towel. She went to make sure that Julian was covered, kissing his tiny hand gently before crossing the room and clicking out the lights.
He heard the sound of her bare feet come close to the bed and a soft rustle as the towel dropped to the floor.
She slipped under the sheets and he felt her skin cold and damp against his. His hands moved over her body as a rush of recognition ignited his desire. It had been a long time since he'd held a woman. His mouth found hers and she became a wriggling, restless warmth beneath him. She whimpered as he entered her, her voice a moist whisper against his ear that rose to a small moan as they found their rhythm, until there was nothing else in the universe but her warmth and her cries and his body arching to meet hers like a bow that had suddenly found the itching purpose of its design.
The first thing Orient saw when he opened his eyes was a small naked boy sitting on the pillow next to his head.
"Hey," Julian shouted, "he's awake."
Orient tried to push himself upright and fell back as a sharp pain flashed through his arm. He looked at his wrist. It was slightly swollen and a long yellow, green bruise discolored his forearm. A deep ache in his left side forced him to change position.
"Does it hurt, Owen?" Julian asked.
Orient nodded and carefully sat up. "Good morning," he yawned.
"It's almost noon." Julian got up and ran into the other room.
When he came back he was followed by Sun Girl who was holding a glass of orange juice.
"Hi." She sat down at the edge of the bed and handed Orient the glass. She smoothed his hair back from his forehead as he drank. "How do you feel?" she whispered, nuzzling his neck.
"I'll live, I suppose," Orient grunted. He rubbed the small of his back.
Sun Girl examined his wrist. "Could be worse," she murmured. Then she noticed his hand. The palm was cracked and wrinkled, etched with a network of short deep lines like that of a very old man. "What happened here?" she asked. "Hand grenade?"
Orient shook his head. "Too many parties."
Sun Girl took the empty glass and stood up. "You travel with a fast crowd."
"Mommy, Owen has white hair in his head," Julian announced.
"Don't make fun of senior citizens, Julian," Sun Girl giggled.
"Don't bother to apologize, Julian," Orient said. "Just call them the way you see them." He looked at Sun Girl. "Remember the naked emperor and his invisible clothes. And speaking of clothes," he scratched his head, "where did you come by all that finery?"
Sun Girl laughed and twirled, making her long red-and-yellow flowered skirt billow and lift from the floor. She was wearing a pair of black sandals with long thongs that crisscrossed around her legs and tied above her knees. An emerald-sequined vest and a rose silk scarf wrapped turban-like around her head completed the outfit.
"Mommy's a gypsy," Julian yelled. He ran into the next room. "Just the costume for the day," Sun Girl said. "This morning while you were snoring I was busy." She pointed behind Orient. He turned stiffly, the pain in his side still making sudden movements difficult.
There was a large, battered wooden trunk next to his suitcase. The top of the chest was open and belts, beads, blouses, dresses, scarves, sweaters, vests and hats hung on every corner and cascaded over the sides. The floor next to the trunk was lined with dozens of pairs of shoes and boots.
"All my worldly goods."
"Pretty worldly indeed," Orient said.
For a long moment they stared at each other.
Sun Girl came back to the bed and sat down next to him. She was still holding the empty glass. "If you don't want us around, just say so, Owen," she said.
"That's not the problem—" Orient hesitated.
"Julian," Sun Girl interrupted, "get dressed, we're splitting." She stood up.
"Wait a second." Orient took her hand and pulled her gently back to the bed. "Just listen before you make up your mind."
"You want to tell us that whatever you have to do doesn't include me, right?" Sun Girl's voice was even. "I understand, Owen. Details aren't necessary."
"Wrong. You missed the point." Orient began rubbing her neck. "It's just that you should know that I can't make any emotional commitment to anybody right now. I have to find myself first."
Sun Girl was silent but Orient could feel the tightness in her body under his hand. "If you stay," he went on, "it's got to be with that understanding. Just good friends for awhile."
Sun Girl relaxed and leaned against him. "You've got lots to learn about Sun Girl," she said. "Do you know why I moved my stuff here this morning?"
Orient shook his head.
"Because you need me, stupid," she said gravely. "And," she lifted the sheet and regarded his naked body with detachment, "because I'm a sucker for skinny men!"
She jumped to her feet and skipped to the center of the room trailing the sheet behind her. "Now why don't you take a nice bath?" she giggled, folding the sheet with a flourish. "Then you can get busy finding yourself. Julian and I are going out. We have things to do."
"Are we splitting, Mommy?" Julian called from the doorway. He was sitting on the floor fumbling with the laces of his sneaker.
Sun Girl went over to help him. "We're going out," she said, tying his shoe. She lifted him to his feet and zipped the fly on his jeans. "But we're coming back. We're going to stay with silly Owen for awhile."
The bathroom was located off a short hallway that connected the living room to Joker's bedroom. There was a small efficiency kitchen built into the wall across from the bathroom.
Orient found some soap and shampoo and took a long hot shower followed by a short burst of cold spray. He picked a large towel hanging behind the door that was only slightly damp and, after gingerly drying his still sore limbs, wrapped the towel around his waist and went into the living room.
He sat down on the edge of the mattress and rummaged through his bag for a fresh shirt. He reminded himself to buy a new shaving kit and other supplies that day. Sordi was no longer available to replenish simple necessities automatically.
As he looked through his suitcase, he noticed the brown envelope Joker had tossed next to it the night before. He picked it up and opened the flap. Inside was a small amount of what appeared to be gold-leafed herb.
Orient grinned. Joker was a thoughtful host.
He searched through the clothing he had worn the previous day until he found the silver case Sordi had given him. He opened it and extracted a single cigarette paper from the Bambu pack tucked inside. Using the gold-leafed herb, he rolled a thin, tight cigarette, then looked through his pockets for a match.
"Om Aing, Chring, Cling, Charmuda, Yei, Vijay,'he whispered, invoking the ancient Buddhist mantra for the consecration of Bhang.
He lit the cigarette and, as he smoked, studied the oval scroll design etched into the small case. The scroll was his mandala, the special meditation design given to him by his instructor Ku, that last day in Tibet. He tried to empty his mind of everything except its intricate lines. He felt the muscles in his neck relax and tentatively flexed the fingers of his injured hand while he continued to concentrate on the figure. As his consciousness intensified and condensed, the pain in his arm dimmed.
Orient put the silver case aside and stood up. He put the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray, then he took the towel off and spread it on the floor. He sat cross-legged on the towel and began a series of preliminary physical exercises. First the Yang series, the slow, careful stretching of his muscles. He continued these until the first threshold of bodily resistance had been passed. The soreness in his side lingered after the twinges in his bruised forearm diminished, but eventually that also responded to the methodical yoga therapy. Then he entered the Ying series, the breathing patterns, creating a new rhythm that pushed his consciousness past the demands of bone and muscle until, abruptly, his mind soared clear of his animal presence.
The calm covered his consciousness like a blanket of cashmere, warm and light and soft, its subtle weight nudging his awareness toward the light.
The light. The unflickering radiation of his being.
He breathed deep, his body opening easily and parting the invisible webs of resistance blocking his passage toward the light.
And then he was there, floating in the center of the incandescent compression of all reality. The code gene. The unique combination of his existence; past, present, and future.
He was a thousand deaths, a thousand births, a thousand lives all vibrating together at the same time. He was all time at once, unfragmented by the fearful politics of learned perception. An unrippled pool of pure light, existing rather than reflecting.
He bathed in the pool, sensing the infinite tides of the universe, the swelling motion of its direction. He swam there for eons until the restless currents carried his consciousness back to the gritty shores of thought.
He blinked.
He was still lying on the towel on the floor. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and took a long, luxurious breath. He extended his arms and arched his neck back. His muscles felt supple and his mind felt refreshed. The crustations barnacling his brain and body had all been hosed away by the purifying liquids of his journey.
He dressed and began rolling the rest of the contents of the envelope into cigarettes. He was just putting them into his silver case when Joker came in.
"You know, Doe," Joker said, sitting down and folding his arms behind his head, "ever since I first seen you in Central Park yesterday I got the strangest feelin'."
"Really?" Orient folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. He knew that his proximity to a telepathic potential would cause some disturbance but he didn't quite know he would deal with the question if it came up directly. He wanted to know more about Joker before attempting to teach him the techniques of controlled thought transference. In the wrong hands, or head, it could be a dangerous toy.
"Yeah, really," Joker said, his eyes half closed. "I been around some, Doc, and I got a surefire instinct for people. And," He lifted his head and looked at Orient, "I learned to depend on my instincts. Know what I mean?"
Orient nodded.
Joker dropped his head back on his hands. "What I'm getting' at, Doc, is that I can't figure you out just yet. I see a lot of dudes come down here every day tryin' to find somethin' or hustle somethin' or get away from somethin'." He lifted his head again. "But you're different, you dig?"
"I'm not sure what you're getting at."
Joker came up to a sitting position, swung his legs over and put his feet on the floor. He ran a hand through his long red hair. "Well, what I mean is that you don't seem to know what's happening, but then again you do." He waved his hand impatiently. "No, that's not what I mean either. Damn, but you're a confusin' fella, Doc."
Orient smiled. "Maybe I can help."
Joker leaned back on his elbows and waited.
"I wasn't exactly a practicing MD but a kind of research specialist," Orient began uncomfortably. He hadn't planned on going into personal details. "The only hitch was that I was out of touch. My fancy lab equipment and preoccupation with my experiments was preventing me from reaching the people I wanted to help. I was like some kind of robot."
Joker nodded. "I got you covered so far, Doc."
'So I gave it all up and started looking for a way to make contact with the ordinary human race. That's how I came to get involved in that riot."
Joker's eyes narrowed as a thought occurred to him. "Say, Doc," he said with elaborate casualness, "how did you come to pull me out of there special?"
Orient hesitated. It wasn't time to start explaining psychic mechanics. "I went out after my bag," he said, "and I recognized you from the park that afternoon. There didn't seem to be anything else to do at the time."
Joker stared at him for a moment and Orient could feel that the cowboy still wasn't convinced. "Well," Joker stood up slowly, "sure was a break for me." He poked Orient in the rib as we walked back to the living room. "And it sure was a break for you."
Orient followed him. "That's the truth. I had no idea of where I was going or what I would do."
Joker went over to the stereo and switched it on. He slipped a record out of its jacket and placed it on the turntable. An electric guitar began a high, twanging blues line.
"Yeah, I want to talk to you about that too." Joker leaned against the edge of the table. "You got any plans at all, Doc?"
Orient sat down on the mattress. "None. But look, Joker, I understand that my being here with Sun Girl and Julian must be inconvenient and I can..."
"Hold up, Doc. That's not what I'm into at all here." He scratched the side of his nose. "I'm just trying to clear up the situation in my mind."
Orient waited.
"Look here, man," Joker said finally, "how much bread do you have ?"
"Bread?"
"Money, Doc." Joker shook his head and snapped his fingers, coming down directly on the beat of the music. "I can see I got to work with you extra heavy."
"I've got about eighty-five or ninety dollars."
Joker frowned. "Well, you're traveling light all right."
Orient didn't answer.
"Well, how about this, Doc, how'd you like to go to work for me?"
"Doing what?"
"Well, I got a lotta things goin' for me these days and can't hardly keep track of everything. I need a man to sort of keep my appointments straight and maybe do some delivery work now and then."
Orient frowned. "Just exactly what is it you do?"
Joker sat down next to him. "I wheel some, deal some. If somebody needs somethin', I kind of arrange things. But mainly I'm a gambler. Cards, dice, any kind of sportin' proposition. I make money at it, y'understand, but that's not the whole reason I do it."
"What is the whole reason?"
Joker leaned closer. "Doc, you may think I'm crazy, but I feel I got a callin'. I believe in hustlin'. Keeps me circulatin' and pickin' up new things all the time. I meet plenty of interestin' faces and it pays the rent. And I got ethics, Doc. I don't touch nothin' that hurts nobody. Don't mess with hard drugs or crooked games. Just honest gamblin' and happy times."
Orient shook his head. "I don't think that's what I'm lookin' for, Joker."
"Listen, Doc, just listen good one minute here." Joker paused and in the brief silence Orient thought he could sense a gleaming vibration of truth. "Think on it. You'll meet all kinds of people. Contact like you said you wanted. And you can buy yourself some time while you figure out your next move."
Orient didn't answer.
"Well, come on, buddy. Don't keep me in suspense here. If you decide to throw in with me, I can start teachin' you all you need to know about life in the street right away."
Orient looked at Joker. The cowboy's face was earnest and his words rang notes that were clear and close to his problem. And his hexagram seemed to support the move. Perhaps it was time he took a chance. At least it would be a positive step.
"All right," he said finally. "But on one condition." His eyes met Joker's and held. "I want none of the profits. No money. As far as we're concerned, this is an educational experiment only."
Joker solemnly extended his hand. "Doc you got my word that everthin' is absolutely cool."
In the weeks that followed, Orient became increasingly absorbed in his new way of life.
In the mornings he practiced the physical exercises, breathing patterns, and meditation figures of his spiritual path. In the afternoons he answered the telephone, set up appointments, and discussed the variations of his apprenticeship with Joker. Orient was needed at the phone to record bets and it was necessary for him to learn to interpret the code words of various betting systems. It was also his job to pick up and deliver envelopes containing cash or betting slips.
The legalization of off-track betting had cut into part of Joker's business, and he complained often and righteously about the development. Orient noticed, however, that the cowboy was extremely generous with expenses, and continued to lavish money on entertaining his various women. Orient was hazy about all the sources of Joker's income, but he ascertained that they were many, and for the most part, illegal. The cowboy booked bets on all sporting events and was a regular face at poker sessions and crap games in the city. He was also involved in other business deals, but hc spoke little of those affairs, explaining that they were "private propositions."
Sun Girl and Julian made the rounds of casting offices during the day, and in the evening, after his appointments were complete, and the tallies computed, she and Orient would spend long lazy hours just talking. Their conversations were sometimes profound, often silly, but always a source of joy for him, as his communication with Sun Girl grew into real friendship. Orient enjoyed her independent point of view and blithe self-confidence; she was a completely positive, honest, and reasonable woman who never let her capacity for sentiment and passion upset her thinking.
It was for this reason that Orient was curious when Sun Girl came home early one day, in a state of abject depression. "Why the gloom, lose an audition?" he asked, looking up from his work. "I just don't understand life, Owen," Sun Girl sighed. She plopped down wearily on the couch and stared at him.
"In what way?" He went back to his accounting.
Sun Girl sighed again. "Oh, I ran into an old girl friend of mine on the street today. And she looks awful. When I tried to talk to her she started raving about something. I got the funniest feeling. Do you think you could drop around to see her? I told her a little about you."
Orient crossed out some figures he had added incorrectly. "Is she sick?"
"Betsy is a bad lady," Julian singsonged as he pushed a toy truck across the floor.
"Maybe she's sick," Sun Girl mused. "But I think it's something else. Too much acid or speed, maybe. Whatever she's on, it's a bum trip. The poor girl's practically frothing at the mouth. And she must have lost twenty pounds."
"She's bad," Julian repeated.
"Now don't say things about people you don't know, Julian," Sun Girl admonished. "I've known Betsy for years and she's always been sweet and level-headed." She looked at Orient. "A couple of months ago she started living with some kids in a commune down here. Maybe they're some kind of bad influence on her. She looks completely spaced out. Half crazy, in fact."
Orient put aside his tabulations and looked at her. Sun Girl's usually bright, cheerful expression was pinched with concern.
"I'll go have a talk with her if you think it will do any good."
Sun Girl's anxious flown relaxed. "Thanks, Owen," she said softly. "The commune's not far away. Why don't we walk over there and you can judge for yourself. Perhaps I'm getting myself all worked up over nothing. Even possible that I'm becoming a busybody in my old age."
Orient smiled. "Who knows, you might be becoming an arch-conservative."
"Me too," Julian said. "I want to be an artist conserber too."
When Orient, Sun Gift, and Julian arrived at the headquarters of the commune, however, it was obvious that Sun Gift's appraisal had been accurate. The storefront itself was like hundreds of others in the city that had been converted for occupancy. The glass door and show windows had been painted over to prevent passersby from seeing inside. When Sun Girl knocked on the door, it was opened by a thin, blond-bearded boy wearing a Japanese robe. He looked angry.
"Yeah, what is it?" he grunted, glaring at them.
"We're looking for Betsy," Sun Gift said.
The boy closed the door in her face.
"Must be a love child," Orient said.
"That's what I mean, Owen," Sun Gift said. "Usually commune people are very friendly and very hospitable."
Orient's comment was interrupted by the door opening. He looked down and saw a very skinny, almost emaciated young girl wearing a dirty white dress. Her long black hair was tangled and unkempt, and there were hollow blue circles around her eyes. But despite the fact that she looked starved, the gift radiated a peculiar kind of ecstatic energy almost like that brought on by nervous exhaustion, or too many sleepless nights on amphetamines.
"Hi, Betsy," Sun Gift smiled. "I brought Owen over for you to meet. Is it all right if we come in?"
Betsy looked Orient over, rather arrogantly he thought, as if she were inspecting a slice of meat. Then she brushed the hair away from her face and smiled. When she looked at Sun Gift, the smile became almost a sneer. "Not bad," she said. "Sure, why not. Come on in."
Sun Girl reached down to take Julian's hand, but the boy suddenly pulled away from his mother and retreated a few steps. "No," he shouted, "I don't want to go inside. I don't like it there."
Orient was surprised. In the time he'd been living with Sun Girl and Julian, he'd never known the boy to be cranky or ill-tempered. But now the little boy stood glaring stubbornly at them, his tiny fists clenched and his legs poised to run if anyone tried to touch him. "I want to go home," he yelled. "I don't like Betsy."
"You little brat," Betsy taunted. But she seemed amused at Julian's behavior. Sun Girl looked at her helplessly. "Sorry, Betsy," she said. "He must be overtired or something."
"Maybe you should take him for a walk," Orient suggested. I'll see you later."
"I suppose that's the best thing," Sun Girl nodded. She looked at Betsy. "I'll come back to visit you when Julian's feeling human again."
"Anytime," Betsy didn't sound enthusiastic. She looked at Orient. "Sure you want to leave him behind? He's tempting, you know."
"He's also a big boy," Sun Girl sniffed as she walked over to join her son. "Come look around," Bets said, holding out her hand. Orient took it. It was warm and curiously damp.
He stepped into a room that was badly lit and very dirty.
The mattresses that lined the walls were stained and torn. The floors were covered with dust, and there were some greasy plates in one corner with bits of food still clinging to them. Orient saw a couple of roaches crawl under the plates. At one end of the room there was a door curtained off by two tattered pieces of velvet that had been nailed to the wall. The boy in the Japanese robe was sitting near the door on one of the two mattresses, talking very quickly and intensely to two girls. The girls weren't more than sixteen, and were dressed identically in belled jeans and T-shirts. No one looked up as they entered.
"That's Thor," Betsy whispered. "He's very heavy."
Orient looked around. "Do you all live here, Betsy?" he asked.
She stopped smiling. "Look, Owen, Sun Girl made a mistake. My name's not Betsy any more."
Orient nodded. He knew that many young people in the East Village community took on, or were given, new names. "What shall I call you?"
When she answered, there was a trace of fierce pride in her voice. "Kali is my name now."
"Nice name," Orient said, but he was curious. The name had a special significance for him.
"And to answer your first question," Kali was saying, "No, I don't live here. No one does anymore. We did, but the place became too crowded. Everyone wants to join us. So I took a pad across the street." She looked at Orient and smiled. "I've even got a waterbed," she said softly, squeezing his hand.
"You mean you've managed to make the commune work? In the city? That's beating big odds." Orient gently disengaged himself from her grip. Kali was going to have to take a bath before they extended relations.
She shook her head. "We started as a commune, but now we're into something different. I'll show you the rest of the place." She reached out, grasped his hand tight, and led him to the door behind the ragged curtains.
The sparkling cleanliness of the inside room was a startling contrast to the disorder of the front. The floor was laid with immaculate white tiles, and the walls had been freshly painted with gleaming black lacquer. Fat velvet pillows in various colors were strewn attractively over the floor, and a crisp linen curtain walled off one end of the long room.
"What do you think?" Kali asked. She let go of his fingers and put her hand on her hips. "Super, isn't it?"
"Why is this room so special?" Orient asked.
"Because it's for spedal people." She inclined her head toward the door. "The outside room is for Slavies. Like the teeny-boppers talking to Thor."
Orient furrowed his brow. "Slavies?"
"You know, little girls to run around and do things for the Circle. There's only a few people in the Circle. I'm in my last phase now. Anyhow," Kali went on, "Slavies aren't allowed in here except to clean
up or receive instruction. Sometimes they attend meetings."
"How come I'm allowed in here?" Orient asked, his mind racing. The conversation was beginning to make a strange kind of sense to him.
"Because you're special," Kali said, coming closer. "I could feel it when I first saw you. Gregory is going to like you."
Orient was just about to ask who Gregory was, when he heard a scream from behind the curtain. As he turned his head, the curtains flew apart and a naked girl came stumbling into the room. Right behind her was a short, very thin boy wearing a black leather jump suit. "Stop her," he said calmly.
Karl blocked the girl's path with her body and grabbed her arms. The girl didn't resist. She shut her eyes and stood trembling in front of Kali. Her mouth was moving in a grotesque, grimacing attempt at speech, but no sound came out.
Orient watched the boy move leisurely to her side. He was very supple, almost feminine. His oval skull was completely shaved, and the smooth unlined quality of his skin made him look like one of the adolescent monks of ancient Japan. When he spoke, his voice was low and melodic.
"It's all right," he said, "it's over now, baby."
The girl's face relaxed. Kali let go of her arms and slowly stepped away from her. When the girl opened her eyes, Orient saw that she was younger than he had first thought, perhaps seventeen.
"Over now," the boy repeated. "Just relax and go back to the other room."
The girl hesitated, looked at Kali and Orient wonderingly, then turned and walked stiffly to the curtain. The boy stepped lightly ahead of her and pulled the linen sheet aside. Just before she went past him and the boy let the curtain drop, Orient caught a glimpse of a white table under a seven-pointed star hanging from the ceiling.
The boy came back to them. "I'm sorry," he said, smiling faintly. "Kali, I don't know your friend."
"This is Owen," she said gravely. Her flip, careless manner was subdued, and she addressed the boy with respect. "I wish to present him to the Circle."
"Why?" The boy's face became sullen.
Kali lowered her eyes. "I feel his vibration is strong."
The boy looked at Orient carefully. "Yes," he said finally, "very good, Kali. You're becoming more sensitive. I believe you're right." The pout became a small smile. "Hello, Owen," he said, "my name is Gregory. I'm sorry if my wife disturbed you. She's under strain. I'm sure you understand."
"I'm not sure I do completely," Owen said evenly.
For a moment the sullen look returned to Gregory's face, then it was replaced by a thoughtful frown. "Isis has been working hard on behalf of those who need her help. I don't know how much Kali has explained to you."
"Nothing at all," Orient said. "I was curious and asked Kali to show mc around."
Gregory nodded and crossed his arms. "Our Circle is dedicated to the higher powers. If you want a demonstration of our scene, come this evening. At eleven. We're usually closed to newcomers, but Kali was perceptive. Your vibration is strong. Perhaps we can show you how to use it."
"There's a girl outside who's looking for Owen." Orient turned and saw Thor standing at the door.
Gregory didn't take his eyes off Orient. "I hope we can see you again," he said. He bowed his head slightly and went back through the linen curtains.
"I hope Isis didn't bother you," Kali said as they walked to the front room. "She's been nervous lately. But Gregory can handle her."
"I'm sure he can," Orient said, "He seems to be very capable for someone so young."
"Gregory has no age," Kali said fervently, "He's the beautiful dancer of the universe."
At the door she put a hand on his arm. "Try to come tonight," she said. "Gregory saw what I did. You. don't know what you have inside yourself until Gregory and Isis show you."
Orient wanted to tell her that she was assuming a great deal, but instead, to make sure that his impression of Gregory and his Circle hadn't been mistaken, he asked about another possibility. "Almost forgot," he said. "Do you know where I can get some acid or speed?"
Kali smiled smugly and shook her head. "No one in the Circle takes drugs. Gregory showed us how to go further without anything at all."
"Thanks anyway," Orient said. "I'll see you tonight."
"You won't regret it," Kali whispered.
As Orient went out through the littered front room, he saw Thor, crouched on the floor near the mattress, still talking intently to the two teenagers. "Far out," one of the girls intoned reverently to something he was saying as Orient passed. When Orient reached the street, he found Sun Girl waiting for him. "Well," she asked as soon as he came out, "what do you think?"
"Where's Julian?" Orient stalled.
"I took him home. Joker's with him." She frowned. "I hope he's not going through some new period. He's usually so good. Better than a grown-up."
"He just has his likes and dislikes," Orient suggested. "Like all of us." He put his arm around her shoulder and they started walking home.
"But Betsy," Sun Girl reminded him. "Is she all right?"
Orient decided to conceal his feelings until he knew more about the storefront group. For all he knew, it was just an esoteric version of a social fraternity. "I don't think you have to worry about Betsy," he said. "She isn't taking any hard drugs, and except for her appearance, she seems healthy enough." As he spoke, he recalled Gregory's wife grimacing mutely and decided that it was urgent that he attend the meeting that night.
"That's a relief," Sun Girl said. She looked up at Orient and smiled. "Now that you mention it, Betsy did seem to show a very healthy interest in you!"
Orient shrugged. "She's probably a sucker for gambling men," he said. But he was somehow pleased that Sun Girl had noticed.
When they reached the apartment, Orient was still thinking about what he had seen. Thor. Kali. Isis. Slavies. The whole thing was suggesting an incredible pattern to him. He was sure that Kali had told him the truth about the Circle being off drugs. But if the reason for Isis's strange behavior wasn't drugs, it was either plain schizoid paranoid delusions, or... Orient decided to wait and see what kind of meetings the Circle held, and opened the door.
"Look at that," Sun Girl exclaimed. "Joker. What do you think you're doing?" She rushed into the room. Orient looked up and saw Joker kneeling on the rug with Julian, showing the boy how to throw a pair of dice.
Sun Girl swooped down on them and picked Julian up from thc floor. "I'm not so sure I approve of dirty old cowboys teaching my son how to gamble," she admonished.
Joker looked up at her grinned. "Hell, Sun Girl, I was just fillin' Julian in on the inside stuff. No sense letting him get taken if he can learn right."
"He's got plenty of time for that." Sun Girl carried Julian into the other room. "Right now it's time for his bath."
"I made three passes and Joker crapped out twice," Julian proudly told Orient on his way out.
Joker got up from the floor and carefully adjusted the cuff of his gray pigskin jeans over his boot. "Well, Doc," he said amiably, "how'd we tally?"
"Our bank is at plus 6,074 dollars as of today." Orient took a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Joker. "And we're carrying 11,900 in bets through Sunday. If everything works out, you should make a good profit over the weekend."
Joker stared at the paper. "Eleven grand?" he muttered. "How come so much?"
"Your friend Basil called in seven thousand on the basketball game."
"Basil?" Joker's usually laconic manner became tense. "You shouldn't have taken it, Doc."
"Why not? He took it at the spread. Six points."
Joker shook his head. "You couldn't have known, Doc, but the only time that tinhorn Basil lays down more than a grand, he's got an edge. He must know somethin'." He began pacing the floor.
Orient waited for him to make up his mind. Finally Joker looked up. "Nothin' else to do except lay it off. We got about three hours. Let's get on the horn, and I'll show you how smart money protects itself."
Orient tried to be attentive as Joker showed him his system for protecting the bank, but he was distracted by the memory of the naked girl at the storefront. He waited patiently while the cowboy placed small portions of Basil's seven thousand with small bookies in New Jersey and Brooklyn. He listened as Joker explained how to get the best point advantage, but through the entire process his mind kept drifting over to what he'd seen that afternoon. And it always came back with the same conclusions.
"Well, that's that," Joker said after a solid hour and a half on the phone. "We're clear. But it slowed me down plenty. I got a date with a private proposition uptown I don't want to blow."
Orient was relieved. He didn't want to be late for Gregory's meeting. He wanted to make sure of the Circle's exact function.
The phone rang again and, as Joker turned to answer, Orient went into the other room. Julian was asleep on his bed in the corner and Sun Girl was sitting next to him on the floor, reading a script. She looked up and smiled. "You execs work late."
Orient nodded. "The price of inexperience. I still have some things to see about. Maybe you shouldn't wait up."
"All right," she yawned. "I have an early audition anyway, and want to look alert. Don't forget to get yourself something to eat."
Joker whooped from the bedroom, then strode inside and beamed triumphantly at Orient. "That was a pal on the phone. The word's out. No more action on the basketball game. We just got in under the wire."
"Nice work," Orient said, trying to sound interested. He was still wondering what he could expect to find at Gregory's meeting.
As he walked to the meeting, Orient told himself he was probably overestimating Gregory's Circle. Still, the signs were there. Thor the god of thunder, Isis the goddess of light, Kali the goddess of destruction. All ritual names. And the seven-pointed star hanging behind the curtain. The Star of Babylon. All of it indicated the same thing: some sort of occult experimentation.
The possibility had him worried. He had concentrated most of his research on having telepathy recognized as a formal scientific technique. But while in Tibet, he had learned the leverage of the occult sciences as well. Enough to understand that psychic energy should be used with caution. He shook his head. He was going out on a limb. The most likely probability was that Gregory and his friends were indulging in some harmless playacting.
He remembered Gregory's wife trembling and trying to speak, and a small knot of anxiety pulled around his thoughts.
The street where the storefront was located was deserted, but Orient noted the two chauffeured limousines parked in front. They looked immaculate and out of place in the shabby, tenement neighborhood. He crossed the street and tried to open the door. It was locked. He knocked. No answer. He knocked louder. Thor opened the door. He was still wearing his short robe.
"Yeah?" He squinted unpleasantly at Orient.
"Gregory asked me to come."
Thor stepped aside to let Orient in. "Okay," he grunted.
When Orient entered, he saw, or, rather, heard the reason no one had heard him knock the first time. The front room was swarming with teenaged girls, sitting or standing in groups, talking excitedly. The high noise level was punctuated by sudden squeals of enthusiasm. They all wore long hair, were dressed in the same brand of jeans, and had identical expressions of reverent wonder on their faces. Exactly like the two Slavies he'd seen that afternoon.
"Inside," Thor raised his voice above the din and pointed to the curtain.
Orient made his way through the tangle of rounded, interchangeable bodies and opened the door.
The inside room was less crowded and the men and women gathered there were older and more subdued. There were ten or fifteen of them, very few under thirty, and any of them could have been the owners of the limousines outside. They had the flushed, sated look of affluent collectors. Whatever their choice—art, jewels, experience, people—it was all in their pockets somewhere. They were sitting on the pillows or standing in knots talking calmly, but Orient could sense a feeling of barely repressed excitement running through their muted tones.
"I discovered Gregory and Isis during the phase last month," a sharp-featured woman was telling someone. "The boy's a prodigy. I wouldn't make a move without his advice."
Orient looked at her. She was a sleek woman, fiftyish, and the cultivated tan on her hands set off the diamonds on her fingers to advantage. As Orient wondered what Gregory had done to earn her adulation, he spotted a girl dressed in a clinging white gown coming toward him. She was almost at his side before he recognized her, Kali had undergone a complete transformation. Her stringy, unkempt hair was brushed and shining, and the dirt smudges on her face had been washed away. She looked radiantly happy. When she came near, Orient caught the scent of perfume on her skin.
"Oh, I'm so glad you came," she said, slipping her arm through his. "Tonight's a glorious night for me."
"You look glorious," Orient observed.
Kali smiled. "For three months I've had to purify myself, but tonight I'm ready."
"Ready for what?"
"Tonight I'm admitted to the Circle."
"Better explain," Orient said, shaking his head. "I still don't get it."
"Of course you don't," Kali laughed. "But I'll tell you as much as I can. The last week of every month is the meeting phase. When we help people. If Gregory chooses, you're allowed to attend three phases, that's nine meetings. After that you're considered for the Circle."
"What about the Slavies?"
"They want to join, but they're not even ready to attend meetings. They serve the Circle until the time when they're mature enough for purification. But if Gregory thinks someone has strong vibrations, like you, they're invited to observe. If Gregory agrees after that, you can begin purification right away."
Orient smiled. "What happens when you join the Circle?" He still couldn't accept the fact that they were serious. It had all the stratifications of a high school secret club.
"You'll see for yourself tonight," Kali said.
"Are all these people here to join?"
"Some. Most are here to get a favor from Gregory and Isis. And their blessing."
Orient didn't answer. He knew that in every city, in every country on earth, there were people experimenting with some form of occult science. Most of them were deluded. But these kids didn't give off the haphazard air of stumbling experimentation. And the men and women gathered in the storefront salon didn't seem like the sort of people who were given to wasting time playing high school games with impressionable children.
"For two months I couldn't take a bath, brush my teeth, anything," Kali was saying. "That was my form of purification. Gregory said I was too vain."
The jingling sound of a bell cut off Orient's question. A hush fell over the room. "I'll see you later," Kali whispered. She walked over to the end of the room to join Thor and a black youth in white trousers and T-shirt who were standing near the curtain. The other people in the room waited in silence.
Kali lifted her hand and pulled a cord hanging next to the curtain. The linen drapes parted and slid back.
Gregory was standing behind a white table, the black seven-pointed star suspended directly over his high, shaven skull. A metallic object gleamed against the black leather covering his chest. It was a silver cross dangling upside down from a chain around his neck.
"Hello," he said shyly. As he spoke, Orient realized that Kali was right; Gregory appeared to be ageless. The clear, unlined skin and slender body could belong to a boy of sixteen, or an adept of a hundred and sixty. His melodic voice rang soft with compassion, but his round, amber eyes had the flat glint of timeless wisdom. "We meet tonight in celebration of the great and secret power of the universe,"
Gregory said, "a celebration of beauty and adoration." He looked around the room. "Please make yourselves comfortable."
There was a shuffled rustling as the men and women in the room
sat down on the pillows scattered about. Orient sat cross-legged on the floor.
"Those of you who have specific requests, please come forward,"
Gregory said.
Two women and one man rose, went up to the table and placed envelopes on the floor. Orient noticed that they placed the envelopes on the edge of a black circle that had been drawn around the table. He also saw that Gregory was standing in the exact center of the circle, and he became apprehensive. There was no doubt in his mind any longer. Gregory was attempting to perform some occult rite. He wondered what would happen if they boy could actually pull it off.
Gregory raised his arms above his head. "Isis," he called out, "come forth."
Gregory's wife walked slowly into the room. She was dressed in a white cloak that she held wrapped around her. She appeared to be fresh and composed, totally unlike the grimacing, frightened creature
Orient had seen that afternoon. When she reached the circle, she let the cloak fall away, revealing her naked body underneath, and sat down on the table. She looked around and smiled. "Isis is ready to serve you," she said softly.
Kali approached the table holding a fluttering white dove in her hands. She held it out to Gregory, then backed away.
As Gregory held the bird against his chest, stroking its feathers, he began to intone a prayer. "In the power and the words of God, the God of power, Jesus the Christ of Nazareth, I conjure thee by the Angel Gabriel the unknown..."
His words rose and fell against Orient's thoughts as he watched Isis close her eyes and slump over on the table. "Astaroth, Astaroth, I adjure thee by the sacred words Eloim, Sabaoth and Ya—" Gregory's soft voice was clear in the stillness of the room. He held the dove over Isis's head. "Astaroth, come then and accomplish our desires by the name of the Holy God." With a quick, careless motion of his fingers, he wrung the dove's neck. The bird's legs jerked and then stiffened. It died without making a sound. "Astaroth, come forward," Gregory whispered.
Isis suddenly sat up and went rigid. Her arms shot forward straight out in front of her body, her fists tightly clenched. A hoarse, almost masculine growl came from somewhere deep inside her belly and escaped through her contorted lips. "I come," she said.
Kali, Thor, and the black boy began to moan and sway from side to side.
"Will you grant our requests?" Gregory asked.
For a moment Isis was silent. Then she began to speak very slowly, her voice guttural and indistinct. "Mrs. Berry," she grunted. One of the women who had put an envelope in front of the circle raised her hand. "Here," she called out timidly.
"You must sign—contract you asked—about—will bring wealth."
"Thank you, Isis," the woman said.
"Thank Astaroth." The voice was deeper, almost menacing.
The woman hesitated. "Yes. Thank you—Astaroth," she said.
Isis's shoulders began to jerk. Gregory put his hand on her neck and the movement stopped. "Mr. Kramer," Isis rumbled. The man who had placed his request before the circle flushed and half-rose, somewhat startled at hearing his name being uttered by the straining girl.
"Wife—will speak." Isis fell silent. Her body shuddered and her arms began to move back toward to her body, crossing slowly over her breasts, fists still clenched. When she began to speak, her voice was no longer low and coarse; it was pitched very high now, coming out as a squeaky whisper. "Arthur? It's Agnes here."
The man struggled to his feet. "Agnes? You're not dead," he stammered.
"There is—no death—only the journey—" The words were somehow out of synchronization with Isis's curled lips. "Must have faith."
"But the will, Agnes," the man said quickly, taking a step forward.
"Will—can be found in—the attic—my chest." The voice became louder. "Must have—faith, Arth—" Isis stopped and her arms thrust forward again. She began to rock back and forth on the table.
The man looked confused and started to speak, but before he could say anything, Isis opened her mouth and began to shriek.
As if the screams were a signal, Kali began to tremble uncontrollably. She fell to the floor growling, and working her jaws like an animal gnawing on fresh-killed bones.
Thor and the black boy were rolling on the floor near her, their arms and legs twitching.
The room was suddenly filled by static electricity, and Orient felt his hair rising. Everyone else in the room seemed frozen with fear, their faces blank and uncomprehending. Orient looked up and saw Gregory standing with his head thrown back, muttering a jumble of words and phrases. Isis began to weep hysterically, her breath coming in choppy, hiccupping sobs. Thin streams of liquid were running down her thighs. It took Orient a moment before he realized it was urine.
Isis uttered a long, weak wail and fell to the floor unconscious. A brief flash of blue flame illuminated the star above the table, and abruptly all the noise and movement in the room stopped.
For long seconds everything was suspended in stillness. Then Thor got to his feet and pulled the cord hanging against the wall. The linen curtains closed Gregory and Isis off from view.
Orient moved to help Kali, but she was already on her feet. There were large wet stains on her gown, and her face was pale and covered with perspiration.
"All right now?" Orient asked.
Kali nodded, and sighed luxuriously. "Fine. I love it when Gregory calls Astaroth. He fills my whole body."
Orient didn't answer. From the excited murmur of conversation buzzing around the room, he knew that most of the people there shared Kall's rush of physical enthusiasm. His own thoughts, however, were numbed with fear and depression.
The curtains parted and Gregory stepped into the room. "One of you here had a request unanswered," he said, "but Isis is too exhausted to continue the celebration. If you wish, we are available for private consultation. There will be another celebration of the universal power of Astaroth in two days. Thank you for coming."
Most of the participants started filing toward the door, but a few lingered to talk to Gregory.
"Later," Kali whispered. "I'm on duty at the door."
Orient edged closer to the group surrounding Gregory. He had underestimated him, Orient admitted ruefully; the boy was able to wield sizable amounts of occult energy.
"It was just the greatest thing I've ever seen," the man who had contacted his dead wife was saying. "I'd clean forgotten about the chest. Nobody else could know. It was just fantastic."
Gregory bowed his head. "I'm glad we were of service."
"I want you to know I'm behind you and Isis a hundred percent," the man told him.
"But Isis," a woman said, "I'm worried about her, Gregory."
"My wife was overcome, but she'll be completely normal in a few minutes," Gregory assured her. "Isis is proud to use her powers on your behalf."
Orient waited patiently until Gregory had finished chatting with his guests before approaching. There was a great deal he still wanted to know, but it wasn't wise to appear too anxious. From now on he would have to move very carefully.
"Hello, Owen," Gregory said softly, "I'm pleased you could come."
Orient made himself smile. "Thanks for having me. It was fascinating."
Gregory nodded slowly, studying Orient. "Now you see that the power of the Circle can be of use to you."
"I believe it could. I've made some inquiries into psychic science myself, but never with results like that. Magnificent control."
The boy responded to the slight flattery. His amber eyes clouded over with pride. "Yes," he said, "I knew when I saw you. You're sensitive."
"Was the rite to Astaroth you used according to Honorius?" Orient tried to sound casual, but he was tense. The information was crucial.
The mist faded from Gregory's eyes, leaving them hard and alert.
A tiny vein in his smooth skull jumped. "I'm not sure," he purred.
"My wife and I developed our powers in California. There we discovered that Astaroth is goodness and fife." His smile was a cold dismissal. "But I must see about my wife. Good night, Owen." He turned and walked back through the curtain.
Orient frowned; Gregory wasn't telling the truth. Astaroth was not goodness. The being was a guide of the left-hand path. Gregory
Gregory knew how to wield psychic energy, but it was negative energy. His power and that of Isis was Satanic in origin. Orient moved to the entrance. He was sure that the prayer to Astaroth was from the books of Honorius III, the occultist who became Pope. Perhaps Gregory had sensed the urgency behind the remark and guessed his intention. If that was the case, it would make everything difficult.
"Wasn't it beautiful?"
Orient looked down and saw Kali standing just beside the door.
She was holding a wooden bowl in her hands. The bowl was filled with cash, and Orient saw that someone had dropped a diamond ring on top of the green bills." Looks like the Circle made a profit," he said.
"Oh, that." Kali make a face and set the bowl carelessly down on the floor. "We need it right now, but pretty soon we'll be beyond money. As soon as the Circle is established." She took his hand and walked with him to the outside door. "There are more important things, you know. Like you and me."
Orient stopped at the door. He didn't want to arouse Kali's suspicions. "I think I was too moved by the celebration," he said. "I'm still not together."
Kali reached up and touched his cheek. "I understand," she said tenderly. "It was the same with me my first time."
"But I want to see Gregory again," Orient confided. "Can I have his number?"
Kali didn't turn around, but merely raised her voice slightly. "Slavie," she said, "bring me a card."
Instantly one of the girls sitting in the front room rose and came to Kali's side, holding a pale blue calling card.
Kali handed the card to Orient. "Don't let this number get around; I'll see you at the next meeting." She smiled and her tongue flicked over her lips. "Then you can try out my waterbed."
"I'll be looking forward to it," Orient said. He wanted to tell her much more but he knew she wouldn't understand. When he stepped out onto the sidewalk, he saw that the limousines had departed and the street was empty and quiet.
He walked slowly, letting the night air cool the feverish tenseness stretched tight across his brain. Kali and her friends were using forces that were extremely powerful. Gregory and Isis were calling up Astaroth's energy with blood sacrifice. Tonight it had been a dove, but Orient knew that it was only a matter of a few phases before they attempted a human sacrifice. Astaroth would demand a higher and higher price for his services. And Gregory was in no position to deny him. The boy was making a serious miscalculation. Gregory and Isis didn't control Astaroth's power; it controlled them. They were completely possessed by its influence. Orient also knew that if the celebrations continued, the sanity and life of innocent people would eventually be destroyed. He took a deep breath and tried to push away the doubts jabbing at his thoughts.
His first impulse was to try to help Gregory and Isis. To free them. But it was held back by the dancing, taunting fears. He wasn't sufficiently prepared. Control would have to be perfect, and he didn't know if he was up to it.
And then there was something else, perhaps even more important than his ability to do anything for them. Gregory and Isis, he reminded himself, had no desire to be freed from Astaroth's exhilarating embrace.
Keeping tabs on all the telephoned bets that came into Joker's apartment wasn't taxing, but it demanded attention. And Orient's mind was still wrestling with what he had seen the night before, at Gregory's meeting. He tried to concentrate on his work, but it was impossible. He took the phone off the hook, lay back on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
Sun Girl didn't know how perceptive she had been. Kali's friends were riding an express to madness. They were so carried away by their ability to conjure power that they'd forgotten to protect themselves. The possession of Gregory and Isis could have happened any number of ways; by forgetting to say the proper prayers for the binding of the spirit, or neglecting to make the Circle of Protection perfectly. Many amateurs fell into the same pitfalls. Anyone calling up occult energy had to be certain that every safety measure was covered. The forfeit was injury, madness, and sometimes death. Gregory and his wife hadn't taken the correct measures, and they'd been entered by Astaroth. And if the celebrations continued, everyone who participated would be prey to the virulent disease of their rites.
Of course there was another possibility. One that sent sharp darts of anxiety through his thoughts. Gregory and Isis hadn't taken any precautions because they wanted to become possessed. Because something in their personality had made them decide to worship evil for its own sake.
A chill crept across the back of his neck as he remembered the sacrificed dove. And the cell of impressionable Slavies.
He sat up, found the card Karl had given him, and put his finger on the receiver button while he dialed Gregory's number.
"Hello."
Orient thought he recognized the voice at the other end. "Kali?"
"Yes. Who is it?" Kali's voice rose slightly with anticipation.
"Owen."
The voice dropped flat. "Oh, hi. What is it?"
"I'd like to make an appointment with Gregory. For a private consultation."
"I think Gregory's all booked up," she said quickly. Too quickly, Orient thought.
"Tomorrow?"
"Sorry. He's booked through this week. And he won't be available again for a few months."
"How much is his regular fee?"
"Expensive. A hundred dollars."
"I'll give him five hundred."
Orient didn't even have the regular fee, but he didn't believe he'd be called upon to produce a cent. Something about Kali's manner made him sure that Gregory wouldn't be available to him at any price.
He was right.
"Sorry, Owen. Gregory's been booked in advance."
Orient pushed it. "Okay. I'll see you at the next meeting in that case."
"I don't think so, Owen." Kali's voice was brittle and remote. "Gregory's decided not to hold any more open meetings."
"But I'm really interested in the Circle. Can I speak to him?" Orient persisted.
"I'm sorry. Not right now. Why don't you call mc in a few weeks. I have to go back to my chores now." She hung up.
Orient replaced the receiver slowly. Kali had obviously scratched him from her waterbed list. And it wasn't difficult to figure out why. Gregory had become suspicious when he mentioned Honorius. So he had told Kali to turn him off. Orient shook his head. He had tipped his hand. Now it would be impossible to get to Gregory. And every passing day would increase the chances of someone else in the Circle being possessed by Astaroth. He stood up and began to pace the floor.
He had to find some way of being alone with Gregory and Isis.
He sighed aloud as he realized that was only the first jump. Then he would have to convince them to let him help them. And there was no way that would work. He would have to surprise them somehow.
A plan began to form. He pushed it aside as impractical, and then came back to it again. But he couldn't carry if off alone. Then he remembered Sybelle, and the ragged edges of the idea fell into place. If she agreed, there was a chance. He decided to call her.
This time the voice at the other end was vibrant and rich. "Speak," it commanded in a dramatic mezzo-soprano.
Orient snorted. "Same old Sybelle," he said. "Still intimidating the customers."
"Owen," Sybelle gushed enthusiastically, "you're back! You're safe! I thought something had happened. I almost held a seance for you. Where are you?"
"I'm in the city. Sorry I haven't called sooner, but I've been involved in some research. Can I see you right away?"
"How about later this evening?"
"How about now?"
Sybelle's resonant voice lowered. "Why the hurry?"
"It's rather pressing," Orient said, "and difficult to explain on the phone."
"Well, of course, then. Come up. I'll be waiting." Orient felt better when he hung up. With Sybelle's help his plan had a decent chance of success. But he had to do some shopping before he went to see her. He wrote a note for Sun Girl and Joker, then carefully made a list of the items he needed.
Everything had to be right. He wouldn't get another try. When he'd completed the list, he left the house, found a cab, and convinced the driver to wait for him while he made a few stops. The first place he went to was a pharmaceutical wholesale outlet in the Wall Street district. Orient had done business with the firm before, so he was able to obtain what he needed without producing extensive credentials. After that he went to an herb pharmacy in the Bowery. When his purchases were completed, he stopped at a nearby church for a few moments before finally giving the driver Sybelle's address.
As the cab crawled up First Avenue toward 60th Street, Orient considered the details of his plan. It wasn't foolproof. It could go wrong at any point. If Gregory and Isis refused to see Sybelle privately, he'd be unable to do anything. He had chosen Sybelle for two reasons. She was a professional medium who would understand the situation. She didn't have telepathic ability, but she did have a strong clairvoyant psychic talent which she controlled effectively. Orient didn't always agree with the headstrong woman, but he knew she could be depended upon in a crisis. And Sybelle had a room in her apartment that was perfect for what he had in mind today.
Sybelle lived on the ground floor of a three-story brownstone off Second Avenue. When she answered the bell she started talking even before she had fully opened the door. "Owen. It's been eons! I knew you were going to contact me. I felt it this week. Nobody knew where you were. Everyone was positively mystified. Come in—come in, why don't you," she admonished, blocking the entrance with her wide body.
Sybelle's figure had once been described as a "classic Reubens; the delicatessen, not the painter," but today, with a ruffled pink pant suit coveting her ample curves, she looked more like a watermelon that had grown inside out. Her hair was a frizzy hennaed halo around her florid face, and her eyes were tiny
dots, like pits, peeping out through the mounds of flesh that formed when she smiled. And she was beaming.
"Come in, for heaven's sakes," she repeated, finally stepping back to give Orient room. "Where have you been, anyway?" She stood up on tiptoes, closed her eyes, and puckered her bright red lips. Orient gave her a loud kiss.
"I'm glad to see you haven't changed," he said. "Still lusty."
Sybelle waddled ahead of Orient on her gold, high-heeled slippers. "Fat as ever, you mean. Some of my so-called friends are calling me the obese oracle behind my back. Do you want a drink? Or are you still on that monk's regime of yours?" She waved her plump, jeweled fingers at him. "Sit down, sit down, and tell me everything."
Orient shook his head helplessly, set down his shopping bag and sat. Sybelle was as dizzy as ever. But underneath the fat and the flamboyance there was a highly gifted woman who used her talents with the shrewd precision of a surgeon.
"Tell me now," she demanded as she went behind the red, plush bar, elaborately worked with gilded signs of the Zodiac, and began filling two glasses with ice. "Why did you sell that beautiful house? And where have you been all this time?"
"Just working on some research. I guess I've been pretty absorbed," Orient murmured apologetically. "But it's good to see you looking beautiful. How's the medium business?" Sybelle patted her vivid orange hair and winked. "Business, as you so crudely put my profession, is fabulous. I'd be a rich woman if could be bothered to go on TV, or do magazine articles like some other psychics. But I prefer to keep my readings small and private." She came out from behind the bar holding the two glasses. "Now this is Scotch," she said firmly. "Drink it, it's good for you."
Orient dutifully took the glass and drank. "There," Sybelle prompted encouragingly, "isn't that better than those insipid juices?"
Orient nodded. He knew better than to try to argue with Sybelle, who was a devoted believer in the natural magic of food and drink. Especially booze.
"Now then," Sybelle sighed, settling down in a delicate French Provincial chair that looked ready to splinter under her weight, "what's all the fuss? Why did you want to see me right away?"
"Let me ask you something first," Orient said. He told her what he'd seen at the meeting the night before. He described Isis's strange convulsions and the rite to Astaroth. He didn't go into his own conclusions, but waited for her reaction.
"I don't like it," Sybelle frowned. She took a gulp of her drink. "It sounds like the sort of thing I don't like to be associated with."
"Why?"
Sybelle looked at him. "You know as well as I that calling up psychic power through a blood rite can lead to complications."
"That's why I'd like you to ask them over for a private consultation," Orient said carefully. "I think the complications have already set in."
"You think they're possessed?" Her eye narrowed. "Really?"
Orient nodded. "That's the way it looked to me. I tried to get them to see me earlier, but they froze up. They're suspicious. That's why I need your help."
"For what?"
"I want to try to exorcise them," Orient said slowly.
Sybelle was silent. Orient stared at his cracked, wrinkled palms as he waited for her answer.
"If they're suspicious," she mused, "they're not going to let you do anything to them."
"That's true," Orient replied. He reached down and took a small bottle from the bottom of the shopping bag. He held it up for her to see. It contained a number of tiny white tablets. "One of these in a glass of water is tasteless and works fast. It puts you out for at least fifteen minutes."
"And if they don't want any water?" Sybelle reminded.
"I was coming to that." He went into the shopping bag again and pulled out a long metal canister.
"This is a container of a gas used by dentists. It's called laughing gas for some strange reason, although it doesn't make you laugh." He pointed to the door at the end of the room. "You have a small study in there which, as I recall, has another door."
"That's right. To the kitchen." Sybelle was holding her forgotten glass at the level of her top chin, smiling expectantly.
"I'll set the container up out of sight in there," Orient explained. "If they refuse a drink, I'll turn on the nozzle and duck into the kitchen. Ask them to sit in the study, close the door, and wait for a few minutes."
"And the gas will knock them out. Intriguing," Sybelle purred.
"Not quite," Orient explained. "The gas will make them dizzy. And very thirsty. It'll use up a good deal of the oxygen available in the small room. When you go back inside, bring them the water. They will definitely need it. And that will put them out."
Sybelle took a sip of her Scotch. "Fascinating."
"Will you help?"
"What if they don't want to see me?"
Orient smiled. "When they hear who's calling, they'll come."
"Perhaps you're right." Sybelle fluttered her violet-lined lashes. "After all, I am New York's leading psychic. If they're planning to expand their activities, they'll need the moral support I could give them. The advice."
"To say nothing of the customers."
"Now, don't be fresh," Sybelle warned, "Or I won't call them."
"Then you will do it?"
Sybelle stood up and wiggled toward the rhinestone-studded telephone on the bar. "Of course. I wouldn't miss it for anything. I've never had the opportunity to assist an exorcism. And I have a new gown that's just too perfect for the occasion."
"You'll need the number," Orient said. "Don't be silly," Sybelle snapped. "I have everybody's number." She leafed through her thick address book, then dialed.
"Hello," she said grandly, "Sybelle Lean here. I'd like to speak to Gregory, please." She winked at Orient. "Hello, Gregory? This is Sybelle Lean.... Yes, that's right, the medium. I was wondering if you and your wife would come up to see me this evening. For a private seance.... Well, that's just lovely." She smiled prettily at the telephone and patted her hair. "I've heard beautiful things about you, too." She looked at Orient and grimaced. "Very good then. At six-thirty. I'm at 362 East Sixtieth. I'll be looking forward to seeing you." She hung up and looked at Orient.
"Perfect," he congratulated. He was relieved. His intuition had been correct. Gregory was avoiding him. The question about the rite of Honorius had hit home.
"Do you have everything you need?" Sybelle came over and peered into the shopping bag. "You seem marvelously equipped."
"I think so. As I told you, Gregory is invoking Astaroth, using a prayer from Honorius. So I'd like to use a prayer of dismissal from the same rite."
"Then you'll need belladonna, mandrake, some chalk, a measuring string, and—let me see, oh yes, rock incense."
"Very good," Orient grinned. "I knew you were the right person to ask. You left out only one thing." He held up two red jars. "Liturgical candles. Blessed with holy water. I stopped by a church. Just in case."
Sybelle sat down and looked at Orient. "Now tell me," she said calmly, the soft lines of her face hardening with total attention, "tell me exactly what you want me to do. Step by step."
It didn't take her much time to absorb what Orient told her. Her firm grasp of psychic technique and form made it easy for him to coach her in the elements of the Rite of Exorcism. "You'll recite the actual words, and I'll use my concentration to direct the energy you generate, remember that you must repeat the words very carefully. If you mispronounce one, or stumble, you must begin again. But if anything happens, you'll be protected. I'll be a buffer between you and Astaroth."
"What if you're possessed or hurt?" Sybelle objected. "Isn't there another way?"
"If anything happens to me, just get out of the house as fast as possible," Orient said, the doubts dancing in, to mock the calm of his voice. "There is no other way right now."
Sybelle went into the bedroom to change, while Orient went about trying to conceal the container of laughing gas. He tried a few places, then settled on the bookshelf, behind some volumes. It was just in the center of the short wall in front of the couch. No matter where they sat, the vapors of the gas would reach them. He was making some final adjustments on the nozzle mechanism when Sybelle reappeared, wearing a floor-length gown cut low to expose most of her billowy breasts.
"This is it," she announced. "Divine, no?"
Orient looked up. "Great," he said. "That should knock them out if the pills don't work!"
"And it's pure cotton."
Orient nodded. He knew that in performing special rites it was advisable to wear clothes of pure cotton or linen. He wondered if his twill trousers and silk shirt would hamper his attempt. He shrugged.
Too late to attend to that detail, he decided. But the doubts came crowding back.
When Gregory and Isis arrived, Orient waited in the study while Sybelle answered the door. "How nice to meet you," he heard her saying. "You're both so young and lovely."
"Thank you, Sybelle," Gregory's musical voice answered. "We consider your interest in our work an honor."
"Oh, I've heard the most amazing things about you and your wife," Sybelle gushed.
"Who recommended you to us?" Isis asked. Even through the closed door of the study Orient could detect the edge of wariness in her voice.
"Why, a few people," Sybelle answered smoothly. "Peter Herko, for one. You know, the clairvoyant. Such a nice man. Wouldn't you both like a nice cold drink?"
"Not right now," Gregory said. "We try to fast before our appointments. You understand."
"Indeed I do," Sybelle assured him. "When one has the power, so much sacrifice is involved. Make yourselves comfortable while I fix myself something. I'll only be a minute."
Orient reached down behind the books, twisted the nozzle on the container hidden there, and hurried into the kitchen. He closed the door gently, hoping that the low hiss of escaping gas and the slight odor would go undetected.
In a few moments Sybelle joined him in the kitchen. "You're absolutely right," she whispered in his ear. "Their aura is dark brown."
Orient nodded. Some sensitive mediums, like Sybelle, had the faculty of being able to see color auras, corona-like vibrations that every person emits. Usually deep green or brown auras indicated some sort of spiritual disorder.
Orient pointed to the two glasses he had prepared, and held up four fingers. Sybelle looked at her watch and made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. When the four minutes had elapsed, Sybelle picked up the glasses and went into the study.
"All ready," she announced. "I brought you some ice water in case you changed your mind."
"Thank you, Sybelle," Isis said, her voice low and indistinct. "It is stuffy in this room."
As she spoke, Orient began a deep breathing pattern to charge his concentration. He focused his mind on each detail of the task ahead and went over each word of the rite.
"Excuse me a moment," Sybelle was saying. "I want my tarot cards." When she entered the kitchen she nodded grimly. "How long?" she whispered. Orient held up three fingers.
Sybelle waited impatiently, then went back into the study. "All right, Owen," she called out softly, "I think they're asleep." Owen went inside and saw Gregory and Isis sprawled on the couch. Both glasses were standing empty on the table in front of them.
"Better open both doors to air the place out," Orient grunted as he shut the nozzle. He went into the other room and began making his preparations.
First, using a ruler to ensure perfect measurements, he drew a triangle on the floor with the chalk he'd bought earlier. Underneath the triangle, in letters of equal size, he wrote the words SPIRITUS LOCUS. Then, using a measuring string, he drew a large circle a short distance away from the triangle. In the center of the circle he drew a perfect six-pointed star, the Pentacle of Solomon. Inside the pentacle he wrote the words AGLA and ADONAY, and the letters HIS.
"Very nice." Sybelle congratulated him when he had finished. "Anything you need?"
"Just your crucifix," Orient murmured. When Sybelle left the room, he took the rock incense and placed it in a bowl. As he struck a match he began his invocation. "I offcr thee this incense as the purest which I have been able to obtain," he said softly. "Adonai, Eloim, Ariel, and Jehovam. Deign to receive it as an acceptable sacrifice of purification. And be favorable to me in thy power." As the fumes of the incense began scenting the room, he placed the two glass-enclosed candles on the floor and lit them, repeating a prayer to bind the spirits. He pushed his concentration as he spoke, emptying himself of everything except the words of the rite.
"Ready now?" Sybelle asked when she came back.
"Just about. We'll have to haul them in here. Feel up to it?"
"I'm up to anything to help those poor children," Sybelle said quietly.
They went into the study, and Orient took Gregory under the arms to lift him. The boy was completely limp and extremely heavy. "Take his feet," Orient said.
As Sybelle bent over his legs, the boy suddenly stiffened. A hoarse cry came from Gregory's gaping mouth, and Orient felt the boy's body twist away from his grasp as it went completely rigid, lifted a foot off the couch and then slammed down again.
Orient looked up and realized what was happening. "The crucifix," he yelled. "Get rid of it."
Sybelle's eyes went wide and she hurried into the kitchen, holding the crucifix away from her body as if it were about to explode. As she drew away, Orient saw Gregory's body relax and go limp again.
"Sorry, Owen," she murmured, when she came back empty-handed. "I forgot I still had it."
"It's all right, so did I," Orient said. "Let's move. The tablets won't last much longer."
With Sybelle's help he took Gregory into the living room and placed his unconscious body next to the triangle on the floor. Then he went back into the study and lifted Isis in his arms. The girl was remarkably light, as if her small bones were filled with air. He looked down at her face. It looked serene and composed, like that of a sleeping princess.
"Now bring the cross," he said, as he placed Isis near the triangle.
Orient made sure that the candies and incense were burning well and stepped into the Circle of Protection he had drawn. Sybelle came back, handed Orient the cross, and whispered her own invocation to the powers of light. She stood very close to him, making sure that her wide body was in the protective influence of the circle. When she was ready, she looked at Orient. He nodded.
"By Alpha," she said in a loud, dear voice, "by Ely, Omega, Elothe, Elohim, Sabaoth, Eloin, and Sady." As she spoke, Orient held the large, wooden cross out toward the bodies of Gregory and Isis. He intensified his breathing and opened his being to allow the energy vibrating from Sybelle's prayer to flow into his body. He felt it pouring down through his arms, his hands, and into the crucifix he held tight in his fingers.
"See here that which prohibits revolt against our orders, the True Cross. And those things which order that you return to your place. Now."
As Sybelle's voice trailed off, Gregory's body began to twitch. His mouth opened and closed.
"By Alpha—" Sybelle repeated the first words of the Prayer of Exorcism, and Orient felt the vibration charging higher. His mind squeezed the speeding energy through his concentration.
Isis began to shudder. She lifted her arms and tried to raise her body from the floor. Gregory's chest began to heave as Sybelle droned on, and small cries of pain bubbled through his lips.
"... order that you return to your place..."
Isis shrieked and clawed at her hair with stiff, spastic fingers.
"Now."
Both Isis and Gregory were screeching as Sybelle finished her second command of dismissal. As she took a breath to begin again, Orient's attention was momentarily diverted by a bottle lifting off the bar. It fell to the floor and exploded into spinning fragments. One of the barstools fell over on its side. Isis screamed and managed to get her body off the floor.
"By Alpha," Sybelle called out, her voice cracking, "by Ely, Omega,
Elothe—" Orient closed his eyes and dug for his wavering concentration. Sybelle's voice broke, and she had to begin again, and Orient felt the momentum of the energy she was invoking recede and wash away.
"By Alpha, by Ely, Omega—" she raised her voice, forcing the words through gritted teeth.
Orient opened his eyes and saw Isis on all fours. Her body was rigid and she was shaking her head back and forth, twisting her neck violently each time. He caught a blur of motion in the corner of his eye, and turned his head.
The blur was a barstool hurtling toward the circle.
Orient held up the cross in front of them, and at the last instant the heavy stool seemed to hit a pocket of thick air that slowed its motion until floated against Orient's upraised forearm, bounced off harmlessly, and landed outside the circle with a muffled thud.
Sybelle was cringing next to Orient but she managed to keep the rhythm of the chant... "and those things which prohibit revolt—" she continued, her voice stronger—"Those things which order that..."
Isis stood up. Her eyes were closed and her arms stretched out blindly in front of her. She took a step forward.
Gregory's body jackknifed shut and flew open, twisting closer to the circle. Some glasses on the bar collided against each other, shattering on impact and sending a spray of glass splinters across the room. A trickle of mustard-colored vomit trickled down the side of Gregory's chin. Isis took another step and opened her eyes. They were crossed almost completely back into their sockets; only the blank white eyeballs showed, swollen and streaked with blood.
She lifted her foot over the bowl of burning incense as if to smash it. Orient's fingers seemed to be crushing the soft wood fibers of the cross as he pushed his concentration against something that was trying to batter away his thoughts.
"Return to your place! Now! ASTAROTH!" Sybelle shouted out the last words of the Prayer of Exorcism. Isis swayed, her foot still upraised, then fell to the floor, sobbing desperately. Suddenly all resistance to Orient's thought collapsed, and his body experienced an abrupt sense of gliding weightlessness.
Gregory and Isis lay still in the silence that filled the room.
Orient saw Isis's jaw flap open. Her tongue dropped out of her slack mouth like a body falling through a gallow's trap. It hung straight down, almost touching the floor. A long brown centipede crawled across the girl's tongue, its matted wet fur gleaming in the candlelight. As it scuttled wildly across the floor and entered the triangle, a shaft of blue flame flared up above the design, engulfing the insect.
When Orient's vision cleared of flash spots, he saw that the centipede was gone.
He felt Sybelle slump heavily against him, and he helped her over to the couch. "Never mind that," she whispered hoarsely. "Just get me a drink."
Orient found a still unbroken glass among the jagged remains of Sybelle's crystal collection and looked for a whole bottle. Almost everything around the bar had been broken, shattered or overturned. He saw a bottle of Scotch lying on its side and picked it up. It was still a quarter full. He filled the glass and brought it over to Sybelle. By the time she'd gotten half of it down, Gregory and Isis began to recover consciousness.
Orient checked them out for physical injuries and, finding none, waited until they were able to sit up and talk before explaining what he and Sybelle had done.
"We decided to take it upon ourselves to exorcise you," Orient concluded, "but if you want to continue your exploration there's very little I can do." He said it casually, but he watched their faces intently. He had to know if they'd been accidental victims of Astaroth, or had consciously willed his negative influence.
Gregory blinked and slowly shook his head. "Not me," he muttered, sounding oddly boyish. The feline magnetism Orient had noticed the day before had been replaced by a bewildered air of wonder. "It was too insane. My head was really messed up."
Isis nodded in agreement. "I couldn't sleep at all. Sometimes I thought I was asleep and in a dream, but then I would know it was real. I just want to go to sleep for a long time."
"It seemed fine when we started. I got hold of an old Grimoire of Honorius and got into it. For a while money was coming in, and we were having a good time helping people. But then it got freaky. And we didn't know how to turn it off."
"It just wasn't real. It was crazy," Isis said.
"It was certainly real," Orient murmured, lifting the hem of her white dress. "Astaroth even left behind a souvenir."
Gregory, Isis, and Sybelle peered intently at the dark, scorched smudge on the cloth. Sybelle reached down and rubbed it gingerly with her thumb.
"Why, it's a finger print burned into the dress," she exclaimed. She looked up at Orient, her forehead furrowed with confusion.
"There's a museum of marks like these at the Sacred Heart Church in Rome," Orient told her. "All made by departing demons."
"You know," Sybelle mused as they continued to stare at the charred imprint, "you two must have natural psychic ability. Or you wouldn't have been able to get so far. Maybe I can show you how to avoid the dangers of occult power."
Gregory shook his head and smiled. "Not right now. We need a rest before we can think straight about anything. I'm going to take Isis back to the Coast. She's been through a lot these past few months."
"I think you can stop calling me Isis," his wife yawned. "My real name will do for a while."
When the couple had fully recovered, they decided to leave, declining Sybelle's offer of a place to sleep. After they were gone, Sybelle rummaged around the bar, found another unbroken bottle, poured herself a drink, and came over to the couch.
"I think Gregory and Is—I mean Linda—will be fine," she said, frowning at him. "But I'm not so sure about you, Owen."
Orient smiled. "Ohm, I'm fine. And I want to thank you for your help." He looked across the room at the debris and overturned furniture around the bar. "I'm sorry it cost you a chunk of your pride and joy."
Sybelle dismissed the rubble with a wave of her plump fingers. "That's easy to straighten out," she said. "But don't think you're going to change the subject again." She took a sip of her drink. "You're being strangely evasive with me, Owen. You haven't fooled me a bit with this vague research business. There's a lot you're not telling me."
Orient shifted uncomfortably. "I just really haven't worked it out yet. Hard to explain right now."
"I see." Sybelle took another sip and set the glass down. "Well then, I won't pry, of course. Still, I remember when you told me almost everything about your work," she added hopefully.
Orient sighed, and wondered what he could say that would make sense to her. Sybelle leaned forward. "I want you to do something for me," she said. "Let me give you a reading. I feel something troubling you."
Orient agreed, but he wasn't enthusiastic as he watched Sybelle go for her tarot cards. In his unsettled state the reading wouldn't be of much use to either of them.
"My cards were scattered all over the drawer," Sybelle muttered in exasperation. "And the bedroom's a mess." She glared at Orient and thrust the deck into his hands. "Here, you skinny clam," she grunted, "shuffle these."
Orient ruffled the cards carefully through his fingers as he mixed them. He knew that, unlike most seers, Sybelle used the cards in a special way. Instead of just reading fortunes, Sybelle also drew impressions from the cards themselves, reading the vibrations left on the deck after it had been shuffled.
He handed her the cards and waited as she took them in both her hands and closed her eyes. For a long time she was silent. When she opened her eyes again, Orient saw a tear streaking the makeup on her fleshy cheek. Without saying a word she put three cards face down in front of him. She turned over the first and studied it. "The Fool," she said softly. "It's the first card in the tarot deck, the Joker. It's a spiritual card, a card of quests. You are on a long journey but you'll reach a fork. A friend will betray you," she added, with emotion in her voice. She looked at him.
Orient didn't say anything. Sybelle looked down and turned over the second card. "The Queen of Wands," she whispered, "the card of Venus." She put her finger on the first card. "When she joins the Fool she becomes spiteful. But it also means a very deep love." She turned over the last card.
For a few seconds she didn't speak. "It's—it's very confusing. The knight of Swords is the card of heroism and honor, but it has a negative aspect with the Fool." She looked up. "It's very difficult to read. I suppose I shouldn't have insisted." She started to pick up the cards.
"Now you're clamming up," Orient said. "Out with it, don't let it disturb you."
Sybelle's voice was flat. "It means death, Owen."
Orient hesitated. "We all die, you know," he said smiling, "and the cards don't specify when." But he felt a blanket of ice settle across his brain as he saw Sybelle open her mouth to say something, and stop. Something was burdening Sybelle, something she didn't want to tell him.
Orient tried to keep the conversation light for the next half hour, but he could see that Sybelle was still depressed from her reading. He decided to let her sleep it off.
"Cheer up," he told her at the door, "and if you don't hear from me for a while, don't hold any seances for me."
"Be careful, Owen," Sybelle said, trying to force a smile. She gave it up and looked at him gravely. "When I held your cards, I felt that you were lost somehow, trying to find your way. Lost and confused." She shook her head. "It made me sad to think of you that way."
Orient put his arm around her shoulder. "Everything is as it should be," he said. "And no reason to worry." But that night, not even Sun Girl's body, close against his, was enough to warm the doubts that were chilling his restless sleep.
As Orient became more adept at dealing with his daily tasks, he slowly recovered the confidence he had lost during Project Judy. He had to agree that Joker was right about the fringe benefits of the gambling profession. It put him in touch with people of all kinds, and he came to understand many things. Including Doctor Ferrari's arrogance at having fought his way from the ghetto to a place of eminence in the medical profession.
However, he still held off making any attempt to develop Joker's telepathic potential. And the experience with Gregory and his wife had made him more cautious than usual. The one thing Joker didn't control was his ego. He wasn't sure that the cowboy would use his powers objectively. He was addicted to instant gratification. And then there was the feeling, lately, that Joker was holding something back. He remembered the first card that Sybelle had turned over. The Fool. The Joker in the deck.
But even though Sybelle's sobering impression of his situation returned to disturb his thoughts from time to time, like a mosquito stinging a peaceful slumberer, Orient was busy, and content.
It didn't last long.
Exactly a week after he'd gone to see Sybelle, his routine was shattered. He had just finished his meditations and was starting to tally up the daily receipts when the telephone interrupted him. He waited to see if it would stop after four rings, the prearranged code for bets, but it persisted and he picked up the receiver.
"Owen?" Sun Girl's voice was unusually agitated. "Owen, can you meet me right away?"
"I don't know. Joker's not back and I should be here to take calls."
"Forget the calls. This is special."
"What's up?"
"Kind of a surprise," Sun Girl said. She didn't sound enthusiastic. "Please come." She gave him the address and hung up.
On his way to meet Sun Girl, he took a deep pleasure in the blinking store windows, the neon posters, and the flow of style and color in the streets. A fresh breeze was rising to cool the fire in the hearts of men. And he was a real element in the movement of that breeze. He'd found his contact with the human condition. For the first time he understood the simple, elusive lesson of the life of the Siddharta/Rama.
As he approached his destination, Orient's thoughts were distracted by a familiar flash at the base of his brain. For a moment he was confused. Then the picture formed and cleared away the disturbance.
An African witch doctor dancing in the dust. The image faded and Orient knew the nature of Sun Girl's surprise. He quickened his pace.
In a few minutes he was standing in front of a small brick building that looked like a garage. A sign on the door read: BLACK ARTS MESSAGE SERVICE. He went inside.
"Argyle?" he called, trying to adjust his eyes to the dim light.
"Right on, Doc." Argyle Simpson's voice boomed through the gloom and Orient saw the tall figure of his friend coming toward him, arms outstretched.
Argyle grabbed his shoulders, pulled him into a quick embrace, then held him out at arm's length.
"Well, look at this," Simpson laughed. "The prodigal professor." He pulled Orient into the center of the room. "You look terrific, Doc. You're even getting to be some kind of dude in your old age."
"Now all your secrets are out," Sun Girl called from somewhere behind him.
"Wah, wah, wah!" Julian hopped around Orient and Argyle. "I'm a witch doctor too!"
Orient grinned with happiness and confusion. "Seems like I'm being put on by the whole neighborhood," he said.
"Listen to that. Put on, the man says." Argyle hooked his thumbs in his belt and rocked back and forth on his heels. "Doe, you're the king of put-ons. Just when I thought I had you figured as a respectable, quiet kind of nut, you melt into the night and then pop up as the reincarnation of Jack Kerouac."
Sun Girl jumped off the apron of a small stage at the end of the room and came over to where they were standing. "That's right," she said reprovingly. "Here I thought you were a poor wandering medic and now I find out you're a mad scientist of the occult."
"Telepathy," Orient corrected automatically as he dropped into a nearby chair. "But will somebody please explain what's going on around here?" He waved his hand toward the stage. "What's all this?"
Argyle sat down across from him. He pulled a chair over with his foot for Sun Girl. "This, my friend, is the Black Arts Message Service. Yours truly, producer, director, and general handyman."
"And what is that?"
"It's Argyle's community theater project for teenaged kids," Sun Girl explained as Julian squirmed in her lap. "I came here last week looking for a part and got involved helping Argyle teach theater arts to the neighborhood Barrymores."
"Today while we were talking, your name came up and wham-the mystery of the disappearing doctor was solved," Argyle said.
"Argyle told me all about your work, Owen," Sun Girl said softly, "and how you helped him develop his talent."
Orient leaned back and looked from Sun Girl to Argyle.
The black actor had been the second potential he had found when he returned from Tibet and began his research. Argyle had the ability to translate what he learned from Orient into other areas, including his own acting profession. As a result of his experiments with Argyle, Orient discovered a great deal about the possibilities of telepathy, beyond using it for efficient communication. Argyle was an innovator and he had stimulated Orient's own ideas.
"Listen, Doc," Argyle was saying, "I hope you don't mind my busting your privacy like this. You must have had pretty good reasons for shutting down like you did."
Good reasons. Orient's mind went back to Ferrari and Project Judy. It had been only a couple of months but it seemed far away. And very unimportant.
"I don't know, Pilgrim." He smiled wearily as he caught himself reverting to the term he'd always used to describe his small group of telepathic seekers. "No reasons I can explain rationally. Just something I had to do."
Argyle nodded, his long, aristocratic face serious. "Guess every now and again it does a man good to get down there in the street and listen to what the people are saying."
Orient looked at Argyle. The tall actor was leaning back in his chair casually scratching his chin. "Yep," Orient agreed, "I guess I finally"—his eyes met Argyle's-"got with it."
For no discernible reason, the two men simultaneously burst out laughing. Sun Girl looked from one to the other with a puzzled expression as both men tried to control the outburst, couldn't, and finally just dissolved into hilarity. Their laughter died down, then began anew as soon as they looked at each other again.
"Must be some secret-society joke, like the Masons," Sun Girl commented to Julian, sending both men into a fresh wave of laughter.
"It's—it's—it's nothing really," Argyle managed. "One of those things you can't explain."
"Had to be there," Orient chuckled.
"Sure good to see you again, Doc," Argyle smiled after he had calmed down.
"Same here. But I thought you were in Hollywood adding up your grosses."
"Yeah, well," Argyle's tone became serious, "it's one thing to rake in a bundle of bread letting them take pictures of my Afro. But then it comes time to decide whether you're gonna buy some more real estate or start paying back on your good luck."
Orient nodded. "I guess I know what you mean."
"I guess you do, Doc. So, anyway, I bought this shack and fixed it up some."
Orient turned around as Argyle waved his hand.
The room was large and cluttered with an array of folding chairs, wires, tools, sound equipment, and spotlights. The small stage at the end of the room was jammed with half-painted sets, microphones, speakers, and prop furniture.
"We've got one section in shape'—Orient turned again to see where Argyle was pointing; there was a small balcony above the entrance which held a neat row of spotlights and colored jells—"But it's slow going. I'm trying to teach the kids how to use the equipment properly as we install it. And at the same time, I'm trying to teach them something about the creative side of it."
"He's doing a wonderful job of it too," Sun Girl said, her eyes glowing with something Orient hadn't noticed before.
Argyle snorted. "She's a good press agent. But I still have hopes that by the time my next picture comes up, which is soon now, the kids will be able to handle the theater themselves."
"Argyle's been trying to pressure some of his actor friends to come down here and kind of help keep the group going," Sun Girl said, frowning, "but it's not easy."
"Yeah. Those hotshots don't mind donating some tax-deductible money. But asking them for some of their free time is like pulling the caps off their teeth." Argyle shook his head. "But it's gonna work out okay. I managed to get one or two to agree to help out."
"Good work," Orient congratulated.
"Aha—and that brings me to something else." Argyle stood up. "I've been doing a little dabbling in your game these days as well."
"My game?"
"I found me a potential. A budding telepath. And I just started working with him. I only hope I'm as good at it as you are, Doc."
"You'll probably be better," Orient said, remembering the difficulty his students had adjusting to his austere presence.
"I don't know how you missed him. He's been living with you for a couple of months now. In fact he's right there in front of you," Argyle grinned.
For a moment Orient was confused. Where had Argyle met Joker? He looked around for the flamboyant cowboy.
"Here, Doe," Argyle was saying. "It's Julian."
Orient stared at Julian still sitting on Sun Girl's lap. The boy was beaming at him. "I'm a telepath too," he said proudly.
Of course. It was obvious now. Orient recalled that every time there had been a mind contact the boy had been receptive to it. The first night dining the riot, and again today, he had verbalized or acted out the pictures. But like most adults, Orient had heard it merely as childish prattle.
"I told you that Julian felt pure vibrations when we first met," Sun Girl said quietly.
Orient nodded. He felt somewhat chagrined. He had been so preoccupied with his new life and the problem of Joker's telepathic potential that he had completely overlooked Julian. It was fortunate that Argyle had been receptive to the boy's talent.
"We're just working on concentration right now and some simple breathing patterns." Argyle reached over and tickled Julian's stomach. "But he'll be handling telekinetics before he's a year older."
Orient smiled as he watched Julian giggling in his mother's lap.
Telekinesis was the science of imposing the energy of the mind over matter. Orient himself had taught Argyle how to fuse his will to the vibrations of inert objects and use the leverage to move those objects through space. It was the third stage of telepathic control and one of the most difficult abilities to attain.
"Well, Doc, what do you think?" Argyle asked.
Orient looked up. "I think you're fulfilling every best hope I ever had for you, Pilgrim," he said.
"Thanks, Doc. Coming from you, that's more than a compliment."
In the pause that followed, Orient noticed a questioning look pass between Sun Girl and Simpson. Argyle turned away, obviously uncomfortable. Orient sensed the change in vibration, but didn't know what to say. Finally, Argyle broke the long silence.
Orient waited.
"We weren't going to go into this scene right now but I don't think I can hold back on you, Doe." Argyle's brow was furrowed with concern. Orient still waited. When Argyle looked up, he saw the appeal in his friend's eyes.
"Perhaps it would be better without words," Orient suggested.
Argyle frowned. "Right on, Doc. The damned things are too tricky to explain anything really heavy anyhow."
Orient closed his eyes and went receptive. He felt the tentative probe at the base of his brain as the picture lit up the darkness behind his eyelids. As the image cleared, his mind tasted the troubled quality of the message. A sense of profound joy mingled with sorrow.
A crystal pool surrounded by forest. The sun's rays streamed down through the spaces between the limbs of the tall trees, sending ripples of light across the water. Sun Girl and Argyle swam lazily through the dappled pool, while Julian played at the water's edge.
They were alone, supremely happy, but haunted somehow. The picture receded, leaving only the sense of melancholic solitude. Orient kept his eyes closed for a moment after the image had faded. He understood why Argyle had been troubled.
Sun Girl and Argyle were very much in love. He opened his eyes. Sun Girl was watching him, an anxious expression lining her small, gentle face.
"That's it, Doc," Argyle whispered. "If I'd known before it happened that you were involved, maybe..."
Orient cut him off. "No blame, friend," he smiled. "Love's what the whole universe is about, isn't it?"
Argyle nodded glumly.
Orient stood up. "Listen, Pilgrim, both you and Sun Girl are very special people in my life. Your love for each other can only add to my happiness."
"We were in the woods," Julian said gravely.
Sun Girl lifted Julian off her lap and held him out to Argyle. "Would you take this superstar outside for a while?" she asked quietly. "I want to talk to Owen alone for a minute." She pushed out her lower lip in a mock pout. "I'm not weird like you two—pardon me, three-dudes. I have to use my mouth to talk.
"Okay, little brother," Argyle grunted as he hefted Julian. "Let's go see what's happening in the street."
"I want to go swimming, too," Julian demanded as he was carried outside. Sun Girl smiled and shook her head as she watched them leave. The smile faded when she turned back to Orient. "It wouldn't have been any good to put off telling you, Owen," she said, her voice low.
"No good at all," Orient agreed.
"My normal reaction would have been to just pack up and leave sometime when you were out with Joker. But you deserve better than that. And so does Argyle."
Orient sat down next to her. "There's no need to explain anything. From the beginning there was no contract between us. I told you that myself."
Sun Girl nodded, biting her lip.
"Once you said I needed you, and that was true. And I told you that if you stayed, you'd have to understand that I couldn't make any commitments. And that was true. But you and Argyle have love. I know that because I felt it in a way that words could never explain."
Sun Girl didn't answer.
"We were something else to each other," Orient went on. "We were loving friends. But nothing between us can compare to what you and Argyle have together."
As Sun Girl leaned over and kissed him, Orient felt the dampness on her cheek. She stood up quickly and took a deep breath. "The Sun Girl as Victorian Heroine," she muttered. "Owen, will you do me a big favor and go somewhere for a few hours until I get my stuff moved out of the apartment?" Her voice was even but she was having trouble maintaining her smile.
Orient stood up and put his hand on her cheek. "Happiness, Sun Girl," he said. He turned and walked out to the street.
Argyle and Julian were on the corner, standing at a soda fountain and drinking chocolate egg creams. Simpson's face was still somber as Orient approached them.
"Okay, little pilgrim." Orient lifted Julian up and kissed him on the forehead. "You take good care of your mother, now."
"We're going to Europe," Julian announced.
Argyle ran a hand through his thick Afro. "Got a picture due in a few weeks. An Italian Oater. Lots of shooting and hard riding. I thought I'd take Julian and Sun Girl with me." Orient put the boy down and held out his hand. "Happy trails, pardner," he grinned.
Both of Simpson's hands came out to cover his. "Thanks, teach," he said, grinning back. For a moment the two men stood looking at each other. All through the time they had worked together there had always been a barrier between them, despite their ability to join minds. But Orient knew that the barrier had been erased. Today they understood each other in a way they never had before. Simply as men.
Their hands parted and Orient moved off uptown.
When he returned to the apartment he found the house empty. Joker was still out and Sun Girl's trunk was gone. Sitting down on the couch, his eye was caught by small paper heart. There was a picture of the sun on the heart, drawn crudely with yellow crayon, and under the drawing was scrawled "love Julian." Orient put it aside and leaned back.
True, there hadn't been more than a deep, loving friendship between himself and Sun Girl. But he was aware of an emotion he hadn't known for many years.
He felt lonely.
Orient was active but uninspired.
He continued to maintain his routine; taking calls, scheduling payoffs, and meeting Joker's clients, but with diminishing enthusiasm. He'd gone as far as he could as Joker's apprentice. He had learned what he had to learn and it was time to find a new path. But as time passed his money supply was dwindling, reducing his possibility of movement. Some of his new friends had offered him various options: an invitation to join a commune in Colorado; a chance to spend a month in the West Indies working as a photographer's model; a cross-country motorcycle tour with Ivan and his band. But none of the offers made any connection for him. They were horizontal possibilities and he was still casting about for a rung to a higher level. A level he couldn't seem to recognize.
He decided to play it as it came.
Joker kept the pace steady during the weeks that followed, going through his daily business of gambling, scheming, coaching Orient, and looking for women. If he noticed any change, he didn't react. He never discussed Sun Girl's departure with Orient.
For all his own preoccupations, however, Orient could sense a growing restlessness within the cowboy. The nagging feeling that Joker was planning something persisted.
"You know what most women get hung up on?" Joker mused one evening while they were listening to music and lazily discussing the day's events. "They all want things to stay the same." He snorted. "Women hell, everybody out there is hung up that way." He turned to make sure Orient was listening. "That's the kicker, buddy," he winked broadly, "it never does stay still." He ran his freckled fingers through his long red hair.
Orient didn't answer.
"Yeah, buddy," Joker leaned back and closed his eyes, "they never seem to tumble the news that it's all changin' all the time. They always get surprised." He opened one eye. "That's the edge. Keep expecting things to turn around and you're straight. Just like dice. They keep comin' out at you and every roll is different."
Orient wondered whether Joker was just giving him advice or whether he was hinting at something else. Sun Girl perhaps. Or their business arrangement.
At times Orient found Joker's ramblings almost paralleled the beliefs of a Zen Buddhist monk. One of the most profound teachings of Bodhidarma knew this as a system of harmonies while Joker saw it as a profit system.
Still, the cowboy's instincts were unerring. Perhaps he was a new form of monk. A high-living, crap-shooting son of Bodhidarma.
Or maybe Joker was setting him up.
A few days later Joker stomped in while Orient was on the phone checking the football results, and paced impatiently until Orient finished.
"What's the number today, buddy?" Joker asked, beginning the questions that had become a familiar routine between them.
"Eight four five."
"The second at Hi?"
"Six. Sir Winnie. Twenty-three eighty. Fourteen-forty and eight twenty." Orient rattled off the race prices automatically. His grasp of the leverage of games, his excellent memory, and his concentration faculties made him an agile gambler.
"En Dee?"
"I took it off the board and laid off what we had on New Jersey. Some big money was coming in too fast this morning."
"Good move, I just heard their quarterback's hurt. What's tomorrow's line?"
"Jets plus three, Giants plus six and a half, Raiders..."
"Okay, okay, buddy," Joker stopped him, "you're with it today. I got something I want you to do here."
"Fine." Orient picked up a slip of paper. "Here's the totals. Keep it up and you'll be able to buy a real ranch some day." Orient had acquired the knack of tabulating the day's transactions in his head so that no paperwork was necessary.
"Good work buddy." Joker glanced at the figure and shoved the paper in his pocket.
It struck Orient that Joker was nervous today. Usually he was very concerned with the profits.
"Come inside," Joker said. He turned and walked ahead of Orient into the other room.
"I want you take that"—Joker pointed to a black doctor's bag standing on the floor near the door—"to a friend of mine. Then I want you to meet me at Elaine's in three hours."
Orient looked at Joker. The cowboy often asked him to deliver envelopes to people around the city. And Elaine's was one of his favorite haunts. But something was different this evening. Orient could feel a churning quality to Joker's vibration.
"Okay," he said. "Anything else?"
Orient was surprised when Joker shook his head. He was sure there was another card to this deal. Then Joker snapped his fingers. "Oh yeah. The chick you give it to is named Pola. If the doorman asks you anything, just say you're on a house call. Bring your ID."
"Why the mystery?"
Joker smiled. "Just being careful."
Orient's awareness of the turmoil within the cowboy increased. "Are you worried about something?" he asked casually.
Joker nodded. "Two things, buddy. One, I got a crap game with some dudes I owe money on, and two," he jerked his thumb toward his bedroom, "I think we ought to change our telephone. Until we do, I want to lay off taking any action except on a personal basis."
"You think the phone is tapped?"
Joker nodded.
Orient didn't like it. He felt as if he was being forced to compromise his profession as a doctor. And he didn't want to be arrested.
"I slipped Pola's payoff in the lining of the bag. We got to talk over some new kind of setup after this," Joker said. "Oh yeah, here," he took a slip of paper from his pocket, "there's the address. Remember her name is Pola Gleason."
Orient hesitated. Then he took the paper. He decided to have a showdown talk with Joker when he saw him after the delivery. He picked up the bag and hefted it. It was light. It felt almost empty. "Anything else?" he asked.
Joker grinned. "Just stay cool and don't worry if I'm late some. I may get involved makin' a whole lot of passes."
"Bring your own dice," Orient suggested as he left.
Orient tried to relax in the cab going uptown. Joker had never seemed to worry about the possibility of an arrest before. He was an independent gambler whose ties to the large syndicates were minimal. Joker had a distaste for organizations and tried to deal only with small independents like himself. And he was always agitated before a crap game.
Still, the errand was strange even for Joker. He examined the bag on his lap. Just an ordinary black, grained-leather doctor's bag. It's only outstanding feature was a crescent-shaped patch on one side where the top skin had worn off, exposing the tan undersurface.
He opened the bag. Inside was a stethoscope, blood-pressure gauge, some antibiotics—and nothing else. No matter how much he rationalized, he still felt that there was something else Joker wasn't saying.
The address Joker had given him was a large, modern apartment building in the east sixties. Orient grimaced when he saw the aluminum waterfall and abstract copper shapes decorating the Formica-marble lobby. Too yang.
The man behind the receiving desk near the elevators was big and brooding. His shoulders strained under his blue suit and there was a dark stubble of beard on his square, scowling face.
"Yes?" he said in a high tenor that seemed to belong to some smaller, thinner man. "Who would you like to see?" He looked disapprovingly at Orient's long hair.
"Miss Gleason in 17H."
The man dialed the telephone. After a few moments he pushed he receiver bar and dialed again. He looked at Orient, the phone still at his ear. "Seems to be out of order." He tried again, then put the phone back on the cradle. "Do you have an appointment?"
Something about the man's manner put Orient on his guard.
"Miss Gleason called about an hour ago. I'm a doctor." He produced his wallet.
The man peered at Orient's cards for a long time. "Sure look young to be a doctor," he muttered when he passed them back. He pointed behind him, still studying Orient's face. "Middle car on the right."
As he stood in the corridor waiting for the elevator, Orient thought he could feel the clerk's eyes on his back.
As he rode up to the seventeenth floor his uneasiness grew. Everything about this payoff seemed wrong. Even the sprightly Muzak tune coming from the chrome ceiling had an ominous air. The car stopped and the doors slid open. The silence in the corridor was main-rained by the thick carpet that absorbed his footsteps. Orient found the apartment and pushed the button. He heard a scrape and saw a flash in the circle of glass. Somebody was examining him through the peephole in the door.
The door opened slightly and a light feminine voice came through the space. "Yes?"
"Miss Gleason? I'm a friend of Joker's," Orient said quietly.
The door opened. Orient stepped inside and saw that the voice belonged to a tall thin black girl with a close-cropped hair. When she saw the bag she smiled. "I'm Pola," she said. Her eyes were wide and slanted and she was wearing a long fur-and-leather coat. Orient smiled back. He held out the bag. "Here it is."
She took the bag. "Just a minute," she said. Then she turned and went into the next room. Just before she closed the door, Orient caught a glimpse of an enormous blue living room.
Orient looked around him. He was standing in a small hallway. The only piece of furniture was the light fixture. In a few moments Pola came out carrying a large fringed shoulder bag.
"Going somewhere?" Orient asked. "Out," she answered. "With you." She checked the eyepiece before opening the door.
Orient automatically went toward the elevator but Pola called him back, her voice low. She was standing at the door to the stairway marked EXIT. Orient followed her through the door and up two flights to the nineteenth floor.
"This floor connects to the next wing of the building," she explained as they walked quickly across the long corridor. They stopped at the elevators at the far end of the hall. When the car arrived, Orient moved to follow Pola inside but she stopped him at the door. "You take the next one," she said. "Maybe next time we can even have a drink or something. Tell Joker I love him." She pushed the button and blew him a kiss as the door slid shut.
Orient rocked impatiently as he waited for the next car. He was annoyed with the espionage atmosphere; Joker would have to do some further explaining.
Out on the street again, he began walking, trying to shake the nervousness brought on by the strange maneuvering. But after ambling for a few blocks, he was suddenly hit by the possibility that he was being followed, and stepped up his pace. He crossed against a light, went a block, turned the corner, and saw a subway entrance. He hurried down the stairs, searching his pockets for a token. A train came to a slow, screeching stop and began letting off passengers. Orient couldn't find a token and hurried to the token booth. He looked up at the stairs. No one was coming down. He bought a token, dropped some change, fumbled through the turnstile, and rushed into the subway car just as the doors were closing. He looked through the pane. There was no one on the platform. He'd been the last passenger to board.
Relieved somewhat, he left the train at the next stop and walked slowly up the stairs to the street. His exasperation abated as he walked through Central Park to the West Side. The air was warm and damp and he could smell spring through the leaden fumes of traffic. He was less angry, but he was still determined to get a straight answer from Joker. And to find another form of activity.
He walked for some time, without direction, skirting Broadway and going toward the Hudson River, until he found himself on Riverside Drive standing in front of his old house.
He stared at it for a long time. A year ago he'd been carrying on his laboratory work and using his meditation room to open the dormant energies of his pilgrims. A man caught up with the constant discoveries of a new science. Now he was looking over his shoulder and running from shadows in his new home—the street.
No, that wasn't quite right, he corrected himself. A year ago he'd been snug, smug, and totally unaware of the real needs of people. For the first time in his life he wasn't doing his important experimentation: bringing his own dormant energies to life. He saw a cab approaching and waved it down. He didn't look back when the cab pulled away and turned the corner heading east.
Orient waited for Joker for almost three hours at Elaine's and it felt like thirty. To a lesser degree Orient shared Joker's enthusiasm for the place, but it was Saturday night and almost midnight. The crowd was loud, proud, and very thirsty. He wasn't a drinker and he wasn't transacting social business, so the hilarity of the marketplace eluded him this time. He kept the rent on his seat at the corner of the bar current by ordering orange juice and champagne, but after four glasses he felt it getting him down. The smoke, shuffling jam of people around the bar, and jumbled noise made it stuffy. Orient held out for another half-hour before pushing his way to the door and out into the street. He stood for a moment letting the air cool the flush on his face, before moving down the street toward Third Avenue and a cab.
When he reached the apartment, he saw that Joker still hadn't arrived. He sat down heavily on the couch and waited. He was tired.
Anxiety, noise, and alcohol had combined to make his temples throb with a slight headache. He got up to get a glass of water and noticed that there was something strange about the apartment. Off, somehow. Then he realized. The record player was gone. And the records. He went into Joker's room and switched on the light.
The bed and furniture were there, but Joker's personal effects weren't. He opened the closet. Empty. Someone had cleaned everything out. He went into the other room and saw that his suitcase was still against the wall untouched. Then it hadn't been a thief who had removed Joker's things. He noticed something else. A thick white envelope on the floor next to his bag. He picked it up.
Inside the envelope were thirty hundred-dollar bills and some sheets of paper that looked like a contract. He read the papers over. The contract was an agreement between one Owen Orient and the Yugoslavian Maritime Association for one first-class passage to Tangier, Morocco. Aboard a boat called the Trabik. The boat was due to leave that Monday, in forty-two hours.
Orient stared at the money and the ticket. He'd been conned somehow. The cowboy had moved his things while he'd been waiting at Elaine's.
His first impulse was to leave the envelope where he had found it and move into a hotel, but his next thought was quite different. There was nothing here in New York for him any longer. He had decided that earlier. A voyage to a new country might give him a fresh point of view and a chance to consider his next move.
The ticket itself seemed to be a rather pointed form of advice. He wondered what it was that made his leaving the country so important. No matter what, he decided, it didn't involve him any longer. He picked up the ticket, folded it, and put it in his wallet. And of course he'd need money.
As he slipped the bills next to the ticket, he saw something else. A playing card, lying face down on the floor. He bent down and flipped it over.
It was the Joker in the deck. The fool.
To the pedestrians on the avenue Pola Gleason looked like a self-assured young career girl, but underneath her sleek composure her heart was pounding. She casually glanced down the street, her senses alert for any suspicious movement.
To make sure she wasn't followed she took a circuitous route before hailing a cab on an uncrowded side street. She sat back in her seat after giving the driver the address, trying to settle down. It was no use. She knew she'd be strung tight and tense until the deal was finished.
She looked at the black leather bag at her feet. There was enough cocaine in the lining to send her away for twenty years. She didn't like this part of it at all, she decided. She wondered if anyone had been watching the apartment. Joker was too flamboyant to be anonymous. Her mind went back to the man who had delivered the bag. The cowboy had some intriguing friends. This one had been almost too good-looking to be a drug dealer. It was a lucky thing she knew Joker. He was the only one who could have made this kind of connection for her; the only one she knew who could find what the doctor needed for her treatment.
She shook her head. It all seemed so damned futile. A few months ago she'd been on her way to top bookings and three solid years of being New York's most photographed form. And then the form had gotten tired. That's all, just tired. She went to a doctor. Then another.
Finally she tried dozens. They all told her the same thing. It was something in her blood.
The tiredness would become lethargy, and then an increasing weakness, and then... She tapped her foot impatiently as the cab stopped for a red light. They had all told her it was hopeless except one.
And his treatment was very expensive.
Don't worry, baby, she told herself, in a few minutes the doctor will have his fee and you'll have your treatment.
If the doctor hadn't needed the large amount of cocaine for his experiments, she never would have found a way to finance her cure. But now the doctor was going to take care of everything. All he wanted was one small favor. He was willing to treat her and give her enough money to go to Paris to make a fresh start. But number one, Pola thought grimly, he was going to cure her of the wasting, unfelt disease that was sapping her life.
When the cab stopped, she paid the driver and waited for him to pull away before turning the corner toward the doctor's house. She had deliberately given the cab an address three blocks from his actual location. No sense taking chances at this point. Too much depended on it. If she was arrested, she would never get the treatment she needed.
A few men on the street turned to get a second look at the lithe, lovely black girl, but today Pola took no pleasure in their admiration. The interest made her uncomfortable and she was relieved when she finally reached the doctor's brownstone building. She walked up the stairs and rang the bell.
When Pola saw the tall blond girl who answered, she was instantly wary. She wasn't expecting to see anyone else here. "Is the doctor in?" she asked quickly.
"Are you expected?" The girl was smiling but her chiseled features didn't seem friendly.
"I'm Pola Gleason."
The girl stepped aside. "Come in," she said. She locked the door behind Pola carefully. "This way." She walked ahead of Pola to a room at the far end of the hall. When Pola entered, she saw that it was a large sitting room decorated exclusively in varying shades of green. The silk drapes, the satin chairs, the rug, the textured wallpaper were all in dark emerald hues. Pola noticed that the girl's velvet dress was the same color as the room.
"Is that it?" the girl asked softy. "The material for the doctor?"
Her smile was warm now as she pointed to the bag.
Pola kept her face calm and blank. "Excuse me," she said evenly, "I don't think I know what you mean."
The girl's smile widened with amusement. "It's all right, Pola, the doctor told me to take the bag when you came." She went to a small desk and took a long white envelope out of the drawer. "He told me to give you your money and your tickets."
Pola looked at her. If girls came in perfume bottles, she thought, hers would be labeled rare, exotic, and supersensual. She was stunning, with deep-set green eyes that matched the d4cor of the room. And she looked intelligent under that imposing beauty. Like a good FBI woman might be.
The girl came closer. "You don't have to worry, Pola. The doctor gave me full instructions. I'm going to take a blood sample now and the doctor will come to your apartment as soon as he runs a test on the sample. It will take two or three hours. He's preparing your treatment now."
"Are you a nurse?" Pola asked hesitantly.
"I'm his assistant."
Pola handed her the bag. She just wanted to get rid of it. Even if she was a female FBI agent, it made no difference now. All that mattered was the treatment.
The girl took the bag and headed for the door. "I can take a blood sample right here. Take off your blouse and sit on the couch. I'll be right back."
Pola undressed slowly, her mind still not at ease. Normally she would have demanded to see the doctor himself, but the girl's manner had been competent. She sat down, the glossy satin smooth and cool against her back.
The girl came back into the room holding a bottle and a hypodermic needle. "You've got a nice body," she commented as she put some alcohol on a pad of cotton. She came to the couch and began rubbing the inside of Pola's elbow with the pad. The fresh coldness of the alcohol against Pola's skin became a penetrating warmth that spread from her arm down to her stomach, continuing along her thighs until her whole body seemed covered by a soft, downy blanket. Pola looked up and saw the girl watching her face. Her eyes were wide and shining. Pola had a sudden, breathless impression that she was falling deep into the lush green of those eyes, like diving into a well of sun-dappled water. She continued to stare transfixed, her awareness of the rest of the girl's face fading away.
"Don't worry." The girl's voice was close to Pola's ear. "This won't hurt." Her arm brushed against Pola's, sending a warm tingle across her skin. "Just relax," the girl was saying. "All we're going to do is take a little blood."
When the tip of the needle pierced Pola's vein, she winced and groaned softly. Not so much from the pain as from a strange surge of pleasure. She shivered as an erotic pulse shot through her body, making her limbs watery and her head dizzy. The girl's green eyes were spinning like bottomless whirlpools pulling her inside. Pola made an effort and looked away.
As she watched the needle filling with dark red liquid, the surge in Pola's body rose and pounded against her senses. A wave of electric delight crashed through her reason, drenching her brain with crackling sparks of warmth. She fell back on the satiny couch in a faint.
She wasn't sure how long she lay there like that, completely emptied of all her strength. But eventually she heard the girl's voice and felt herself being lifted up. "Pola. Come now, you've got to get home."
"Home?" Pola managed weakly. She was still in a kind of giddy stupor. "Did I pass out or something?"
"Yes. It often happens to people when they have blood samples taken. But you've got to get home and wait for the doctor."
Then Pola remembered. The treatment. "He promised to make me well again," she mumbled.
"That's right. The doctor is going to take care of you as soon as he makes his tests."
Pola nodded, still unable to focus her mind completely. She fumbled listlessly with the buttons of her blouse and then felt the girl helping her. Dressed at last, she stood up very carefully, unsure of her balance. She leaned against the girl for support as she began to walk.
"Just take it easy now," the girl said. "I've called a cab for you. The doctor will be over to see you in a couple of hours."
"Thanks," Pola said weakly. "Sorry I passed out. It's never..."
"It's all right, Pola." The girl's voice was low and assuring. "Just go home and get some rest. The doctor will come back soon."
Even with the girl's help, it took everything that was left of Pola's concentration to make it down the stairs and into the cab. She couldn't remember the ride home or how she got from the car to her elevator. When the elevator stopped, she stumbled down the hall to her apartment and began looking through her bag. It took a long time to find her key and fit it into the lock but finally she was inside. She headed straight for the bedroom and fell on the bed as a profound drowsiness came over her numbed body. She closed her eyes.
When the doctor comes, she thought through the jumble in her brain, I won't be able to answer the door. She tried to reach the telephone next to the bed but her limbs wouldn't respond. The drowsiness had become a pressing exhaustion that prevented any kind of movement. She lay still, conscious only of a growing stuffiness in the room. The air seemed to be getting stale and thin, making it hard to get a full breath. She wanted to get up and open the windows but she couldn't do anything at all.
And then the sensation in her body was there. It started as an itch inside her stomach. A maddening tingle that teased and smoldered until it flared into a burning roar of sexual excitement. Her body jerked as a million nerves inside it began to vibrate deliciously as if they were all being masturbated at once. Something was stroking and caressing each of her cells, making each one a glowing point of supreme ecstasy. She opened her mouth but she couldn't make any sound. She could only lie back limp as the delight in her body began to mass and swell, bringing the pleasure to a silent, thrashing frenzy. She was aware that it was becoming more and more difficult for her to breathe but the consuming deliciousness within her body seared away everything except its ecstatic presence. Even as the sensation built to a delirium of rapture, she could feel her vitality becoming dimmer and slipping away. It was impossible to get enough air into her lungs.
And then the overwhelming pleasure spilled over into a long, pulsing, spasmodic orgasm that shook her writhing body and continued for seconds, then minutes—growing ever more powerful as it raced through her.
She was still in the throes of that shuddering, never-ending orgasm when she died.
Orient was edgy about this move
As the cab crawled through the desolate tangle of Red Hook trying to locate the pier, he shifted in his seat in an effort to ease the tension.
He'd spent all day Sunday trying to figure out why Joker had asked him to deliver a bag, then kept him waiting at a phony appointment while he moved his things out of the apartment. None of it made sense. Except the fact that the cowboy had run some kind of game on Orient. The kind of game he didn't want to be involved in. That was obviously why Joker had to resort to a ruse.
The cab turned into a junk-strewn yard, entered a large grimy pier shed, and began zigzagging slowly through the crates stacked everywhere on the concrete floor of the warehouse.
And the telephone, Three times it had rung. Once early in the morning and twice in the afternoon. Each time Orient had picked up the receiver there was no one on the line. No dial tone. Just silence. Once there'd been a light, clicking sound that Orient had recognized. During Project Judy, the Secret Service men attached to the project had put taps on all the telephones in the house as a matter of routine. All of the phones had made those same clicking sounds.
The cab stopped near a wide side door. Orient could see part of a ship through the opening. He got out, pulled his suitcase from the front seat, paid the driver, then began walking slowly toward the ship.
When he passed through the door to the outside dock, he looked up. The Trabik was small. Its loading beams were skewed out at odd angles forming awkward silhouettes in the dusk. Listing in the water and needing a paint job, the boat seemed graceless and somewhat vulnerable. As he moved through the disarray of cargo and equipment on the pier toward the rope-and-metal ladder leading up to the deck, Orient wondered if this trip was a gesture of Joker's—or another game. He started climbing the unsteady stairs.
When he reached the deck, he went inside the first door at the head of the stairway and found the purser, who checked the manifest, took his ticket and passport, then directed a steward to show Orient to his cabin.
Orient followed the steward up a flight of stairs and down a narrow passageway. When he entered the cabin, he found that it was spacious, well lit, and comfortably laid out. He'd felt better about the boat as he looked around him. He'd almost been expecting hammock bunks and footlockers. Then he surprised the steward by asking in Serbo-Croatian if he could get some food.
"Too early, please." The young man turned red and held up his watch. "Dinner bell ring one hour."
Orient thanked him in Serbo-Croatian, gave him a dollar, and took the keys. Just as well, he decided as he arranged his things in the cabin and chose a bed; every good voyage should probably begin with a fast. He had just settled down on the bed with a copy of Jung's letters to Hesse when he heard a knock at the door.
The steward came in with a tray of ham and cheese sandwiches and a bottle of Yugoslavian beer.
"Until dinnertime," he beamed, speaking in his own tongue. "Breakfast tomorrow morning from 6:30 to 8:30. We sail late tomorrow night."
Orient grinned and took the tray. His knack for languages was already smoothing his trip. Yang food to be sure, but it would help settle down the tension he still felt. He said this would do him, he would skip the dining room this evening.
He ate in bed, read for a few hours, then slipped into a deep sleep.
He was awakened in the morning by the breakfast bell. He got up immediately, washed, put on a pair of suede slacks and a turtleneck sweater, and went out into the passageway toward the stairs.
The dining room was narrow, but since it ran the width of the boat, it didn't seem overly cramped. Orient noticed with some disappointment that there were three communal tables for six instead of individual tables. He didn't want to be more sociable than necessary, and he doubted if he could keep getting room service.
This morning, however, there was only one other passenger at breakfast, a heavy, round man with a gray beard and dark glasses who was sitting at the far table, reading as he ate. Orient took an empty table near the door.
He was pleasantly surprised that the orange juice, grapefruit, yogurt, and honey he ordered were all available. At least he'd be able to maintain a semblance of his regular diet. After breakfast he took a stroll on the deck.
The Trabik was in the process of being loaded, but Orient could see that progress was slow. The holds were open and still almost empty. The first crates were being craned from the pier. Three or four stevedores were standing on the rear deck guiding the swinging load into the hatches. Two crewmen were below decks at the bottom of the hold, removing the crates from the loading platform and stocking them. He watched them for a while, then went up the stairs to the upper deck.
The day was crisp and clear. A steady breeze was keeping the air pure in Brooklyn, and Orient could see the skyline across the bay glowing gray and silver, the immense structures of glass and steel flashing in the sun.
The ship was narrow, but longer than Orient had originally estimated. There were three tiers above the main deck. The tiered section contained the crew and passenger quarters and the officers' bridge. It was located at the rear of the ship, leaving a long forward deck area. Right now the forward and rear decks were covered with a messy webbing of cables, beams, and netting.
Orient wandered about the upper decks, examining the ship until the chill drove him back to his quarters. As he went down the stairs he saw the bearded man, his magazine sticking out of his raincoat pocket, leaning against the rail watching the loading operation.
When he entered his room, he saw that the bed had been made, the tray cleared away and the rest of the cabin straightened out. Perhaps there was some sort of room service after all. He changed into a pair of plain cotton karate pajamas and began the series of physical exercises that set up the rhythms for his concentration. Much later the free glide of his meditation was disrupted by the lunch bell.
When he went back to his room after lunch, he saw that things had changed. His roommate had arrived, a thin young man with straight, shoulder-length blond hair who was wearing a red jersey sweatshirt with a large white star on the front. He was unpacking some articles from a knapsack and placing them on the bed.
Orient introduced himself. "I think we're sharing this cabin," he said.
The boy looked up and smiled, squinting his blue eyes. "I'm Presto Wallace," he said softly. "I hope I haven't disturbed any of your stuff while I've been getting myself squared away."
"This is your house," Orient answered genially, using the polite Eastern form. He was genuinely relieved that his roommate for the next ten days seemed to be adaptable. He sat down on the couch.
The objects Presto was putting on the bed were lenses and cameras. The boy was crouched on the floor examining each piece of equipment carefully, taking it out of the knapsack, checking it with a small flashlight, brushing it, polishing it, and then placing it on a soft piece of brown cloth with great patience, almost reverence. Orient picked up his book and began to read. It was a good sign that his roommate was a craftsman.
During the afternoon the tentative talk between them developed into an easy conversation. Presto volunteered that the boat wasn't leaving for at least another day. His motorcycle was still on the dock waiting to be loaded.
"Big BMW," Presto confided. "Hope they take it easy when they load her up. Where you headed?"
"Tangier."
Presto nodded reassuringly as if he understood why a man would want to go to such a place.
"How about you?" Orient asked before Presto had a chance to ask anything else.
"Oh, I'm going around Morocco some. Maybe Marrakesh. Then Spain, Amsterdam, and London."
"Photographer?" Orient pointed to the bed.
Presto looked at his equipment mournfully. He had an earnest, scholarly way of speaking, the serious air of a science student. "Yeah. Gonna see what I can do with a 16-millimeter Rolex, some fast film, and a couple of still cameras."
Orient thought of his own film project, lying unfinished in Andy Jacobs's safe.
Presto decided to have a look around the ship. After he left, Orient went back to his reading. He planned to catch up on some study during the long voyage and had selected fifteen volumes on different subjects to while away his free hours during the voyage. He hadn't looked at anything except the sports results all the time he'd been Joker's apprentice.
When Orient went to dinner, he found Presto deep in conversation with the bearded man at the far table. He joined them more out of a sense of courtesy than a desire for company. And he knew it would be impossible to avoid anyone once the boat was at sea. Presto and the man, whose name was Lew Wallet, were engrossed in a discussion of cameras and lenses, so Orient was spared the usual questions that follow an exchange of names at a ship's dining table. After dinner Presto and Wallet decided to continue their conversation in the passengers' lounge and Orient went out on deck.
The night air was clear and the starlight competed with the surrounding glow of harbor fights and blueish neon haze over New York City. Orient climbed to the upper deck. The tension he had felt yesterday was gone. As he stood looking at the light-streaked water, he looked forward to the prospect of continuing his research. Perhaps he would begin to expand his circle of students if he found another potential. He could even start thinking of ways to continue developing his tape project. He wasn't anxious about the future any more, just curious about the present. And ready to sail. He looked down at the shadowy crates on the pier. Maybe tomorrow they would be underway.
When Orient got up for breakfast the next morning, Presto was still asleep. Orient showered, dressed, went to the dining room, nodded at Lew Wallet who was reading a magazine. He ate at a table by himself, then took a walk around the deck. When he got back to his cabin, Presto was getting dressed.
"I'm on my way to the city to pick up some tools," Presto said. "You need anything?" Orient couldn't think of anything he wanted and settled down on the couch with another book.
As Presto was zipping up his parka, he took a look around at his knapsack and equipment. "I guess everything will be all right here," he said, looking over at Orient with a momentary expression of concern.
"Don't worry," Orient assured him, "I'll lock up if go anywhere." Even though he had decided that Presto would be good company, the boy obviously still didn't know what to make of him.
Presto was gone all day and wasn't back when the dinner bell rang. Orient had skipped lunch and remained in his cabin, and when he entered the dining room, he saw that some new passengers had boarded the ship.
Lew Wallet was sitting at the far table with a middle-aged woman wearing a black shawl. A young girl of twelve or thirteen sat next to them. Something about the trio's attitude suggested that they were a family.
There were also two girls sitting by themselves at a table near the door. Orient chose the unoccupied table.
He tried to the make the meal quick, but as he ate, he became increasingly aware of the two girls at the table in front of him. One was a plump, pretty brunette with short hair who was listening intently to something the other girl, a tall supple-bodied blond, was saying. The blond girl turned her head and Orient saw that she was striking: long white throat, wide green eyes accentuated by heavy blue shadow stark against her creamy skin, long yellow hair, and a driving vitality that electrified her sharply defined features. As she launched into another story, she noticed Orient looking at them and smiled.
Orient smiled back and began to linger over his vegetables. The girls went on talking in low tones, occasionally bursting into laughter at some fresh point. The brunette girl was completely preoccupied with the conversation, speaking little but giving her full attention to everything the blond girl said.
Orient couldn't hear the words but he could feel the animal vibration of high-spirited fun emanating from the blond girl. It was strong, frank, and very pleasant. He looked up and saw that she'd been staring at him. Her eyes held on his for a moment before she looked away. There was no sign of self-consciousness or shyness on her face, but as she turned her head, Orient felt something else.
An unfamiliar yet familiar sensation at the base of his brain. A passing tug of anxiety. Then he recognized the quality of the anxiety, and its source.
The blond girl was a potential.
The girls went on with their animated chatter as Orient finished his dessert of fresh fruit. Neither of them looked up as he left the dining room.
Orient wandered down the passageway and entered the passengers' lounge.
This was a long narrow room with the same dimensions as the dining room. The way it was laid out, however, made it seem more spacious. There was a three-stool bar at one end of the room, two long couches against the walls, assorted armchairs, some card tables, and a record player. Three large windows on one side looked out over the rear deck of the ship. Orient sat down in an armchair facing the windows and stretched out his legs. He felt good. A cruise with a lovely telepath on board had positive possibilities.
He had never encountered a female potential before. He wondered if the technique he had devised to increase telepathic awareness was as effective with women as with men. He was still thinking about it when he went back to his cabin.
Presto was back. He was lying on his bed with a box of doughnuts balanced on his chest, reading a motorcycle magazine. "Hi," he said amiably when Orient entered, "have a doughnut."
"No thanks. How was the city?" Orient asked as he sat on the couch and picked up his book. "Found everything I needed but it was a bitch getting back. Cabs don't want to come out here." He went back to his magazine.
Orient began to read.
Presto looked up. "Want a newspaper?"
"Sure." Orient reached over and took the paper Presto was holding out to him. He hadn't seen any news for days. He glanced at the front page and saw that what passed for the world's events was still nothing but a litany of chaos. He turned to the sports pages and began checking the day's numbers, the race results, and the football and basketball columns. He'd gotten into the habit of doing this while he was Joker's apprentice and the tabulations still held as much interest for him as a game of chess.
Turning to another page, he saw a picture of someone who looked familiar. When he looked closer at the photograph, his breath cut off in his throat and something heavy and oppressive settled in his chest. The girl was Pola Gleason. Pola. The girl Joker had sent him to see. And she was dead.
She had been found dead in her apartment of some undisclosed illness. There was no sign of a struggle or of robbery. She had been found by her cleaning woman in her bedroom. Police were investigating.
Orient read the last three words again.
Perhaps that was the reason for Joker's complimentary trip.
The loading of the ship began again early the next day and by late afternoon the last of eight automobiles had been secured on the rear deck, and the long front deck was almost completely covered with large wooden crates and heavy pieces of industrial machinery.
Orient spent most of the day on the upper deck trying to make a decision. He watched the cranes swing huge tractors onto the deck and wondered if the boat would sail that evening. He gazed at the dim outline of the hazed-over skyline and brooded over the advisability of calling Andy Jacobs.
But what could he tell the attorney, or the police?
That he had delivered a doctor's bag containing a betting payoff to a complete stranger three days before she died of an illness? Joker was many things but he wasn't a deliberate murderer. If Pola's death was murder.
He watched a police car roll down the street outside the dock area and wondered if it would turn into the gates.
Most likely Joker had turned a quick profit on a shady deal and had decided to pull up stakes. If it were anything more serious, he wouldn't have risked involving an amateur.
The police car slowed down and turned left, moving away from the dockyards, cruising through the bleak expanse of vacant lots, gasoline stations, and warehouses toward the squat cluster of project apartment houses. He looked down and studied his wrinkled palms.
But Joker had considered the deal serious enough to advise the amateur to leave town.
Orient decided to find out if he could call Andy from the ship's telephone on the lower deck.
Arriving below and passing through the lounge, he saw a late edition of a newspaper on the bar. He picked it up and began checking the headlines. The item he was looking for was buried in a small paragraph on page three.
Pola Gleason had died of a form of leukemia. Her parents had arrived from Chicago to claim the body and had discovered that their daughter had been under a doctor's care for over a year. Orient put the paper aside and sat on one of the high stools.
Perhaps he had overestimated the connection between Joker and Pola. The cowboy had at least a hundred clients. One of them was certain to die of illness or accident over a period of time. He decided to pass on calling Andy.
When the dinner bell rang, however, he was still mulling over the reasons for Pola's strange maneuvers the day he delivered the bag.
The dining room arrangements were more formal this evening. Two of the three tables were fitly set and the steward was moving quickly to and from the kitchen as he hurried to serve the enlarged number of diners. There were name cards at each plate. Orient had been seated with Presto, Low Wallet, the woman with the black shawl, and the young girl. The blond potential and her friend were sitting at the next table between two older couples.
Presto and Wallet were involved in a discussion of the loading procedure of Presto's motorcycle, so Orient said his good evenings, was introduced to Wallet's wife and daughter, then settled back and let the talk continue to flow around him.
As he ate, he kept glancing over at the other table. The blond girl was seated between two men facing him, but the other three women at the table had their backs to him. Both men were listening attentively, and apparently with great pleasure, to the vivacious chatter of the blond girl.
"You don't eat meat, huh, Owen?" Presto was saying, peering at Orient's vegetable-heaped plate.
"Not if I can help it," Orient smiled. He didn't go into detail.
"Is that how you stay so slim?" Greta Wallet asked.
"It's good for your health generally," Orient explained. He looked around and saw that Greta's daughter Gale was staring at him fixedly, her eyes wide. "It gives you more energy," Orient said to the little girl. Gale looked down at her plate.
"Shy," Greta smiled confidentially at Orient. Lew Wallet's wife had deep lines in her wide, plain face, but her smile softened the lines and made her features warm and attractive.
Everyone at the other table burst into laughter at some remark the blond girl had made.
"What's your business, Owen?" Lew Wallet asked.
"I'm in research," Orient answered. "And you?"
"Photographer." Wallet replaced the glasses over his small, watery eyes. "Except that I'm a specialist at developing film, while Presto here is a genius as taking them."
"Lew's a genius too," Greta put in. "He had a show of his new work just before we left New York."
"Just nonsense," Lew scoffed. "Friend of mine. I've been working on a new developing process with infrared film. On some of the photographs I took and developed we found some things that weren't there when I was shooting. Things like old paintings on walls that were bare when I took the shots; even people's faces floating in midair."
"What kind of process, Lew?" Presto squinted and leaned closer.
"Can't discuss it yet. Still working on the patents. Anyway, there was all kinds of stuff on the photographs. I think they may be heat spots."
"Alfonso said they were ghosts," Gale said, looking around the table with glee.
"Alfonso's my friend," Wallet went on. "He's an astrologer. He actually makes a lot of money at that crazy stuff. He's the one who convinced me to have a showing of the photographs at his salon. Good publicity for the process, but I don't believe in this spirit business."
Orient didn't answer. He did believe, however, that energy remains in the atmosphere long after its cause has been removed. Science had taught him that matter can neither be created nor destroyed, merely transformed. And reason told him that what men consider mysteries are only natural happenings for which there is no known connection. Only because man's information is incomplete.
"Alfonso felt that Lew had bridged a dimension." Greta smiled and nodded at her husband. "They called the show 'Bridge.'"
"He called it 'Bridge,'" Lew corrected. "I call it hogwash. I thought I could find some backing for my process, but all I got was my horoscope read eight times. And none of them told me I'd be taking a voyage."
Orient was mildly interested in the subject of psychopictography, but he was more interested in developing the sensitivity of the mind to the point where an infrared process wasn't needed. Still, the photographer's process might have interesting possibilities for Orient's own film tape project if and when he resumed work on it.
He looked up and saw the blond girl watching him. She smiled and looked away.
After dinner Orient did some reading, but he soon became restless. When he heard the low rumble of the engines increase and the announcement over the cabin's intercom that the Trabik was sailing, he decided to go up on deck for the event.
A few other passengers had the same idea. Through the darkness Orient could see their silhouettes against the rail, looking over the rear deck across the water as the boat moved slowly through the blazing gauntlet of blinking harbor lights toward the open sea. He stood there watching until the blaze was no more than a fading cluster of pinpoint embers in the distance. Then he went down to the lounge.
The bar was now open and Presto, Lew and Greta Wallet, and one of the couples from the other dining table were sitting in a semicircle of armchairs near by. When Wallet saw Orient, he waved him over.
"What are you drinking?" Wallet demanded. "I'm standing the bon voyage toast."
Orient ordered a brandy and was introduced to the new couple, Jack and Alice Crowe. When his drink arrived, he raised his glass.
"Here's to the sea," he said.
"This your first voyage?" Jack Crowe asked. He was a tall, flabby, unhealthy-looking man with crewcut hair. His face had the tense pinch of a ferret.
"First in a long while. I'm looking forward to it."
"We enjoy traveling on freighters," Alice Crowe volunteered. "It's so relaxing and you meet such interesting people." She was a short, heavy woman. Her dark hair was closely cropped and she wore no makeup on her round face.
"I hope so," Orient said. "Could be tedious otherwise." As he spoke he felt a prickly sensation at the base of his skull. Then he saw the blond girl and her friend entering the lounge from the far passage.
The Crowes called out to them, and Lew and Presto pulled two chairs over as the gifts joined them.
The blond potential introduced herself as Pia. She was direct, casual, and friendly. Her friend, who was more hesitant, was called Janice. Pia ordered a brandy and Janice decided to have the same.
"Presto." Pia threw back her head and smiled. "Where on this planet did you get that name?"
Presto straightened up in his chair. "The whole name's Prestone Williamson Wallace," he said earnestly, "but people have called me Presto ever since I can remember. Just natural, I guess."
"Have you ever been photographed, Pia?" Wallet asked gruffly. Pia laughed.
"I modeled for a few years. But I'm out of that now. I like to eat—and detest cameras."
"Yes." Wallet took off his dark glasses and squinted professionally. "You must have been very good."
"Are you interested in film?" Presto asked casually.
"Only as a spectator sport."
"Presto here is a young director," Wallet rumbled paternally. "We were thinking of doing some shooting on board."
Pia shook her head slowly, grinning as she saw what the two men were hinting at. "Consider me disqualified. I'm going to do some serious loafing this week." She turned to Greta. "I've been looking at the fine work in your shawl all evening. Did you make it yourself?"
"Why, yes." Greta Wallet flushed, partially with pleasure and partially self-consciously.
"That's wonderful," Alice Crowe exclaimed nasally. "Isn't it, Jack?"
"Very good." Jack Crowe pursed his lips. "We handle a big line of hand knits in our boutiques. We're going to do some buying in Yugoslavia."
As the Crowes launched into the possibilities of Greta's handiwork, Pia turned to Orient. "Where are you bound, Owen?" she asked lightly.
"Tangier."
"A tourist?" Pia made it sound like a compliment.
Orient nodded. "I'd like to do some sightseeing for awhile."
"What sort of research are you in, Owen?" Wallet asked.
"Oh, nothing very important," Orient said, suddenly uncomfortable at the direct turn in conversation.
"What kind of film are you making, Presto?" Pia asked. She gave Orient a quick smile as she spoke, almost as if she had realized Orient's discomfort and deliberately moved attention away from him.
"I'll shoot it as I go," Presto said. "Take footage in Morocco and Spain and do the processing and editing in Rome."
"Sounds like a winning combination," Pia said.
Orient looked at Janice. She was entirely absorbed in listening to whatever Pia said. Greta, Jack, and Alice were still murmuring enthusiastically about handicrafts, but Janice didn't seem to be aware that there were any other people tallking. She watched every gesture of Pia's with something close to adoration.
"Oh, hello, Doctor," Pia said.
Orient looked over at her automatically, but Pia wasn't speaking to him. She was greeting the other man who had been seated at her dining table.
He was tall and stout with an expensive bearing. His suit was dark and well cut, his tie pin, cuff links, wrist bracelet, and massive ring all of hammered gold. A small yellow chain attached to the buttonhole in his wide lapel fell across the soft flannel into his breast pocket. He tried to smile, but it was an exertion for which the heavy-featured face hadn't been trained.
"I'm going down to the cabin to show Jack and Alice my shawls," Greta told her husband. Jack and Alice excused themselves and left with her.
"I hope I'm not intruding," the newcomer said. His voice was hoarse and ponderous. He took one of the empty chairs reluctantly, apparently not eager for sociability.
"Not at all, Doctor," Wallet assured him. "Do me the honor of having a bon voyage drink."
"I'm afraid I'd be setting a poor example for these young ladies," the man said morosely. He had stopped smiling and his deeply tanned face had settled into its usual preoccupied scowl. There were thick bags under his wide eyes.
"Now, Doctor, that's a poor attitude to take," Pia said, signaling for the steward. "This is an occasion. We're going across the ocean." She turned to Orient. "Owen, I think you're the only one who hasn't met Dr. Six."
Orient shook the man's hand. It was thick and strong. "Owen Orient," Doctor Six slowly repeated Pia's introduction. "Haven't I just read something about your work?"
"Nothing that I know of," Orient smiled. He wondered where the man had seen his name. Doctor Six didn't seem like the kind of person who made mistakes.
"Perhaps your research, Owen?" Pia suggested.
Doctor Six's frown softened, as it often did when he looked at Pia. "Quite possible; all I read are medical reports," he said.
Orient was uncomfortable again. If Ferrari had published the results of Project Judy, his research would become shipboard gossip. If he tried to explain telepsychology, he would end up with a dozen requests to read tea leaves.
"You know, Presto," Pia was saying, "Doctor Six has a wild first name too. Perhaps we can get him to admit to it." Her voice was teasing and musical.
Doctor Six smiled; Pia's playfulness at his expense amused him. "Yes," he sipped his brandy, "my parents had the whim of naming me after their favorite painter. I was christened Alistar," he said, taking care to emphasize the last syllable, "and for years I never thought much about it. Until this young lady," he beamed at Pia, "very tactfully made me aware of its peculiarities."
Presto nodded uncertainly.
"But," Doctor Six drained his glass and stood up, "I really must insist that both young ladies get their rest." He smiled at Janice, who nodded, smiled, and got to her feet unquestioningly.
Orient found that he was vaguely annoyed that Pia also stood up and said good night without any protest. Both girls left the lounge immediately.
Doctor Six's scowl reasserted itself as he watched them leave. "I'm most apologetic at having to deprive you gentlemen of such charming company," he said, bowing slightly to Wallet. "A poor way to repay your hospitality, sir." He inclined his head to Presto and Orient.
"Good night."
Orient thought he detected the trace of an accent.
"Well," Presto ventured after a slight pause, "I just hope they didn't mess up my bike when they loaded it. I put a hell of a lot of work into it."
"Don't worry. They're careful here," Wallet reassured him. He leaned over confidentially. "What kind of BMW do you have?"
"An R69S, but I've chopped it down to make it easier to shoot film while I'm riding. Plus I can carry the extra weight of my gear without giving up too much speed."
Lew was very interested, but Orient's mind was on other matters. As Presto and Wallet warmed up to the subject of motorcycles, he rose, thanked Wallet, and went to his cabin.
When he finally fell asleep, long after Presto had retired, he was still thinking about Pia.
The gentle motion of the boat became more pronounced by morning, and by afternoon the steady rocking had grown into long, pitching rolls.
Orient skipped breakfast and began his meditations when Presto went out to check the rigging on his machine. He had difficulty making the completion. Each time he neared the point of suspension of consciousness, his concentration collided with flashes of Pia. After awhile he gave it up and tried to read. That didn't work either; he was too restless.
He took a walk around the decks.
The sun was shining through a haze, diluting the blue of the sky. The wind was cool and constant, and as the boat cut through the choppy water, it sprayed a high, green foam that blew across the lower deck.
Orient went to the rear deck, pausing at the rail to watch the sea gulls hovering just behind the ship. They were gliding in the slipstream, their wings almost motionless as they followed the boat far out to sea. Orient wondered how they would ever be able to make it back to shore.
He climbed to the upper deck and saw Doctor Six standing at the rail. When Six saw Orient, he bowed his head. "Good afternoon, Doctor," he said, the frown on his face becoming a sly smile. As if they shared a confidence.
"I hope I'm not intruding into your privacy, Doctor Orient," Six said, looking out to sea. "But I remembered where I had seen your name. I have just been over the report of your work with Ferrari." He turned and looked at Orient through heavy-lidded eyes. "Brilliant coup for Ferrari of course."
Orient felt a flick of annoyance, but he discovered that he was unconcerned with Ferrari, Project Judy, the published report, and the rest of it. The anxiety and the disillusionment all seemed far in the past. The discovery pleased him. "He deserves it," he said.
"You both deserve congratulations," Six insisted. "Your work with the Mulnew girl was invaluable. And it will be causing quite a stir among some members of the profession."
"Actually it was only a form of supportive therapy. Ferrari was the surgeon."
"Nonsense." Six pulled at the brim of his soft hat and jammed his hands into the pocket of his long, fur-lined trench coat. "Your hypnopsychiatric technique cured a girl who had never walked in her life." He scowled and looked out over the water to the graying horizon.
Orient was about to correct him when Pia and another woman came up to the deck. Orient recognized the other woman from Pia's table.
"Doctor Orient, may I present my wife," Six rumbled. "Raga, this is the Doctor Orient who worked with Ferrari in the Mulnew case."
Raga Six's face was smooth and her skin almost transparent. Her silver-blond eyebrows blended into the skin of her high, pale forehead, becoming barely visible above her yellow-streaked eyes. Long silver hair cascaded over her shoulders in gleaming contrast to the dark fur of her hooded coat. She held out a long, thin, ringless hand. Her skin was soft and very cold.
"We've just been reading about your cure," she said. Her voice was husky and oddly penetrating, even through the wind gusting across the deck.
"I was just an assistant, I'm afraid."
Pia cocked her head and laughed. "Owen, you are famous," she teased, her straw-yellow hair blowing unheeded back in the strong wind. "You've helped cure the Vice President's daughter. Even assistants come due for some glory." Her musical voice helped ease some of Orient's sudden discomfort.
"It was Doctor Ferrari's project," Orient said firmly. "The surgery technique enabled certain nerve endings to be replaced in Kane Mulnew's spine. I merely helped in the postoperative period."
"And the preoperational phase," Pia smiled, shrewd and playful. "You're just being too modest now."
"Perhaps," Orient nodded. "But if it had been just an ordinary girl instead of Vice President's Mulnew's daughter, the whole operation would have been considered interesting but routine." He wondered how much the report had revealed about his work.
"Excuse me, Orient," Doctor Six grunted brusquely, "but I think the deck's becoming too cold for my wife. You'll pardon us while I escort her to our cabin."
"Thank you, Alistar," Raga said evenly. She looked at Orient, her smile faded and remote. "Perhaps you'll tell us more this evening. I find it fascinating."
"I shall look forward to it," Orient said.
"Aren't you coming, Pia?" Six asked, his voice edged with impatience.
"In a minute," Pia smiled, looking at Orient. "It's refreshing up here." Doctor Six frowned and turned around to help his wife down the steep stairs.
"I like the wind," Pia said, moving closer to the rail.
Orient moved with her. He was pleased to be alone with her.
"Do you mind my questions, Owen?" Pia asked suddenly. She stared up at him. "A couple of times I thought I felt you becoming uncomfortable. Isn't that strange?"
"Not strange," Orient said. "But very unusual."
Pia looked at the sky. "Yes," she murmured. "Rare and kind of—intimate, don't you think?" As she spoke, Orient felt a silken blanket of sensuality caress the base of his brain.
"I think it's delightful," he said, his lips curving into a slight smile.
He relaxed all thought and released a tentative vibration of pleasure.
His mind rippled with the soft implosion of recognition as the vibration touched his consciousness.
Pia smiled and looked into his face. "A rare delight," she said softly.
Her eyes were burning crystals of green ice.
"Pia." Doctor Six's shout ripped the fabric of communication between them, sending a slight shiver through the girl.
She looked away. "I'll speak to you after dinner, Owen," she said. Her smile was warm but now her voice was cool and removed. She touched his arm. "Doctor Six believes in plenty of rest for his patients."
She moved to the stairs with sure animal poise, her body supple under her tawny suede dress. When she reached the stairs, she saw that Orient was still watching her. She grinned and waved.
As Orient waved back, he wondered what sort of illness Doctor Six was treating her for.
After dinner, Orient went directly to the lounge, hoping to find Pia.
It was too early. The room was empty and the bar was closed. He went back to the cabin and spent some time in casual conversation with Presto and Lew Wallet. The bearded photographer had come to the cabin to look at Presto's equipment. Orient half-listened as the two men rattled on about specifications and light ratios, but his thoughts kept drifting to Pia.
She already had a strong rudimentary knowledge of projecting and receiving emotions. Pia knew she could transmit emotion thoughts. The first barrier had been breached. Learning to project and receive concept images would take some work, but she was already advanced, she had some control over part of her talent. He remembered watching her at dinner. Alert, beautiful, quick to laugh, she exuded a compelling vitality that drew people to her. Orient felt a flicker of desire as he recalled the lush sensuality of her vibration when they were alone on the upper deck.
"Ever use a Pentax in your research work?" Wallet was asking.
"Used one with a bellows for some macrophotography," Orient answered with no particular enthusiasm.
"Takumar lens," Presto nodded sagely.
"Yes, a 50-millimeter F4. Nice and flexible."
As Wallet and Presto continued to talk, Orient began to think about his film tape project. Presto probably had the right idea. Shoot as you go, then form the film as you edit. He was suddenly anxious
to begin work again on the project.
"You know," Presto said, "the four things I remember best are my first girl, my first camera, my first car, and my first motorcycle. You get into things like that, Owen?"
"Once in awhile," Orient answered, smiling. Presto had touched on one of his most absorbing interests. "I had a car I was very much into."
"What kind was that?" Wallet asked.
"A Rolls Ghost. Very old. 1925. But I did some work on it and it ran beautifully."
"Left-hand drive," Presto said, nodding.
"No. This Rolls was built in a factory Rolls-Royce had in Springfield, Massachusetts. The coach was built by an American named Brewster. I did some chopping on the frame and made some adjustments on the motor."
"Big motor?" Wallet asked, leaning over.
"Seven liter, straight six. Modest but very efficient." Orient stood up. He wondered if he'd have a chance to be alone with Pia tonight.
"Do you still have the car?" Presto asked..
"No." Orient picked up his jacket. "I gave it away."
"Gave it away?" Presto was stunned. The enormity of willingly parting with a fine piece of equipment confounded him. "What the hell for, Owen?"
"It was too fast," Orient said as he opened the door and stepped into the passageway.
When he entered the lounge, he saw Jack Crowe sitting alone at the bar. His wife Alice was sitting in a small circle at the other end of the room with Greta Wallet, her daughter Gale, Janice, Raga Six, and
Pia. All of the women were in various attitudes of attention as they listened intently to something Pia was saying.
They all burst out laughing as Orient joined Crowe at the bar.
"Evening, Doc," Crowe said. "Let me buy you a drink."
Orient accepted without reservation. Crowe's use of his title meant that he'd heard about Project Judy at the dinner table. He ordered a brandy and braced for a series of questions. They never came.
Crowe was a careful man and kept the conversation close to general topics: the price of taxless drinks, the speed of the ship, a conversation with the captain, the rising prices of handicrafts in Yugoslavia. He seemed content to drink and talk quietly.
Orient heard what he was saying but his attention kept wandering toward the circle of women, and Pia.
She was the center of energy in the room.
Whether she was speaking or listening, her face radiated a superb enthusiasm. And he wasn't the only one aware of it.
Greta's daughter Gale was sitting next to Pia, staring up wide-eyed at her, watching every gesture she made. The other women's reactions were more muted, but it was apparent that they all shared Gale's admiration for Pia's beauty and wit.
"She's some girl," Crowe commented, turning his head to look at the source of Orient's interest.
Orient nodded and sipped his brandy.
When Greta took Gale off to bed, Alice Crowe also left the group and joined her husband at the bar. The couple chatted with Orient for a few minutes, then went out for a walk on deck. When Orient looked up, he saw Pia waving to him.
"Raga and I have been having a disagreement, Owen," Pia said as Orient sat down next to her. "She claims that the success of the spinal transplant was due to drugs used to combat rejection."
"And you?"
Pia's smile was mischievous. "I think it was all done with the mind."
Orient smiled and looked at his wrinkled palms. "I think Pia wins the bet."
"Not fair, Owen," Raga laughed, "Pia seduced you to her side."
"Easily," Orient agreed. "But no unusual drugs were given to Kane. As a matter of fact, no specific agent to bar spinal nerve rejection exists."
"But then, how was she able to accept such delicate tissue?" Raga protested. "You can't let me lose so easily, Owen." The woman was a few years older than Pia, but time had served to temper the fragile lines of her face, giving it a serene strength. Her features were exquisite, perhaps even lovelier than Pia's, but beside Pia's vital charm, her beauty seemed inanimate.
"Kane's mind was trained before the operation to accept the surgery," Orient said. "We worked with her concentration. Her mind did help the body create its own chemicals. Doctor Ferrari performed a brilliant transplant and Kane cured herself after that."
"Remarkable," Raga said, looking at Pia. Janice, who had been silent during the conversation, managed a sleepy smile of agreement. The girl was unusually quiet. She was attentive as always to Pia's interests but tonight she seemed subdued and listless. Perhaps a little seasick, Orient decided.
"Good evening," Doctor Six rumbled. "May I join you?"
"Hello, Alistar," Raga patted the empty armchair beside her, "please do. You'll be fascinated with what Doctor Orient is telling us."
Six's large bulk relaxed slowly as he sat down, but he retained his erect bearing even when seated. He signaled to the steward for a drink.
"Please go on, Doctor," he said.
"Owen was telling us about his therapy," Pia said. "It's quite advanced."
Six pursed his lips into a smile and cocked his head. When he looked at Pia, his sharply creased face softened, making him look like an unwieldy cherub. When he spoke, however, there was an edge of contention in his hoarse voice. "Yes, I saw it in the report. Some form of hypnosis, Doctor? Hypnopsychiatrics?"
Orient shook his head. "No hypnosis. It's a technique we devised to train the mind to repair the body."
"Doctor Orient told us that no drugs were used in the operation," Raga said. "Nonsense," Six said, as the steward set down his brandy. "How else could you ensure acceptance of the nerve tissue Ferrari implanted?"
"Just by training the mind to concentrate. Direct the concentration on a physical function in order to understand it. Then use the concentration to work in harmony with the function," Orient said softly, lie was beginning to feel defensive. He looked at Pia. She was curled in her armchair, watching him.
"Self-hypnosis, then," Six challenged. He took a cigar from a gold mesh case.
"Self-hypnosis," Orient said slowly, "is a rote form. The concentration is channeled to one spot. The technique used in Project Judy attempted to enable the mind to find the malfunction in the body and instinctively program the chemistry for its repair."
"Of course there were serums used during the implantation process." Six snipped the tip of his cigar with a thin gold cutter. "You must admit that much."
"Yes," Orient said, "of course."
"No matter." Six dipped his cigar into his glass, then pulled it out and regarded the brandy-soaked tip thoughtfully. "The project is a success and so are you, Doctor. I suppose you'll be getting a large grant from all this."
"I'm not applying for any," Orient said.
"Oh?" Six lit the cigar with the flame from a small gold Zippo. "I expect that Doctor Ferrari has applied for at least twenty."
"You know Doctor Ferrari?" Orient's voice was even.
"Met him a few years ago on a university project," Six said. He smiled benignly at Pia. "A fierce fellow for publicity."
Orient didn't answer. Six's careless appraisal was accurate. It had been the whole problem during Project Judy. He was momentarily dismayed by Six's easy dismissal of a man who had challenged all of his values.
"I'm relieved that not all doctors are bounty hunters," Pia said. "Do you plan further research, Owen?"
"Yes." As Orient spoke, the base of his brain tingled warm and he recognized the silky feel of Pia's vibration stroking his consciousness. He smiled. "I've been getting some new ideas on this voyage."
"I hope they're pleasant projects," Pia's deep-set eyes watched his face.
"Are you joining Doctor Ferrari at the White House for the award?" Raga asked, her husky voice dissolving the sensual haze around Orient's thoughts.
Orient looked at her. The small smile on Raga's pale-pink lips was tentative and indistinct against the smooth glaze of her transparent skin. Only her eyes were clear, streaks of yellow in a marble-white face, glittering with sudden excitement.
He shook his head. "It was Doctor Ferrari's project."
"Doctor Orient, I'm sure you'll excuse me," Doctor Six said, beaming at Pia. "But these young ladies need their rest. And it's closing time at the bar."
"I'm going to stay up and talk to Owen," Pia said. "I want to learn more about this mind-healing business."
Six's scowl almost reappeared, but the big man was still smiling when he stood up. "As you wish, Pia, but I'm afraid Janice will have to retire. I think you're looking tired today, dear."
Janice rose immediately. "All right," she said, almost unaware that everyone had turned to look at her. "Good night, everyone." She went to Doctor Six's side, her legs moving woodenly.
"You see that we're all under a doctor's influence here," Raga Six said as she stood up and held out her hand to Orient. The long fingers were cold.
Doctor Six's smile was gone when he bowed to Orient. "Good night, sir," he rasped. Something in his scowl gave Orient the impression that he was displeased by Raga's remark. He wondered if Six's careful attentions to Pia were merely professional.
Pia took his hand. "Do you mind, Owen?" she asked. "I find palms very revealing." Her fingers felt warm against his and the delicious haze settled over his brain once more, kneading his consciousness gently.
"What do you see?" Orient felt the brush of her hair on his wrist as she regarded his hand.
"It's a very complicated area," she murmured. "Like a city that's been torn down and rebuilt a hundred times." Her fingertips brushed his palm. "It could be the hand of a soldier or a sculptor." She paused for a moment. "A dreamer or a destroyer." Her voice sounded very close to his ear and the pleasure at the base of his skull was spreading down his spine.
Orient suspended his thought and sent a pleasure-charged vibration to Pia. When it reached her consciousness, she took a sudden breath and her hand tightened on his. She smiled and looked up, releasing his hand. "It's the most amazing hand I've ever seen," she said lightly. "It staggers the imagination. I can't see a thing."
"No future?"
"Too many futures and too many pasts all squeezed in together. And I can't keep my mind on your hand for some reason. My concentration keeps getting tickled."
Orient grinned. "Perhaps it's telepathy."
Pia's chiseled features were suddenly solemn with the suppressed excitement of a child opening a Christmas present. "Is it possible, Owen?" she asked in a soft voice.
Orient nodded.
"Is that the kind of research you do?"
"Yes."
"Do you think you could teach me something of your technique?"
"I've been wanting to do exactly that," Orient said. "You're not only receptive, but you have that delightful knack for transmitting. Where did you learn it?"
"Could always do it. Since I was a little girl. But not very often." Pia smiled. "But I like it. How soon can we begin?"
"We'll need some time and someplace private."
"Just as I hoped." Pia settled back in her chair. "I think I know a place," she said, almost to herself.
"Where?"
"The cabin next to ours is empty. And it's unlocked, I think," Pia mused, watching him. "Maybe we could go there. Tomorrow afternoon."
"Good," Orient said. He felt a twinge of disappointment, however. "Tomorrow, then." He wondered if his own physical urgency for Pia had magnified his expectation, or if her green eyes were glowing with amusement.
The next morning she was waiting for him when he came up on deck. She was dressed in dancer's black tights under the hooded fur coat she had borrowed from Raga. When she saw Orient, she came quickly to join him.
"I'm all set," she announced, opening her coat. "This all right?" Her body was firm under the thin, tight-fitting fabric. "Perfect," Orient said. He tried to keep in mind that his objective was the transferral of knowledge. Not making love to Pia.
"Is it better to skip lunch?" Pia asked.
"Much better. We can start right now and work until dinner."
Pia led the way down the stairs to the cabin. It was at the end of a passage on the other side of the ship, next to the cabin she shared with Janice. Doctor Six and Raga had the cabin across from them, Pia explained.
As they moved down the passageway, Orient thought he could feel Pia becoming more wary as she passed Doctor Six's cabin. She seemed to walk softer, didn't speak until they were inside the cabin.
"Will this do?" she asked quietly, flicking the light switch.
The room was smaller than Orient's cabin, but comfortably furnished. The couch was built close to the wall, leaving plenty of floor space.
"Great." Orient picked up an armchair and moved it next to the wall, clearing a large area on the carpet. The only other furniture was a large two-bunk bed built into the other wall. Pia threw her coat on the chair.
"What now, Owen?"
Orient felt the sexual tingle of her presence and repressed his thoughts, shrugging off the sudden desire he felt for her.
"Now you sit down on the floor and learn to breathe," he said.
Orient guided her through the basic phases of physical movement. She responded easily and they began working on controlling the breathing as she went through her exercises. Trying to pinpoint the concentration and open the fences of her mind. Her control and concentration were very good but she had a block to the suspension of her ego. Pia had intuitive talent for taking a basic emotion such as anger, compassion, fear, or sexuality and manipulating its energy. She could sense these emotions in others. She grasped the principles of leverage and control immediately but she found it difficult to send a clear thought image. She would build up her psychic momentum with confidence and then hesitate as she approached release, faltering just at the point of separation from her ego.
Even so, her basic control of breath and concentration made it simple work for her to receive Orient's thought images.
She became completely absorbed in the technique and quite willing to experiment beyond the limits of her newly acquired concentration.
"Take it easy, "Orient advised finally."We have at least a week."
"A week," Pia leaned back against the couch. "Back to time," she said lazily. Her eyes were clear and her face composed.
They began discussing the technique, talking softly, Pia's curiosity trying to comprehend the scope of Orient's work. When the conversation hit on Project Judy, Orient found himself talking about the trouble with Ferrari openly, with no trace of self-consciousness.
"What it amounted to was that Doctor Ferrari claimed complete jurisdiction over my work. He called it certification," Orient explained. "When I disagreed, he broke our agreement and published the results of Project Judy."
"And you left?" Pia seemed surprised.
"That's right."
"But you're continuing your work. Actually, you can continue it anywhere. You certainly don't require certification."
"That's true," Orient said. "But it's not always possible, like right now, to catalogue each step to each result. The purpose of research is to enable someone else to build to further discovery."
As he spoke a doubt crossed his mind. Right now he was unable to catalogue his work or shoot his film tape. He wondered if he'd ever find a way to equip his work properly.
They left the cabin and went into the lounge. The red sunset fight slanted through the windows, highlighting Pia's yellow hair with flaming orange tints. Her skin glowed with a pink freshness.
In spite of his doubts, Orient felt good as he watched her curl in her chair like a leopardess. The experiment had been a success. Despite Pia's inability to communicate fully, she was days ahead of any of his previous pupils. Perhaps he could alter the technique to make allowance for her sex.
"We'll go over it again tomorrow if you like," he said.
"Just what I was thinking," Pia smiled. "I've been going over the possibilities. They're endless. Imagine," she pulled the black fur coat closer around her neck, "I can read your thoughts."
Orient was just about to answer when Raga came into the lounge. She saw Pia and came toward them. "Alistar has been looking everywhere for you," she said as she approached. She moved slowly, the reflection of the lowering sky casting soft blue streaks through her silver hair, her hands white and composed against her green velvet dress. "I'm afraid Janice is becoming weaker," she said calmly, when she reached Pia's chair. She adjusted the wide silver wire belt around her waist. "He wants to move Janice into the empty cabin."
Pia's face didn't register any emotion, but her body uncoiled immediately and she stood up. "I'd better see if she needs anything," she said. She walked quickly to the passageway.
Raga sat down in Pia's chair and smiled. "Of course you understand, Doctor," she said. She took a cigarette from her pocket.
"She suffers from anemia." Raga lit her cigarette and blew out the flame. She sat back in her chair and looked out the window. "Alistar thinks it's serious."
"Does she need a transfusion?" Orient asked.
"I don't know, Doctor." The dimming light shaded her pale smile with purple. "Alistar doesn't discuss procedures with me." She turned her head and looked at him. "Pia is magnificent, don't you think?"
"Yes," Orient said. He thought he heard the cadence of an accent under her husky voice. The same accent he had detected in her husband's speech.
"I find her to be the most delightful traveling companion I've ever encountered," Raga went on. "Alistar is usually so absorbed with his work. And I need someone with new ideas to distract me."
"Are you from the islands, Raga?" Orient asked. "The Caribbean?"
Raga smiled. "Why, how very clever, Owen. Yes. Martinique. You must be very familiar with the Caribbean."
"A short stay in Haiti."
Raga's eyes flashed. "Sun worshiper?"
Presto ambled into the lounge. When he saw them he stopped, raised the camera slung on his chest, adjusted the lens and took a photograph. "You get the last one on the roll," he said as he began to rewind his camera.
"Thank heaven for that," Raga exclaimed. "I can't bear to be photographed this early in the day."
"Tell me," Presto asked, squinting shrewdly at her, "are you the same Raga Six who had the modeling agency in New York?"
"One and the same," she said.
"Is Pia one of your models?"
"Was," Raga corrected. "I'm going to open an agency in Rome and Pia is going to assist me on the business side. Doctor Six will be working in Italy and I want to keep myself busy."
"Then I suppose there's no sense asking you if we could make a deal for Pia's time," Presto said casually.
Raga shook her head. "I don't think you'll have much luck with Pia," she said. Her smile was remote. "She absolutely hates cameras now."
She looked at Orient, two bright points of light in her yellow eyes flickering with amusement. "Anyway, I think that Pia is more interested in yoga these days," she said evenly.
The dinner bell rang before Orient had a chance to reply.
He didn't see Pia again until the next evening.
In the morning he prowled about the ship restlessly, waiting for her to appear. At lunch time her table was almost empty. Jack and Alice Crowe joined the Wallets, not disposed that afternoon to eating by themselves. The luncheon conversation was dominated by speculation about Janice's illness. Especially in the light of the absence of Six and his wife, and Pia. Jack Crowe announced that the ship's doctor had told him that the girl was very weak. Doctor Six, Raga, and Pia had to stand by constantly in case she needed an emergency transfusion.
Crowe turned to Orient, his narrow face pinched with curiosity. "You're a doctor," he said. "What do you make of it?"
"I know that Doctor Six is in charge," Orient said. "I don't know any of the history of Janice's illness."
"You speak Serbo-Croatian," Greta Wallet suggested. "Perhaps you could get the ship's doctor to give you some definite facts."
Orient smiled. "That would be very unprofessional."
Greta looked at her husband. Wallet said nothing, his face impassive behind his beard and blue-tinted glasses. "I guess it would be like ambulance-chasing," Jack Crowe agreed. "Best just to wait." Orient went out on deck. Outside, the sky was covered with iron gray clouds, and the sea was a cold black. The dark water was calm and there was a stillness about the ship that was emphasized by the steady drumming of the engines. Orient looked at the horizon and saw jutting points of waves that looked tiny in the distance but were large enough to leave distinct outlines against the sky.
The decks were empty of passengers. As Orient went back to his cabin, he wondered how serious Janice's illness was. When he reached the lower deck he paused for a moment as he half-decided to go to Pia's cabin and find out if he could be of some assistance. Then he changed his mind and took the passageway to his own room. If Pia needed him, she would call.
He spent the rest of the afternoon reading. As he lay on his bed he felt the motion of the ship deepening. By dinnertime the boat was pitching sluggishly. Orient skipped dinner and continued to read. In a few hours the furniture in the room was creaking ominously with every heave of the boat, and rain lashed against the portholes.
Then he felt Pia.
Her quick caress of silken pleasure at the base of his brain followed by the picture. The prow of the ship shearing through a froth of water. A confusion of movement. As the image receded, his mind savored the quality of the message. It was strangely bitter.
"You going out in this weather, Owen?" Presto said incredulously as Orient started putting on a trench coat.
Orient shrugged. "Just a little rain squall," he said.
It was an underestimation.
The rain was whipping across the water, driven relentlessly by the wind. The boat was moving slowly through the high, chopping waves, rolling steeply and shuddering as it met each flat wall of water.
Orient stood in the small circle of light at the edge of the passengers' deck peering into the darkness. There were long, heavy creaks as the shadowy crates groaned against their cables on the rearing deck.
Pia was waiting across the darkness, on the other side of the long, shifting maze of heavy cargo. He remembered the bitter taste of the image. The forced, decayed quality. A chaos of impressions instead of harmony.
He began moving slowly across the deck.
He crouched between the machinery, feeling for cables and lifting his feet carefully as he inched forward through the shadows. The wind was a high, gusting whine above him and he had to keep his hold on the wet cables to maintain his balance on the slick, rolling deck.
The cargo gave him some protection from the wind and, halfway across, his eyes began to get used to the dim light from the mast high overhead. Then the silken haze stroked his thoughts and he started moving faster as the pleasure intensified and threaded down his spine like a ribbon of liquid satin.
The rain spattered hard against his face and he realized he was clear of the cargo. The prow lifted and Orient saw Pia clinging to the rail, facing directly into the booming onrush of wind-swelled water, the long black coat flowing back from her shoulders.
As he crossed the deck, she turned and ran lightly on her bare feet toward him.
She was naked under the coat and the rain matted her hair and ran down her face; streaking across her breasts and flat belly and trickling down her long thighs. "You heard me," she called out triumphantly. "You heard my call."
"The cabin," Pia's mouth brushed against his ear. "Come."
He followed her, ducking under cables and over struts; moving through the mass of crates that strained and squeaked as the boat rose and fell in the wind.
Pia went ahead of him on the passengers' deck. She went into a door and padded down the passageway, her bare feet leaving wet tracks behind her. When she reached her cabin she opened the door. She turned on the small light near one of the beds as Orient entered. Then she opened a drawer, took out two large towels, and held one of them out to him. "Why don't you dry your hair and go to bed?" she whispered. "I'm going to take a shower." She kissed him and her lips were wet and fresh against his mouth. "And turn out the light," she said softly as she turned to go. "I'm shy."
Owen's heart pounded in the darkness as his body slowly warmed the cool sheets. His only thought was a pleasure-coated sense of Pia, her wet skin, her eyes, her mouth, the sensual texture of her energy constantly brushing his awareness.
She was a silhouette across the slash of light as she opened the door, then it was dark again and he could only hear her feet coming across the carpet.
Her skin was cool and smooth against his as she slipped into bed beside him, and her reaching hands sent small chills of sensation rippling through his body. He felt her tremble with recognition as his desire-charged fingers touched her. Her breath became a convulsive sob, rising in intensity against his throat as he lifted her and pressed into the icy hot wetness of her thighs. She twisted under him, raking her nails across his back, her sounds of unrestrained delight vibrating his senses as her body beat against his.
Afterward the room was quiet except for the heavy sound of their breathing and the rocking-chair creak of the walls as the ship leaned in the wind. Orient lazily stroked her shoulders, a thin film making her skin slick and supple under his fingers.
The door opened, sending a shaft of light across the floor. Someone entered, closed the door, and came through the darkness to the bed.
"I'm here, Owen," a girl whispered.
Orient switched on the light over the bed. Pia was crouching next to the pillow, her wet hair dark against her breasts. Orient looked down at the girl in his arms.
The woman nestled against his chest had silver hair. Raga had taken Pia's place. His momentary confusion numbed his reaction.
He turned and Pia's warm body was sliding against him, the voluptuous fabric of her consciousness massaging his confusion; dissolving it with its insistence.
As Pia kissed him, Raga stirred and began moving her cool hands over his stomach. Pia licked at his chest, sending wave after wave of soft electric pleasure across his skin. Raga's mouth was velvet against his ear, her lush, imploring voice igniting his brain as Pia lifted and slowly descended on him, guiding him into the warm, honeyed deepness of her. And then his senses exploded his awareness into a shower of sizzling particles that took hours to consume...
At dawn Raga left the cabin before the breakfast bell awoke her husband. As Pia softly massaged his neck, Orient became aware that the rain had stopped and the movement of the ship had become steady and gentle.
"I enjoyed that, didn't you?" she murmured. "It was delicious."
"Kind of a surprise."
Pia's tongue flicked against his ear. "It's much better that way."
Orient nodded and yawned. He swung his feet to the floor and reached for his shirt. "How's Janice?" he asked. "Better?"
"Janice is dead." Pia's face was far away and soft.
Orient's hand came away from the chair empty.
"When did she die?" His voice seemed loud in the droning stillness.
"Last evening," Pia said, pulling the covers up to her neck. "Before I called you." She settled her head on the pillow. The throb of the engines vibrating through the metal wall seemed to grow louder as the morning light broke across the portholes.
"How did she die?" Orient asked finally.
"She had a kind of red cell anemia." Pia's voice was fiat and her eyes flicked past his face and settled on a place far behind him. "It's called Guglielmo's disease. Janice knew she was going to die. Doctor Six told us both."
"Both?"
"Yes." Pia closed her eyes. "I have the same disease."
In the afternoon Doctor Six asked Orient to examine the body, and that night, shortly before dawn, Janice was buried at sea.
The sky was exceptionally clear. A ripe, red moon hung low among an array of stars the size of small silver coins, their reflections splintering endlessly against the dark sea. The ship's low electric lights glazed the foaming water next to the plowing hull, giving the cuffing white spray a hard, marbled luster.
Orient stood next to the rail watching the captain, the first mate, the purser, the ship's doctor, and Doctor Six standing in a tight knot behind the two seamen who held the weighted sack that contained Janice's body.
He had made a very careful examination in the cabin. Apparently Janice had died of natural causes. Before sailing, she had informed the ship's doctor of her condition. After the examination, the purser produced various notarized documents given to the captain by Janice to be opened in case of her death. In her will she left everything she owned, the contents of her three suitcases, to Doctor Six. She also asked that her body be disposed at sea.
While listening to the purser read the contents of envelope aloud, Orient noticed that he also held another identical envelope in his hand. And the name on the envelope was Pia's.
The crewmen lifted the stretcher that held the canvas sack.
Orient remembered the impression he had received when he bent over the body. The girl's face had been calm, but for a moment he thought he had sensed a grimace of raging terror lying just underneath her placid features. His mind could still taste the contaminated quality of the energy in her cabin. An aura of decay. Bitter and unexpected. Exactly the same vibration left by Pia's call.
The canvas sack slid off the stretcher. As it hit the water, Orient took a piece of paper out of his pocket. On it was drawn a perfect square set within a circle. The square was divided into twenty-five smaller squares, each one inscribed with a number or symbol. The design was a Tibetan pentacle for the passage of the dead. He rolled the paper into a tight wad and let it fall into the water.
The crew put on their caps and walked slowly back to their duties, while Doctor Six remained at the rail, staring across the glistening sea.
The next day Pia, Raga, and Doctor Six stayed in their cabins and Orient was besieged by the rest of the passengers for information. He tried to be polite but was unable to tell them anything more than he knew himself.
"She was such a sweet girl" Greta Wallet shook her head.
"The ship's doctor told me that Pia has the same disease," Wallet said, turning to Orient.
"I think you'll have to ask Doctor Six about that."
"Maybe it's contagious," Alice Crowe looked at Gale.
Greta instinctively put her arm around her daughter. "No," she said quickly, "the doctor said there's no danger."
"What did you find when you examined her?" Presto asked evenly, squinting at Orient.
"I wasn't able to perform an autopsy, but all indications are that she died of anemia. She knew that she had only a short time to live."
Pia didn't come out of her cabin until the following day. She came up to the upper deck while Orient was sitting in a chair taking the S1M1.
"Hello, Owen," she said, her smile faint.
Orient stood up. "How do you feel?" he asked.
"I'm fine." Her smile widened, but her eyes were flat and remote.
"Pia." Doctor Six's heavy voice preceded him up the stairs.
"Here, Doctor," Pia waved.
"Hello, Orient," Six scowled. "Looking for my patient."
"How is she doing?" Orient asked.
Doctor Six studied him for a moment from beneath his heavy eyelids. "Pia has a fifty-fifty chance of survival. I'm taking her to a private clinic I maintain off the coast of Naples. Perhaps there I can do for her what I failed to do for Janice."
"A doctor can only do his best."
"Quite."
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind showing me Pia's X-rays and test results. I've had some experience with hemopathology."
"That won't be necessary, Owen," Pia interjected, her voice firm. "Doctor Six is doing everything possible."
"Of course." Orient looked across at her. "I only thought to help." She looked at the horizon, her mouth set in a frown.
Every time Orient saw Pia after that, she was accompanied by Doctor Six. He was like an oversolicitous parent; he petted and fawned over her, at dinner he cut the meat on her plate, he fetched things for her, he whispered to her conspiratorially and glowered angrily and sulked whenever Pia's attention strayed from him. Raga seemed to take no notice of his behavior.
Pia was friendly toward Orient but removed, as if he were an acquaintance from some childhood summer.
She did, however, fully recover her enthusiasm after a few days and began renewing her charming dominance over the other passengers. Gale Wallet followed her everywhere. Her parents and the Crowes waited expectantly for her to appear in the lounge every evening for bridge. Lew Wallet and Jack Crowe would maneuver to see which of them could give her his chair, and then sit beside her, advising her through the rest of the game.
Presto began spending his afternoons with Pia and Doctor Six, walking with them on their daily stroll about the decks. He seemed boyish and gangling next to them, his face earnest and perpetually squinting as he talked.
Orient kept to himself, and Pia made no sign that she wished to continue training her telepathic potential.
He read, talked to the various passengers about inconsequentials, and waited for the right time to ask Doctor Six again if he could study Pia's medical history. But Six pointedly avoided him beyond a surly acknowledgment, giving Orient cause to wonder how much he knew about the night Janice died.
The weather was becoming progressively balmier and Pia began taking the sun on the upper deck in the afternoons along with Gale Wallet, Presto, and Orient. Doctor Six was always nearby, sitting in a shaded corner of the deck. Pia would chatter playfully with Gale; the two of them giggling and whispering secrets to each other. At other times she would listen intently and thoughtfully while Presto explained some facet of moviemaking or motorcycles. But she rarely spoke to Orient, and when she did, her eyes looked past him.
Orient would lie in the sun on a towel and focus his attention on maintaining his own harmonies.
Janice's death and Pia's actions were unpredictable but by no means abnormal. Perhaps the telepathic technique had set off emotions in Pia she found impossible to restrain. Perhaps Janice's death had energized her sudden breakthrough in extrasensory communication. Orient's memory of the bitter aura of her message was vivid. Or perhaps Pia felt she didn't owe him any explanations about anything in her life. She would be absolutely justified.
"Are you asleep?" Raga's husky voice roused him one afternoon from a blissful revue of his third incarnation. Cutting smoothly through the gleaming cobwebs of his universe.
Orient rolled over onto one elbow. Raga was sitting in a deck chair a few feet away. The others had gone. They were alone on the deck. The sun was sinking and the few clouds in the sky were edged with pink.
She smiled, her mouth light against her pale skin. "You were asleep."
Orient nodded. He sat up on the towel.
"I haven't seen anyone for days," Raga went on. "Janice's death upset me too much. Pia didn't tell me until"—Raga's yellow eyes looked at him steadily—"until later."
"Yes," Orient said. "Pia told me after you left that morning." He adjusted the waist band on his bathing trunks.
Raga's smile was unreadable.
A motor coughed and roared, then settled into a low, rumbling snore. Raga rose from her chair and went to the rail, her slender body moving effortlessly as if she'd been half-lifted by the wind. There was a faint smile on her face as she looked over the rail, but Orient couldn't tell if she was amused or very sad.
He stood up and joined her at the rail. He saw Presto down on the main deck trying out his motorcycle. Gale was perched behind him on the machine, waving to Pia as he drove back and forth across the deck.
After three or four more turns, Presto stopped the bike to let Pia exchange places with Gale. "She's a magnificent creature." Raga's silken sleeve brushed his bare arm.
Orient looked at her. "Yes, she is."
"Even when Pia was a young model with my agency she had a great influence on me," Raga said. "On everyone she met." Her face was serene but Orient thought he saw something troubled in her gold-flecked eyes. An appeal of some kind.
"You were quite a surprise," he said.
She smiled and the appeal in her eyes was replaced by a glint of satisfaction. "Pleasant, I hope?"
Orient smiled. "Very."
"I'm so glad, Owen," Raga said slowly. "Pia likes her little sexual games and I find her ideas stimulating." She looked him over carefully from his face to his feet and back to his face again, with open approval. "And I found you stimulating too, Owen. Not everyone thinks love games are amusing."
"Pia." Doctor Six shouted on the lower deck.
Raga calmly turned her head and looked below.
Doctor Six was striding across the deck glaring at Presto. "Pia, I forbid this nonsense," he bellowed.
Presto had stopped his motorcycle and was sitting there, racing the idling motor as Doctor Six approached. Pia jumped off the back of the machine and stood next to Presto. Doctor Six began talking rapidly and angrily at the two of them. After a few moments Pia walked away toward the stairs, her chiseled face set and clouded with fury.
Doctor Six said something else to Presto, then spun and followed Pia.
"My husband's in love with Pia," Raga said tonelessly.
"She's a very magnetic girl," Orient said, his eyes on Presto.
"Magnetic." Raga smiled. "Yes. The eternal female. The photographers clamored for her. Even after she retired." Raga looked at him. "But you're quite magnetic yourself, Owen. Have you ever been photographed?"
Orient shrugged off the question. "The three of you have a very intense relationship," he said. He watched Presto reluctantly climb off the bike and check the wheel.
Raga laughed. "Perhaps," she said. Her voice was oddly wistful. "It was much different at one time." She straightened up. Her long neck, high forehead, and backswept silver hair made her look even taller than she was. "But now Alistar loves Pia. I understand why Pia wants to taste everything in life. She could expire like Janice at any time. But then so could we all. If not from a lingering disease, then a sudden accident. I understand Pia very well. I want to explore pleasure as much as she does."
The delicate bones of Raga's face were set under her pale smile. "I want to explore the boundaries of my life while I'm alive, Owen," she said, lookng direcdy into his eyes. "What does that make me?"
Orient smiled. "I suppose that makes you just like me," he said.
He stayed in his room after dinner. He read his books and resisted the impulse to go to the lounge to join some of the others. He especially wanted to avoid Doctor Six and Pia. She had made it very plain that she wasn't interested in continuing their relationship and Orient didn't want to push it. Sex was an expression of friendship or love or pleasure as far as he was concerned, and it was best without emotional entanglements. He had enjoyed Pia's game but it had been her game, not his. He didn't want to be the cause of any unpleasant scenes with Doctor Six. The man obviously had feelings of his own about Pia. And Raga was still Six's wife.
He remembered Raga's husky voice in his ear. Pia's electric charm was immediate and exciting, but Raga had the profound luster of a precious stone.
Presto came in and sat down heavily on the couch.
"Doctor Six," he announced, "is a creep."
"What's the matter?"
"Oh, he's all uptight and crazy." Presto stretched out. "Told me I was disturbing his patient and endangering her health. He's a creep."
Orient didn't answer.
"He even told me to stay away from her. He's just her doctor. I mean, he doesn't own her or anything." He turned and squinted at Orient. "Isn't that right, Owen?"
"That's right," Orient said quietly.
"I think what Pia really needs is to get away from Doctor Six," Presto murmured. It occurred to Orient that perhaps Presto had put the names in the wrong order. Later, just before he fell asleep, Orient heard Presto get up and slip out the door.
The next day Orient was the only sunbather on the upper deck. The Trabik was coming close to land and the passengers were absorbed with last-minute preparations. Orient was in no hurry to get ready. The warm sun on his face and the motion of the boat moving through the calm water lulled him into a state of complete relaxation. He found himself easing back into a casual meditation, swimming toward a distant sun in the center of his chemistry. He began the breathing pattern, intensifying the flow of the current, and floated rapidly past the billions of tiny connections in his spine toward the light. The first connection. The gene that held the code of his past and the combination of his future. The first cell.
As his speed increased, however, he became aware of an alien fume of stagnancy hovering close to the river of his concentration. The bitter smell of some formless vibration lapping at the positive charge of liquid, sucking at the edges of his mind.
He pulled back.
When he opened his eyes, he realized he had a dull headache.
He put on his shirt and sandals and walked over to the rail. Every instinct in him screamed that there was some hostile presence on board the ship. Intelligent and predatory. He had felt it during the meditation, he had sensed it when he examined Janice, and he had tasted it when Pia called.
Orient watched a gull swoop down to the water and then flap furiously after the ship, straining in the wind to catch up.
Doctor Six was on his way to Naples. Perhaps it would be an idea to get in touch with Sordi and ask him to keep an eye on the man. Orient shook his head. He had very little to go on except his extrasensory impressions, but he was certain that what he had felt was the deadly energy of some inhuman force. If that was true, then Pia's sensitivity put her in grave danger. He decided to do everything possible to keep a close watch on Six's activitics.
He was reluctant to intrude in Pia's life, but he did want to make sure she wasn't harmed. He looked out over the restless blue water. Maybe he was exaggerating the situation. He should probably make plans to straighten out his own life instead of interfering where he wasn't wanted. Joker had always extolled the value of a spotless nose. Orient continued to stare at the horizon beyond the rear deck.
Joker.
He wondered how much the cowboy knew about Doctor Six. That night the ship's engines stopped and the Trabik dropped anchor in the bay of Tangier. After dinner Lew Wallet came to each cabin and invited the passengers into the lounge for a champagne toast.
Everyone was in an expansive, festive mood. Cards and addresses were exchanged as well as solemn pacts to maintain contact. Orient found it difficult to be as enthusiastic as the Wallets and the Crowes, but he did his best to enter into the spirit of the party. He took Lew Wallet's business card and promised Jack and Alice Crowe that he would visit their boutique when he returned to New York. Pia also came to the bar to say goodbye, but her farewells to Orient were perfunctory and curt. It seemed to him that she was preoccupied about something. She hung at the edge of the chatty group instead of dominating its center as she usually did. Her smile was vivid but a few times she missed what was being said, as if she were in deep thought about something else.
A short time later Orient noticed that both Presto and Pia were missing from the gathering in the lounge. When Doctor Six became aware that Pia was gone, he hurriedly left the lounge, leaving Jack and Alice Crowe in mid-conversation.
Orient looked across the room and saw that Raga was sitting by herself on the couch, watching him. He walked over to join her.
"I hope you have a good voyage to Naples, Raga," he said. He meant it. There was something strong and proud in her that he liked very much.
"Thank you, Owen," Raga smiled faintly. "But if my husband keeps trying to hold Pia on a short leash, I'm afraid that our little trip might prove to be too heavy to bear. For both of us."
"As a doctor, I can understand Alistar's concern," Orient said. "I think you called it—an intense relationship." Raga looked at him steadily.
"Something like that." Orient felt slightly ill at ease. Actually the only thing he understood about that relationship was that it seemed too strained and complicated for comfort.
"At any rate, I hope we meet again," Raga was saying, her honeyed voice very low. "There's something between us I'd like to extend."
Orient looked into her yellow-streaked eyes. They were dense and yielding, like molten gold. He knew she was telling the truth. He felt the same way himself.
He went out on deck and stared for a long time at the irregular beadwork of amber lights glowing awkwardly from the dark, dark streets of the city across the water.
Early the next morning the purser roused the departing passengers for their passport clearance. Orient expected the usual bureaucratic delays, so he took his time, making sure that everything was packed correctly. As he collected his books and clothes, it occurred to him that Presto hadn't slept in the cabin that night. And his knapsack and personal effects were gone.
When he reached the lounge, he found the purser, two immigration officers, and Doctor Six having a loud argument about something. He went out to the side deck.
The dry of Tangier curved around the cold green bay and sprawled low and lush over the hills above the sand beach. Just in front of the ship was a bulge of gold domes, blue towers, and whitewashed houses rising up above the waterfront. The boat was docked close to shore and Orient could see hooded figures hunched on the curbs in the sun or sitting in cafes.
Women wearing long caftans, and veils over their faces like masked nuns, shuffled through the crowded side streets. Dark-skinned stevedores wearing hooded robes swarmed over the decks, unloading crates and boxes from the holds. Just in front of Orient a tall man in a brown robe, hood back to frame his bald, skullcapped head, impassively operated the crane mechanisms. Down on the dock, cab drivers, porters, and souvenir vendors waved to Orient, yelling incomprehensible prices for their services. As he stood there watching, Orient wondered what it was he hoped to find on this strange soil.
On his way back to the lounge he all but collided with Doctor Six, who was hurrying out through the door, his face contorted with anger. He didn't stop when he saw Orient, pushing him out of the way against the wall as he rushed to the stairs that led to shore. Orient was annoyed for a moment, but he shook it off and proceeded to the table at the end of the lounge to present his passport to the officials.
Raga was standing next to the table. She seemed shaken, and very weak. Her skin had a bluish pallor and she was unsteady on her feet.
"Is something wrong?" Orient asked, suddenly concerned.
She tried to laugh, but it caught in her throat and she began to cough. "I'm afraid I'm hopeless, Owen," she said when she had recovered her voice. "Presto seems to have taken Pia away with him. They left as soon as his motorcycle was unloaded. The purser said they stayed up all night so that they could be the first ones cleared." She closed her eyes. "And Alistar's gone after them."
When she opened her eyes again, Orient saw that they were faded and lifeless.
Orient took her arm. "What do you need?" he asked.
"Help me make these arrangements. Something about the change of destination on the ticket. I don't think I can carry it off."
"Do you feel ill?"
Raga leaned against him. "Just very tired." She looked up. "And very helpless. Do you mind, Owen?"
"I'll do anything I can," Orient said.
Raga exhaled slowly and Orient realized she'd been holding her breath. He wondered if her sigh was one of relief or fear.
Tangier, 1970
Even with Orient's knowledge of Serbo-Croatian and Arabic, it took hours to clear Raga's documents and get her settled.
Orient took a room at a beachfront hotel adjoining Raga's and checked on her condition every few hours by phone. He was worried by Raga's lapse in health and surprised by Pia's sudden decision to go away with Presto. But he was also somewhat pleased by the opportunity to keep tabs on Doctor Six. All three of them—Pia, Alistar, and Raga—had booked passage for Naples. But Pia's flight had changed all that. Orient was convinced that there was something more than passion alone prodding Pia's desire to get away from her physician.
When he called Raga the next day, she sounded better. She had recovered her strength and invited Orient to have lunch with her. On his way to her hotel, he saw an old woman selling flowers on the street and bought a bunch of yellow roses.
"They're lovely," Raga exclaimed at the sight of the flowers. "They're my favorite. You know, it's been a year since anyone's given me a bouquet." She kissed him on the cheek.
"Probably because you're the emerald type," Orient smiled. "Feeling better?"
"Much." She took his arm and walked with him to the terrace. "I guess I just can't cope with these sudden changes anymore. I must be getting old."
"Now you're fishing." Orient held her chair and then sat down across from her. "Any word from Alistar?"
"Not yet." She looked away. "It's a lovely afternoon, isn't it?"
Orient agreed. It was clear and yellow-bright and a soft breeze rustled the palm trees around the hotel. Raga's suite looked out over the wide bay, and there were flecks of white foam on the flat green surface of the water. A thin veil of mist muted the orange and brown tones of the distant Spanish hills rising up from the horizon far across the bay.
When the waiter came, Raga had him put the roses in a vase placed next to her on the glass-topped dining table. Neither she nor Orient were very hungry, so they ordered a Salade Nicoise and picked at their food and watched the steady stream of activity on the tree-lined boule-yard below the wide terrace. Burros loaded with decorated straw baskets, herdsmen driving small flocks, and veiled women walking with large trays balanced on their heads competed for road space with the cars, trucks, and bicycles on the street, as they passed the modern glass-and-concrete hotel.
"You know, I'm almost glad we had to make this stopover," Raga mused. "This place seems so sleepy and peaceful. So removed." Orient smiled. "On the surface it does. Actually Tangier has had a racy past."
"You mean opium dens and harems?"
Orient nodded. "Slave markets, smuggling. Every marketable vice. A few years ago it was independent territory. There was no law except its own."
Raga laughed. "Sounds intriguing. Perhaps we could go exploring for wickedness some evening."
"We'd probably find out that all of the wickedness has been carefully arranged and packaged by American Express."
Raga looked at him. Her gleaming silver hair fell loosely on the shoulders of a hazy pink dressing gown almost the same shade as her lips. The roses next to her smooth face looked pale in comparison with the gold streaks in her eyes. She was smiling but there was something challenging in her husky voice. "We could always try to figure out a vice American Express doesn't know about."
"Do that," Orient said, "and Tangier will beat a path to your door."
"How about you?" Raga didn't take her eyes from his face.
Orient met her gaze. "Pleasure is pleasant," he said quietly, "but it doesn't necessarily lead to satisfaction."
Raga moistened her lips. "Any reason why it should? So long as it's pleasant."
Orient smiled but didn't answer. After lunch Raga went inside to change her clothes, while Orient waited for her on the terrace, still thinking about their conversation. For years his deepest enjoyment had been the pursuit of perfection in his work. He had never questioned that part of his life. Everything he did was secondary to that function. Perhaps he had been inhibiting his own natural capacities for pleasure. Certainly there was nothing unusual about exploring a life of his senses. They might hold the key to a door he had yet to open.
"I'm ready, Owen." Raga's husky voice interrupted his thoughts, and he turned around. She was standing at the door of the terrace. She had tied a blue silk scarf around her head, accentuating the delicate oval of her face. Her pink dressing gown had been replaced by a slim black leather shirtdress that hugged the sharp curves of her body. The neck of the dress was cut in a wide V that came to a point between her full white breasts, and she had left the buttons of her long skirt open, revealing a creamy flash of thigh over her gray snakeskin boots as she came toward him.
"Will I do?" she asked, standing in front of him.
"I think that Tangier might start beating that path to your door this very afternoon," Orient said.
"And you?" Raga's face was very close to his and Orient could smell the sweet jasmine scent of her perfume. "And I'll probably be at the head of the line," Orient admitted, almost to himself. They took a walk through the small city, beginning with the cosmopolitan avenue of the European section high above the bay, and following the street down to where it met the large central market and split into half a dozen narrow paths that led farther down to the native quarter. Everything seemed exotic to their Western eyes. The Moroccan men dressed in hooded robes and sandals, or gray suits, fezzes, and pointed yellow slippers. The women wore long caftans, embroidered veils over their faces, and plastic high-heeled shoes. Others wore odd combinations of Western and oriental styles; there were little boys in tweed jackets and ballooning Berber pants, girls in slacks and sweaters and traditionally veiled faces, bearded old men in robes and sneakers.
All of the stores, from the emporiums of the modern sector to the crude sidewalk stalls of the marketplace, were crammed with bangled, beaded, bestudded, and bejeweled artifacts that seemed to have just been unloaded from some overdue pirate's galleon that had taken three hundred years to reach port.
The streets were flowing with activity and all the sidewalk cafes were filled with dark, robed men who sipped their glasses of tea impassively as the spectacle on the street unfolded before them.
Orient and Raga alternated between moments of confusion and delight as they wandered through the throng, exploring the dusty shops and admiring the glittering array of goods. Every few steps they would be besieged by children offering their services as guides, asking for coins, or inquiring whether they were interested in any of a dozen illegal products from hashish to prostitutes of either sex.
Finally, they took one of the paths through the gates of the native quarter and made their way through the twisting narrow alleys that led to the legendary Casbah. They stopped at a large outdoor cafe and drank hot, sweet, mint tea and watched the garish parade of costumes and types that lived and worked behind the ancient walls of the old sector.
"Owen, it's just marvelous," Raga exclaimed. "It's like the thousand and one nights."
"With a modern touch." Orient pointed to a shop across from the cafe, painted in psychedelic splotches and improbably named Mustafa's Go Go Bazaar.
"Hey, man," said a voice at Orient's ear. "You wan mareewanna?"
Orient turned. A small boy of ten or twelve was standing next to him. "First-class grass, man," the boy continued. Orient smiled and shook his head, "No thanks," he said in Arabic. The boy blinked. He looked from Orient to Raga. "You Moroccan man?" he demanded.
"No," Orient said, "but I studied your language." The boy held up six fingers. "I know five languages. Arabic, French, Italian, English, and German."
"Very good," Orient congratulated in French. "Your family must be proud." The boy nodded. "Of course. I study, go to Paris someday. But right now I must go to the cinema."
"Well, have a good time," Orient said.
The boy stood there waiting.
"Well?" Orient said.
"Need money for cinema."
"Ah yes, of course." Orient gave the boy a coin.
The boy put the coin in his pocket and looked at Raga. "She your wife?" he asked.
Raga smiled. "Yes, this is my man," she said in French. "Now shoo. Go to the cinema." The boy looked at Orient. "Your wife very beautiful, man," he said before he turned and started trotting up the street.
As Orient watched him go, he was aware of a new feeling that had been aroused by Raga's words. A dim, unwarranted, but nevertheless pleasant glow of pride.
That night they had dinner at Raga's suite.
The table was set indoors because of a chill wind that was blowing in across the bay, driving the temperature down near the freezing point. They ate by candlelight and, as Orient looked across the table at Raga, he thought that he had never seen her look so lovely. She had changed into a crimson negligee that heightened the translucent luster of her flawless skin, and the candle flames set off swirling pinpoints of reflections in her yellow eyes.
"I haven't had such fun in ages," Raga said softly. "I feel—I don't know— renewed."
"You look beautiful."
Raga smiled as if Orient had just given her a ruby. "Wouldn't it be wonderful to stay here for months and months, just wandering through these fabulous streets," she mused.
Orient nodded. "Like a magic carpet."
"Yes. Exactly. Just the two of us, flying through a fairy tale."
"I wonder when Alistar will contact you," Orient said deliberately.
The fact that Raga was Doctor Six's wife was beginning to weigh on his thoughts.
"Please, Owen," she said quietly. A frown passed over her face, then disappeared into her small smile. "Let's not talk about any of that. I'd like these days to be for us. And only for us."
"All right, Raga," Orient said slowly. "If that's what you want."
"It's all I want, Owen." She looked at him steadily. "It's all I want in the world."
Orient reached out and touched her hand and, as her long cool fingers grasped his, he knew that more than anything, he wanted Raga to be happy.
After dinner they stood at the glass terrace doors looking down at the winking lights that dotted the harbor. The faint strains of music drifted down from the nightclub restaurant on the roof of the hotel and they began to dance in the flickering shadows, holding each other very close.
Then his lips were on her, and her warm, searching tongue darted inside his mouth. Her hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt and slipped inside, cool and velvet-soft against his chest. She shrugged and, as her negligee fell away from her shoulders, she eased her back onto the rug, pulling him down beside her.
He made love to her again and again, there on the floor near the terrace doors. Drinking in the slippery lushness of her shivering body like a thirsty man who had found a clear spring of water after a decade of parched wandering.
For the next ten days Orient was with Raga constantly. During the afternoon they investigated the side streets of the Casbah, bargained at the stalls for outlandish souvenirs, and frequented the sun-drenched cafes and outdoor restaurants in the small city. Every corner they turned was filled with new discoveries and each day brought a new variation of their relationship.
Sometimes they were like giggling children let loose in a toy store. Other moments were calm and profoundly silent as they walked side by side along the sea cliffs. Still other fragments of their time were lyric and casual as they enthusiastically explored each new alleyway. But always they shared and maintained an electric awareness of each other; whether they were strolling, ordering a meal, sitting in a cafe, or making love.
Orient was fascinated and compelled by the ever-changing facets of Raga. The way her flowing femaleness shifted direction abruptly into moods of glossy sophistication, shy simplicity, or cunning boldness. The way their nights together alternated between slow, soothing periods of deep tenderness, and wanton, frantic hours of abandoned experimentation. The way her delicate face could assume the pristine delicacy of porcelain, or the reckless glaze of chromed steel.
And the way he had fallen, completely and utterly, in love with this elusive woman.
The outward manifestations of his feeling for Raga were subtle; he was perhaps a shade quicker to laugh, a bit more impetuous, a trifle less self-conscious with strangers. Internally the effects were conspicuous. His entire consciousness was saturated with nuances of Raga.
His thoughts filtered through a spectrum of brilliant colors that reflected the energy they radiated together. He was happy. He was complete.
One day, as they lay side by side on the sand, looking at the red splotch of a sail on the green water, Orient tried to do something about his feelings.
"There must be a way," he said quietly, "to make this magic carpet a nonstop flight."
"Ummm," Raga stirred on the beach mattress next to him, "you're a mind reader. That's all I've been thinking about for the past hour."
"No telepathy," Orient smiled. "I'm just trying to figure out some way to make this all last longer."
Raga looked at him. "It may be possible. But not right away."
"Why not?"
"Alistar isn't particularly concerned with what I choose to do. But he can be very stubborn. My only hope is that he finds Pia."
Orient's brow furrowed. "How does that help?"
"If Alistar is preoccupied with Pia, he's more likely to want to be free of me." She paused and studied his face. "It is too beautiful together not to think of the future, isn't it?"
"There's the possibility that we can just go somewhere and lose ourselves for a few years."
Raga smiled and closed her eyes. "It would be so easy," she said softly, "and so delicious. I've gotten quite used to us being inseparable."
"Perhaps we could go back to the States. You could file divorce proceedings while I set up a research lab."
Raga opened her eyes and slowly shook her head. "Alistar can be very vindictive, Owen. He's egotistical and vicious. If he feels I've rejected him for you, he'll stop at nothing to discredit you. And he has some important friends."
"I'm not worried about that."
Raga ran her fingers through the sand. "Maybe it's possible," she said, almost to herself. "You've come to mean everything to me, Owen."
Orient reached out and touched her shoulder. It was soft and still pale despite days on the beach. The sun didn't burn or tan Raga's body; it merely gave her white skin a smooth rosy tint.
As she rolled over and rose to a kneeling position on the mattress, she tossed her head and shook out her sunshot silver hair, every movement like the figure of a dance. Her body was like a dancer's: long-legged and flat-bellied with firm, rounded hips and taut breasts that were set off, rather than covered up, by her wispy blue bikini.
The memory of her soft, creamy thighs wrapped tight around his body caught fire and a sudden lick of desire seared his senses. He was just reaching out to pull her close to him when he saw the bellboy from Raga's hotel running toward them.
The boy was running barefoot through the sand, holding his shoes in one hand and a yellow envelope in the other.
"Telegram for madame," the boy said breathlessly when he reached the mattresses. He handed the envelope to Raga, then put his hands behind his back and stood at a kind of panting parade rest, smiling broadly at Orient.
"It's from Alistar," Raga murmured as she looked at the envelope. "Thank you," she said to the boy, "there won't be any answer."
Orient automatically gave the boy a few coins. His attention distracted by the message in Raga's hand, he was barely aware of the boy's thanks and departure.
Raga read the telegram. When she was finished, her hand dropped to her side and she looked at Orient. "Alistar found Pia in Marrakesh. They're arriving by train tomorrow afternoon and Alistar wants me to be ready to leave for Italy immediately."
Orient took a hand-wrapped cigarette from his silver case and waited. He loved Raga but he wouldn't push her into making a decision she might regret. Not only was he unsure that she was ready to share his fife, but he was also acutely aware of the instability of that life. He had no way to take care of her. Nothing to offer.
"I have to go with him, Owen," Raga said finally. "I have to see if I can convince him to let me go." Orient struck a match and fit his cigarette. "Convince him of what, Raga?" he said evenly.
Raga's yellow eyes met his. "You don't know Alistar like I do. He can be very unpleasant if he's crossed. And I want to tell him openly. I don't want us to run and hide." Her face came close to his. "It's for us, Owen. We deserve to do this the best way."
Orient looked down at the glowing tip of his cigarette. "Perhaps I should talk to him."
Raga lifted his chin with her fingertips and kissed him gently. "I love you, Owen," she whispered. "If I want us to wait, it's only because of that love."
As Orient flicked the cigarette away and put his arms around her, he felt a curious pang of longing, as if Raga had already departed from him.
While she had been waiting for her husband, Orient had spent every night with her. But that night he went back to his hotel alone after dining with her.
The evening had been hushed somehow. They had spent hours talking in low, muted tones about what they would do. The news of Alistar Six's return had changed Orient's elation of the previous days to a furtive gnaw of frustration. Throughout the evening he constantly reverted to the idea of telling Six outright. He didn't like intrigues. In the end Raga had tentatively agreed. But Orient could see that she was still wavering. She seemed to have an irrational fear of her husband. There was a thinly concealed apprehension under her serious calm.
As he lay on his bed in the dark, Raga's agreement gave Orient little hope to sleep on. He knew that she wasn't ready to commit herself. And he couldn't prevent himself from considering the possibility that she simply didn't love him enough to offset the inconvenience of the situation.
He was still awake when the telephone rang unduly early.
"Owen?" When he heard Raga's voice, Orient was conscious of a sharp jab of anxiety.
"Yes." His voice betrayed his concern.
"Alistar and Pia just arrived. He's down taking care of the luggage and arranging for our trip to Italy. He wants to leave tomorrow."
"Why the hurry?"
"I don't know. Pia's completely exhausted and can't talk about anything. I think Alistar slapped her."
"I'll be right over."
"No." Raga's voice was suddenly strained. "It's better that I handle this by myself. Why not wait and come for dinner tonight?"
"All right."
Raga caught the reluctance in his voice. "Don't worry, my love. We must be patient. We need time. Please, Owen, for me." She hung up.
Orient stared at the phone, then slowly replaced the receiver. He lay back on the pillow for a moment, then, with sudden resolve, sat up, swung his legs over the bed, and placed his feet on the carpet.
He sat down on the floor and slowly began the stretching exercises of the Yang series, trying to empty his body and squeeze out of the jangling currents of doubt tingling through his thoughts.
He went through the movements doggedly, carefully opening more and more of his muscles, contracting and relaxing the million fibers within himself, pulling them into a vibrant harmony and drawing his scattered energy into a compact, controlled flow. Each time he repeated the series of exercises he shifted his concentration from the workings of his bodily organs to the prime source of their activity, their source of fuel. His breathing.
He regulated the intake of air, breathing in four-cycle rhythms of exhale-inhale, inhaling through his nostrils and exhaling through his mouth as he bent and stretched his body, until his body and breathing had fused into a single pattern. And then, when the pattern had become a humming current of reality, he lay on his back on the floor, and became motionless.
He felt for the pull of the earth's natural gravity and listened to the current of the pattern. As he concentrated, he intensified his breathing, going from the steady four-beat cycle to a more complicated rhythm, trying to set off tonal chords within his finely tuned body.
As he listened to the variations, he went back, reaching for the source of the music. And then he heard it, lyric and serene.
But he also heard a high, singing discordant note, disrupting the harmonies of energy. It was grating and relentless. His mind tasted the sound. It was bitter. The same discordant, decayed quality of Pia's message the night Janice died. A presence of something chaotic and predatory.
His meditation was shattered by a surge of concern for Raga. She was unprotected against any danger from Doctor Six—or Pia. As he dressed, Orient wondered if his concern was enough reason to confront Six immediately. He decided it would be foolish.
There was no proof of anything except his own need for Raga.
He stayed in his room until late afternoon, reading and waiting for the telephone to ring. After a few hours he decided to take a walk before dinner.
Tangier is a small city. Orient was able to wall; from the outlying beach area, past the sleek luxury hotels, through the concrete regularity of the European section, and down the curved street to the crooked, haphazard architecture of the Casbah, in less than an hour. As he crossed the large central marketplace and went through the gate that led to the Socco Chico deep inside the native quarter, he relaxed his pace. He did so partly because the streets were narrow and crowded and partly because the alleys had come to exert a calming influence on him.
Socco Chico, the small marketplace, was a tiny plaza at the crossroads of a complex of eight or nine indefinite streets, ringed by large outdoor cafes. The circle of tables and chairs made that patch of connecting paths an arena. Everyone sitting at the tables or passing by was both spectator and actor. It was there that tourists in sports shirts and panama hats sat alongside Arab shopkeepers and watched the brilliant costumes of the wild-haired hippies, the rough-robed men driving burros, and the veiled women shuffling past with trays of pastries balanced on their heads. And it was here that the news and the gossip of the day were sifted and evaluated.
Orient didn't stop at the small market but took a winding path off the square and followed it up past another, smaller crossroads, continuing on until the inclined street became a wide stone stairway. Near the top of the stairs he turned off onto a narrow, steep path. At the top of the first rise he turned into a doorway, ducking his head to avoid the low sill. He went through a long, dimly lit room and went out through another door that led to a side, outdoor terrace fitted with crude wooden stools and tables. It was Orient's favorite cafe.
Half the terrace was in the sun, and Orient chose a table under a large tree where he could look down on the street below.
Except for the taciturn proprietor and two Arab youths sitting in the shade puffing at their long, painted pipes, the cafe was empty. As Orient sat down, the proprietor set aside his pipe, stood up, nodded, and walked into the kitchen. Orient took a hand-wrapped cigarette from his case, struck a match, and looked out across the rooftops. The cafe was situated on a hill, giving him a view of the spiraling mosque steeples and blue-washed stucco rooftops sloping down to the golden sand, far away at the water's edge. The scene gave him a lingering sense of peace.
The proprietor came out of the kitchen and set down on Orient's table a steaming glass of black tea stuffed with mint leaves and an orange blossom, before returning to his seat in the shade and his pipe.
As he sipped the tea and smoked, Orient pondered the turn his life had taken. He loved Raga and thought of his future in terms of her. He had come to accept this reality. But it would take time. Time for Raga to settle her affairs. Time for him to set up a research laboratory and start earning money. And he was trying to rush it. Much better for them to be patient. Raga was right.
He wished he knew more about Doctor Six's work, the nature of his professional activities. That was the variable, the prod at his patience. If only he could be sure that Raga would be safe, no matter what her choice.
Raga knew very little about the mechanics of psychic energy. Less than Pia. If something was threatening her, she wouldn't even be aware of it.
He lingered in the cafe, watching the children at their games on the street below. As the lowering sun cast purple streaks across the sky, he realized that he must proceed carefully. For Raga's sake.
He took the short route to Raga's hotel, going straight down the stairs and along the side street to the small market, then taking another stairway to the harbor and following the wide boulevard that ran along the shore.
When he reached the hotel he felt calm but uncertain. He took the elevator up and Raga met him at the door. When she saw him she kissed him quickly and whispered in his ear, "I haven't told him. He's too upset with Pia. We have to wait." Then she kissed him again and said out loud, "Hello, Owen. Come in. We've been expecting you." Her husky voice was cool and even.
Orient's uncertainty became a gnawing discomfort. He disliked subterfuge. He felt like an interloper.
He followed Raga into the living room. Alistar Six was standing in the center of the room, scowling at the tip of his cigar. Pia was curled in an armchair, her chiseled face set in a sullen pout that didn't change when she greeted Orient.
Doctor Six nodded and waved Orient to a chair. "Good evening, Doctor Orient," he rasped. "Good to see you." His preoccupied frown led Orient to believe otherwise.
Everyone declined Raga's offer of drinks. "I must thank you for your kindness toward my wife," Six began slowly. "Raga told me of your gallantry." Orient wondered if there was any sarcasm intended by Six's choice of words. "She seemed to be very worried," he said. "I'm sure that she'll recuperate from her anxiety in Italy," Six rumbled.
Raga smiled. "I've become quite attached to Tangier these days." She looked at Orient, her yellow eyes gleaming.
"Do you have a clinic in Italy?" Orient asked.
"I have a laboratory on the island of Ischia. Do you know the place?"
"I've heard of it." Orient had never visited Sordi's birthplace, but his friend had often described it to him. "It's near Capri, isn't it? Off Naples?"
"Exactly," Six nodded. "It's a radioactive island on top of a partially extinct volcano. It has great healing properties. I'm in the process of completing a significant experiment there. One that might have saved Janice's life and may save the lives of others similarly afflicted with blood diseases. Like Pia." Six turned to her. "Although my patient doesn't always know what's best for her." His face softened in its expression as it rested on her.
"Tell me about Tangier, Owen," Pia said suddenly. "After seeing Marrakesh, I want to know everything about this country." She sat up in her chair avoiding Six's eyes.
"Is Presto still in Marrakesh?" Orient asked.
Pia glanced at Doctor Six. "I think so," she said. She slumped back in her chair.
"These countries," Six snorted. "They're full of poor sanitation, disease, and filthy habits. I'll be glad when we're out of here tomorrow."
During dinner they talked about the Trabik, and the shops and restaurants in Tangier. Raga described their sightseeing enthusiastically, smiling often at Orient as she spoke. She looked magnificent.
Her silver hair hung loose around her bare shoulders and she wore a long sheath dress of purple silk that clung to her slender body. Her beauty and charm didn't completely dispel the air of gloom at the table, however. It was as if Orient had come in the midst of an argument that would resume when he left.
Pia was extremely subdued. She spoke little and ate nothing, her usual vibrancy muted by a kind of sullen defiance toward Doctor Six. Toward Orient she was civil but cool.
As the meal progressed, however, Orient's mind became more intent on getting the answer to one important question. He wanted to know exactly what had happened to Presto. There were moments when he could have logically inserted the question into the conversation, but they seemed to pass. From time to time he would glance at Raga and see she was watching him. He wanted to reach out and take her hand. But he couldn't. And the knowledge of their deception nibbled at his talent for polite conversation.
"Did you see Presto in Marrakesh?" he asked finally, determined to force a response. Doctor Six's scowl tightened into an expression of deep anger. "Yes," he said. "I saw the fellow."
"I'm sorry," Pia interrupted. "You must excuse me. I'm still feeling very tired." She got up. "It was nice seeing you again, Owen," she smiled distantly. Then she left the table and walked quickly into her bedroom.
"You were saying about Presto—" Orient persisted, despite a warning, anxious look on Raga's face. He had an impulse that Presto was the key to Pia's strange behavior.
Six looked past Orient, his thick-lidded eyes still on the door Pia had gone through. "Doctor Orient," he said slowly, "my work is just at the completion stage. I believe that the serum I'm developing will not only cure blood diseases but will enable people to increase their life span by at least fifty years." His eyes flicked to Orient's face. "It's important."
Orient didn't answer.
"When I found Pia she was near collapse, driven to exhaustion by that fool Presto. He took her on a reckless joyride, and endangered Pia's life. He also endangered the results of my work."
"And you saw him in Marrakesh?" Orient pressed.
Six's eyes narrowed and the anger in his face hardened. "I left the man in a hospital there," he hissed. "What was wrong?" Orient's thoughts began a slow, confused rotation.
"He was in a coma from an overdose of drugs."
Orient was incredulous. "And you left him there?"
"Your friend's behavior," Six went on, "seriously hurt my patient. He's a young fool and disrupted my work, my family, and my plans. If he hadn't been in his wretched condition I would have thrashed him." Six pulled a cigar out of his pocket and snipped the tip with a tiny gold cutter. His voice was calm, but Orient could feel the murderous rage beneath his words. Now he knew why Raga was so nervous and Pia unable to communicate. They were afraid of this man.
Six stood up. "Excuse me, Doctor, but I must see to Pia. I'm afraid I won't have a chance to see you again before we leave."
Orient stood up. "Do you know what hospital Presto is in?" he asked evenly.
Six shot him a shrewd glance, staring at Orient for a moment before he answered. "The French Hospital there."
Orient nodded.
"Again let me apologize for my discourtesy," Six bowed. "But I'm sure my wife will entertain you for a short while."
Orient didn't know if Six was smiling or sneering.
"He wasn't always like that," Raga murmured as she watched him enter Pia's room. "He's changed. This experiment has done something to him."
"How do you mean?" Orient asked, reaching for his cigarette case.
"He was always ambitious, but human and kind. Now he's like a man possessed."
"Is that why you're afraid?" Orient took a hand-wrapped cigarette from his case.
Raga paused. She reached over and touched his hand. "I've been wanting to do that all evening," she whispered.
Orient lit his cigarette. "You haven't answered my question."
"Yes. I have become afraid of him. That's why we have to wait. If he becomes excited, he may hurt Pia."
Orient looked at her. She was leaning toward him, her hand still on his and her skin pale and smooth against the purple silk of her dress. Her face was composed but her eyes searched his intensely. "I love you, Owen," she said. "Nothing's changed."
Orient held her fingers tight. "I'm worried about you."
Raga closed her eyes. "Let's wait a few weeks, a month. Wait for me here in Tangier. Then come to Ischia. I promise you I'll go away with you then."
"And if something happens?"
Raga opened her eyes and smiled. She touched his cheek. "Nothing will happen. Not if we're patient."
Orient shrugged. "All right. We'll play it your way for a month. But then the game's finished." He ground out his cigarette.
Raga's mouth brushed his ear. "Finished, my darling. And we'll be together."
Orient didn't answer.
Raga walked with him to the door and, as he turned to leave, held his arm. "Owen," she said softly, "please come to Ischia." Her arms slipped around his neck and, as she kissed him, Orient knew that nothing could stop him from meeting her.
"I'll be there," he said. "Send me word if anything unusual happens."
As he spoke, Orient noticed the suitcases piled near the door. One of the bags was a black leather doctor's case. Something about the bag reminded Orient of something. Then he remembered. There was a small, crescent-shaped patch of torn skin on one side of the bag.
Exactly like the mark on the black bag he had delivered to Pola Gleason for Joker.
"Wait for me, darling," Raga was saying. She kissed him again and held him tight, unwilling to part her arms and let him leave. Finally he pushed her away gently and closed the door.
For a few minutes his mind whirred with confusion, but before the elevator had reached the lobby he had decided what he would do.
When he reached his hotel, he made arrangements to have his mail held there and checked the train schedule. He would go to Raga in a month but in the meantime there was something he had to find out. He had to go to Marrakesh to see what was really wrong with Presto. And find out if Doctor Six was telling the truth.
Presto had impressed Orient as a serious young man underneath his long hair and casual clothing. He'd never given any indication of being a heavy drug user. His main absorptions had always been his cameras and his motorcycle. Until Pia.
Orient had delivered a bag just like the one in Doctor Six's suite to Pola. And then Pola had died. The connection was vague, but Orient felt it was significant. And somehow ominous. Pola, Janice, and now Presto.
As Orient began to pack his bag, he felt more and more certain that Presto knew what had happened to make Pia run away from Doctor Six. He also might be able to tell Orient what it was that Raga was afraid of.
But even as he sensed the certainty of what he was doing, Orient also sensed the alien, bitter odor of some unnamed presence hovering at the edge of his mind.
Marrakesh, 1970
To Orient's discomfort, the Marrakesh Express turned out to be a fast train south to Casablanca followed by a three-hour layover and a change of trains, winding up as a slow milk run through the foothills of the Atlas Mountains, not reaching Marrakesh until six the next morning.
Orient tried a dozen different positions to ease the stiffness in his long frame, but finally ended up huddled in a corner of the cramped compartment, counting the hours until dawn, and alternating between an anxious yearning for Raga and worry for Presto. At first the separation ftom Raga had left him with a numbing sense of loss, but after a few hours he was forced to admit that his need for her was making him inefficient. The way to help Raga was to help Presto. His main concentration had to be on his task in Marrakesh.
There were two possibilities: either Presto was the victim of some thoughtless excess, or Doctor Six was lying. If Presto had taken an overdose of drugs, Orient could be of some help to him. And he would be reassured of Raga's safety. But if Presto had been the victim of some violence, then he would know that Doctor Six was trying to conceal the fact. And he would follow Raga immediately. He wondered if he should call his hotel in Tangier in case she had sent him a message. Sometime during the night, despite the excessive cold in the compartment and his anxious brooding, Orient fell asleep.
He dozed fitfully, at times still half-aware of the train's frequent stops and starts, and just before the light broke over the gray shapes of the mountains outside, he had a curious dream.
It was a simple dream. Orient was a young boy. He was dressed in a blue robe and he was conscious of a turban wrapped around his head. He was crouched in a marketplace amid a circle of spectators. He was at the inner edge of the circle watching the performance of a juggler in the center. The juggler was a short, wiry man wearing an old-fashioned military uniform which was covered, trousers and jacket both, with a gleaming profusion of coins and metal buttons. The man was juggling four silver balls. Their spinning motion caught the rays of the sun and it seemed that the reflections created a sparkling system of light, independent of any other illumination.
The train scraped to a stop, jerking Orient awake. He looked out the window. A short distance away a brilliant ridge of snow-capped peaks shone in the morning sun. He stretched his arms and moved his neck from side to side. When the conductor passed the compartment, he informed Orient that they were still twenty minutes from Marrakesh.
Orient remained awake for the rest of the trip, slouched back in the corner of his seat. The dream, or perhaps the nap, had left him with a sense of calm that relaxed his weary body. In a few hours he would know what had happened to Presto.
He took a cab to a hotel located on a wide, drab boulevard that cut through a series of flat buildings on either side. After the hills, curves, sea views, and crooked crowded streets of Tangier, Marrakesh seemed uninteresting and lifeless.
The only special feature of Orient's small room was the large bed. He took off his pigskin jacket and stretched out full length. In a few minutes, when his back muscles and spine had recovered some of their flexibility, he picked up his jacket and reached into the inside pocket for his cigarette case.
He rested for half an hour, smoking and going over what he would do. Then he got up, took a shower, and shaved. When he was finished, he took a clean shirt from his suitcase and found a tie. He would find out more by approaching the hospital as Presto's doctor rather than as a mere acquaintance.
The desk clerk informed Orient that the French Hospital was just a short walk from the hotel, on the other side of the main square, Djemaa el Fna. The activity in the streets had increased somewhat by now, but the movement was still sluggish and colorless.
As Orient neared the square, however, the streets became more crowded and the stolid concrete buildings gave way to a long stretch of trees. The boulevard bisected a crossroads, and streams of people, all going in the same direction, poured into the wide street from every side. They were riding bicycles, walking next to burros, perched on motor scooters, or sitting in horse-driven cabs.
Orient could see immediately that these people were as different from the citizens of Tangier as the Ozark farmer from the New Yorker. They were tribesmen still living in ancient villages in the mountains and coming to Marrakesh to trade their wares. Most of the women had tattooed faces and orange hands, their palms tinted from constant use of henna dye on their hair and bodies. The men, too, had crude tribal tattoos on their foreheads and hands. The long wool robes of the men and embroidered gowns worn by the women had a rough, homespun quality. Fezzes, hoods, wide-brimmed straw hats, woolen skullcaps, turbans, and veils were all equally favored by the dark-skinned Berbers. Many of them wore long, curved knives on chains slung around their necks, and their faces seemed to be etched of brown, flinty stone, hacked from the mountain rocks with the very blades at their sides.
Everyone, including Orient, was moving toward the sound of the drums.
Then the street widened and Orient saw the square. A large open space bordered by a low wall of stalls and tents. He was in the midst of a throng of people all moving toward the crowds already in the square. The insistent sound of drums and bells that Orient had heard farther back became louder and he glimpsed a jogging circle of dancers at the edge of the clearing.
Another rhythm came from somewhere across the square. Chimes and tambourines came ringing quick punctuation to the deep, constant pounding in front of him.
The square was a chaos of noise and moving colors. As Orient came closer, he saw that the Berber spectators were all jammed into tight groups watching the story tellers, dancers, snake charmers, trained monkeys, acrobats, magicians, sidewalk doctors, fortune-tellers, herb and spice vendors, and dentists hawking various sets of false teeth, who were all simultaneously plying their trades in the sun. Beyond the clearing, people were shopping for food, exchanging goods, and shuffling through a vast maze of wooden stalls and tents that extended back to the pink clay rampart walls in the distance.
As Orient pushed through the multitude, he saw a flash of silver balls high in the air and paused. He edged closer, recalling his dream on the train a few hours earlier. But the juggler was a tall ebony-skinned man wearing Berber pantaloons and a yellow vest over his sweating chest. Orient moved away from the circle and made his way to the other side of the square to a group of horse-drawn cabs waiting for passengers. When Orient asked for the French Hospital, one of the drivers pointed to a three-story concrete building a short distance away. Orient moved toward the hospital. He didn't notice the short boy who had detached himself from the group of spectators around the juggler and was now following him across the street.
It was quiet inside the hospital. When Orient asked for Presto, the nurse at the desk checked his credentials, asked him to wait, and disappeared down a corridor. She returned a few moments later with a short, fat man wearing a stethoscope around his thick neck, a white smock, and a fez on his round head.
The man shook hands with Orient. "I'm Doctor Hamid," he said in clipped English. He peered at Orient and fingered his thin mustache. "You wish to see Mr. Wallace."
"Yes. I'm a friend of his. Doctor Orient."
The man nodded and clasped his hands behind his back. He started walking slowly across the reception hall to a stairway. "Perhaps you can give us some light on Mr. Wallace's medical history, Doctor Orient. Frankly, we're puzzled."
"What are his symptoms?"
"He was found in a coma in his hotel. At first it was diagnosed as a partial asphyxiation as a result of opiate poisoning." Hamid paused at the stairs and looked at Orient apologetically. "So many of the young tourists from Europe and the United States are brought here suffering from similar drug reactions." He began climbing the stairs. "But the coma has lasted long past the critical stage. Mr. Wallace should have recovered by now. All our tests are negative. He seems to be in perfect health." Hamid paused again at the top of the stairs. "Perhaps there is something in the boy's case we don't know." Hc looked at Orient.
Orient shook his head. "Mr. Wallace was perfectly healthy a few weeks ago."
Doctor Hamid rubbed his mustache.
"Who brought him here?" Orient asked.
"A young girl. A companion of his. But I think she has left Marrakesh." Hamid started walking down a short, wide corridor. "You'll see what I mean when you examine him." He stopped at a door on one side of the corridor and opened it. He took off his stethoscope and handed it to Orient. "I'll be back in a moment with his file."
Orient went inside. The room was small and sunny. There was a white bed near the window, a night table, and a white cupboard against the wall near the door. Presto was lying in the bed. His eyes were closed and, as Orient bent over him, he saw that his face was very white and still.
Orient went through a brief preliminary examination. Presto's heartbeat was weak but regular. His pulse was faint and his breathing shallow, almost imperceptible. He checked Presto's skull very carefully for any sign of a bruise or cut and checked his limbs for rigidity. Presto's head was unmarked and his arms and legs were completely limp.
Orient gently pushed back Presto's eyelid. The pupil wasn't dull or clouded. Far from it. Presto's pale blue eye was gleaming with some kind of private, unseeing ecstasy. It was the only beacon point of life on his body, which seemed drained of energy rather than injured.
As Orient looked closer at Presto's eye, a chill hit him behind the knees and traveled up his spine to the back of his neck, as his consciousness tasted the cloying, sour fume of some excess of alien energy nearby. The presence he had felt with Pia's call. The same vibration he had detected near Janice's body.
It was all around the bed, a thick sluggish field, hovering over Presto. Orient drew back, resisting the urge to leave the room.
Orient had never felt it so keenly before, and he realized that when he had examined Janice's corpse he had only sensed the remnants of this bitter vitality. The energy here was active, exuding a foul, predatory stench that choked his mind.
"As you can see, Doctor, the symptoms are baffling." Doctor Hamid's clipped voice roused Orient's external senses, but his awareness of the unseen presence remained.
Hamid handed Orient a large manila envelope. While Orient examined the notations and X-rays, Doctor Hamid went to the window and opened it. "There never seems to be enough air in this room," he remarked. He came back and stood next to Orient. "The boy's blood pressure is very low, but the blood itself is healthy. There were needle punctures but no cuts or scars on his body. There were no drugs found in his system. But as you can see, he remains critical. He's been fed intravenously but seems to be losing vitality every day."
Orient handed the file back to Hamid. "I'd like to see the punctures," he said.
Hamid showed him a mark on Presto's left shoulder and two in the upper forearm. They were somewhat older than the marks made by the intravenous feeding. They could have been caused by vaccinations, vitamin injections, or drugs.
Orient lifted Presto's eyelid, revealing the blue eye shining with silent intensity. "The clearness of the pupil might be from an over-activity of the thyroid or pituitary glands," Orient suggested.
Hamid looked at Presto's face. "Perhaps," he said slowly. "But what could cause that kind of stimulation?"
"A sharp increase or decrease in fluid," Orient said, letting the eyelid drop.
Hamid nodded absently. "Of course it wouldn't harm to run some more tests."
"Aside from that," Orient said, "I have no idea what Mr. Wallace could be suffering from. You say that his blood count is normal?"
"Quite. He might be unable to manufacture enough blood, however."
"That might account for a gland deficiency."
Hamid took a pad and pencil from the pocket of his smock and wrote something down. "Thank you, Doctor Orient. I'll check the possibility of a gland malfunction right away." He looked up. "Anything else you wish to know?"
"No. Not right now. I'll be back tomorrow to check on his progress."
"Very good." Doctor Hamid smiled broadly and pumped Orient's hand. "I'm pleased to have been given the benefit of your excellent advice."
Orient inclined his head slightly. "The excellence of my advice could only be a reflection of your own conclusions, Doctor Hamid. I thank you for your courtesy." He took the stethoscope from around his neck and handed it back.
Hamid took Orient's arm and walked with him to the stairway. "Our tests should take a few days to complete, Doctor."
Orient fell silent, his mind still fogged by the reeking presence behind him in Presto's room. He shook hands with Doctor Hamid again and walked slowly down the stairs.
The sun was still high outside and, when Orient reached the sidewalk, his ears picked up the steady thudding of the drums in the square. He suddenly felt very tired from his journey.
As he looked for one of the horse-drawn cabs, Orient saw a boy coming across the street toward him. He braced himself for a quick refusal of whatever the boy was selling. He had been strangely shaken by what he had sensed near Presto, and was too weary to barter.
"You are the doctor," the boy announced in English, his smile displaying a wide gap left by three missing teeth. He was about nine years old.
"Imshee," Orient said regretfully in Arabic, "go away." He was unfazed by the fact that the boy knew he was a doctor. He knew that in city streets or desert marketplaces gossip is communicated faster by word of mouth than by radio.
"You come, sir," the boy said, his smile becoming an injured frown. "I have send to find." He ran alongside Orient, who hadn't slackened his pace. "You come with me."
"Be respectful of your elders," Orient said in Arabic. "Go away and let men work."
The boy ran a few steps ahead of Orient and blocked his path, holding up his hand like a traffic policeman. "Please, sir," he said firmly, "listen."
Orient stopped and reached into his pocket.
"I want no money, sir," the boy said sharply.
Orient stopped and looked at him.
The boy was glaring at Orient, his eyes moist with a mixture of anger and shame. "I am Yousef. You save money for marketplace."
The boy was wearing a pale blue robe of some thick brocaded material. There was a pair of dark blue velvet slippers on his feet. He didn't look like one of the ragged urchins who constantly offered tourists their services.
"What is it then?" Orient asked quietly, resting his hands on his knees and crouching down to head level with the boy.
"I am Yousef," the boy repeated. "Ahmehmet has sent me." His face was set, almost defiant.
"And who is Ahmehmet?" Orient asked, smiling.
The boy's face relaxed. "He is my teacher," he said proudly.
"What does he want with me?"
"He does not say these things to me," Yousef murmured. "He told me find the English doctor who comes today. You come, please," the boy nodded, his face earnest and pleading.
Orient straightened up and looked down at him. "Okay," he signed, "I'll come with you, Yousef. But if this is a child's game, I shall be very angry."
The boy didn't answer. He spun around and began walking quickly toward the center of the teeming square, turning around every few steps to make sure Orient was following.
As Orient ambled after him, he wasn't sure why he had decided that this wasn't another version of Trick the Tourist, a game which the Moroccan boys never tired of; motivated as much by a high-spirited sense of humor as an eye for profit.
But there was something in the boy's carriage and manner that suggested a proud, truthful boy engaged in a serious occupation.
Yousef kept five steps ahead of Orient, weaving through the noisy knots of people in the square until he reached a small passageway between two of the hundreds of wooden stalls that bordered the square. He waited impatiently for Orient to catch up, then started ahead of him again, walking along a crowded, caked dirt path that ran between long rows of open tents that displayed everything from spare bicycle parts to dried frogs. Before they reached the end of the tented area Yousef ducked down a side path into the entrance of a wide tunnel.
The tunnel was another kind of marketplace. It was long and covered with slats and sheets of corrugated metal that let the sunlight trickle through thousands of cracks in the makeshift ceiling. This dim market was also filled with people walking back and forth between two solid rows of stalls that sold a wide variety of goods.
Orient had noticed earlier that there were very few European tourists in Marrakesh, in comparison with Tangier. And in this tunnel market there were no tourists at all. The people were all traditionally dressed in tribal robes and silk gowns. There were no traces of Western clothing except his own.
For a while longer, Orient followed the boy through what he discovered was a labyrinth of connecting tunnels all going deeper and farther away from the light. He began to have misgivings about following Yousef so far. No one knew where he was, including himself. If he had to find his way out of this maze in a hurry, it would be impossible. He was absolutely defenseless against a fast mugging or worse. His mind jumped back to the oozing presence in Presto's room. Yousef turned another corner.
As they continued to walk, the crowds began to diminish but not completely, so that Orient was constantly dodging bicycles, wheelbarrows, and livestock as he picked his way through the people shuffling through the narrowing walkways, trying to keep pace with the boy ahead. Finally Yousef stopped in front of a shop displaying antique jewelry and artifacts, pulled the beaded curtains aside, and waited for Orient to enter.
Orient stepped inside a large room covered with rugs and furnished with plump brocaded pillows placed around the floor. There was a desk at the far end of the room on which rested an ornate gilt cash register. Next to the register was a vase filled with bright flowers.
"Welcome," a voice said in English from behind the desk. "You have journeyed long to reach us."
Orient's mind froze. He saw a short man with curly, orange-hennaed hair stand up behind the desk. He was so small that he had been hidden by the flowers.
Orient immediately sensed that he knew the small man from somewhere. And he knew definitely where he had heard the man's greeting before. The words were the traditional salutation between neophyte and teacher. He had heard them once before in Tibet.
"The journey is like the flow of water," Orient answered, using the formal reply to the greeting.
The man walked toward him smiling. He was wearing a green silk ruffled shirt and bell-bottom trousers made of multicolored velvet patches.
"And water finds the thirsty man." The man finished the ritual greeting as he neared Orient. He bowed his head. "My home is yours, you are my favored guest."
"I think there may be some mistake," Orient said unevenly.
"There is no mistake," the man said gently. He turned to Yousef, who was standing near the beaded curtain. "Attend to your work," he said softly. The boy melted back through the curtain almost before he had finished speaking.
The man turned back to Orient. "If you think there is a mistake, then we must be sure," he said in careful English that contained a trace of French accent. The smile remained on his dark, creased face. He was very thin with prominent corded muscles in his neck, face, and wrists. His hands were tattooed, scarred, and callused. His smile wasn't vacant, but seemed to be trying to hold back some deeper enthusiasm that was radiating from him. A torrent of joy that was pouring out through his large brown eyes.
It was that vibration of joy that calmed Orient's thinking. He readied himself for the questioning that would be the next phase of greeting according to the ancient ceremony.
"Have you been traveling long?" the man asked. Orient wavered. He didn't recall the question as part of the recognition ceremony. The man grunted and the smile was suddenly gone, replaced by an expression of mournful concern. "Come," he said finally, patting Orient's arm. "You shall have tea with me." He moved toward the curtained doorway next to the desk.
Orient hesitated, then followed, his brain churning thoughts and sending up a spray of questions. Who was this shopkeeper and why had he sent for him? Why did he use the traditional greeting of the Serene Knowledge? Orient's initiation was years in the past, but he had learned on that mountaintop that the path was a series of steps carved out by the winds of fate. He stopped at the threshold, removed his shoes, and went inside.
The floor of the inner room was also covered with thick rugs and the walls were draped with silken fabrics, embroidered with asymmetrical designs in gleaming metallic colors. As the fabrics moved, the colors rippled in the fight from the oil lamps standing on the floor near the large pillows which served as furniture. As they entered, a woman wearing a long yellow silk caftan and dark blue veil hurried out of the room.
Orient saw that a low table had been prepared between two of the pillows, next to one of the floor lamps. He eased himself down on a pillow and found it very comfortable.
The man poured two glasses of tea from a silver pot and sat down.
"I am Ahmehmet," he said, smiling.
"Why have you sent for me?" Orient asked.
Ahmehmet stroked his chin. "Perhaps I have been mistaken."
"The journey is strewn with illusions," Orient said as the half-forgotten words came rushing back into his mind.
"That is true." Ahmehmet picked up his glass and sipped some tea. "Then the journey will take a long time to complete."
Orient felt a sudden surge as Ahmehmet once more responded correctly. He looked around the room and realized that the brocaded symbols on the walls were occult designs taken from the Kaballa, the texts of early Semitic magic. The secret books of Moses. "The journey will complete itself in time," he said softly.
Ahmehmet's eyes suddenly sharpened as he peered past the light and scrutinized Orient's face. "Tell me," he said, studying Orient's reaction closely, "do you know the name of the card that sent you here?"
Orient was momentarily confused by the question. He understood that beyond the ceremony of recognition Ahmehmet genuinely wasn't sure of Orient's candidacy. Then he remembered the tarot card Joker had left with his ticket. "The card called the Fool," Orient answered.
Ahmehmet's beaming smile returned. "So be it," he said.
Orient picked up his glass and sipped his mint tea. It was warm and sweet and soothing. He was very tired from the jumble of events that had begun when Raga received Doctor Six's telegram. But then he had a quick doubt.
"The man who gave me this card," Orient said, looking into his glass, "was he sent by you?"
Ahmehmet didn't answer for a moment. "No," he said. "The man who gave the card was acting in accord with his own fate. He is but a die cast by Allah. The man who gave you the card knows nothing of the path—or of the Nine Unknown Men."
Orient's manner remained calm but his mind leaped as Ahmehmet spoke. Now there remained only one question. "And you know the Nine?" he asked.
Ahmehmet nodded. "It was Ku who sent you to me."
Orient relaxed on the pillow as Ahmehmet uttered the name of his teacher. No one except the followers of the Serene Knowledge knew that the venerable Ku had been his initiator. And no one except Ku could send him to another master. "I am of the fifth level," Ahmehmet was saying. "The youngest of the Nine." Orient said nothing but the feeling that he'd seen Ahmehmct before returned. "You have seen me once before," Ahmehmet said, picking out the thought. "This morning. Before you reached Marrakesh." Orient smiled as he recalled Ahmehmet as the button-blazoned juggler in his dream. He was sure of everything now.
As all his confusions, doubts, and anxieties dissolved into the clear liquid of calm flowing into his consciousness, Orient could hear the distant throbbing of drums from the marketplace somewhere outside.
The first thing Orient was aware of when he awoke the next morning was the same faint, insistent pulse of the drums.
He peered through the dim light, adjusting himself to his new surroundings after a heavy sleep. He was in Ahmehmet's house. He was alone in a small bedroom behind the inner room in back of the shop. The bed was a large pillow on the floor near the wall, and Orient was covered by heavy, brocaded silk spreads. His suitcase was on the floor near the bed. Ahmehmet had told Orient that Yousef would make arrangements with Orient's hotel and secure his luggage. Orient had agreed immediately. As he would agree to anything Ahmehmet suggested.
Orient understood that he'd been led to Ahmehmet's shop to undergo another phase of his psychic development. Years ago Orient had taken the path to Ku in Tibet as a neophyte, not even knowing if such a man as Ku existed, or if he was just another mountain legend. And when he had scaled the steep, frozen trail around the face of the low peak, after discharging his guides before the last ascent, he found Ku waiting for him. Waiting to guide him to the warm, fertile valley where he dwelled. A tiny valley that was a pocket of constant springtime amid the freezing tumult of the Himalayas.
There Orient had learned how to open the body and mind to the energies of the universe. He learned to manipulate the possibilities of his consciousness; to transmit thoughts, receive images, merge minds, and pierce dimensions of existence. He discovered the reality and purpose of his fate through a score of lifetimes. And he learned of the awesome power of the Nine Unknown Men.
Their power had never been spoken of directly, but Orient knew that each of the Nine Men held a facet of a science that encompassed the nature of the entire structure and purpose of the universe, including man's function in the whole of existence.
Orient knew that his advanced powers of concentration were weak compared to the radiance of Ku's mind, becoming an infinitesimally small microcosm when measured against the weight of Ku's consciousness merged with eight others of similar capacity. If Orient could connect energy pulses with a glass of water and use the leverage to move the glass across a table with his will, then the combined energy from the merged wills of the Nine Unknown Men could change the position of the earth itself. What he had learned from Ku didn't negate anything he'd ever learned before. Rather it had given all his knowledge a harmony as he came to understand his past studies as reflections of a single truth, beyond all possible existences.
And now he was here to learn another dimension of that truth. From a Berber shopkeeper who wore velvet bell-bottoms.
The sense of sure calm that had welled up within Orient's troubled thoughts when he had recognized Ahmehmet as a colleague and emissary of Ku was still with him. His mind vibrated reassuring ripples of contentment. Orient was still aware of his love for Raga and the danger that surrounded Presto, but he felt secure in the presence of Ahmehmet, one of the Nine Unknown Men.
He got out of bed and began the Yang series of his meditation exercises. There on the floor, next to his bed, Orient's consciousness retraced its evolution, going back around its spirals of time until it reached the beginning of all time, and all consciousness.
His mind remained fixed on that point even after he was roused from his meditation by Yousef.
The boy rolled in a large marble bathtub mounted on brass wheels and filled with steaming water that gave off the scent of orange blossom.
"Good morning," Yousef said stiffly. The boy seemed ill at ease in the presence of his teacher's guest.
"Good morning, Yousef," Orient responded cheerfully. He added in Arabic, "I can speak your language, you know."
"Ahmehmet has asked me to speak English with you," Yousef murmured. "To improve speaking." He bowed. "Must go now. Ahmehmet is waiting."
Orient was finished with his bath but still hadn't finished dressing when two veiled women entered the room, rolled away the bathtub, then returned to straighten up the room. He threw on a shirt and went into the next room.
Ahmehrnet was sitting on a pillow next to a low table set with various bowls of food and a pot of tea. When he saw Orient he smiled and nodded. "Come, Doctor. Eat. You must be hungry after your sleep."
"Thank you," Orient said as he sat down on the other side of the table. He was hungry. He hadn't eaten anything since leaving Tangier. He reached for one of the tall glasses of orange juice on the table.
"Your friend in the hospital is still unconscious."
Orient looked at Ahmehmet. "Do you know him?"
Ahmehmet's smile became regretful. "No. About your friend I know no more than any performer in the square. His condition is the cause of much gossip here in Marrakesh." Orient picked up a steaming bowl of thick brown soup in both hands and took a sip. It was delicious.
"I know only that you were sent to me for expansion to the second level." Ahmehmet took a long, gold-tinged wooden pipe from the table and dipped the curved clay head into a smooth leather pouch dangling from his belt. He filled the bowl, then struck a match and lit it, sharply scenting the air. "Your fate and mine coincide. But we both have many fates, and many choices. Your friend is but one path of your choice. And my concern is only for your choice here."
Orient finished the soup and poured himself a glass of tea. "My choice is to remain until it is clear that I must leave."
Ahmehmet nodded and puffed his pipe. He inhaled and held the pipe out to Orient who politely refused, taking instead one of his own hand-wrapped cigarettes from his silver case. He placed the case on the table in front of Ahmehmet.
The small shopkeeper picked up the cigarette case and studied the mandala design on its surface.
Orient felt a nudge at the base of his brain and understood that Ahmehmet was establishing a rapport with the mandala design and entering a state of empathy with Orient's consciousness.
"You have been standing at the crossroads of your fate for a long time," Ahmehmet said softly. "Your karma and your work are intertwined. You must choose a path carefully or lose your direction. The choice will be yours. I can only give you tools to use for your quest. But you must choose the direction yourself." With a sharp whiff he blew the hard, round ash of kif from the bowl of his pipe, sending the gray chunk rolling onto a plate. Then he took the clay bowl off the gold-circled wooden stem and cleaned it carefully. "This morning I have business in my shop," he said slowly. "Yousef will take you to Djemma el Fna. You should get to know the marketplace during your time with us." He picked up the silver cigarette case and handed it to Orient. "Do you know what Djemma el Fna means in the Berber tongue?"
Orient smiled. "It means Mosque of Rebirth."
Ahmehmet's bony face creased into a grin. "So be it," he said. "Hamndullah."
"Hamndullah." Orient replied in Arabic. "Thank the God."
For the rest of the afternoon Orient wandered through the bustling maze of tunnels behind the square. Yousef walked by his side, letting Orient go where he wished but always nearby in case he was needed. "How old are you?" Orient asked, trying to overcome the boy's shyness.
"I will be ten years," Yousef said impassively.
"Can you show me the way to the square, where the acrobats are?"
"Of course." Yousef stepped up his pace and turned a corner. He led Orient through a series of narrow paths to Djemma el Fna Square.
As they crossed the large tented market, the sounds of bells, flutes, tambourines, and drums rose in proportion to the amount of people and activity in the area. Orient followed Yousef through the gap between the rows of wooden stalls and found himself in the square, standing at the edge of the swirl of movement and noise. He stopped to watch a group of dancers, their beaded coats flapping and their bodies weaving in time to the cymbals and tambourines in their jerking hands; all perfectly attuned to each other's minute variations on the basic pulse of rhythm.
Yousef grew impatient and started moving away from the circle around the dancers. Orient went with him through the knots of people watching the various performers.
As he passed a large ring of people, he saw a trio of bare-chested men. One man was balanced high on the shoulders of the other two, standing above the heads of the spectators. The three were balanced on the shoulders of three other men who were invisible on the ground behind the crowd.
The acrobats reminded Orient of his own precarious balance. He had to help Presto and prevent anything from happening to Raga. He was at the bottom of an inverse pyramid. All alone. And he didn't know what force was trying to send it all tumbling down.
Yousef led Orient past the acrobats to another group a short distance away. The boy's indifferent manner was transformed into an expression of delight as he edged through the circle of people. It was obviously one of Yousef's favorite acts.
It was a good one. A tall, black magician in a simple shirt and baggy pants was performing fluid feats of sleight of hand with four red balls. Orient watched the man take two balls in each hand, open his palms, and display eight balls. Four in each hand. The man waved his hands. The eight red balls became six large black balls. Three in each hand. The lean magician smiled. He looked down at his hands. The black balls had become a single silver ball in his left hand. It was larger than all the rest. The ball rose from the magician's outstretched palm and stopped in midair next to his head.
The man pretended to be surprised and reached out to take the ball. It eluded his grasp. The magician looked exasperated, then lunged and plucked a ball out of the air. The crowd laughed and began throwing coins on the ground.
Orient saw Yousef crouching on the ground, picking up the coins and placing them at the magician's bare feet. As Yousef left the arena and came back to join Orient at the outer edge of the spectators, the magician started juggling four silver balls that had suddenly appeared in his hands.
"He's very good," Orient commented as they strolled away from the group.
Yousef smiled proudly, revealing the gap in his teeth. "Everyone says that. He is my father."
Yousef showed Orient through the quarter where the brightly painted tribal drums were made, as well as the silver souk, and a carpenter's market. The boy did his best to keep Orient amused but he was clearly determined to remain aloof from his teacher's guest. After a few hours he started guiding Orient back through the series of tunnels to Ahmehmet's shop.
When Orient parted the curtained entrance, he saw that Ahmehmet was engaged in a serious conversation with an elderly gentleman who was seated at his desk. As Orient entered, the man rose and hurried out of the shop. Ahmehmet stood up and smiled at Orient. "Sit down, Doctor," he said pointing to a pillow on the floor. "Will you have a glass of tea?"
"Thank you." Orient eased himself down on the pillow.
Ahmehmet nodded and Yousef went through the curtains to the inner room.
"What is your impression of Djemma el Fna," Ahmehmet asked as he sat down next to Orient.
"I like it. Yousef took special care to show me every quarter."
Ahmehmet looked at Orient, his thin, quick face drawn into a reflective frown. "Yes, Yousef is a good student. That man you saw me talking to," Ahmehmet nodded his head toward the door, "he wants me to take his son to study here with me." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "But it cannot be. Once I had as many as seven students. But that was a long time ago. Now there is only Yousef. That man's son would be wasting his time with me. Not everyone can be taught." He opened his eyes. "I don't recruit students," he said slowly. "I merely recognize them."
Two men entered the shop. They were both wearing hooded robes, the traditional djellabas, and each had a knife dangling under his left arm. Ahmehmet rose and went to the desk.
Orient understood most of the conversation. The two men wanted an agreement drawn up and witnessed concerning the division of some land. But they hadn't made any agreement. They couldn't decide on the division of the property.
Ahmehmet sat at his desk, listening to both men, his skinny frame obscured by a bowl of fresh flowers next to the ornately worked cash register.
After a few minutes of listening to them wrangle, he asked them to draw a map of the property. One of the men did so while the other hovered over his shoulder, offering advice and making corrections.
When the two men were both satisfied with the map, Ahmehmet looked at it, then tossed it onto the desk. "One of you divide this property," he said, "and the other choose the part he will have."
The two men looked at each other. Finally, one pointed to the map and the other began making careful lines on the outline of the map. When they were finished, Ahmehmet collected a fee from each man and rang up the NO SALE sign on the register as he deposited the money. There was no haggling by either of the men. They merely paid quickly and left the shop murmuring excitedly about the agreement.
As Ahmehmet returned to the pillow next to Orient's, Yousef entered carrying a small table already set with two glasses stuffed with mint leaves, a pot of honeyed tea, and Ahmehmct's long pipe.
"Do you know the meaning of the mandala on your cigarette case?" Ahmehmet asked softly.
Orient nodded. "It's the mandala of my fate."
Ahmehmet sipped his tea. "It is the mandala of a special fate," he said, putting the glass down. He picked up his pipe and began filling the clay bowl with kif from the pouch at his side. "In that fate there lives the possibility of linking the world of men with the Serene Knowledge."
Orient took the cigarette case from his pocket and looked at the design. It was formed of graceful interlocking spirals that drew his awareness into their spindly lines. He opened the case and took out a hand-wrapped cigarette.
"Pythagoras, one of the wisest of men, had a similar mandala," Ahmehmet said, striking a match and holding the flame out to Orient.
Orient inhaled and listened, letting his mind become receptive and trying to discern the direction of Ahmehmet's casual discussion. "You mean the mathematician?" he asked.
"Yes, but he was much more than the father of geometry and more than the prophet of Newton's laws of inverse attraction," Ahmehmet answered. He puffed his pipe. "His work was to attempt to reduce all of the great sciences of the Egyptians and Hebrews to a system of numbers, and measure each against the other."
An old woman wearing a dirty woolen blanket as a cloak over her torn robes shuffled into the shop. Her ankles were swollen and her toes stuck out through the rips in her slippers. Ahmehmet rose to greet her and helped her to the chair in front of his desk. She said something in a dialect Orient couldn't understand. Ahmehmet protested, answering her in the same dialect. The woman sat up in her chair in adamant silence, reached under her robes, and produced a worn deck of playing cards.
Ahmehmet sighed and took the deck from the woman's outstretched hands. As Ahmehmet shuffled the cards and started dealing them out in a circle, Orient realized that he was reading the Arab tarot cards for the woman. The tarot deck was the forerunner of modern playing cards and was used by the ancient Arabs and Egyptians as both an oracle and a pastime.
Orient watched Ahmehmet flip the cards, his mind drifting back to the legend of Pythagoras. The mathematician had spent twenty-one years as a neophyte to the Egyptian priests before they would allow him to begin studying their carefully guarded rites and sciences. He was the father of the Greek and Arab scientific method. His geometry and philosophy are still valid in today's modern world. But, toward the end of his life, Pythagoras's schools were disbanded and his students hunted down.
Before Ahmehmet had finished reading the woman's cards, a tall man in an impeccable brocaded robe, dark glasses, and red fez came into the shop. Ahmehmet left the woman and began talking to the tall man in rapid French, a language Orient understood. The man wanted to buy an antique necklace hanging in the window. A rope of amber on which hung an exquisitely worked hand of Fatima, crusted with emeralds.
"Take what I offer you," the man insisted, "It is a fair price."
"Give me my price," Ahmehmet smiled, "and you'll have a bargain."
The man's face relaxed. "Perhaps," he said. "I'll see what you say tomorrow."
Ahmehmet watched the man go, then turned and walked slowly back to his desk, shaking his head. "He will be here a hundred more days before he will decide to buy the necklace," he said ruefully to Orient. Then he focused his attention on the cards in front of the old woman. He spoke to her again in the dialect she used. The woman rose, kissed Ahmehmet's hand, scooped the cards up from the desk, and hurried from the shop.
Ahmehmet came over and sat near Orient. "She is an old friend. I can't refuse her. It was for her grandson that she wanted the cards read." He picked up his pipe from the table. "But we were speaking of Pythagoras." As he lit his pipe he looked at Orient over the flame of the match. "He made only one error."
Orient looked down at the cigarette case on the table. "What was that?"
"Pythagoras thought that his work would protect his existence," Ahmehmet answered. "He should have used the ordinary elements of his time to protect himself and his work. He shut himself off. His fate was never brought to fruition. His link between men and the Serene Knowledge was broken."
Orient sipped his tea.
After a while Ahmehmet closed his shop and they went into the inner room for dinner. The room was decorated with bunches of flowers and a long, low table had been set up in the center of the room. Yousef was waiting for them. The boy joined Ahmehmet and Orient at the table after the two men were seated.
Dinner was served by both of Ahmehmet's wives, the women Orient had seen that morning. According to custom, they did not join their husband at the table but ate by themselves in another room.
During the meal Ahmehmet turned his attention to Yousef. He asked the boy questions about mathematics, physics, and chemistry in three languages. Yousef answered them all without faltering. Then Ahmehmet began asking the boy questions about the basic mathematical systems used in the Hebrew Kaballa, the secret books of the bible that contained the occult teaching of Moses. They were difficult, complicated questions involving the principles of stress in the universe.
Orient sensed that Ahmehmet was not only proudly displaying his pupil's preparation, but at the same time, by having Yousef recite the basic equations of Arabic occult science, was also refreshing Orient's own knowledge.
After dinner Yousef left the table and Ahmehmet reached for his pipe. "He is a good student," he said thoughtfully, looking at Orient. "He has the gift of prophecy. But he cannot merge his mind with that of another. That is a rare and separate gift."
Orient didn't answer. He felt a quick probe at the base of his brain and he settled back into a profound calm. He closed his eyes and the darkness inside his skull blazed up with the pictures of Ahmehmet's thought.
Orient's ability to receive information telepathically made it possible for Ahmehmet to transmit a large number of new elements and relationships. His consciousness perceived and felt, as never before, how the magical symbols were measurements of the stress points in the universe where infinite energies combined and changed. There, casually across the dinner table, Orient was shown the mechanics of a source of natural power that could regulate all existence. And he understood the intricate equations that could enable his consciousness to unite with that power.
When Orient opened his eyes, he found that his glass of tea was still hot. Ahmehmet's instructions had taken only seconds, even though he had covered lifetimes of thought.
Ahmehmet called his wives into the room. They sat together in a corner, glancing shyly at Orient. They had musical instruments with them, three-stringed ouds that they began to strum. Then they started to sing, softly and self-consciously, almost under their breaths. Quiet, joyous chants of greeting accompanied by the metallic tones of the ouds.
Orient was pleased but restless. He drank from the household wine of honor and festivity offered by his host but it didn't quench his thirst.
Ahmehmet had gone deep into a few areas of special knowledge with Orient. He had given him new perspectives on the roots of the Arab sciences. But he still hadn't given Orient the means to help Presto. Or protect Raga. Orient still didn't know the nature of the foul presence in the hospital room, just across the square.
He felt calm and protected in Ahmehmet's house. But he could also hear a note of disappointment in the music released by his mind as Ahmehmet's wives sang.
The next day Orient's disappointment became apprehension.
He had spent some time in Ahmehmet's shop during the morning, looking on while the small shopkeeper quickly disposed of client after client; leaving them all somehow satisfied, whether they were inquiring about a recommendation for some relative, buying a bracelet, or asking for advice. Ahmehmet was highly attentive to these affairs and his communication with Orient was limited. Just before noon Orient decided to go to the hospital to check on Presto's condition.
As he cut through the stalls and entered the square, the profound calm that he'd felt since meeting Ahmehmet was pierced by a spear of anxiety. The bustling crowds made his movements across the square difficult, and the anxiety and disappointment became a sudden irritation which rent the calm even further, so that by the time he reached the hospital he was unsettled and unsure. He was flattered that he had been chosen for expansion to the second level, but the training seemed unimportant compared with protecting Raga.
The nurse recognized Orient and led him to Presto's room. She opened the door for him and then went for Presto's file. Orient's brain recoiled from the presence as soon as he went inside, his confused emotions bursting into a single flare of fear.
The bitter vibration of energy was stronger today, not sluggish, but hovering expectantly, like a nest of insects disturbed. Orient noticed that the window next to Presto's bed had been left open.
He checked Presto's pulse, heartbeat, and respiration. The unconscious boy seemed weaker. He was startled by the gleaming intensity of the unseeing stare. As if Presto were in the thrall of some immense ecstatic sensation that was consuming his physical energy with its burning potency.
Orient's awareness of the alien vibration in the room choked off his thoughts as his mind gagged on the thick presence. He stood there, trying to calm the urge to move away from the stench of his own fear as he waited for the nurse to come back with the daily report.
When the nurse returned, she handed Orient the file and hurried out again, suggesting that she too disliked spending more time than necessary in the small room.
Orient studied the report. More tests had proven negative. But all the readings of Presto's functions were down, especially his blood pressure. As if someone had just turned the knob on a radio, lowering the volume.
He left the room and saw Doctor Hamid coming through a door down the hall. "Hello, Doctor," Hamid said quietly. He nodded at the paper in Orient's hand. "You've seen the report?"
Orient nodded. "There's nothing physically wrong. I don't know what more to advise. But he seems to be going into a critical stage."
Hamid frowned. "I know. I may have to place him in an oxygen tent this afternoon. His respiration is very low."
Orient shook his head. He felt empty of any resource to help Presto. The boy's life was leaking away and he didn't know where to put the plug.
Doctor Harold put a pudgy hand on Orient's arm. "Our profession is still inadequate to nature." His voice was low. "A doctor is never prepared enough to challenge death. We ultimately find ourselves in a lost cause. Finally we must submit."
Orient didn't answer. He shook Hamid's hand and walked slowly down the stairs and out of the hospital. He was numb with depression. If he was powerless to help Presto, then Raga was prey as well. The drums in the square assailed his despair, sending deep splinters of dejection through his thoughts.
He made a few wrong turns in the runnels that led to Ahmehmet's shop and wandered aimlessly for a long time before he found his way back to his teacher.
When he entered the shop, he saw that Ahmehmet was engaged in conversation with two dark-skinned men in business suits. Yousef was sitting nearby watching the transaction. Orient went directly into the inner room, pausing to give a slight greeting to the boy and Ahmehmet, and to remove his shoes at the threshold.
He sat down on a pillow with his back against the wall and closed his eyes. The calm that had slipped away from his mind began to return.
In a few minutes Ahmehmet entered the inner room. His thin, gentle face looked saddened. He sat across from Orient. "You are unhappy, my friend," he said.
"The American boy is very ill."
Ahmehmet studied Orient's face.
Yousef came into the room.
"Is the shop closed then?" Ahmehmet asked, his eyes still on Orient.
"It is closed," the boy murmured.
"Bring us some tea."
The boy nodded and padded into the next room on his bare feet.
"I must help my friend, Ahmehmet," Orient said impulsively. "Perhaps I should leave here."
Ahmehmet regarded Orient thoughtfully.
Yousef returned with a small table already set with glasses, a pot of tea, and Ahmehmet's gold-ringed pipe.
Orient knew that he risked offending the teacher by his decision. But the reality of Presto's weakening condition and Raga's danger was oppressing him. He couldn't afford a time of leisurely instruction and preparation.
"Yousef," Ahmehmct was saying, "stay and have tea with us." The boy sat down on one of the pillows stiffly, formal in the presence of Orient and his teacher.
Ahmehmct poured some tea for Orient, then filled Yousef's glass. "Tell the doctor what the marketplace gossips are saying today," he said.
The boy hesitated. "They are saying that the doctor's friend is very sick." He glanced at Orient apologetically. "They say that the doctor doesn't know the cause of every illness." He stopped and folded his hands in his lap.
Ahmehmet reached for his pipe.
Orient set down his glass. "What they say is true, Yousef," he said. "No doctor knows every illness."
The boy looked at him. "What will you do?"
"I came here to find the cause of my friend's illness." Orient looked at Ahmehmet. "And that is what I must try to do." Ahmehmet lit his pipe. "How will you do this, Doctor?" Orient smiled as he had a sudden thought. "I must go to a place where a man can see everything as it exists," he said.
"Good." Ahmehmet looked at the burning ember of kif in the curved clay bowl. "Then I will help you."
Ahmehmet said it casually, but Orient saw an immediate change come over Yousef. The boy's formal manner relaxed and he smiled broadly at Orient.
"Go and prepare my workroom," Ahmehmet said.
Yousef bowed to Orient and left the table.
"You have decided then, Doctor?" Ahmehmet poured another glass of tea. "Yes. I want to travel to the Astral Plane. There I can see the nature of my friend's illness."
"It will be dangerous."
Orient looked at Ahmehmet. "Perhaps it's best that I travel to the Astral alone."
"As you wish. But I insist on linking my mind with yours in case of necessity."
Orient shook his head. "I can't allow you to take the risk."
"Doctor," Ahmehmet said gently, "you must. This is the nature of your expansion to the second level. I can be your guide only. The candidate moves himself forward. It is not his knowledge but his use of it that brings him forth. I can help you only if you decide yourself to act. But now that your decision has been made it is my duty to assist you."
Oricnt looked at his wrinkled hands.
Ahmchmet puffed at his pipe. "Many men have knowledge," he said. "The choice of the knowledge determines the man. Your mandala is that of the Insani Kamil, the perfectly perfected man. Your choice has brought you to this path in your fate. I can accompany you only a short distance on this path, but you must find your own direction to expansion."
"So be it," Orient smiled. When they arrived at Ahmehmet's workroom, a small library at thc very end of the apartments, they found Yousef waiting for them.
He had lit the large candles in the cramped but neat room that served as Ahmehmet's laboratory. There was a long table covered with glass beakers and bottles filled with herbs and colored liquids.
Another table was heaped with stacks of books and papers. The walls were covered with charts and mathematical calculations. The floor was made of white stone.
Ahmehmet asked Yousef to fetch his charcoal and measuring cord, then told the boy to leave them alone in the room. He began drawing the precise lines of a perfect pentagram, murmuring to himself as he drew the figure on the floor with the charcoal.
He was constructing a Pentagram of Protection, blessing each stroke as he measured if off carefiflly with the cord. He drew the word BABYLON on the floor next to the pentagram, repeating the word out loud according to the ritual of Pythagoras. The ancient ritual of the Semitic wanderers of Astral Space.
Orient hoped that the measurements would prove to be correct. If a hypernatural presence was present on the Astral, his energy would be vulnerable. His only direction back to his body was the pentagram. Should he lose his balance on the Astral, his body would remain suspended between dimensions of life and death, while his consciousness tumbled lost in the winds of infinity.
When Ahmehmet was finished with the pentagram, he began to draw another one next to it, working slowly and patiently.
Orient tried to settle his breathing. The Astral Plane was the junction to all existence in the universe. He would know for certain what it was that was sucking at Presto's life and threatening Raga.
Ahmehmet finished the second pentagram. Orient stepped inside the first figure and sat down cross-legged on the floor, taking care not to disturb any of the borders of the sign. Ahmehmet sat down facing him, writing the borders of the other pentagram.
Orient closed his eyes and began his breathing pattern that induced the trance sleep over his senses. As he inhaled and exhaled, he pressed his will on the energy that was gently separating from his body, charging his releasing consciousness with its quest.
He first perceived the plane as a whirling series of distinct images. The images kept shifting off focus and coming back to clarity in endless directions simultaneously. He saw a worm crawling across a leaf in the Mexican jungle, he saw a grain of sand in the Sahara, he saw a letter that a child was writing, he saw a landslide on the moon, he saw a section of vegetation on a distant planet, he saw a young girl lying sick in a room, he saw an island in the sea, he saw the yawning, boiling interior of a volcano, an insect flying toward a flower; he saw a book and understood every word, he saw the shimmering flight of music from a guitar...
When he became used to the perspectives, he saw that his own projection of energy was that of a young Negro boy dressed in a flowing black cape that covered his naked form.
He willed his form through the changing flashes of images until he saw Presto lying on his bed.
He approached the image and entered it. His projection was not alone there. His vision was partially obscured, but he could make out a milky, active mist around Presto's bed. He could see that the boy's body was saturated with the vapor of energy.
He moved closer, crossing the space tentatively, his sense of distance held in perspective only by his balance. As he neared, he could feel the gentle pressure of some faraway pleasure expanding the mist.
He felt for the origin of the pressure. Its source wasn't in the room.
He went back, away from Presto, looking for the pole that was radiating that pleasant current. He moved slowly through the changing dimensions, using his faint sense of the mist to guide him.
Then he saw the island rising green out of a crystal sea. As he neared, he saw that part of it was covered by the same mist that pervaded Presto's room. An opaque cloud vibrating insistent streams of energy, like an invisible hive. He saw his old friend Sordi sleeping fitfully on a rumpled bed. He could see a young girl playing near the water. He could see a fish at the bottom of the sea. But he could see nothing beyond the rhythms of the mist. The soothing pulse of emanation blocked out all form within it.
He found that he was moving slowly toward the clouded area, circling as if he were at the outer edge of a whirlpool. He tried to will his projection back. As his will opened, it was massaged by a languid breeze of warm energy and it failed to respond quickly enough. He continued to move closer to the mist.
A sudden vertigo swung him off his balance and he hurried through an ever increasing blur of images and reflections. He felt himself being smothered by the invisible weight of some soft, oily vapor. A slime of energy that began covering him as his balance shattered.
He tried desperately to check his spinning fall, but the ooze was feeding at his projection, draining his memory of direction. Just as he started falling and his consciousness blurred, he called out for Ahmehmet, his scream echoing noiselessly through the fragments of existence.
His fall was checked and, as his vision cleared, he saw that he was at the edge of the mist. And the cloud was compressing, moving away from him.
A figure came into view. The hood of his black robe made his face indistinct but he recognized the great curving sword of Amiyre that the figure held in his hand. The sword of the guardian of light. And he saw the figure heading directly into the mist.
A gust of wind wafted from the tingling sense of the cloud away from the hooded figure. Amiyre followed, his sword raised.
He started after the figure, but a silent tremor of warning sent him back through the rotating images, pushing him away toward the safety of his own body.
As he drifted back, he could feel the intensity of the struggle in the receding distance. The wide, silent strokes of Amiyre's tireless sword slashing at the hovering vibration.
He saw an image of Presto trying to rise out of his bed.
A vicious gush of energy jostled his balance. He began to topple. He reached out, away from the formless vibration, stretching for his own solid soil of displacement. Just before he found it, and let its specific gravity draw him rapidly away from the Astral, he saw a last image.
Amiyre was sinking slowly to his knees. His hood was thrown back and he could see the figure's dark, straining face. But he still couldn't see the form of the rushing cloud that was settling over the exhausted warrior. Then Amiyre's curved sword dropped from his hand and the mist closed the figure from sight.
When Orient opened his eyes, he saw Ahmehmet sitting across from him. His eyes were closed and his face was sweating. His thin body seemed to be hunched over itself as if in great pain.
Orient realized that his teacher hadn't yet withdrawn from the trance and he went quickly receptive, charging his bodily energies at the negative curve of his being. He secured the polarity and began to draw at Ahmehmet's vibration, creating a direction in the void for his stricken protector.
Ahmehmet's face relaxed and his eyes fluttered open.
Orient was relieved, but the relief wasn't enough to dispel the empty frustration of some unnamed defeat booming through his brain.
Ahmehmet's eyes conveyed the same sense of bruised, helpless exhaustion.
They hadn't succeeded. The realization scratched at his raw anxiety. They had risked themselves and hadn't even glimpsed the nature of the alien presence gorging on Presto. He gritted his teeth.
The two men sat there for a long time, remaining within the charcoal borders of their pentagram. The silence in the room was magnified by the sound of their breathing.
Then Orient felt a sense of absence in the room. As if a piece of furniture had been removed.
It occurred to Orient that the drums in the marketplace were still.
When Orient arrived at the hospital the next morning, he was prepared for the news that Presto was dead.
Doctor Hamid's round face was marked with the same deep lines of helplessness and exhaustion that Orient had seen on Ahmehmet's face. The same ldnd of empty weariness that he had himself felt since fleeing the Astral.
"I tried oxygen last night," Hamid explained quietly as he walked with Orient to Presto's room. "He came out of the coma for a moment and sat up. He tried to speak but then he just died."
"Just died." Hamid repeated. He shrugged his shoulders in mute reflection of Orient's own resignation and futile sense of failure. "All we can do now is run an autopsy. Mandatory in these cases."
Orient entered the room. The window was closed and there was no sound in the tiny space. He noticed that his mind could still taste the alien fume lingering around the bed even though the active vibration was gone. There was nothing in the room.
Presto's body had no heartbeat and his eye was dulled. The pinpoint blaze of energy in his pupils had been snuffed.
"Will you sign the certificate?" Hamid asked softly.
Orient straightened up. "Of course."
"The autopsy will be performed this afternoon. The certificate will be ready after that." Hamid looked up at Orient. "Do you know the address of his relatives?"
"No. Were there any effects?"
Hamid went over to the cupboard near the door. "Just his motorcycle and this knapsack."
Orient looked inside the khaki bag. There were two still cameras inside.
"Is this all?" Orient murmured. He remembered the many pieces of equipment Presto was carrying. His movie camera and lenses. His rolls of film. None of it was there.
"Everything as we received it, Doctor," Hamid said anxiously.
Orient looked at him. He felt sure that Hamid was telling the truth. Someone must have taken Presto's gear before he was brought to the hospital. He hefted the bag in his hand. "I suppose it would be best if you held the motorcycle against the medical bills until his relatives can be located."
Hamid shrugged. "All right." He looked at Orient. "Will you be leaving Marrakesh?"
Orient nodded.
"Will you take the bag then and try to contact the boy's people? It is difficult for us here. We're rather remote."
Orient agreed reluctantly. He was anxious to get back to Raga. He could place a call to the hotel in Tangier and check if there had been any messages from her. But even if there wasn't any word from Raga, he was going directly from Marrakesh to Naples. He had seen Sordi on the island during his Astral voyage. And he knew that Doctor Six was headed for the same place where Sordi lived. The island of Ischia.
But nowhere in those myriads of images where all time and existence converged in the same space had he seen Doctor Six, Raga, or Pia.
"There was only one other matter," Doctor Hamid was saying. He walked over to the night table.
Orient looked at the portable oxygen tent standing near the door waiting to be wheeled away, along with Presto's body.
"The boy was out of coma for a few minutes," Hamid said.
"Did he say anything at all?"
"No." Hamid returned with a piece of paper. "But he wrote this. He managed to point to my pen." He fingered the metal clip on the pocket of his smock.
Orient looked at the paper. There were three wavery Xs written on the sheet. Nothing else. "I thought perhaps they had some American or English significance," Hamid suggested.
Orient shook his head and handed Hamid back the paper. "Nothing I know of," he sighed. "I'll be back to sign the certificate after you get the results of your autopsy."
"Very good." Hamid walked to the door with Orient. "I hope we can discover the cause of your friend's illness."
"I hope so," Orient said. He knew it was a slim chance.
Going to a hotel across the street from the hospital, he placed a call to Tangier. There was no message. He went to the reservations desk and checked the flights to Italy. There was a nonstop to Paris from Casablanca that evening. Orient made arrangements to be on it.
As he waited for the clerk to complete the call to the airport to confirm his seat, Orient's restlessness became a nagging apprehension. It would take him at least a day to reach Raga. He had to see her. He had to find out what Doctor Six knew about Presto's death. He still didn't know what it was that had consumed Presto's life. There was only the memory of the smothering mist obscuring all sight. He still didn't know how to protect Raga.
After booking his flight, he crossed the square and slowly made his way back to Ahmehmet's shop to say goodbye. As he pushed his way through the press of people jamming the outdoor arena, the drums rippled mockingly through his thoughts. His candidacy to the second level had become a motion of failure. And he had endangered the life of his teacher. For nothing at all.
When he entered Ahmehmet's shop, he saw that the small shopkeeper's skinny frame was sagging under the bright-beaded shirt he wore. He was talking to the man in the red fez who came every day to haggle with him. Ahmehmet shook his head, looking at the necklace in his hand. The man insisted.
"I will come back tomorrow to see if you change your mind," the man was saying.
Ahmehmet hesitated. "Take it then," he said. "I will suffer the loss of some money and then gain the fortune of a quiet shop." He placed the magnificent amber-and-emerald necklace on the desk.
The man wheeled. "What?" he said incredulously.
"Take the necklace and give me your money," Ahmehmet sighed.
He seemed too broken with weariness to argue any longer.
The man in the red fez took a wallet from the inside pocket of his robe and slapped some bills on the desk while Ahmehmet slowly wrapped the necklace in tissue paper.
Orient felt even more depressed as he saw Ahmehmet giving in. The wiry shopkeeper seemed to have lost his zest for his dealings today.
Yousef was sitting in a corner, glowering at Orient as if his presence had infected his teacher with some wasting disease.
Ahmehmet rang up the deal on the NO SALE button.
"He paid too little," Yousef said angrily after the man was gone.
Ahmehmet smiled sadly. "We made a profit."
"Not enough." Yousef glanced at Orient. "Why?"
Ahmehmet stroked his chin. "When he goes home with his necklace he will think he has made a bargain. But then he will think that Ahmehmet gave in too easily. Why? He will ask himself. Why has Ahmehmet refused to take full profit?" He paused and looked at Yousef. "Then the man will think, Ahmehmet has tricked me. That could be the only reason. He will come back to the shop and try to buy something else. After a hundred days I will let him buy it. I will be very firm. I will take a double profit. And then the man will be sure I tricked him. He will insist I take the necklace back. At first I will argue, but then I will take it back." Ahmehmet shook his head. "Now do not presume to advise your teacher. Go and bring our guest refreshment." He looked at Orient. "Come," he said gently, "let us go inside."
Orient followed Yousef into the inner room and sat down heavily on a pillow. Ahmehmet remained standing, watching him.
"I must leave here, Ahmehmet." Orient rubbed his burning eyes.
"I know," the small shopkeeper nodded. "You must go alone. Our paths divide." He put his hand into the pocket of his velvet trousers, took out a blue object, and gave it to Orient.
Orient looked at the plain silver ring crudely mounted by an unpolished lapis. The pitted glaze of the stone glowed a dull, flat blue.
"It is yours," Ahmchmet said. "My gift to the candidate for expansion."
Orient stared at the ring. "I thought our experiment was a failure."
Ahmehmct sat down next to Orient. "The marketplace brought me the news of your friend this morning, but last night I knew he could not be saved. It was his fate." He leaned forward. "Each man has many fates. Each choice produces a different path. Each path another choice. So be it. When a man has found his way through the maze of many lifetimes he will find harmony. Or he will remain in chaos lost in the maze. His choice alone determines."
Orient nodded. For some reason he thought of the completeness he had found with Raga. The harmony of their love.
"The grip of the Nine Unknown Men of the universe is not strong," Ahmehmet continued. "It is like the balance of the acrobats in the square, trying to perform on a hill of ice." He paused and looked at Orient. "Your choice is the weight of our balance. Your failure another wind that threatens our harmony."
Yousef came in with the table. He placed it in front of them and turned to go. "Prepare yourself," Ahmehmet said to him. "And bring the black mirror." The wiry shopkeeper began to pour the tea as the boy left the room.
"A man can go through many lifetimes before he becomes a candidate for expansion," Ahmehmet said, sighing. He looked at his glass. "Or he could pass through many expansions in one existence."
Orient took a sip of the warm, sweet tea. He was calmer now but not entirely. The urge to be on his way to Raga was pricking at his composure. He began to regulate his breath, going deeper into a receptive state.
"Here then are the words of power." Ahmehmet's voice came to him from very far away. "They are to be used only as an ultimate and they can be opened only by the key. Their power remains locked until the object of your judgment is correctly named by the key."
The words didn't appear in Orient's mind. Rather they were plowed up from some soil lying fallow in his memory. He saw and felt their shuddering connections as each one was released. "Nabmab, Samanta, Vajranam chanda maharoshana Sphataya hum traka ham ma—I dedicate myself to the Universal Diamond be this raging fury destroyed..."
He opened his eyes. Ahmehmet was drinking his tea. The shopkeeper put the glass down as Yousef entered the room. "Put on your ring," he suggested softly to Orient. Orient slipped the ring on his middle finger. It fit perfectly. "Please tell our guest what you see in the mirror," Ahmehmet said to the boy.
Yousef held the mirror at arm's length. It was a section of curved, glazed obsidian. The rounded piece of glass was dark and polished against its carved silver backing. As Yousef stared into it, Orient felt a dim scent of recognition, bitter and sluggish. His mind prickled as he watched the boy evoking the alien mist, trying to read it. He wanted to yell out a warning.
"Enough," Ahmehmet's voice cut through the quiet.
The boy snatched the mirror away from his face. He appeared unmoved, but Orient saw that he was trying to quell a sudden fright.
"What did you see for the doctor?" Ahmehmet asked after a few moments.
Yousef took a deep breath. "I could see nothing for him. Only a large cloud." He looked at Orient. "And a path that became four trails that led into the cloud. Nothing else." He glanced at Ahmehmet. "The cloud frightened me for a moment."
"Then you should have put the mirror down before I told you. The man must not hesitate," Ahmehmet said quietly, "when he knows the object of his judgment."
The boy didn't answer.
"Go now and return the mirror to its place," Ahmehmet said, stroking his chin. The boy turned and left the room.
"I have given you the words of power but not the key," Ahmehmet said, peering at Orient. "I had hoped that the boy would show me the word. For the key to the words of power is but a single word..." Orient heard Ahmehmet's words rising in his brain, a melodic, chanting line that filled his consciousness. He looked up. Ahmehmet was staring at him. "... and the word," Ahmehmet was saying, "is two seven seven."
Ischia, 1970
Orient shivered as he stood at the dock waiting for the helicopter that would take him from Naples to the island of Ischia. The morning was chilly and his circulation was numbed from hours of waiting rooms and disconnected travel.
The day before, he had signed his second death certificate in four weeks, then taken a train to Casablanca. The flight to Paris had been delayed, causing him to miss an early flight to Rome. After many hours there was another plane, then another long wait before he caught the twin-engine mail plane from Rome to Naples.
The dawn was dear and Orient could see the pink slopes of Mount Vesuvius across the black, oil-slicked bay. Since he'd left Marrakesh his only concern had been Raga. He didn't know if she wanted to see him or how he could explain his fears to her. He looked around.
Naples seemed grimy and unmajestic in the dim morning light. Just another iron-twisted dock with listing ships rusting at the water's edge. A shabby contrast to the opulence of its legend. The city was said to have been created by Virgil through the means of occult experiments. Orient tried to loosen the muscles in his stiff neck. Virgil was also an Insani Kamil, the perfectly perfected man of Arab occult sdence. He knew many secrets and had performed countless miracles. But he had failed short of his major experiment. The rejuvenation of his own life.
Orient tried to remember what Doctor Six had told him about his own work. It was very little. He went back over the details of Presto's autopsy. The body was normal except that his fluids seemed to have been somewhat evaporated. His blood, liver, and gland secretions were minimal. Death had been attributed to natural causes.
Orient jammed his hands into his pockets and searched the sky for a sign of the helicopter. He would have to ask Doctor Six point-blank to explain the nature of his work. There was no evidence available to confront him. He shrugged his shoulders and waited.
And Presto's last message. XXX. It could refer to some kind of poison, but no trace of foreign substances had been found in his body. The message was as incomprehensible as the key to the words of power Ahmehmet had given him. Two seven seven.
Orient repeated the number to himself. It was probably a reference to the Abjad notation system, the scientific code of Arabic and Hebrew magic in which every letter had a numerical value. But there were many possible combinations to the sum two seven seven. Ahmehmet had given him a weapon he couldn't use.
He heard the helicopter coming, then saw its rotors glinting in the red-streaked sky. As it approached, Orient recalled something about the city of Naples. Virgil had constructed two gates to the city. One gave a traveler good fortune, the other bad. He wondered which way his taxi had turned when it took him to the helicopter platform.
When the helicopter rose slowly from the dock, Orient could see how Naples was able to inspire divine fables. It spread lazily and gracefully over the rugged coastline. He saw baroque palazzas next to green trees, small suburban houses, and the Arabic spires of mosques left behind by invading Moors and now capped with Christian crosses in the crumbling maze of the slums behind the docks. The sea around the city was brown instead of blue, its high-rise, cliffside apartments were grayed with smoke from festering clumps of factories, but the city still conveyed the repressed vitality of the volcano across the bay.
As the helicopter leaned away from the city and skimmed a high current of air above the dark sea, Orient wondered if Sordi had received the telegram he had sent from Casablanca.
Sordi had been waiting for Orient since four that morning when the first helicopter had arrived from Naples. He had watched five flights come in without his friend. He looked at his watch and wondered if
he should drive to the port and check to see if the doctor had come in by ferryboat.
Instead, he adjusted the silk scarf around his neck, settled back in his chair, and looked out across the blue water. Everything had changed on the island during the time he'd been away, but at least they hadn't ruined the water. Yet. Give the idiots time and they'd manage even that, Sordi decided.
He wasn't pleased with the place he'd come home to. The traffic had jammed, the thick green forests and fertile farms were being plastered with asphalt, and the people had become money-crazy. Most of Sordi's old family friends were now tourist moguls with no thought of preserving their unique environment.
His memories of a placid island in the sea, an extinct volcano where everything grew ripe and sweet, a haven where he could be close to the earth among simple, honest people—it was all gone. Sordi sighed. At least the sun was unspoiled.
He peered anxiously into the brightening sky, then looked down and flicked a speck of dust from his cashmere sweater. He speculated on what had made the doctor decide to visit Ischia. Whatever the reason, he was happy about it. Maybe the doctor wanted to set up his lab again and needed his services. It would be good to see him again. Especially now with Francesca so sick.
Sordi shook his head. His cousin Nino and his wife were really scared about their daughter. But they were stubborn. Maybe Doctor Orient could talk some sense into them.
When he heard the low whirring coming from across the water, he jumped to his feet and began pacing back and forth on the small platform, his thin frame erect with a mixture of nervousness and enthusiasm.
As the helicopter descended, Sordi elbowed his way to the head of the line of cab drivers and departing passengers who were waiting at the gate.
He craned his neck as the craft unloaded but could only see the regular assortment of German, English, and American tourists. He had another fleeting thought of getting into his car and driving down to meet the ferry before the taxis glutted the narrow road to the port. The thought disintegrated as the sight of the familiar, gaunt face and white-streaked black hair let loose his pent-up emotions and he yelled out.
But as the tall figure approached, Sordi's joy turned to concern. Doctor Orient's wide shoulders were stooped and his face was gray with fatigue under his tanned skin. But he did look better than the last time he'd seen him. Then the doctor had seemed frail and unhealthy. But even though he looked tired now, he still looked alert. And his smile when he heard Sordi's voice was real and strong.
He took the doctor's outstretched hand and pumped it vigorously; shouting at him until he realized that he'd asked the doctor three questions without waiting for an answer. He dropped Orient's hand and picked up his bag. "Maybe I better give you a chance to get rested and eat something before I start the questions," he grinned. None of it made any difference. The doctor was here.
"How've you been?" Orient said, grinning back at Sordi.
"Great," Sordi lied. "Best thing in the world."
"That's good to hear, I need a vacation," Orient stopped when he saw where Sordi was heading with his bag. "So you took this monstrosity with you after all," he said in mock surprise.
"Of course." Sordi gazed at the gleaming 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible. "You don't think I was going to leave it behind?" He opened the door. "Never needs a day's repair. Besides," he said as he walked around the car to the driver's side, "I like the way she looks."
As Sordi drove along the winding road through the town of Lacco Ameno toward the far side of the island, he kept glancing at Orient. The doctor was talking in his slow, quiet way as usual, but there was something different about him. He was sitting back relaxed in the front seat, but his green eyes were glistening with some kind of inner excitement.
"Where've you been?" Sordi asked. "I got worried when two letters I sent to New York came back. Nothing important, but you should let somebody know where you are."
Orient smiled, "I decided to do some traveling suddenly. To Morocco."
"Morocco?" Sordi said. "Where's that, Africa?"
Orient nodded.
Sordi shook his head. "I'll bet you haven't eaten a decent meal since I left."
"That's right. And I think that's exactly what I need right now."
Orient looked at Sordi. "Are you still the best-dressed chef in town or did somebody swipe that title?"
Sordi grunted. "Nobody swipes no cooking titles from me." He swung the car around a small uphill curve, narrowly but deftly avoiding an oncoming Mercedes.
"This car is too big for these country roads," Orient remarked drily. "What you need is a Topolino Fiat."
"That car you used to have was twice as big as this," Sordi reminded him. "But it didn't have styling." He slowed the car down as the road passed a small cove of blue water between two overhanging cliffs. A number of yachts, sailboats and motorboats were floating calmly off the sandy beach.
"That's very nice," Orient said, looking back.
Sordi wasn't impressed. "The water's full of gasoline from the boats and beach is too crowded. I'll show you a nice beach. How long are you going to stay, Doctor?"
Orient continued to admire the scenery. "Don't know yet. But I want to find an apartment or studio for a few weeks at least. Someplace private."
Sordi smiled. "That's perfect. My house is right on a beach and there's only two other houses around."
Orient hesitated. Sordi wondered if he was uncomfortable about accepting his hospitality. "I'm not there most of the time," he added. "I spend a lot of time with my cousin and his family. Plus I have another place farther up on the mountain."
Orient grinned. "Thanks, Sordi. That sounds fine."
"Wait till you see it. You won't want to go back to Morocco so fast. My land gets the best tomatoes on the island. And they know how to grow tomatoes here."
The road curved away from the shore, through a cobblestoned old village and past a few medieval stone towers. "This is Forio," Sordi announced. "My place is a few miles up the coast." The car rolled through the little town and then followed the road seaward again.
"Ischia's a big island," Orient said.
"Not big enough. Citarra, the place where I live, is the only part where the tourists aren't overrunning the sand. And even there they have a big health spa that takes up part of the beach."
"Health spa?"
"Yeah. You know, mineral baths and radioactive mud treatments. Ischia's on top of an old volcano so the place is naturally radioactive. My place is on the side of an old crater. And the beach and water in front have hot springs."
"What have you been doing with yourself?"
The question caught Sordi off guard. He had an impulse to blurt out the truth, that since he'd left the doctor's service he'd been at loose ends. That he couldn't decide what to do. That he wasn't happy in Italy, because he missed being useful, being needed for something. That he'd gotten used to New York and that, as terrible as the city was, at least a man could enjoy himself.
He suppressed the impulse. "I've just been taking it easy for a while, Doctor. Lots of swimming and cooking."
"La dolce vita on a Mediterranean paradise."
"Sure." Sordi glanced at Orient. "But I might take a little trip back to New York. In the fall. Just to look around."
The car pulled around a bend and Sordi slowed down so that Orient could get a good look as they reached a rise. A hundred feet below them was the crystal-blue water of a large natural harbor dug out of a bowl of flinty rock. The steep boulders around the long sandy beach were green and thick with vegetation, lushly colored in contrast to the limpid tints of the water.
"It's beautiful!" Orient said.
Sordi noted his exclamation with satisfaction. "This is it," he said casually. "Citarra, where you live now."
When Sordi parked the car, Orient got out and took his bag from the back seat, swinging it easily over the door. Sordi was glad to see that the doctor had retained his athletic grace. And he thought he detected a new authority in Orient's walk. A sort of confidence. But later, as he watched Orient pick at his herb and cheese salad, he changed his mind about his friend's state.
There was something eating at him. He couldn't seem to unwind. He was calm and soft-spoken as always, but the light in his eyes was unnaturally bright. While they were talking, Sordi got the feeling that his attention was on something else, deep inside.
Even after dinner, as they sat in the big leather chairs in front of the picture window overlooking the sea, the feeling that the doctor was tense and overtired persisted.
"Maybe you'd like to take a shower and get some rest," Sordi suggested. "You've had a long trip."
"The shower sounds great, but I don't know if I want to go to bed just yet. There's somebody on the island I want to look up." Orient looked at his hands. "A doctor."
Sordi nodded. "Where?" Orient shook his head and stared out the window. "I don't know exactly."
"That might take some time. There are eight districts on the island. And people coming and going all the time."
Orient didn't answer.
"Tell you what," Sordi said finally. "I've got to go see my cousin now. You take your shower and I'll be back in a while and we can drive around and see if we can locate your friend."
Orient smiled. "You don't have to go to all this trouble..."
"No trouble, Doctor," Sordi interrupted. "My cousin lives just above here. On the mountain. Next to my other house. They don't have much room at their place with other kids so my niece is staying at my place." He stood up. "She's sick."
Orient looked at him.
"My cousin is a nice guy but he's stubborn," Sordi muttered. His temper flared as he thought of Nino. "He makes a good living but he don't want to send his kids to school. And he don't want Francesca to go to the hospital."
"You mean your niece?" Orient asked.
Sordi nodded. "He's just stubborn. He's got one way of doing things, the old way. You can't tell him anything else. He's even got some old strega woman with Francesca instead of a nurse." Sordi grit his teeth. "I almost punched him in the nose the other day." He looked at Orient. "Maybe you could talk to Nino. Tomorrow. He might listen to you."
"Sure, if you think it will help. What's wrong with Francesca?"
"I don't know. Some kind of sleeping sickness. The doctor wants to take her to the hospital in Naples. At least to the hospital here at the port. But Nino won't let him."
Orient stood up. "What do you mean, sleeping sickness?" he asked softly.
Sordi was disturbed by the intense expression in the doctor's face. His slanting green eyes glittered with the strain that lined his high forehead and hollow cheeks. "She just sleeps. She's very weak. The doctor said that if my cousin don't change his mind, he's going to call the police. Francesca can't even eat."
"How long has she been like that?"
Sordi shrugged. "Three, maybe four days."
Orient frowned. "Give me some time to have a fast shower and change clothes. Then I'll go with you to your house. I'd like to look at Francesca."
As Sordi sat waiting for Orient, he felt apprehensive. If the doctor thought it was serious, Francesca might be sicker than everyone thought. He decided to tell Nino's wife that Francesca would have to go to the hospital right away. He looked around the room. And there was something troubling Orient. He hadn't even noticed the way the house looked. Sordi was disappointed. He had designed the interior himself. Had the walls taken down and the windows enlarged.
The house stood on the rim of a low cliff overlooking the beach. At the base of Epemeo Mountain. It was a fantastic spot. The mountain behind and the sea in front.
The inside of the low farmhouse was now one large room, sectioned off by lighting and placement of furniture into different living areas. It was wood-paneled and floored, and the ceilings were beamed. He thought Orient would be impressed. But there was something else on his mind. He had hardly looked at the place.
"You know," Sordi said as they drove up the steep road above the beach house, "you haven't told me what you've been doing all these months."
Orient hesitated. "Actually not much of anything. Some research, some studying."
"The usual routine?" Sordi asked. "The telepathy business?" He tried to make it sound casual, but the subject of the Orient's work held a cultist's fascination for him. He felt sure he had the potential for it. Unfortunately, the doctor had never given him enough encouragement.
"More or less," Orient said.
"Any luck finding prospects?"
"A couple of potentials, but no real success. I've been thinking about setting up another research lab."
Sordi's hopes leaped. Perhaps the doctor would need an experienced assistant.
As Sordi drove silently the rest of the way, his hopes became plans for liquidating most of his holdings on Ischia. He'd keep the beach house, sell the other house to his cousin, and join Orient in America. It would be good to get back to work again.
When they arrived, Sordi saw his cousin's wife coming out of his cottage. She was holding Rino, her youngest boy, in her arms.
Sordi snorted. "I keep telling Angelina that if Francesca has a disease she might give it to the little ones, but she's stubborn. None of them listen."
"Easy now," Orient smiled. "She must be worried."
It was true. As he got out of the car and approached Angelina, Sordi could see the blue circles under her eyes and the lines around her mouth. Angdina was a strong, healthy woman with a great capacity for passionate tirades, but today she seemed subdued.
"How is Francesca?" Sordi asked in Italian. "I don't know." Angelina glanced at Orient. "Mafalda is with her."
"What about the doctor?"
"He came this morning and made some tests. But Mafalda thinks it's very serious." She shifted the baby in her arms.
Sordi pointed his finger at her. "Do you want two sick children on your hands?"
Angelina tossed her head. "Mafalda says that it's no disease."
"And the doctor told you to put Francesca in the hospital."
Angelina didn't answer. Her large brown eyes looked stricken and Sordi was angry with himself for frightening her more than she already was. "This is my friend," he said gently. "Doctor Orient. He wants to look at Francesca."
Angelina's face suddenly softened with renewed hope. "Does he understand?" she asked quickly.
"Yes, I do," Orient replied in Italian.
"Doctor," Angelina took Orient's arm, "my cousin told us about your cure of the American girl. We've been half crazy with worry about Francesca. She won't wake up even to have a little to eat."
Orient smiled. "I'd like to examine Francesca. I don't know if I can help more than your own doctor, however. Who is Mafalda?"
Angelina lowered her eyes.
"Mafalda is the old woman from the next village who these stupids believe knows more than the doctor," Sordi said, his temper flaring.
"I see," Orient said. "Well, we'll go in and take a look. If Mafalda doesn't mind."
"She'd better not," Sordi muttered.
"Mafalda knows the evil eye," Angelina glared at Sordi and crossed herself. She was still glaring at him when they entered the farmhouse.
Sordi saw Mafalda sitting impassively by the bed. She was skinny, and her skin was brown and leathery. Like some old turkey, Sordi thought derisively. His derision turned to anxiety when he saw Francesca's face.
The little girl looked very still. He blessed the coincidence that brought Orient to Ischia.
Mafalda stood up and shuffled across the room, her torn slippers flapping as she walked. Sordi shook his head at the thought that this senile old hen got more respect from Nino and his wife than any doctor.
Orient took something from Francesca's chest. "What's this?" he asked.
"It's a poultice," Mafalda croaked reluctantly. "Garlic and herbs, picked with the rise of the moon."
Orient nodded and set it aside. He bent over the girl as if he were listening for something and began checking different points of her body for good volume. He took her pulse, listened to her heartbeat, and examined her breathing with the rapt, faraway expression of someone who was trying to hear a conversation out of the range of his hearing. He lifted Francesca's eyelid and Sordi saw her eye shining hot and moist.
"Does she have a fever?" Sordi asked.
Orient let the eyelid drop. "No," he said wearily. "No fever."
Sordi felt relieved. It couldn't be that serious, he decided, if she still wasn't running any fever. Orient straightened up and carefully replaced the cotton sack on Francesca's chest.
Sordi looked up and any relief he felt was shattered. He saw that Orient's eyes were glazed with something close to fear and that his wide mouth was drawn tight with distress.
Angelina noticed something too. She went to the doctor's side, her fingers pressed to her tips.
"She needs rest, she's very weak." Orient's voice was calm enough, but Sordi caught the edge of frustration in his words.
Mafalda shuffled toward the bed. "There's a cloud over the girl," she rasped. "She needs to be protected from that cloud."
Sordi waited for Orient to tell her off. But he didn't. He just looked at her very hard for a second, then came across the room. "I need your help," he said to Sordi. "It's very important that I locate my friend. His name is Doctor Six. Do you know where we might find him?"
"Maybe the telephone book. Otherwise, we'll just have to ask around." Sordi was struck by the doctor's sudden air of urgency. "Well, let's go to it." Orient went over to Angelina and spoke to her for a moment, telling her not to worry, and then headed for the door.
Looking in the telephone book and calling information proved fruitless and, as Sordi drove to Forio, his concern for Francesca rose. Orient was jammed in the far corner of the seat staring straight ahead. His long body seemed tense and stiff as if his muscles were stretched too tight over his bones. His mouth was set in a straight line and he was very quiet.
"Well, what do you think? How is she? Am I right about the hospital?" Sordi demanded finally. Orient didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then he shook his head. "I don't know," he said softly. "Not yet anyway."
Sordi was alarmed by Orient's grimness. He'd been hoping that the doctor could do something right away. But, he reassured himself, if Orient didn't insist on having Francesca taken to the hospital, then she couldn't be seriously tick. A new thought depressed him. Maybe a hospital couldn't do anything for his niece. He stepped on the accelerator.
Sordi stopped at a bar in Forio and went inside to talk to Massimo, the owner. Massimo knew everything that went on around the island. He might have heard of Doctor Six.
Massimo didn't know, but he sent Sordi to his brother in Lacco Ameno, the next town. As Sordi drove along the single road that snaked around the island, he noticed that the doctor seemed to be staring without really seeing anything.
"If we don't find him today, we can try the port tomorrow and the other side of the island." Sordi said. Orient's eyes blinked. "We have to keep trying. All day and all night if necessary."
"Do you really think Doctor Six can do something for Francesca?"
Orient looked away. "Maybe."
In Lacco Ameno, Massimo's brother suggested a bar in the next town. Sordi sped down the narrow road, his worry for Francesca making him reckless. He slid to a stop in front of the bar and went inside.
He drew a blank.
He drove back toward Lacco and stopped at a hotel owned by a friend of his. His friend sent him to the next hotel. The woman there gave him the information he wanted. An English doctor and his wife had rented a house just outside of Lacco. Up on the north face of the mountain.
Sordi returned to the car radiant with triumph, but the news only seemed to sink Orient deeper into his silence.
Sordi drove slowly up the unfamiliar mountain road above Lacco. The area was sparsely populated and the sun was setting, throwing long purple shadows through the woods on either side of the road.
Then he saw a two-story terraced house set back off the road, partially obscured by a group of trees, just as the woman had described it.
"That's it," he said, stepping on the brake.
"Don't stop," Orient said suddenly. "Drive back again."
Sordi accelerated, confused by Orient's curt command.
"What's up?"
Orient continued to look back toward the house. "I want you to go back and stay with Francesca," he said softly. "I want to see Doctor Six alone. If you don't mind, I'll borrow your car and then come back here."
"Okay," Sordi said, unconvinced. The doctor was acting as though he was nervous. Almost scared.
When they reached the mountain cottage, Orient went inside to take another look at Francesca. They found Angelina inside, standing next to the bed wringing her hands as Mafalda shuffled around the room holding a box filled with sand. She was pouring the sand against the cracks in the closed windows.
"Hey," Sordi protested loudly, "What's going on?"
Angelina turned her back and said nothing. Mafalda continued to spread the sand.
"Wait," Orient said. He nodded. "It's all right."
Sordi looked at him. "What's she doing?"
"She's sealing off the house against entry by spirits," Orient answered, watching Mafalda intently.
The withered old woman finished pouring sand and took three candles out of her apron pocket. She placed a candle on the floor on each side of the bed, bending her aged body with great effort. She began to mumble under her breath as she lit the candies.
When she saw that Orient wasn't going to interfere with her work, she began to chant louder. A language that sounded like Italian and yet was much different. Almost guttural.
"What's she talking?" Sordi asked. Orient didn't take his eyes of Mafalda.
"Etruscan. A prayer against entry by demons."
As Mafalda took some grains of rice from her apron pocket and placing them carefully around the bed, Orient started for the door.
Sordi moved with him. "Listen," he said jerking his head back toward the old woman, "do you know what that stuff is all about?"
Orient stopped. "She's putting twenty-one grains of rice around the bed. Before a spirit can enter Francesca, it will first have to eat each and every grain of rice. The Egyptians had a similar rite. Except that they used twenty-one papyrus leaves."
"You don't believe in that spirit stuff she's doing, do you?" Sordi squinted at Orient.
Orient shrugged. "Just make sure you stay here with Francesca. Don't leave her. I should be back tonight. If I'm not, you know where to find me."
Sordi frowned. Orient's instructions sounded like some kind of warning.
He watched the lights of the car disappear around a corner far down the road, then he looked at the small lights that were dotting the mountainside all the way down to the darkening sea. He felt a chill breeze and went inside.
Angelina was still standing by the bed not saying a word.
"He's gone to get help," Sordi said lamely. "I'm going to stay here with Francesca. Why don't you go feed Nino and the kids?"
Angelina turned around and Sordi saw that she was crying. He went over to her and awkwardly took her hand. "Come on now," he said gently. "It's going to be all right. You'll see. My friend is a great doctor."
Angelina shook her head and bit her lip. "She doesn't even hear me," she said. She looked at Sordi. "Something terrible is happening to her. I can feel it. A mother knows."
"Really it's all right," Sordi tried to keep his voice steady. He wasn't sure about anything anymore.
Angelina took a deep breath and patted his hand. "Yes. I'm going to light a candle at the church. It's getting late and the children have to be fed." She looked up at him. "You won't leave her alone, will you?"
"Of course not," he said softly. "Go home and try to get some rest."
"I won't sleep until Francesca's better," Angelina said, tonelessly.
Sordi didn't say anything. His concern was becoming a knot in his chest that was drawing tight. All he could do was nod his head.
After Angelina left, Mafalda walked over to the door and locked it. Then, to Sordi's annoyance, she poured sand against the crack under the door. He sighed loudly.
"It is to keep the evil eye from your niece." Mafalda's scorn scraped through her skinny, lined neck. She looked up at Sordi as she shuffled past him on her way to her chair. "It will be here tonight. We must be ready."
Sordi waved his hand. "Please. I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense." His voice sounded loud in the small room.
For a while he paced the floor, occasionally drawing near the bed to peer closely at Francesca. She seemed to be hardly breathing. He checked his watch. It was after eight. Maybe the doctor was having dinner with his friend. He looked up and saw Mafalda sitting in her chair next to the bed, her head bent over a rosary as she counted her prayers aloud. He walked over to the table and started reading an old newspaper.
Half an hour later the lights went out.
The electric lamps went dead, leaving the house lit only by the three candies on the floor around the bed. Sordi went to the window. Except for a few blinking lights on the water and the regular flash from the beacon on the far cliff, the whole section was completely dark. He stared out through the glass. It was pitch black outside. He tried to make out his cousin's house two hundred yards down the hill. Even when his eyes had become accustomed to the shadows, the house was obscured from his sight. He looked up toward the sky. No stars. He went back to his chair at the table.
He tried to relax but the sound of the old woman's constant mumbling kept him edgy. He looked back at Francesca. He thought he saw her move. He got up and went close to the bed. He kept staring at the sleeping girl for a long time. She was very still and unmoving in the dim, waving fight. He went back to the table, the low candies sending out long shadows ahead of him.
He sat down and picked up the newspaper. He looked up. He thought he heard something. "Shh," he whispered. "What was that?" The old woman fell silent. Sordi listened. There was nothing. He went back to his paper.
There was a sharp sound outside. Like a twig cracking.
He got up quietly and went to the side of the window. It was dark and silent outside. He wondered how long it would take him to reach Nino's house. Too long, he decided. Ten minutes at best. Maybe twenty. He didn't even have a flashlight here. He'd just have to wait for Orient to get back. If the doctor didn't get lost in the blackout. He heard a sound in the shadows and went over to the door.
"Be careful," Mafalda rasped behind him. "You'll break the seal."
Sordi wheeled and strode back to his chair. "Nonsense," he said, glowering at the old woman. "Francesca should be on her way to the hospital."
But as he tried to read in the soft, flickering light, his eyes kept going to the door. He felt the air becoming stale in the room and his first impulse was to throw open the windows, but he remained at the table, listening. He loosened the scarf around his neck. His chest felt burdened by an oppressive weight. He longed for fresh air. But for some reason he didn't want to disturb those thin lines of sand.
The oppression became a tingling alertness in all his senses. A feeling that there was someone standing just behind him. He turned slightly. Mafalda began to drone her prayers louder.
He tried to take a deep breath but couldn't. A brush of something against his hair caused him to duck his head. There was nothing.
He bent his head over the newspaper in an attempt to shut out the shadows in the corners of his vision, moving with the candle flames. The feeling that there was something in the room passed over him again, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.
The electric lights came on again, erasing the shadows.
Sordi opened the paper in front of him and looked at the headlines. But the silent return of the lights did little to help his concentration. He still felt an echoing unreasonable sensation that someone else was close by. He went over to look at Francesca. She lay quiet and still. He put his hand out to feel her forehead, then drew it back as he turned around slowly.
There was nothing behind him.
When he went back to the table, it seemed to him that the air was less dense there than near Francesca's bed. Perhaps he should insist that they open the windows, or something. A person couldn't breathe with the house shut up this way. He didn't say anything. He sat in his chair and watched the door. He felt the air becoming heavier in his lungs with each passing moment but he was reluctant to disturb Mafalda's prayers. He began to sweat under his cashmere sweater and his face felt wet. He pulled off his silk scarf and wiped his face and neck.
Then the sweat froze on his body as heard a steady noise above Mafalda's chanting drone. The measured tread of footsteps coming toward the house.
As Orient cautiously drove the unwieldy car, he tried to gather his scattered thoughts. The man must not hesitate when he knows the object of his judgment, Ahmehmet had advised. The words of power to be used only when you know the object of your judgment...
Orient peered out at the unfamiliar terrain coming toward him, exposed by the glare of the headlights. The road looked completely different at night. He took a deep breath.
His mind was still gagging from the cloying vibration he had sensed around Sordi's niece. The decadent fume of the mist. The old woman Mafalda could feel it. There is a cloud over Francesca, she'd said. She knew.
It seemed to be taking a long time to get to Forio. He stepped on the accelerator. Pola, Janice, Presto, and now, Francesca. Probably others. What was Doctor Six invoking with his experiments? He felt a stab of anxiety slash through his belly when he thought of Raga. She was alone with him. And Pia. A shower of realization drummed at him like cold rain. Pia was a potential. Extremely sensitive to vibrational energy. Being that close to an alien, chaotic presence could unbalance her mind. She might well be suffering even more than Raga.
Orient drove faster as he saw the lights of the town ahead. He knew what he had to do. He couldn't afford to wait, do nothing except sign Francesca's death certificate. He was certain now that his senses were absolutely accurate. Ahmehmet, Yousef, Mafalda, all of them had felt the influence. Ahmehmet had almost been prey for it on the Astral. And now it was up to him to pull the plug and drain this stagnant, unclean pool of predatory energy.
But as he rolled slowly through the crowded streets of Forio, he still didn't know how he would do it. He increased his speed at the outskirts of the village. Only one more town to go.
It didn't make any difference if Raga wanted to see him or not now. Orient had felt the suffocating scent around Francesca. He had to confront Six directly. For Raga's sake as well. He leaned his head over the steering wheel, his face almost pressing against the windshield. He didn't recognize any feature of the road.
As he swung the car around a descending S-curve, he could see a cluster of lights far below and knew he was approaching Lacco Ameno. He was almost there when his brain tasted the foulness nearby. His instincts screamed a warning as the car entered a busy square. The traffic was thick and slowed Orient down to a crawl. He winced at the sudden oppression that pushed at his chest. Outside on the street people dressed in glossy fantasies of resort wear strolled between the cars, unaware of anything except their pre-dinner promenade.
By the time he reached the end of town his thoughts were reeling from the stifling sensation in his lungs. He turned onto the street that led up the face of the mountain, away from the busy road along the sea.
The road was steep and curved continuously. Orient noticed that the streetlamps were spaced far apart and the houses were fewer in number. There was no traffic on the road. Then he saw the street-lamps and house lights suddenly go out, plunging the area into darkness. The light from his headlights was sufficient, but it was impossible to see anything beyond their range. He saw a flicker of light in the shadows off the road, the faint glow of candlelight. He stopped the Car.
He looked in the glove compartment and found a small flashlight. He switched it on and began walking toward the dim glow behind the trees.
The light was coming from a small house. When he reached the door, he pushed the bell button. There was no sound. The electricity was dead. He knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again. The third time he knocked he used the butt of his flashlight.
"Chi e?" someone barked from behind the door.
"I wish to see Doctor Six," Orient said loudly in Italian.
"What?" The question was muffled.
"Doctor Six."
The door opened and a chubby, glowering man looked at him.
"Who?" He growled impatiently.
Orient repeated the question. The man shook his head. Then his face cleared. "Ah yes," he nodded his head vigorously and smiled. "Dottore Sei!" He held up six fingers.
"Yes, that's him. Is he here?" The man pointed up the road. "Two houses from here. On the left." Orient thanked the man and went back to the car. When he switched on the headlights, the blood in his face drained into his throat. Raga was running down the empty road toward the car, her face contorted with terror. When she saw the headlights, she put one arm across her eyes and lifted her other hand as if trying to signal the car.
Orient gunned the motor and cut the distance between them, the tires squealing in protest as he brought the car to a lurching stop next to her.
"Please," she was sobbing Italian, "you must help me. Take me to Lacco. Please." She leaned toward him over the side of the car. Her face was tear-streaked and Orient could see that her eyes were glazed and still half-blinded from the headlights. "Raga, what's wrong?" he yelled.
"Owen?" Raga's face looked uncomprehending. "Owen, is it really you?" she peered through the darkness trying to see his face. "
"Tell me what's wrong. Get in." Orient leaned over and opened the door. Raga slid across the front seat and put her face next to his, still unable to see clearly. Then she recognized him and she sighed, falling against him in a half faint. He held her close, the sudden warmth in his arms unloosing a flood of emotions that drowned out his questions.
She crooned his name and kissed his neck, her lips cool against his skin. Orient leaned back against the door and looked at her. "What's wrong?" he asked softly. "What are you running from?"
Raga's eyes widened as her memory returned. "It's Pia. I think Alistar is going to kill her. He came after me but I ran out of the house. But she's still in there with him. He's out of his mind."
"Show me the way." Orient picked up the flashlight.
"Owen, don't. He's insane. You don't know what he's been doing to himself all these years." Raga clenched her fist.
"What has he been doing?"
"He's been experimenting with youth drugs. Injecting them into himself. He's become like a madman. His reason has snapped, Owen. He'll kill you if you go in there. Let's get the police before he hurts Pia."
"I'm going in there. Wait here."
"No." Raga's voice was flat and determined. "I'll go with you. The lights are out in the house. It's difficult to see." She put her face against his cheek. "Be careful, Owen, please. I've been longing for you since we left Tangier." Her breath caressed his ear. "And now you're here."
As she spoke, Orient felt a tug of fear at the base of his brain. A jumble of images tumbled into his mind, blurred and indistinct. He recognized Pia's sensual pressure under the stricken urgency of the images.
"We've got to get to the house." Orient pulled away from Raga and opened the door.
As they got out of the car, the streetlights went on again and Orient saw the house a short distance ahead, through a row of trees. He started running toward it, disregarding Raga's frantic cry to wait.
The front door was wide open. He rushed inside.
The living room was empty. He heard a noise and turned. Something heavy fell in the next room. Then he heard Pia yell. He went into the next room. It was empty.
Then he saw the door. Orient ran to it, hitting it with his shoulder as he turned the handle. It flew open and he stumbled into a small laboratory. Pia was in a corner of the room, on the other side of some long worktables neatly lined with row after row of small bottles, struggling desperately with Alistar Six.
The tall burly man had both her wrists in his big hands. He was holding Pia's right arm against the wall with one hand and using the other to push her left hand back to her neck, forcing the point of the hypodermic needle she was holding back against her throat. She tried to open her hand and release the hypodermic, but his thick fingers gripped hers to the glass tube as he kept pressing his fist relentlessly back to her heaving throat.
When Orient burst in, Six pushed Pia violendy to the floor and turned to face him. He crouched low and circled as Orient came toward him.
"Get out of here," he panted, his words chopped short as he tried to get his breath. His large-featured face was flushed and sweaty and his eyes were bright with rage.
"You, is it, Orient? What do you want here? My wife?" A choked laugh came up out of his throat. "Take her and be damned. Now get out."
Orient stopped. "What kind of work are you doing, Doctor Six?" he asked softly, his reflexes alert for any sudden move. Six laughed again. It occurred to Orient that he was slightly incoherent. Orient took a step toward him.
"Your experiments, Doctor. Tell me about them."
Six backed away, crouching lower. "Stay away," he hissed. "I can create immortality. Get out. You've no right here."
"How, Doctor?" Orient kept his voice steady as he edged closer. "How can you create immortality?"
"Owen!"
At the sound of Raga's voice Orient half-turned his head. In the same instant he saw Six in the corner of his vision, rushing at him. Orient dodged, but Six's fist caught him in the back of the neck and he fell awkwardly, one leg trapped under Six's heavy body. Another blow hit Orient's groin, sending a sudden spasm of crippling pain blasting through his belly.
Orient rolled over and was stopped hard against one of the tables, upsetting most of the bottles. A beaker splintered against the stone floor. Six lunged at him. Orient threw up his arms but he wasn't quick enough. Six's hands found his throat and his thumbs pressed down, crushing his windpipe. He couldn't breathe and Six's fingers were increasing the pressure. A red film covered Orient's eyes like a haze of blood. His skull was singing and his lungs were aching, desperate for release. Orient's hands found Six's face and grabbed frantically. The red haze became rockets bursting in the blackness.
"Alistar! Stop! Stop!" Raga's screams were far away.
Orient dug his fingers into Six's and pushed. The pressured slackened but it was too late. The blackness was closing over the lights. He pushed again and felt Six's head hit something. Just as he passed out, he shoved once more.
The first thing Orient saw when he regained consciousness was a blur of yellow eyes in a soft white haze. Then the blur came into focus and he saw Raga, her stark face drained and worn with concern. When she saw him looking at her, relief broke across her high forehead, erasing the lines, and her eyes became moist.
"Are you all right?" she whispered, gently putting her cheek across his face.
Orient let the softness of her cool skin soothe his heaving thoughts. "I'm okay," he said. The words scraped painfully through his constricted throat, jogging his memory. He pulled back suddenly and looked around. "Where Alistar?" he managed. He tried to get to his feet but fell back heavily as the room swerved.
"Just lie still, my darling." Raga was beside him again. Holding him close and brushing his neck with her lips, smoothing away the pain with her velvet mouth as she rocked him in her arms.
Orient relaxed and the singing in his head faded away. He got up on one knee. "Alistar?" he said hoarsely.
"He's behind you." Pia's voice came to Orient from across the room.
He looked up. Pia was standing against the wall looking fixedly at something. Orient turned around.
Alistar Six was lying on the floor, face up. His eyes were staring at the ceiling and there was a thin trickle of blood congealing on his temple.
Orient turned to Raga. Her pale face didn't change its expression of dazed pity. "He's been lying very still for a few minutes," she said.
Her voice was very low and Orient saw that she was on the edge of hysteria.
He crawled across the floor and looked at Doctor Six. He checked his pulse and heartbeat. Nothing. The gray hair near his temple was matted with dark blood. "He's dead," Orient said, his throat protesting with each word.
Raga's long fingers went to her mouth and she started to cry softly.
"I'm glad you killed him, Owen."
Pia's flat voice jerked his head around, his neck throbbing from the sudden effort. Her words sent a cold wave of disbelief washing over his emotions. He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. He got to his feet and started weaving toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Raga called out, her voice high with fright.
"Telephone," Orient rasped. "Police..."
"No, wait." The urgency in Pia's voice stopped him.
"Wait." Pia came toward him, walking very slowly. "Think Owen. Think of what it means to you. And Raga. They'll never believe you."
Orient tried to think. What Pia was saying made sense. But nothing else did. There was a faint buzzing sound in his ears. He stood swaying and struggling to control his breath. As his diaphragm opened for a long drink of air, the memory of pushing Six's head against the table poured into his brain.
"Let's go into the other room," Pia was saying. "All of us."
Orient nodded. He needed some time. He turned around. Raga was still crouched on the floor with her back to her dead husband, sobbing silently. He went back and lifted her carefully to her feet, then half-carried her into the other room, her slender body limp and weightless in his arms. Easing her down onto the long leather couch, he sat down next to her and held her close. As his breathing found its rhythm, his thoughts began to link. He looked up. Pia was staring at him, her face composed and very calm.
"We'll have to wait," she said evenly. "Perhaps one of the neighbors heard us."
Orient had a sudden thought. "I think I left the car lights on," he said slowly. Pia stood up. "I'll go check outside. Try to calm Raga down." She moved quickly to the door.
As Orient watched her go, he was struck by her precise air of decision. What she said was true. The police would have to charge him with murder. And there was no evidence of what Doctor Six was doing. They would never believe him. At best they'd think he was insane. He would be separated from Raga. Because he murdered her husband. Then something occurred to him.
The oppressive, unseen mist was gone. There was a faint trace of its bitter vibration still lingering but it was inactive. The foul presence had been dispersed. His depression lifted slightly and he began to consider possibilities. They would have to do something to conceal Six's body. But it all depended on Raga. She was very still against him and Orient knew that she was trying to recover her strength. When she did, there was chance that she would denounce him. If it came to that, he decided, he would just give himself up.
Pia came back into the room. "I turned off the car lights and locked the front door. It's very quiet out there. I don't think anyone heard anything. There wasn't much noise." She sat down and looked at Raga, a frown of concern passing over her calm, chiseled features. "Is she all right?"
Orient nodded. "Some shock," he said. "It'll pass."
Pia stood up. "I'll get some brandy."
Before Orient could answer, she was out of the room. He could see that Pia was maintaining her calm with great effort.
The nervous energy inside her kept driving her to her feet in search of something to do. She came back with a bottle of cognac and three water glasses.
Orient was glad she did. The burning smoky liquid warmed his throat and eased the throbbing ache in his neck muscles. Raga took a sip from his glass and it seemed to revive her. She looked up at him. Her eyes were bright and wet and tears were running down her pale cheeks. Her silver hair was blown about in disorder and she looked frantic with worry. "I don't want anything to happen to you." Her husky voice was measured and tense. "Not anything."
Orient brushed away her tears. "It's all right," he whispered. He looked at Pia.
She was sitting back in her chair watching them, her face devoid of any emotion. "What do you want to do with Alistar's body?" she asked tonelessly, as if she were inquiring about the price of a dress.
"I don't really know yet."
Raga's hand clutched his arm. "We've got to hide it." Her voice sounded alarmed. "Isn't that right, Owen?"
Orient shook his head. His mind tried to find justification for Six's death but all it could claim was confusion and doubt.
"I know where we can put him," Pia said.
"Where?" Raga leaned toward her. "Outside?"
Pia shook her head. "Downstairs."
"Why was Alistar trying to kill you?" Orient asked her suddenly.
Pia turned and looked at him, her green eyes remote. "Because he was insane. He wanted to kill Raga and marry me. When I told him I wanted to go away, he tried to kill me."
"What kind of work was he doing?"
"At first I thought he was treating me for anemia. Then I found out Alistar had been injecting me with a rejuvenation serum. He said he was going to make me live forever."
"Did he kill Janice and Presto?"
Pia's eyes widened. "Presto?" she asked softly. As she spoke, the calmness dissolved and she slumped in her chair. "He was just a boy. He was trying to help me."
"Did Alistar kill him?" Orient repeated softly.
"I don't know for sure. I think so but I just don't know. When Alistar found us in Marrakesh, Presto had become sick, he was very weak. Alistar said he'd been taking drugs. He wanted just to leave him there at the hotel, but I insisted on bringing him to a hospital. I wanted to wait, but Alistar insisted on leaving for Tangier. He hated Presto for taking me away." She shivered and folded her arms.
"Do you know anything about the serum he developed?"
Pia shook her head. "It was something strange. A blend of aromatic herbs. I wanted to stop taking it. I was becoming half-crazy, I couldn't sleep."
Orient's thoughts tumbled through his brain. He knew that aromatics, the science of the effects of different essences and scents on the human body, went back to the Egyptians. It was the basis of their medicine. Their purpose was to achieve certain vibrationary levels using essential animal and plant odors. But how and why did he kill Janice and Presto?
"What about Janice?"
Pia dosed her eyes. "I don't know. Alistar said he was treating her for the same disease I have, Guglielmo's syndrome. It's a red cell disease. He said that she probably couldn't be saved but he wanted to try. To help me."
"I'd like to see the serum he developed," Orient said.
Pia got up. "I'll show you."
Orient poured some more cognac for Raga before following Pia into the laboratory.
When he came into the small room, she was at one of the worktables, holding a corked vial which held a thick, black liquid. She handed him the vial.
As Orient took it, he looked across the room. Six's body was out of sight behind a table at the far end of the room. He pulled the cork out of the vial.
The odor that came up was heavy and oversweet, like the scent of rotted flowers. It brought an acid edge of nausea to his stomach. He corked the vial and handed it back to Pia. There was no way to check what Six was doing except to run tests on all his materials. "Show me where you want to put the body," he said.
Pia went to a small door on the other side of the room. Orient avoided looking at Six's body as he passed it. Pia went ahead and turned on a dim, electric light. Orient followed her down the wooden stairs.
The room was a deep cellar. There was a large barrel and winepress on one side, and the other walls were lined with dusty shelves.
There were rows of empty mason jars on the shelves. It was very cold and damp down there. The cellar had been used for making wine and storing preserves. The walls were made of stone and the floor was packed earth.
"We can bury him here," Pia said, looking around.
Orient nodded.
Pia went to the corner of the cellar and came back with two rusty shovels. She handed one of them to Orient. Then she began turning over some earth near the large barrel.
Alistar Six was a big man and Orient was trembling from the effort of carrying his body down the stairs. He dragged it across the floor and eased it into the shallow grave he and Pia had prepared.
After they had filled in the hole and stamped the earth down, they pushed the sloshing, half-filled barrel over the grave and then very patiently removed every sign of disturbance.
Orient fought down the urge to get out of the cellar as quickly as possible and helped Pia smooth the earth around the barrel. When it was finished, they looked around again before they climbed the stairs and locked the door behind them. Orient looked at the broken glass on the floor of the laboratory and the hundreds of jars and bottles on the tables.
"What about all this?" he said numbly. The whole thing seemed impossible. He didn't know if he could go through with it.
"I'll take care of this," Pia said. "I'll dump it all in the sink." She smiled. "It will be a pleasure."
"Did you hate him that much?" Orient asked.
As Pia nodded, the smile left her face. "He turned my life into a crazy nightmare. He was like some predatory animal at my soul." Orient didn't answer. Pia came closer. "I want to thank you for helping me, Owen," she said softly. "He would have killed me tonight."
Orient shrugged his shoulders and went into the next room.
Raga stood up when she saw him. "Can you put him there?" she asked. She seemed calmer.
"It's finished," Orient said.
Her delicate face relaxed and she took a deep breath. "I'll have to find someplace to stay," she said quietly.
"You can stay with me."
Raga came close to him and leaned her head on his shoulder. "I thought he was going to strangle you," she whispered. "But I feel such pity for Alistar. In spite of everything he tried to do." She looked at him. "You don't hate me for all of this, do you, Owen?"
Orient smiled. "I love you, Raga."
She sighed and pressed her face against his.
Pia came into the room. She moved confidently and her face was still a tight mask of control. She put her hand on Raga's shoulder. "Are you okay?" she asked briskly.
"Yes." Raga straightened up. "But I want to leave here."
"I have a friend's house on the other side of the mountain," Orient said. "We can all go there for the night."
Pia shook her head. "Not now. Raga and I will have to stay here tonight and pack our things. We can't leave any traces behind us. Tomorrow Raga can come to your house and I'll leave the island. I'll take Alistar's clothes and personal things and leave them in Naples. I can check them somewhere."
"Raga can't stay here," Orient objected. "It's too much of a strain."
"Pia's right, Owen," Raga said softly. "One more day won't make much difference now. And it means keeping you safe."
"If we leave now, we'd only have to come back to the house to get our things," Pia insisted. "We can't leave the place like this. Someone would start asking questions. Tomorrow it will be all over."
"Where will you go?" Orient asked.
Pia looked at him. "There's a hospital in Switzerland that's had good results with my type of disease. I'm going there to find out exactly what can be done." She paused. "Raga has you now," she said. "Maybe I can find someone to help me forget these last few years."
"Tell me something," Orient asked as his memory leaped back across a great distance. Back to New York. "Did you ever meet a girl called Pola Gleason?"
Pia's expression didn't change, but her voice became soft and reflective, as if with some intangible effort at recall. "Yes," she said. "She was one of Alistar's patients. She died. Did you know her?"
Orient remembered the newspaper photograph more clearly than the few confused minutes he had see her in New York. It seemed as if years had passed instead of just ten weeks. "I knew her only briefly," Orient said. "How about a red-haired cowboy called Joker?" he continued. "Ever meet him?"
Pia shook her head. "No. I think I'd remember someone like that."
Orient frowned.
Pia's steady voice interrupted his thoughts. "It's better that you leave now," she said. "Someone might see your car."
Something about Pia's mechanical logic disturbed Orient but he knew she was right. There were still other things to attend to. Especially Francesca. Orient felt anxiety grind against his thoughts. He had to get back to Sordi's house. He looked at Raga.
"Pia's right." She tried to smile. "It's best for all of us."
Pia took Orient's hand. "I'm going inside now to start packing. But I meant it when I said thanks." She kissed him on the cheek, then turned to Raga.
"Yes," Raga said, "I'm coming." She came close to Orient and put her lips against his neck. "I'll come to you tomorrow evening," she said softly.
"I'll be at Citarra. Above the beach. Ask for Sordi."
Raga repeated the name.
"We'd better get busy," Pia said as she walked into the laboratory.
"I love you, Owen," Raga whispered, looking up at him, her yellow eyes moist and glittering. "Tomorrow we'll be together."
As Orient left the house, he automatically looked through the shadows for any sign of activity. It was quiet. He hurried to the car, backed up, and pulled away, grateful for the comparative silence of the Detroit engine. When he came to the shore road he made a turn and began speeding toward Sordi's mountain cottage. Somewhere along that deserted stretch of sea road the enormity of what he had done spread suddenly over him, flooding him with emptiness. He had killed a man.
Low headlights loomed up unwarned in front of him and he hit the brakes. The car fishtailed slightly and Orient slowed down.
His reason tried to fill the void that was consuming his thoughts.
Six had killed Pola, Janice, and Presto. He had almost killed Pia. He accelerated as he saw Forio up ahead. If only he had some kind of proof. It was self-defense, but it was still murder. The only thing that could justify anything he'd done was Francesca. If she was well, then
Six had evoked that suffocating mist that was stifling her life. Francesca held the key to his guilt.
If she was all right.
When Orient reached the house, he parked the car and walked slowly to the door, hesitant to face the reality of what he might find.
He went inside.
Sordi, Angelina, and a bald, chubby man were grouped around the bed. Mafalda was sitting in her chair half asleep. As Orient entered, they turned and he saw that Francesca was sitting up in bed, eating
soup from a spoon that her mother was holding.
"Doctor," Sordi called out, "she's out of it. Francesca's well."
"She woke up and asked for something to eat an hour ago," the chubby man said in rapid Italian. He smiled at Orient. "I'm Nino. Sordi's told us about you, Doctor."
"I'm happy your daughter's well," Orient said as a warm syrup of relief spread over his brain. He smiled at Francesca. "How do you feel?" he asked gently.
Francesca looked at him with wide, liquid brown eyes. They were soft and pretty now, no longer shimmering intensely like the last time he had seen them, but glowing with sleepy curiosity.
"I feel hungry," she said, looking at her mother. Angelina gave her another spoonful of soup.
Orient turned to Nino. "If she's hungry it's a good sign," he said.
Nino looked at Mafalda. "We must thank the Holy Mother and the wisdom of this good woman."
Sordi snorted. "You should have taken Francesca to the hospital right away."
Nino whirled, his round body swelling. "You and your American ideas! The doctor I called didn't know anything. But with Mafalda the child recovered." He stopped as he remembered something. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a roll of bills and placed them in Mafalda's lap. "This is the only way I can repay you for all you've done for us," he said. He picked up one of her gnarled hands and kissed it.
The old woman gathered up the money and slowly got up from her chair. As she shuffled toward the door, her back bent, she stopped and looked up at Orient, her small eyes hard and bright in her seamed face. "There was a cloud over the girl," she rasped.
Orient nodded. "The Lammia," the woman said. "It was here. Look." She pointed at the ground near her feet. Orient looked down. Mafalda had placed twenty-one grains of rice around the bed to protect Francesca. Only three of them remained.
"Lammia," Mafalda repeated.
"Lammia, nonsense," Sordi said indignantly. "There was nothing here but some mice, old woman."
"What do you know?" Nino shouted. "You're the one with the closed mind. Not me."
"Please don't yell," Angelina said. "Francesca must rest."
"I don't want to rest, Mama," the girl protested weakly. "I had such bad dreams."
"Don't worry, little one," Mafalda croaked as she headed for the door. "Go to sleep. The dreams won't come back."
Nino crossed himself, then turned to Sordi, who was watching him with an expression of disdain. "This one doesn't believe in superstitions," he said. He cocked his head to one side and looked at Orient. "But last night when me and Angelina came in to take a look at Francesca"—Nino's broad fat face broke into a wide smile—"this modern cousin of mine is standing by the door with a kitchen chair ready to brain us." He began to chuckle.
Orient looked at Sordi glowering at his cousin and, despite his reluctance to offend his friend, started laughing. And as he laughed, he realized that he was very, very tired.
Sordi leaned on his steering wheel and looked down the sloping beach at the sand shimmering in the sun. He had just cooked himself a big lunch of rabbit stew and he felt good. He watched the doctor take a running dive into the calm water and smiled contentedly. It made him happy to see the doctor enjoying himself. Orient had changed, but it was a good change. The doctor's health and vitality were completely restored after three weeks on the island. Sordi looked around at the lush green mountain and flat, crystal sea. Ischia might be getting polluted, but it still had the power to restore a visitor's spirits. He glanced at Raga lying in the shade of a beach umbrella near the water's edge. Especially when the visitor was in love.
Sordi hadn't spoken much to the tall, beautiful woman but he could see that Orient was happier than he'd ever been. He looked like a boy of twenty. He was deeply tanned and the leanness between his flat muscles had filled out. He was full of enthusiasm.
It was good for the doctor to be like this. It was good for him to have a woman he cared about. Sordi shifted in the driver's seat and leaned his head against the back of his hand. The doctor even had a better appetite. Now he ate some fish and chicken and drank some wine instead of just fruit juice and vegetables.
Sordi watched the slender, silver-haired woman stand up and wave to Orient, her body pale against the black bikini she was wearing. Yes, he decided, the doctor's taste in women was excellent. Much better than his taste in food.
And after they were married, Sordi speculated, and the doctor established a residence, they would need him again. He sighed. It was a splendid thing to see the doctor and his woman on the beach.
Orient seemed dark and hard next to Raga's long white body. Once he had seen them walking along the cliff at sunset, his tanned, high-boned face close to Raga's delicate, silver-maned head. They were beautiful together, like sculpture.
Sordi wondered where the doctor had met Raga. Except for a couple of dinners he had cooked for them, he hadn't spent much time with the couple. Orient and Raga stayed by themselves at the house, spending their days on the beach and their evenings alone. It was perfect.
Sordi felt a slight breeze coming in from the sea and took a deep breath. Everything was better now that the doctor was here. And no matter how loud Nino crowed, Sordi knew that it was no coincidence that Francesca had recovered the night Orient arrived. The doctor could do many wonderful things. But it was no use telling that to his blockhead cousin. Sordi smiled. It didn't make any difference. Soon the doctor would be calling him back as an assistant and everything would be better. He started the motor and slowly pulled away.
The doctor had found himself a wonderful woman. And they had even complimented him on the design of the house. It had all turned out perfectly.
Orient rolled over on his back and floated in the salty water, his body buoyant and relaxed in the sun-warmed sea. He felt whole. Even the lingering memories of that night at Six's house were faint and removed from his emotions. There was just the calm, caressing sea. And Raga.
He paddled with his outstretched arms, turned easily in the silken water, and began swimming back to shore. As he walked out of the water, he saw a blue stone just under the surface and picked it up. It was faded and pitted with green specks of marble. Orient's eye fell on the deep blue stone on his finger, its rough texture dark and glistening in the sun. The lapis ring Ahmehmet had given him looked as if it could have been plucked from the sea like the rock in his hand.
He snapped his wrist and sent the stone skipping across the surface of the clear green sea.
"Five bounces. That's very good," Raga congratulated as Orient dropped on the towel beside her. "That should qualify you for the stone-skipping Olympics."
"Sure you don't want to try the water?" Orient murmured.
"No thanks." Raga sat up and kissed him. "Umm, you taste fresh and salty."
"And you sound hungry."
"I am, but let's not eat just yet. It's so beautiful here today. I can't bring myself to think of leaving."
Orient looked out across the beach. The stretch of white sand at the edge of the gently lapping water was almost deserted The sea was like a swatch of light-streaked silk.
"It would be wonderful to stay here and never have to leave," Raga whispered.
Orient looked at her. Her skin was still pale despite the hours they'd spent in the sun, and the reflections of the sea muted the yellow swirls in her eyes, tinting their ragged edges clear green. The translucent skin on her face was smooth and her body was soft and supple next to his.
"Another month and I should be making plans to get back to New York," Orient said. Raga's dusty pink lips parted in a hesitant smile. "But why, Owen? Aren't you happy here?"
Orient leaned over and kissed her. "Of course. And I want to make sure it lasts past next month. I've got to go back and start working. To keep you in shantung bikinis."
"Then your plans do include me?" Raga laughed, her husky voice low.
"Up to you. I want very much for us to stay together."
"So do I," Raga said fervently. She laughed. "But you don't have to worry about any of this. You can come with me to Rome. I'll find us an apartment that's large enough for a laboratory for you. You can continue your work there with me."
Orient didn't answer. He wanted to get back to work again. He was sure that he could find research funds in New York. He could even resume private practice for a while. He wanted to make a life for himself and Raga. And he wasn't sure that letting her support him was the way to do it.
Raga pulled away. "Doesn't that please you?"
"I don't really know."
"Well, whatever you decide," she said quietly, "I want to be with you." Orient smiled and lay back on his towel. "Then everything else is just detail." Raga snuggled close to his arm. "Where did you find that odd ring, Owen?" she asked sleepily. "You weren't wearing it in Tangier."
"No." Orient opened his eyes and looked at the deep blue stone on his finger. "I found it in Marrakesh."
"It's lovely."
Orient's mind went back to the words Ahmehmet had given him with the ring. And the key. Two seven seven. He remembered what the old woman Mafalda had said. The Lammia. It had taken him some time before he placed the term. It was a Greek word, probably assimilated into Etruscan lore. Lammia was the name of a bisexual demon who sucked the blood of children. Orient made a mental calculation, using the Abjad notation system. The sum of the word was two seven seven. Except for one slight deviation from the code. The numerical value of Lammia was 277 before it was divided in half. Orient remembered the division as being the last sequence in the code. He turned his face up to the sun. Perhaps he was mistaken about the structure of the code. Someday he'd have to look it up and check.
The following evening, while Orient was uncorking a bottle of wine for dinner, he reflected on the pleasant influence Raga had begun to exert on him. She had shown him how to appreciate food, enjoy wines, and enjoy the subtle variations of lovemaking. She had enlarged his capacity for sensual pleasures. Like lifting a curtain from his senses.
His body had a refreshed tingle as if he had just been aroused from a long sleep. "Here it is," Raga called as she entered, carrying a large plate. "Is the wine ready?"
"Right here." Orient went over to the table. "What's all this?"
"Just a big salad with chunks of fresh fish, cheese, and everything else I could find. Sordi's not the only one around here who can cook."
She sat down. "Let's eat, darling."
"Great." Orient poured the cold white wine. "I'm ravenous."
"You certainly are." Raga turned and regarded the rumpled bed across the room. She adjusted the blue negligee over her shoulders and looked at him across the table, her pale lips slightly parted. "And I think it's delicious."
"Delicious," Orient agreed, staring into her eyes. They had made love all that afternoon after coming back from the beach. Long, lush hours playing at the delights of their sun-soaked bodies. "And it made me hungry." He picked up the salad bowl and began heaping Raga's plate.
They toasted each other silently before they took a sip of the cold dry wine. The candle flames cast tiny reflections in Raga's eyes. "Have you decided what to do about your New York plans?" she asked hesitantly. "Not yet." Orient looked down at his plate. "I really haven't wanted to think about it."
"Rome is lovely, Owen," Raga smiled. "And you could do your research there, couldn't you?"
Orient nodded, looking at the ring on his finger. When he'd left Ahmehmet he'd been defeated and depressed. Also disappointed somehow. His stay with Ahmehmet had been short and his training nothing more than a run-through of occult forms that he already knew. But lately Orient had come to understand what it actually was that Ahmehmet had taught him. The small shopkeeper had shown Orient how even a supreme adept, one of the Nine Unknown Men, could take his place in the affairs of men and the marketplace and still continue his infinite work.
Ahmehmet conducted money matters, taught, lived with two wives, and initiated Orient's candidacy to the second level without missing a single beat of his normal routine. One cannot be taught to achieve the second level, Ahmehmet had told him. It is choice that determines the success or failure of expansion. And Orient was sure that Ahmehmet's daily life itself was what he'd been sent to observe and learn. The shopkeeper juggled his powers and his life to create a single, sure rhythm of balanced harmony.
"I suppose I could set up research anywhere. I don't need much equipment at first," he said.
Raga put more salad on his plate and refilled his glass. "You know, here we are discussing living together and I don't even know your birth sign, darling."
Orient smiled. "Scorpio. How about you?"
"I, sir, am a Sagittarius," Raga bowed her head. "I'm charmed to make your acquaintance."
"Charming, the Sagittarians," Orient lifted his glass and drawled like W.C. Fields.
Raga giggled.
"They have such splendiferous accents. Ah yesss." Orient sipped some wine.
"That's because I'm a Martinique Sagittarian," Raga smiled. "I thought I got rid of my island accent years ago in Paris, but you picked it right up."
"Elementary, m'dear—" A quick probe at the base of Orient's brain cut off the rest of his reply. The picture flashed through his consciousness.
A naked black man rummaging through a pile of rubble in front of a large stone temple.
Then the contact withdrew, ebbing from his senses and leaving him temporarily drained.
Orient took a deep breath. He took the silver cigarette case from his pocket, pulled a hand-wrapped cigarette, and held it out to the candle flame. The message had been from Argyle.
Raga was looking at him, still smiling. "Have some more salad," she said.
Orient inhaled and shook his head. "No thanks." He took another puff on his cigarette. "I think I've decided to go to Rome after all."
"That was an impulsive decision."
Orient looked up. When Raga saw his expression, the smile left her face. She waited for him to speak.
"It wasn't an impulse," he said. "I've just gotten a telepathic message from a friend of mine. From Rome."
"You mean just now?" Raga's eyes widened. "That's fantastic."
"That's what my research is all about," Orient said. "The man who contacted me is a telepath. He needs my help."
"When do you want to leave?" Raga asked softly. Her eyes were still wide and confused.
"Tomorrow."
"So fast?" Raga looked stricken with disappointment.
Orient nodded. "You can join me later if you want more time here." He took her hand. "I must answer his call for my help. He wouldn't have used telepathy to contact me unless it was urgent. It was probably the only way he could find me."
"I want to go with you, darling," she said quietly. Orient smiled. "Thanks. And maybe you'll convince me to stay in Rome after all."
"I don't know. It might be hectic with all those messages you don't have to sign for. What is your work in telepathy all about anyway?"
Orient looked at the burning tip of his cigarette. "Right now all I'm trying to do is find people who have the potential to send and receive mental images. Working together with them I've tried to amass as much scientific data as possible to devise a technique to develop psychic facilities. Argyle Simpson, the man who contacted me, is one of those people. Pia is a potential telepath. We did some work together, but we never got beyond the beginning stage of the technique."
Raga's hand went to her mouth. "Pia? She never told me anything about it, Owen."
"She didn't know really until we met on the Trabik." Orient drummed his fingers on the table. "Strange that you haven't heard from her."
Raga hugged herself as if she felt a sudden chill. "I knew Pia for three years," she said softly. "I think that was enough."
"How do you mean?"
Raga looked at him. "She's wild, Owen. She has an insatiable appetite for raw pleasure. Nothing else matters for her. For a while I enjoyed her escapades, but now"—she smiled and her hand reached out to cover her—"now I think I want to concentrate on my greatest pleasure. You, just you and no one or nothing else."
Orient kissed her fingers. "I feel the same way," he said.
Later, as Raga slept beside him, Orient lay awake repeating Argyle's image in his mind. The temple in the picture had been the Roman Pantheon. And Argyle had been looking for something. Something he couldn't find.
The picture spun through his thoughts until he fell asleep, still wondering what his friend had lost.
Rome, 1970
The next morning Sordi drove Orient and Raga to the ferry. He was surprised at their hasty decision to leave Ischia but confident that Orient would soon get in touch with him. He kissed them both goodbye and stood at the dock waving until the ferryboat had cleared the entrance to the port.
When the ferry reached Naples, Orient and Raga took the express train to Rome.
Raga was in good spirits and curious about the details of Orient's work. He tried patiently to explain the complicated elements of his research as well as he could, but certain factors were difficult for a non potential to grasp. Soon Raga gave up and turned her attention to the prospects of their life in Rome. She began making enthusiastic plans and by the time the train reached the station had decided what hotel they would stay at. Orient murmured agreement, only half-aware of her conversation as he speculated ahead about the reasons for Argyle's call.
The hotel Raga had chosen was small but well located in the center of Rome near the Spanish Steps. The man behind the desk greeted Raga effusively when they arrived and gave them a large penthouse suite with a terrace.
The first thing they did when they were alone was hold each other close for a while. It seemed to Orient that the formalities of the six-hour trip had kept them isolated from each other and they were just re-meeting after a long absence.
"You must be tired," Orient said softly.
"Not really. I'll go with you to look for Argyle."
"You can take a nap if you like and I can call you when I've located him."
"No." Raga smiled and kissed him. "I want to stay with you. If I won't be in the way."
"You won't be in the way. But I hope it's something we can clear up right away."
"Then we can start looking for an apartment," Raga said lightly. "And after a few weeks, I promise you won't want to leave this lovely city."
Orient put his arm around her shoulder and began walking slowly to the door. "We'll decide after we talk to Argyle," he said.
They took a cab to the Pantheon. Orient had visited Rome before and the domed temple to Jupiter was one of his favorite pieces of architecture, but this time he was more concerned with finding Argyle than renewing his admiration for Hadrian's masterpiece. He glanced around the columned entrance before going inside. Argyle wasn't there.
Orient frowned as he looked around the circular temple. Except for a couple of guards and some camera-laden tourists, the huge, dome-ceilinged room was empty.
"It's two o'clock, Owen," Raga said. "Everyone's at lunch." Her face brightened. "I have an idea. Argyle is a film actor, so perhaps he's on the Veneto."
"Why not?" Orient agreed. "Let's give it a try."
"We can sit at one of the cafes and have a cup of coffee," Raga suggested as they walked to the thirty-foot metal doors.
"And if he's not there I can contact him telepathically," Orient said, reaching for Raga's hand. "And he can meet us there."
They took another cab to the beginning of the wide car studded street and then walked slowly along the sidewalk looking at the people who were sitting in the sun, sipping drinks, and watching the elegant strollers. "Everyone's so well dressed," Raga mourned. "I feel absolutely shabby."
Orient looked down at the green-flecked black velvet dress that clung to the sharp curves of her body as she moved, held close to her soft sign by a wide silver thread belt hanging loosely over her hips. "If you were any lovelier," he said, "you'd have to pay a luxury tax just to walk on the street."
Raga laughed. "You're prejudiced, Doctor." She turned her head. "Look, someone's waving at us." Orient raised his head. He saw Argyle standing up at a cafe table. Sun Girl was standing with him. "How'd you know to find us here?" Argyle asked as he shook Orient's hand. "I was just going back to the Pantheon."
"Just came from there," Orient said as he held a chair for Raga.
Sun Girl kissed him on the cheek, and smiled shyly at Raga. "I hope you don't mind that we called you so suddenly. We didn't know any other way of getting in touch with you."
"You must have been close by," Argyle commented. "I really didn't expect you for a few days yet."
"We were just off Naples," Orient said as he sat down. "What do you need?"
Argyle scowled. "Your help, Doc."
Orient looked from him to Sun Girl. They seemed tired and worried. Simpson was wearing a rumpled silk shirt, and the high riding boots over his slacks were scuffed and dull. Sun Girl wasn't in costume, dressed instead in a plain black minidress and sandals. She wore no makeup and her small face sagged with strain. "Julian is gone," she whimpered.
"What happened?" A small spark of anxiety jumped in Orient's brain.
"We took him to the Coliseum two days ago," Argyle said wearily. "While we were there, he disappeared."
"Julian doesn't do things like that." Sun Girl shook her head helplessly.
Argyle took her hand. "We looked everywhere for him. Asked all the cabdrivers and people hanging around. Nobody saw him."
Orient looked up at Argyle. There was a simple way to find Julian.
Simpson ran a hand through his thick Afro. "Yeah, Doc, then I tried that too." He looked questioningly at Raga.
"Raga knows the kind of work we're doing," Orient said. "What happened when you tried to reach him telepathically?"
Argyle stared out at the street. "Nothing. Just nothing. I've tried calling him three times a day for two days. That's why I finally called you."
Orient didn't say anything.
"I thought that the two of us could combine energy and reach him. There seems to be some kind of block. And it keeps building. Will you help?"
Orient nodded. "I'm here," he said quietly.
Argyle's brow furrowed. "Maybe I forgot something in the technique, but I keep getting bumped away every time I try to send."
"Bumped?"
"Pushed out. Lately I've been having trouble just getting myself into a negative receptive."
Orient's question was interrupted by Sun Girl's distracted exclamation. "We've been everywhere. The embassy. The police. Argyle even hired some private detectives and put ads in the personals."
Raga's husky voice was soothing and concerned. "I'm sure that Owen and Argyle can find your friend."
Sun Girl smiled slightly. "Julian is my son."
"He's only five. Argyle's been working on teaching Julian the telepathic technique," Orient said. "Normally it would be the most effective way of reaching him."
A waiter approached the table. "I can wait for coffee," Raga said. "Perhaps we should have something back at the hotel. Unless you want to try to contact Julian here?"
"No." Orient stood up. "Probably best that we have maximum concentration."
The four of them left the cafe and walked quickly to a cab stand at the end of the street.
"Does everyone want coffee and sandwiches?" Raga asked when they reached the suite.
"We'll pass on food until after we call Julian," Orient said. "You and Sun Girl wait here."
Sun Girl leaned back on the couch and dosed her eyes.
"Will you have something while we're waiting, Sun Girl?" Raga asked, picking up the house phone. "Thanks," Sun Girl murmured as Orient and Argyle left the room. Orient and Argyle went into the bedroom and sat down cross-legged on the carpet, facing each other, silently assuming a full lotus position. They worked slowly, concentrating on their breathing to charge their minds. Then they began sending flashes of images back and forth to each other, establishing a rhythm of alternating pulses, until the pulses began to merge as the rhythm quickened.
Orient went negative, received an image, went positive and sent an impulse, then suspended and went negative to receive Argyle's next picture. As the pulses increased speed, they synchronized and merged, interlocking into a single orbiting vibration. At the same instant both men released all friction on the orbit and sent it hurtling into the void.
The squared reality of their merged consciousness sped out, immediately hampered by the scraping pull of interference, some thick, sticky substance that slowed the orbit progressively until the elements of its motion fell apart, shattering its being.
They tried again, combining pulses and synchronizing, building up the speed between them, then smoothly slinging the orbit tight into a dense orbit and its mass spun through its presence. Argyle and Orient simultaneously suspended, creating an immense vacuum of yawning negativity that pulled their condensed consciousness back, instantly doubling the speed of their interlocked orbit as it returned to a widening field of negative gravitation, creating an environment of maximum receptivity.
Before the orbit could reach the field, the environment was filled with an oppressive density that dogged their senses. Orient's consciousness shrank away from Argyle's energy, scattering their orbit as his brain tasted the acidic stench of the density. Their concentration broke and Orient opened his eyes. His face was damp and cold with sweat and his hand shook slightly as he reached for his cigarette case.
Argyle stared at Orient, studying him. "That's the kind of thing I meant," he said softly. "Every time I try it gets stronger, and more difficult."
Orient fumbled with a match. "It's getting strong all right."
"What do you think it is?"
Orient looked up. "I don't know. But I think it's serious." His mind recoiled as he remembered the foul presence that had shaken their communication. It was the same decadent fume that was present on the boat when Janice died, in Marrakesh when Presto died, and on Ischia around Francesca. Alien and predatory.
Lammia. The word loomed up in his mind.
"Want to try again?" Argyle asked quietly.
"Not now." Orient's thoughts collapsed and a wave of blood rushed into his stomach. The mist was still active. A spurt of nausea seared his throat. He fought down the memory of the thick, sticky density.
"Are you okay?"
Orient nodded. "It could be dangerous going in there too often. We have to try to keep a high level of concentration."
"Any ideas?"
"I can't think right now, Argyle." Orient looked down at the burning tip of his cigarette. It was shaking. "I want to try to sort everything out for a while." Argyle didn't answer, but he continued to study Orient. "Think it will do any good to keep searching for Julian?"
"That's the only thing we can do." Another rush of fear and confusion crumbled Orient's thoughts and sent them flowing far away from him.
"Okay then." Argyle got to his feet. "We'll keep looking. But let's not wait too long getting it together, Doc. Sun Girl's half nuts with worry and my head's pretty frazzled too."
Orient stood up and slowly followed Argyle into the living room. As they entered, Sun Girl stood up, her hands against her face. "Did you get him?" she asked, her voice wavering. Argyle put his arm around her shoulders. "No, baby," he sighed. "We couldn't cut it." Sun Girl put her face down and began to sob, her thin shoulders jerking as Argyle rocked her in his arms, whispering softly to her. Orient sat down heavily next to Raga. She touched his hand with her cool fingers, her fragile face clouded with concern.
Orient didn't say anything. Wave after pounding wave of depression surged through his brain, drenching every attempt at thought with defeat. He had failed to destroy the mist. It still preyed. A roaring torrent of realization began whirlpooling through his consciousness, blurring his balance.
"I know Rome very well," Raga was saying. "We can start combing the city for Julian. Put his picture in the newspapers." Orient gripped the arms of his chair as the shuddering vertigo sent his senses plummeting toward despair. If the mist still preyed, then he had mistaken the object of his judgment. He still didn't know the nature of the presence. And he had killed a man for no reason.
Orient was up early the next morning. He paced the terrace listlessly, his limbs stiff from a sleepless, restless night. The guilt and fear lying dormant inside him for the past three weeks boiled through his thoughts, threatening to erupt and shatter his reason.
He should have tried to find out more about Six's work. The rush to cover his own violence had eliminated whatever chance he might have had to find a clue to the nature of the alien presence. Instead, he had followed Pia's instructions like a scared puppet, eager to find concealment for the blood he had spilled. Even though Francesca had recovered, it meant nothing. Sordi's cousin was probably right. It had been the old folk healer Mafalda who had cured the girl. He had even been vain enough to believe that he was partially responsible for Francesca's recovery. But he had done nothing for her. And could do nothing for Julian.
"Darling, what are you doing here?" Raga's sleep-deepened voice blew across his grating frustration like a lubricating wind.
"Couldn't sleep. I thought I'd watch the sunrise."
Raga put one hand on his neck and continued to brush her long silver hair with the other. "Are you worried about something? Julian?"
Orient nodded. "It's all back. The same kind of disturbance. Like Janice and Presto."
Raga stopped brushing. "But Alistar's dead," she said softly. It was the first time she had spoken his name since the night Orient killed him.
He looked at her. "Can you remember anything Alistar may have told you about his work? Anything at all."
"He didn't talk about it much. Not at all for the past few years. He used to in the beginning. Until I introduced him to Pia." She looked at the brush in her hand. "Then he didn't tell me anything more."
"You introduced them?"
"Yes. Pia was one of the models registered with me. We became good friends. She was an exciting companion, daring and free. Then she started feeling ill. I took her to see Alistar. He fell in love with her almost right away. At first I thought it was just a spree, but I was wrong, He was always ambitious, but after Pia he became sullen and mean. Ruthless. Then he became violent. He couldn't believe that it was all just a game with Pia."
"Did he specialize in blood diseases?" Orient was trying to remember something. Something he'd seen.
"Not at first. He was a GP and a good one. Then he became obsessed with Pia's disease. I think he wanted her to be dependent on him. He started doing research. Trying to get recognition for his findings. He seemed to be trying to prove to Pia that he was a great doctor. Then he told her he was working on something that would make all medicine obsolete. A serum that would constantly renew life. But he wouldn't say what it was. Not even to Pia."
"What about Janice?" Orient was trying to find a connection, trying to remember.
"Alistar was treating Janice for the same disease Pia had. He often took on free patients and used their treatment in his research."
"You mean human guinea pigs."
"Yes." Raga started to brush her hair again. "He became ruthless. He would have done anything for Pia."
"Didn't he tell you about the aromatics he used? Where he found his materials?" Orient pressed.
"Nothing." She looked at him. "You don't believe that something Alistar was dong is connected with Julian? It doesn't make sense. How can it?" Orient took a deep breath and tried to shake the numbness in his body. "I don't know. Maybe Pia could tell us something."
"But she's in Switzerland."
"Do you know where?"
Raga's smile faded. "She didn't tell me what hospital she was headed for. All she did that night was go over every detail in the house. Covering our tracks." She shivered slightly. "Do you want something to eat?"
Orient shook his head. He was still trying to put something in the right order. A blurred sequence of memory.
Raga's mouth was very close to his ear and her voice was low and caressing. "Come inside and rest, darling," she whispered. "Argyle and Sun Girl will be here in a few hours."
Orient turned and found her mouth with his. Her lips parted and her tongue flicked out and his frustration and fear became a swell of lust; a wave of desire that aroused his numbed senses and swept him up in its surge. He lifted Raga in his arms and carried her inside. She moaned against his neck as he eased her onto the bed and pulled her silky robe from her long white body. He entered her roughly and her hips ground against his, answering the force of his passion. She raked his back with her nails and bit his ears and neck, her moans becoming bubbling sobs of delight as he pinned her writhing body down and stroked relentlessly in the foaming surf of her pounding excitement until the wave crested and broke, carrying them both screaming to the edge of a soft, quiet shore.
Orient held Raga in his arms and floated in the calm silence for a long time before he finally fell asleep.
The telephone woke him up. Raga rolled over and lifted the receiver. Orient blinked. It was still morning. He'd had only an hour's sleep. And he felt less rested now than when he'd dozed off.
"It's Argyle," Raga said. "They're here."
Orient's temples began to throb. Argyle and Sun Girl were coming to him for help. And he had nothing for them but a bellyful of defeat and head full of guilt. He pushed himself up from the pillow and swung his feet onto the floor. "Tell them to come up," he sighed.
Both Sun Girl and Argyle looked as if they'd also spent a sleepless night. They greeted Raga and Orient quietly and then lapsed into a glum silence.
Orient stared down at his wrinkled hands. "Want to try it again?"
"Guess so," Argyle grunted. "Doesn't seem much else we can do."
The two men went into the next room. They both took some time tuning their ragged senses with stretching exercises before they went into the formal lotus posture and started the ping pong pattern of positive/negative telepathic images flashing in a figure eight behind their closed eyes. The pattern gained momentum and their minds slowly began to approach each other through the vibrational magnetic field.
Their minds collided, merged, and condensed into a massed orbit of consciousness that swung in a great circle as it grew heavier. As its hurtling weight became greater than the the center of the gravitational field that held it, the orbit broke free and soared like a heavy metal ball shooting forward into a blazing pinball machine, spinning straight toward a distant spark of color. The orbit condensed tighter as its speed increased and the spark loomed and became a multihued kaleidoscope of energy.
A sudden density muted the Colors. A thick, cloying presence that braked the smooth flight of their consciousness. The density expanded, obliterating perception of light and slowing the orbit until it lost all momentum and their consciousness fell apart, disintegrating into blind, isolated fragments.
Orient opened his eyes. "We almost did it," he said, his heart pounding. "We almost reached him."
Argyle took a deep breath. "Almost doesn't help Julian."
Orient didn't answer. His mind was still choking from the decayed vibration of the density. They had been driven out. But not before they'd seen Julian's rainbow energy, guiding their call.
"Any ideas, Doc?" Argyle's face was blank.
"We know one thing," Orient said slowly. "Julian is still alive."
Argyle looked up. "How about this, Doc? Maybe we have a better chance of getting to Julian in the morning than at night. I noticed that myself a couple of times. I kept getting bumped but it seemed that I was almost there. Hell, I never thought that Julian was dead."
He paused. "What made you think that, Doc?" he asked softly.
Orient looked away. "Just another possibility."
Argyle didn't answer.
Orient turned. "So now we know he's alive and there's a chance we might be able to get through to him in the morning."
"Okay. So maybe we can try again tomorrow morning. Full blast."
"Good." Orient stood up. "We'll go in right after dawn."
"There must be something else we can do until then," Argyle muttered as they went into the living room. Raga looked up as they came in. "How did it go?" she asked, setting down her coffee cup. Orient sat down next to her. "We might be on to something, but we have to wait until morning."
Sun Girl took Argyle's hand as he sat down beside her on the couch. "Raga's got an idea," she said. She bit her lip. Her face was wan and tired but her large brown eyes were bright with hope. "She suggested going through the city ourselves, talking to everybody. There's four of us. Raga can run down her fashion contacts. I can start asking the hippies and the actors downtown. You could contact your movie friends, and all the agents who handle kids. And Owen could handle the medical agencies." Her voice broke. "And the hospitals."
"Don't worry Sun Girl," Orient kept his voice steady and forced a smile. "We know for sure Julian is all fight. It's just a matter of time until we get through.
"Sure," Argyle said gently. "That's what I've been telling her."
"Well, gentlemen," Raga said, picking up her cup, "what do you think of our alternative? It's something positive we can do. Maybe it's a small chance, but Sun Girl gave me a picture of Julian. I can try the modeling agencies that handle children." She looked from Argyle to Orient.
"Could be," Orient said slowly. "I could try the adoption agencies."
Sun Girl stood up, her fists clenched. "It's better than just sitting here waiting."
"What we should do is get some telephone directories up here, make up lists of places to hit, and circulate," Argyle reflected.
Raga reached for the phone. "I'll have some sent up tight away."
Orient spent most of the morning going over files in two of the hundreds of adoption agencies in Rome. It had exhausted him. The cooling drop of hope on his burning thoughts had momentarily eased his depression, but it evaporated quickly. Walking across the cobblestone streets to meet Raga, he wearily contemplated the fruitless days ahead, picking through thousands of photographs. He shifted his thoughts to the possibilities. Julian was still alive. And they'd almost broken through to him. Perhaps Argyle was right. His proposition had basis in fact. Negative fields created by artificial means are dispersed by sunlight. Most occult experiments were usually conducted after sunset. And there was something else. Something important. But he still couldn't remember.
He turned into a quiet, tree-lined street and saw Raga sitting at a table in the sun, in front of a small trattoria. She smiled when she saw him and his struggle to keep his spirits up became easier.
When he reached the table he kissed her and sat down, reaching for her hand. "Any luck?" he asked softly.
Raga shook her head. "Nothing at the agencies."
"Same here." Orient picked up the menu and stared at it. "It may take weeks."
"We've just started, Owen," Raga said. "I've only managed to see three of my prospects. But I have two appointments this afternoon."
Orient smiled and looked at her. She was wearing a purple silk shirt that heightened the transparent quality of her smooth skin. Her yellow eyes were darkened by a trace of sadness.
"You're discouraged," she said, her pale lips parting in a half smile.
"A little. I thought that all this confusion was over with, finished. Now that Julian is missing, all I can think of is that I've made some tragic mistake." As he spoke, the feeling that he had forgotten something returned. It was something about that night. When he'd killed Alistar Six.
"But you can't blame yourself, Owen. You're doing the best you can."
"I've got to do more than that to help Julian." Orient stared at his hands. He didn't want to tell her that combing the city would do no good. That if they found Julian and he was in the same deep coma that had consumed Janice and Presto, there was nothing he could do. That he was defeated. Even if he could help Julian, it wouldn't change the fact that he had killed a man.
"We're doing all we can," Raga implored. "Don't you see? It's all anyone can do." She covered his hand with hers. "Please, darling."
Orient nodded. "We'll see what happens tomorrow morning."
"Do you still want to keep looking in the meantime?"
"May as well."
"At least it'll keep you from moping around the hotel all day," Raga said, touching his cheek. "Pacing the floor."
Orient smiled and kissed her. She seemed to know his anguish as well as he did himself. It gave him courage. After lunch they went different ways, Raga to keep an appointment with a children's photographer and Orient to another orphanage.
His depression was still pulling at his every move but he went through the motions, carefully checking photographs and asking about new arrivals. His earlier exhaustion retreated but he forced himself to visit another agency before giving up for the day. It was the only way he had of helping Argyle and Sun Girl. But defeat dragged at him after two hour of sitting in the barren office of another orphanage and he decided to go to Via Veneto to meet Argyle, Sun Girl, and Raga.
He tried to keep his thoughts productive as he crossed the wide square at Piazza del Popolo. He looked up at the needle slab of stone in the center of the fountain, carved with Egyptian figures. Rome was a beautiful city. Raga had been right. Except for the traffic that glutted its cobblestones alleys it was gracious and sensual to the eye. Orient wondered if he would ever be free just to pursue his life with Raga in Rome or anywhere else. He decided to cut through the Borghese gardens to the Via Veneto.
He walked slowly up the stone steps on one side of the square and wandered through the spacious, tree-shaded park watching the fashionably dressed Italian children playing on the grass, clustered around the balloon vendors and puppeteers. The sun-dappled foliage and bright colors of the stalls lifted his spirits and he started outlining a plan of action that he and Argyle could follow. His thoughts were nagged by an elusive, teasing memory. It was hazy and indistinct but he knew it had something to do with the night he killed Raga's husband. He pushed the memory aside.
The best thing to do would be to go to bed early, get a good night's sleep, and then try to break through to Julian in the morning. Preparation for the immense effort was the most important thing. Right now his brain felt bruised and sluggish.
He walked faster, trying to rouse his circulation and faintly hopeful that perhaps one of the others had found something. He came to a wide expanse of grass and headed for a stone arch in the distance which led to the Via Veneto. Then he stopped.
He saw two people walking next to a line of trees far to his left. One of them was a little blond boy. Orient started walking toward them.
The little boy was walking hand in hand with a tall, blond girl wearing a long coat. Orient walked faster.
The little boy turned. His white face was indistinct in the sunlight, but as Orient hurried forward a few steps, he made out the features and his brain slammed to a halt.
It was Julian. Orient started to run, but something was wrong with him. His arms and legs felt as though they were weighted down. Each step was agonizingly slow. The woman with Julian turned around. She saw Orient and began walking faster.
Orient's idling brain suddenly exploded into a roar of confusion when he saw Pia's grim, chiseled face. He moved forward with great effort as if he was wading against a strong current of water. And then the memory was dancing around him as he groaned and inched forward; a flash of recall that was battered and jeered at his lurching struggle. Pia. That was what he was trying to place. When he had burst into Six's laboratory, Pia and Alistar had been locked in combat. But it had been Pia who had been holding the hypodermic.
Six had been defending himself against Pia.
His mind was buzzing as his pounding heart began to give way against the effort of his breathless, futile crawl. He rifted his hand and tried to call out. His voice didn't respond.
His rolling eyes caught the profound blue glaze of the lapis stone on his finger. Orient fell to his knees and squeezed the name out of his lungs.
"Lammia."
The object of his judgment. The name of the Vampire.
He clawed at his concentration and croaked out the words of power Ahmehmet had given him. First the key. Two seven seven.
Lammia. The Vampire.
"Lammia." He shook with the effort it took to open his dry throat.
"Nahmah, Samanta, Vajranam chanda maharoshana Sphataya hum traka ham ma—" He started coughing and his vision blurred.
He pushed himself to his feet.
Pia and Julian were drawing farther away. They were almost into the trees.
Orient's legs moved under him as he tried to chase them, but he could only wobble a few steps before his legs stopped, pitching him face down on the grass.
He pressed his cheek against the earth and clenched his fist. "Lammia," he gasped. He gritted his teeth against the compelling desire to sleep that was caressing the base of his brain. He lifted his head and repeated the invocation, his sore lungs pressing the words out of his mouth in spasms.
But as his head dropped back against the cool moist grass, he knew that no one heard the words of his judgment. Just before he closed his eyes, he saw Pia and Julian disappear among the trees, two wavering lines of color that were abruptly swallowed by the rushing shadows.
It was at least twenty minutes before Orient could gather enough energy to stand up.
He walked slowly, his muscles aching and his spine sagging under his weight. Each step took attention and effort. He tried to clear his panting lungs and regain control of his breathing, but his concentration was shattered. He could only wait for his rapid gasps to subside as he headed for the Via Veneto.
When he reached the wide busy street, he wasn't prepared for the noisy bustle of activity facing him. His physical energy was used up and his body moved only out of response to the blind drive to find shelter. To sit down and have a glass of water before he passed out. He moved down the street carefully, like a man who was slightly drunk. He saw Argyle in a cafe and headed for his table, navigating awkwardly.
"What the hell is wrong, Doc?" Argyle said as he half-rose to help Orient into a chair. Orient reached for the glass of orangeade in front of Argyle, gulped it down too quickly and broke into a long spasm of coughing.
"What is it, Doc?" Argyle repeated softly. "Are you hurt?"
Orient shook his head. "I saw Julian."
Argyle grabbed Orient's wrist. "Where?"
"In the park." Orient jerked his head weakly. "Back there."
Argyle started to get up. "Maybe we can still find him."
"He was with a girl." Orient looked down at his trembling hands. "Someone I know. I couldn't catch them."
Argyle sat down again. "What happened?"
"My arms and legs couldn't function. I couldn't even walk. They ran out of sight."
"How come you couldn't walk?"
Orient looked up and stared at Argyle for a moment before he answered. "It wasn't natural. Some ultranormal force. Probably the same force that's blocking our communication with Julian."
"This girl you know?"
"I think so. She's a potential. If she's wielding occult force, she could generate a lot of power."
Argyle paused. "Did you teach her the technique, Doc?"
"The first phase. But she had difficulty picking it up. She seemed to have some other way of sending."
Argyle's voice was low and edged with anger as he got out of his chair. "What's she look like?"
"Tall. Blond. Her name is Pia."
Argyle started to move away, then paused. "I'm going to try to catch them. Don't tell Sun Girl anything yet. She doesn't understand much about psychic forces and she'd be terrified. Take her back to your hotel. I'll meet you later."
Orient started to protest, but Argyle moved off, weaving quickly through the cafe tables toward the arched entrance to the park. Orient watched him go and realized he was still too weak to stop him. His friend could be going up against something he couldn't handle. His temples began to throb as a wave of guilt and exhaustion washed over his thoughts. Pia had control of some force that was extremely powerful. And she'd already shown she could use it to control him. He had killed a man for her.
Orient's hands still hadn't stopped trembling by the time Raga arrived. As she approached the table, she saw immediately that something was wrong.
"Darling, you look ill. Are you coming down with something?" Her husky voice was breathless with concern.
"I just saw Julian," Orient said. "With Pia."
Raga's slender white hand dropped into her lap. "I don't understand."
"Pia has Julian. I tried to catch her but I couldn't."
"But Pia's in Switzerland. Are you sure it was her?"
Orient nodded.
Raga sat back in her chair. "What would Pia be doing with a little boy?" Orient looked at her. "Did you ever know Pia to be experimenting with the occult?"
Her pale lips started to smile, but when she saw that Orient was serious, her yellow eyes widened. "You mean witchcraft and all that?"
"Yes."
Raga stared at him, still unable to decide whether he was serious. "I don't know," she said slowly, "but it's possible. Pia was capable of anything that sounded exciting. Is that what you think?"
"I don't know what to think," Orient said. "I should have gone over Alistar's papers to make sure." He poured himself a glass of water.
Raga noticed his hand shaking as he brought the glass up to his mouth. "Darling, you're exhausted," she said softly.
"It'll pass," Orient said. "Remember not to mention anything to Sun Girl about this until Argyle gets back."
"All right." Raga took a napkin and gently wiped the perspiration from his face. "But I'm worried about you too. This is too much of a strain on you right now."
"I'll be fine in a little while," Orient said. He wasn't sure. The ebb of vitality he had felt after his agonizing run hadn't subsided. He took a deep breath and fought the numbness that was stealing over his arms and legs.
When Sun Girl arrived, Orient found that it took a concentrated effort to negotiate calling a cab and going up to the hotel suite. No one spoke much on the way home but Orient could see, as tired as he himself was, that Sun Girl was straining to keep calm.
As soon as they arrived, Raga called room service for refreshments.
"I don't want anything, thanks," Sun Girl said, attempting to smile.
She bit her lip, and turned away quickly.
Orient looked at her. Her small face was pinched and pale with tension. The exuberance that was the cornerstone of her expressive beauty had crumbled. Argyle had been right. Sun Girl was on the verge of hysteria. Only the strength of her will was keeping her together.
"It's going to be okay," he said quietly. "Julian is all right."
Sun Girl turned to him. "I know, Owen. But it's a deep thing between Julian and me."
Raga sat down and put her arm around Sun Girl's shoulder. "We won't give up until we find him." She glanced up at Orient.
"That's right," he said. He tried to smile but it didn't come off.
"He's so little," Sun Girl blurted. She turned and huddled against Raga, crying softly.
Orient stared at his hands and didn't say anything, knowing that all he could do was just let her cry it out.
She was still clinging to Raga when Argyle came in. As he hurried to Sun Girl's side, he looked questioningly at Orient. Orient shook his head and Argyle nodded, understanding that Orient hadn't told her anything about Julian.
"It's all right, baby," Argyle said as Sun Girl held on to him, sobbing against his shoulder. "We're gonna find our Julian. I met someone today who may have a lead."
"Who?" Sun Girl looked up wildly. "When can we see them?"
Argyle stroked her hair. "Just a few more hours. I'm not sure. But it's something. Only, you've got to calm down, baby."
Sun Girl shut her eyes tight and nodded slowly, tears running down each side of her face. "I'll be okay," she said, clenching her teeth. "I'm sorry."
Argyle held her against his chest, rocking her in his arms.
Raga came over to Orient's chair and leaned close to him. She put her hand on his neck. "Are you all right?" she whispered.
Orient smiled and put his hand on hers. "I'm fine. Just got winded this afternoon. But I feel better now."
Orient wasn't being entirely candid. If anything, he felt worse than he had a half hour earlier. His heart was pounding and he was still finding it difficult to draw a deep breath.
"Are you hungry? Sandwiches and coffee will be up in a few minutes."
Orient nodded. "Coffee will probably help."
The coffee didn't help. It was heavy and acidic in his stomach, adding to his discomfort. His hands had stopped trembling but his thoughts were dammed up, squeezing against his brain. He held onto the one fact he felt sure of. Pia was generating the decayed, predatory energy of the presence.
"Doc, why don't we go inside and try to break through again?" Argyle suggested after they'd eaten.
"All right." When Orient got to his feet, he found that his legs were still wobbly. When they were alone in the bedroom, Argyle grabbed Orient's arm. "Listen, Doc, you've to tell me all you know about his girl Pia."
Argyle's words broke the dam pressing Orient's thoughts and they flooded through his brain, drowning out his reason. He sat down heavily in an armchair. He was completely drenched with confusion and guilt. He knew that he couldn't tell Argyle that he had killed Raga's husband.
"I met her on a boat coming across," Orient said hesitantly. "She's a potential. I worked with her for a day or two but then something happened."
"What?" Argyle prodded.
"A girl died. A friend of Pia's. Then Pia went away with a friend of mine, the boy who shared my cabin. He died too. They both died from a form of negative energy she's able to generate. I know that now." Orient's words came slowly and he realized that he wasn't pronouncing them clearly.
Argyle squinted at him, suddenly concerned. "You okay, Doc?"
"Just worn out from that run after Pia."
"I checked out the whole damn place but there was no sign of a blond with Julian. She must have moved pretty fast to get away from you like that."
Orient shook his head. "She slowed me down with some force. I couldn't take a step to get near her."
"And you think it's an occult force." Argyle said it very carefully, watching Orient's face.
Orient looked up at him. "I know it was. But I don't know what kind. Unless I can find out it'll be hard to stop her."
"You think she wants to kill Julian?" Argyle's voice was low.
Orient looked away. "I don't know."
"Any way to find out?"
"Maybe." Orient got up from the chair and sat on the floor. "I can try going in to absorb some of the force that Pia's emanating. Try to get some idea of why it exists."
"You mean we go in and try to absorb the force, don't you?"
"No," Orient said firmly. "You just feed energy behind me and set up a guide factor. Pia knows we'll try to break through and she'll set a trap. If we both try together there's no chance of recovery. And there'll be no one to help Julian."
Argyle sat down on the floor facing him. "Then I'll go in, Doc. You can feed in the energy. You're not strong enough right now to risk a trance. Even with a guide factor."
Orient nodded. Argyle was right. His vitality was very low. There was no sense risking a trance unless he was strong enough to maintain control. It was a foolish gamble, with pride as the only prize. "All right," he said. "I'll set up the guide factor. But don't take any chances at all. This girl is advanced. And she's a telepath herself."
"I'll remember," Argyle muttered.
When Orient began the Yang exercises, he found it extremely difficult to lift and bend his limbs with authority during the first phase of the series. He shut his mind to the aching tiredness and pushed his concentration until his body began to respond and his muscles relaxed. With physical control came an increased ability to control his breathing. It took longer than usual, but when he began the Yang meditative series, his low-energy level had started building up to normal.
Orient dug inward, opening his consciousness at the core of his reality, the code gene. He let himself become receptive, then charged active, deliberately propelling the flux of energy pulsing through his universe. When his rhythm of impulse reached the same speed as Argyle's, the syncopated pulses beveled and their energy merged.
Orient leaned all concentration on the flux. Argyle began to generate more speed, separating from their combined rhythm, and Orient suspended, drawn by Argyle's hurtling energy orbit and soared behind, like the tail of a comet.
As Argyle soared free, everything was saturated with the bitter density. It was noxious and moist, a thick presence that immediately dosed in around the impulse and choked him off from Argyle's speeding energy.
He surged forward and secured his contact with Argyle before drawing back, breaking the momentum gradually so the sudden change in speed wouldn't disconnect their synchronization. The density coiled around his consciousness like a weightless snake, and an atonal twist of panic crushed his will, weakening the steady pulse of their communication.
He pulled back as slowly as he could, until he realized that their communication had snapped and he was alone. He heaved back toward the solid gravitation of his entry point, thrashing desperately against the tendrils of the alien mist...
When he opened his eyes, he saw that Argyle was bending over him. Orient's temples throbbed with exhaustion and he sensed the odor of the presence clinging to his brain, like slime over his thoughts. He saw from the anxious expression on Argyle's face that he'd been out for some time.
"You all right, Doc?" Argyle was saying.
"Yeah, fine." Orient took a deep breath. He felt very drowsy and the air seemed thick and damp in his throat.
"You were in suspension a long time. Much longer than I was. I thought something happened."
"I think I pulled back too soon," Orient said. He remembered the oozing panic that shattered the rhythm. The pressing fear.
"Not too soon for me," Argyle said woodenly. "All I felt when I got in there was that choking stuff. I lost my direction. You pulled out steady and sure. I was scrambling." He shook his head and stood
up. "She was waiting for us all right. Without a guide factor it would have been all over."
Orient didn't answer. He couldn't seem to focus on Argyle's words. He just wanted to go to sleep for a few hours. It seemed like weeks since he'd had any rest.
Argyle looked at him. "You're right, Doc. There is some force being generated. I could taste it."
"Yes," Orient looked at his wrinkled hands. "But what kind of force?"
"I know one thing about it. It eats away energy. We've got to get to Julian. If that bitch is responsible for the force, she's predatory. That stuff starts to kill as soon as it touches you."
"But Julian's still alive," Orient mused as he fumbled with his weary thoughts, sifting through possibilities. "Maybe there's some special reason why."
"We just got to find him while he's still okay," Argyle said.
Orient looked up at the large terrace window. A crescent sliver of moon shone bright in the black sky. He went back over the timing. Janice. A month later Presto. And Alistar Six. A month had passed since that night on Ischia. "That's it," he said.
"What's it?"
Orient looked at Argyle. "Pia's following some kind of cycle. If Julian's alive it's only because she's waiting for the proper time. That's probably why she didn't kill the others right away. Perhaps some lunar cycle. Some ritual period." He yawned and clumsily tried to get up.
Argyle held out his hand and pulled him up to a standing position. Orient leaned against a chair. He was dizzy and unable to think about anything anymore except getting to sleep. Every thought he formed was forced to plod wearily through the drowsiness to completion.
"Do we try again this morning like we planned?" Argyle asked.
Orient shook his head. "I don't think I can cut it. I'm going to get a couple hours' sleep. I can't seem to function right now."
Argyle nodded. "Just as well. I don't feel too sure we can get to Julian unless we find the girl first."
"We'll comb the city for her," Orient promised. "First thing in the morning. All I need is a little rest."
Orient's estimation of the time he needed to recover was optimistic. He was awakened briefly by Raga the next morning. She was kissing him gently, rousing him from a deep dreamless sleep. "I'm going out with Sun Girl and Argyle," she whispered. "I'll be back soon. Rest until then. You were so exhausted last night, you fell asleep with your clothes on."
Orient tried to understand what she was saying but he was still half asleep. He had a blurred recollection of her yellow eyes and white skin near his face and her silver hair brushing his neck.
"Wake me up when you get back," he mumbled. He was asleep again before she had left the bed.
When he awoke again, he could hear the telephone ringing. He blinked and looked around. He was alone. His brain was still numb and his body ached. The phone continued to ring. He tried to take a deep breath and reach across the few feet to the receiver but he couldn't complete either act. A wave of dizziness forced his head back onto the pillow. He made an effort to move but it felt as if someone were sitting on his chest, pinning him against the mattress. What little air he got into his lungs was stale and oppressive. The phone stopped ringing.
He closed his eyes and began drifting back into the yearning sleep when a realization of what was happening to him splashed against his mind.
Orient opened his eyes and rolled over, pushing himself up with both arms against the ponderous weight on his body. He grabbed for the telephone, knocking it over. When he finally picked up the dangling receiver, he falteringly asked the clerk to send up a bottle of mineral water and saltshaker.
It took a great strain of will to get himself out of the bed, stumble to the window, and open it wide. It didn't help. The air was still inert and heavy on his lungs. He leaned against the wall, waiting for the waiter to arrive and charging his drained will to fight back against the enclosing numbness. He understood that Pia was directing her influence on him as she had on the others, attacking him with the full force of the parasitic mist. He had to defend himself against the relentless vibration that was sapping his last ebbs of energy.
He dozed off on his feet but the door buzzer nudged him awake. He started weaving to the next room, using the furniture to support himself as he moved painfully toward the door.
The waiter handed Orient the tray with a puzzled expression and asked him twice if he was sure that was his correct order. Orient assured him it was, and shut the door. As he carried the tray to the table, he felt the dizziness pounding at his balance again and barely managed to place the tray down before falling back onto the couch.
His only defense against Pia's psychic attack was the ancient formulas handed down from races that existed before the first civilization of Egypt. And the simple ingredients on the tray, salt and water, were the chemistry of those formulas.
It seemed to take him a long time to pour the water into a glass and unscrew the cap from the saltshaker and dump the contents into the water. He was using the simplest and most effective agents for purifying the room of unnatural energy. Water, for its electrical properties, and salt because as a crystalline earth element it had the ability to absorb excess magnetism, the same way that onions absorb poisonous gas when placed in a coal mine.
He stood up and put his hand over the glass of water. "I exorcise thee creature of earth, by the omnipotent good," he rasped, "that thou may be purified of all evil influence in the name of Adonai."
Then he extended his arm and pointed the first and second fingers of his right hand. He traced the outline of the five-pointed star, the pentagram, in the air. At each point he invoked the names of Ra, Anubis, Osiris, Isis, and Rama. This was the second phase of the Formulary of Protection according to the alchemist Agrippa.
Immediately the dense aura pressing on his chest and limbs dispersed, leaving him free. The weariness fell away and a fresh breeze seemed to enter the room, washing out his congested lungs. He stretched his arms and yawned. He felt almost normal. He could sense the presence somewhere nearby but it was at a distance, not inside his body consuming him. At least he was able to think clearly again.
He moved easily to the bedroom, somewhat surprised at the quick recovery of his faculties.
As he dressed, his thoughts whirled around one certainty. If he didn't find the nature of Pia's force, it would kill Julian and him too. He opened the dresser and looked for a clean shirt. He had to find the key to stop her.
He noticed the cameras in the drawer and something jumped in the corner of his memory. He recalled that Presto had tried to say something. The XXX message he had written. He stared at the cameras as he buttoned his shirt. One was a Nikon, the other a Pentax. He speculated as to whether Presto was delirious or had somehow realized what was happening to him.
He picked up each camera and examined it closely. Presto may have had some intuition and tried to write it down. He opened the backs of the cameras. There was a roll of film still inside the Pentax. He put the cameras down and wondered what had happened to the rest of Presto's equipment. Then he saw something that rushed through his mind, pushing all his questions aside.
The film in the camera was Kodak Tri-X Black and White. That was what he had meant by XXX. Whatever Presto was trying to say before he died was on that roll of film.
It was mid afternoon and the Roman streets were almost empty. All the store windows were covered with iron grille gates. The only activity outside was the occasional cluster of workmen sitting at the small fountains in the sun, eating sandwiches, and drinking wine.
Orient walked quickly through the cobblestone alleyways, enjoying the renewed vigor of his physical energy as he checked the various photographic establishments on his list. Eventually he came to a shop that was open. There was a thin young man inside, sitting at the counter drinking espresso and reading a Mickey Mouse comic book.
It took Orient some time to convince the man to give up his reading and develop the roll of film but he finally persuaded him by offering to pay triple for the service. The man took the money and the roll and told him to come back in an hour.
Orient decided to take a stroll. His mind whirred with nervous anticipation as he wandered through the streets, waiting to see the positives of Presto's undeveloped film. He didn't have much time. Apparently Pia felt that he was coming too close and was directing the predatory force against him. He had blocked her with the Formulary of Protection but he knew it was merely a temporary measure. His only real chance was to find the key to the nature of her power. And the only clue he had right now was that roll of film.
When he walked back to the shop, he found the man waiting for him with the developed film and a contact sheet of pictures. Orient scanned the uneven rows of small photographs. Most of them were shots of various sections of a boat. Orient recognized the superstructure of the Trabik. There was just one picture on the sheet that was different. The picture of a man. Orient looked closer. It was a photograph of himself. He asked the man behind the counter for a magnifying glass.
The photograph showed Orient sitting in an armchair looking down at an empty chair next to him. He didn't seem aware of the fact that Presto was taking his photograph.
Orient left the shop and started walking slowly back to the hotel, pondering the possible significance of the roll of film. There was nothing interfering with his thoughts but he was unable to see anything in the photographs that made sense. Thirty-five scenes of a Yugoslavian freighter and one picture of himself. Looking at an empty chair.
As he walked, his senses began to tingle with anxiety and his muscles tensed automatically. Suddenly his reflexes froze, like those of a man who unexpectedly meets a wild animal in the forest. His thoughts stood still, balanced on the knowledge that every move he made was important. The presence was circling and coming closer. He could feel the tainted scent of its vibration as it gathered itself for another assault. He realized that he had left one of his weapons, the absorbing salt, back in his room. He still had some resources available, but he had to act quickly and without error. He began walking faster. He felt the presence becoming denser, weighing down his arms and legs as it stalked him. He headed for a small fountain at the end of the street, forcing his will to move against the drowsiness that was coming over him. Then the vibration was inside his lungs, choking off his thoughts. Halfway to the fountain he became very tired, but he pushed through the numbness and fixed a picture of the Triangle of Imhotep in his mind.
When he neared the fountain, he felt the hovering presence draw back from his mind and his lungs opened. The area just around the spraying water of the fountain was fresh and clear. Orient dipped his hand into the water and invoked the Formula of Imhotep, the great physician of Egypt's Third Dynasty.
He washed off his face. The moving water had the property of neutralizing psychic forces and he felt his limbs recovering their lightness and vitality. Right now the water was all he had to keep the relentless appearance of Pia's attack at bay. Unless he found a way to stop her it would break through and consume him. And each time he invoked the basic Formulas of Practice the presence would become more adept at penetrating the defense. He had to keep varying his defenses. The most potent ritual, the one given him by Ahmehmet, was useless without the key to the number. The correct words of the object of his judgment. He felt the density swirling nearby. He had to keep his mind functioning while it was still at a distance. Unless he found the secret of the force while he was under the brief influence of his protection he would eventually succumb. He couldn't keep it away indefinitely. He sat at the edge of the fountain and controlled his breathing. He relaxed his mind and went into a defensive meditation, concentrating his thoughts on the formula of Imhotep's Triangle, the knowledge and forces tapped by the mystical physician and architect of the great Step Pyramid of Saqqara. Forces invoked three thousand years before the birth of Christ. The same forces understood by Moses, Pythagoras, and Rama. His mind drifted back and forth between the harmonies of that ancient force and the confusion of the present.
The vibration of the presence drew back farther from the aura of the fountain.
It seemed as though years had passed since he had boarded the Trabik. He looked at the contact sheet in his hand and tried to remember anything that was significant. He reconstructed the details of the voyage, searching for a connection to Presto's photographs.
Then he remembered someone. The man who shared Presto's interest in photography. Lew Wallet. Wallet had said he was heading for Rome.
When he first met Wallet and his family, his wife had told Orient that Wallet's psychopictography exhibit contained unusual things that appeared when they were exposed to infrared processing—Wallet's process. He also recalled that some people had claimed that they were photographs of supernatural forces. Perhaps Wallet could find something on film that he couldn't see.
Reluctant to move away from the protective influence, Orient nonetheless left the fountain and began walking to a public telephone. He found a coffee bar and after three attempts finally found an information operator who could give him Wallet's telephone number.
A girl's voice answered the number and informed Orient that Wallet was still out. She gave him the address and told him to try again in half an hour.
Orient walked slowly to the address the girl had given him, giving Wallet time to return and conserving his dwindling supply of strength. He kept his senses alert for any sign of the presence, but the dense vibration was still far off.
He found Wallet's studio on the Piazza Navona. It was at one end of the plaza facing the three sculptured fountains that rose up from the center of the large, open square.
Wallet's place of business was a small, elegantly simple photograph gallery called POSITIVE ART. Through the window Orient could see framed studies on the wall ranging from the work of Lartigue to that of Stock and Capa. All of the photographs were poster-sized and were perfectly printed on heavy paper.
As Orient entered, he immediately recognized the bearded, heavyset man with dark glasses who was standing in the rear of the gallery, deep in conversation with a young girl at the desk.
"Well, look who's here." Lew Wallet smiled and extended his hand as he crossed the room. "I didn't know you'd be coming to Rome, Doc."
Orient shook his hand. "I was just pondering a problem and decided to ask your advice." He found that it was an effort to keep his voice casual.
Wallet scratched his beard. "Well, advice I've always got. And plenty of pictures."
Orient hesitated. "This is a nice gallery," he said, looking around. He was stalling for time, trying to decide how to ask Wallet to use his process without going into an explanation.
"Yeah, thanks." Wallet waved a hand toward the wall. "I felt more people could afford great photographs than could buy great paintings. So I made up some good reproductions and mounted them on custom paper. I had doubts at first but people seem to like the idea. And it gives me time to perfect my new developing process."
"That's what I came to ask you about. The infrared process."
Wallet frowned above his dark glasses. "Sorry, Doc, but that's all tied up right now. Still working out the patents. Just what did you want to know?"
Orient decided to lie. "Presto asked me to take a set of photographs along to you for exposure to your process. He thought it would help his film. He's in Morocco and mail service is slow."
"Presto?" Wallet beamed. "Well, why the hell didn't you say so? You saw him, eh, Doc? How's the boy doing? You know, I see a great future for him in the business."
"Well, his film is still being shot. I'm leaving Rome tomorrow so I thought I could drop the film off to him. He asked me to do him the favor."
"That fast, huh?" Wallet shook his head. "I don't know. I've got other film ready now."
"Well, he seems to need the developing right away." Orient handed Wallet the negatives. "If you could do it for him, I'd be willing to wait."
"Well, if Presto needs it—" Wallet opened the envelope and squinted at the negatives. "I guess I can run them through and see what happens."
Orient was relieved. There wasn't much time left to explore possibilities. Now that Pia knew he was fighting back, she would increase the force of her attack. And she would kill Julian.
"I'll go get a cup of coffee while I wait," Orient said. "Thanks for your help."
Wallet grunted. "You tell Presto I was glad to help out. But you tell him I expect a letter once in a while." He turned toward his darkroom, then paused. "You better make that cup of coffee a gallon because it's going to take a few hours."
Orient walked slowly across the square to a bar and ordered a glass of mineral water. As he drank, he stared out through the glass doors at the magnificent trio of fountains on the plaza. The sunset pink and violet sky shaded the huge carved stone figures with deepening reflections.
Then he felt the oppressiveness swirling around him. The air in the bar became stale and stuffy. He began moving quickly to the door.
The drowsiness hit him before he had taken more than a few steps toward the fountain outside. He formed the images of protection in his mind and staggered across the square. As he neared the white, carved fountain, however, the cloying weight of the presence didn't retreat as it had done before. It resisted.
Traces of the vibration's stench lingered stubbornly in his mind and surged angrily around his thoughts, threatening to collapse the neutralizing wall provided by the running water. Each image he invoked to protect himself from the numbness was tumbled by the pressing, unseen mist. He washed the water over his flushed face and continued to squeeze his will against the vibration.
Time had run out. Orient realized that the sun was going down and the force was gathering strength. Unless he could find the key to its power, he wouldn't last until morning. And Julian would be dead. Orient could feel the lust to consume driving the presence. If Julian was being kept alive for some ritual, the cycle was at hand. As the shadows settled over the plaza, Orient sensed the rabid urgency of the vibration hunting him. It had a need to kill.
A whirling gust of dizziness shook his thoughts. He took a sip of water from his cupped hand and tried to control the pattern of his breathing. As his body eased into the calm pulse of the pattern, his mind slowly unclenched and opened to absorb pure energy. He concentrated on the word AIKN, using the invocation of Adb-el-Kadir, the servant of the powerful, the Babylonian formula for overcoming all enemies.
He let all form drop away as he intensified the pattern, and just as he suspended thought at the formula of the word, he felt his body lighten and the presence draw back.
He sat at the edge of the fountain for a long time, holding the balance of his meditation and remaining within the confines of its generating influence.
When he opened his eyes, the drowsiness was gone and he felt physically alert again. But he also felt weak from the strain of fighting Pia. His alertness was dulled by fear. He didn't know how long the invocation would keep the presence back. And it was very strong now, becoming more reckless as it sensed his helplessness.
He waited another hour before leaving the fountain. As he walked away from the direct protection of the water, his mind sniffed for a scent of the presence. There was nothing. He knew it was only a temporary lull. He cut across the square to Wallet's gallery.
When he went inside, he saw that the girl was gone and Lew Wallet was sitting at the small desk. Wallet looked up as Orient opened the door, removed his sunglasses and began to wipe them with a tissue, his small eyes regarding Orient thoughtfully as he approached.
"Any results?" Orient asked lightly. He noticed that Wallet wasn't smiling.
Wallet replaced the sunglasses over his eyes. "Maybe," he growled. He paused and looked at Orient. "Are you sure Presto wanted these things processed?"
"That's what he told me," Orient said.
"Well, I don't know what the hell to make of it." Wallet picked up the film and an enlargement and tossed them across the desk toward Orient. "Maybe you better tell me what you see there. It looks like something, but it could be a heat reaction."
Orient reached for the photograph and felt the air in the gallery becoming stagnant. The presence was preparing for another attempt to smother his mind. He fought back the slight dizziness and tried to remain calm. He looked at the photograph and a careening glacier of shock froze the blood in his stomach and sent a chill stream of nausea spurting into his throat.
"You can see a definite figure there. All the other shots of the boat were clear except that one," Wallet was saying. "Happens sometimes. But I don't know why Presto would need that shot."
The vibration pounded at his brain. Orient's hand shook and his vision wavered as he stared at the pink-tinted photograph of himself.
He wasn't alone in the picture. He was seated, looking at a greenish, blurry figure on the chair next to him. The blur formed the swirling outline of an old, old woman. Her pinched features were gnarled with wrinkles and her thick, cracked mouth was distorted by two protruding, fanglike teeth. But even through the blurred, twisted teeth and the onrushing dizziness, he could recognize the outline of the mouth. It was the delicate line of Raga's lips.
He was struggling—trying to move against a swirling current of massed density—not able to make any progress against the liquidy fog—the increasing pressure was choking off his respiration—drowning out his thoughts...
"Look here, Orient," Wallet was shouting. "What is this all about? Presto didn't send you here. Are you sick or something?"
Orient stumbled out of the gallery, unable to talk or think of anything except getting to the fountain far away, across the dusk-shadowed square. When he reached the street, he moved a few more feet, then paused as the drowsiness caressed the base of his brain, lulling him to rest. He stopped and let the pleasant lethargy massage his spine. He twisted his will and forced himself to take a step forward, then another, straining to make it through the stroking vibration that was sucking at his life.
He was dimly aware that people were stopping to stare at him as he staggered drunkenly toward the protection of the water. He closed his eyes as a spurt of pure delight spattered against his mind. He blinked and pushed his pleasure-soaked eyelids open, moving blindly through the howling exhaustion. The howl rose to a piercing, mocking roar when he reached the edge of the fountain and realized that the water's mild influence wasn't enough against the reckless power of the force.
His mind started drifting with the tumultuous flow instead of resisting it, floating away to accept the soothing embrace of the vibration.
He groaned and opened his eyes. He pushed himself away from the rail and started weaving across the plaza to the street. As he reached the corner he saw a cab letring off passengers and lurched for the door. He crawled into the back and fell against the seat. He managed to give the driver his address before he gave himself over fully to the insistent pulse of the pressure—and drifted faster—farther out into the sweet, crooning current...
"You're here." Something was pulling at him. Orient tried to focus. The driver was shaking him. "You're here. You're here," he kept repeating.
Orient fumbled with his wallet and gave the driver a bill. The man helped Orient to the door of the hotel and the desk clerk assisted Orient into the elevator. When they reached his room, Orient asked that a box of salt and some bottled water be sent up. The clerk unlocked the door and hurried away, muttering about the strange requests of drunken guests.
Orient shook his head and tried to keep moving as the silken drowsiness pressed against his consciousness. He went into the bathroom and turned on all the water taps, struggling to stay on his feet and stay alive despite the certainty that his death would be the only blessed thing in his cursed reality. He made his way into the living room, using the walls to support his limp weight. He found a felt pen on the writing desk and clutched it in his fist. He dropped to the floor and began to scrawl the words:
PRMC
DHTR
MMPM
in large letters on the gray rug.
He hadn't finished drawing the words when the waiter arrived, but he ignored the persistent buzzer until he had completed the square. When he was finished, he slowly got to his feet and stumbled to the door. He took the tray from the waiter and carried it very carefully to the square. He sat down in the center of the square of protective words and poured the salt and water into the glass. He tried
to concentrate on the words he had drawn as he repeated the Formula of Exorcism. The drowsiness lingered, reluctant to leave, but its weight became lighter on his lungs. As he sat cross-legged, crouching over the glass of clouded water, he felt his mind lifting against the oppressive exhaustion.
But as his thoughts opened, the fear chilled his concentration. Even after he had regained his breathing the anxiety splintered his consciousness with sharp, icy shafts of depression. For a moment he wanted to tear away his defenses and let his life be consumed.
He shoved the urge aside and leaned his will toward Julian. Through the chaos and emptiness he knew that if his life held any meaning it was for the boy. He had to fight the sensual presence that was crooning him to sleep, not for his own existence but for the possibility of the child pilgrim. The vibration crept back, its presence prowling the edges of the room and its alien odor heavy against his thoughts. He knew that if he opened his consciousness to send to Argyle for help, he'd be vulnerable. He weighed his chances and decided to risk stepping out of the protective square of words. As he went to the telephone, he found that he'd recovered his ability to move freely.
Argyle didn't answer the first few rings.
The clerk told Orient that Mr. Simpson had returned to his room but wasn't answering. Orient persuaded him to keep ringing and after a minute he heard Argyle's muffled voice. "Yea pronto," he yawned.
"This is Owen. Can you get here right away?"
"Yeah," Argyle yawned again. "Just taking a nap. Sun Girl back?"
Orient paused. "Isn't she with you?"
"She's with Raga," Argyle mumbled.
"I think you should come over quick."
"How about if I just get a quick nap until Sun Girl gets there?" Argyle suggested. "I'm beat."
"Sun Girl's not coming back. And if you don't pull together and fight that sleepiness," Orient said slowly, "you won't wake up from your nap."
Argyle's voice lost its fuzzy edge. "What the hell do you mean?"
"I'll tell you when you get here." Orient hung up. As he stood there, he felt the air in the room becoming stale. His face flushed hot, then cold. It was almost over. The AIKN Square of Protection had been his last formula. Once the presence broke through he'd have no weapon against the consuming vibration.
He went back to the square and sat down in the center. As he huddled in the dim influence of its protection he saw the blue lapis ring on his hand. His power. The power of his candidacy for expansion to the second level. It was as useless as a sword to a monkey. It didn't exist without the understanding of its use. And there was no time left to find out. His entire life had come to the brink of a gaping nothingness and he was helpless against the winds that were tumbling him in. There was no reason to resist except the last, feeble twitch of his instincts.
He tried to fix the flickering spasms of his mind on the dull blue stone. When the doorbell rang, he found it difficult to get up. The presence was circling slowly around the base of his brain.
Argyle's face was drawn and his large eyes were lusterless. "What did you mean about Sun Girl not coming back?" he demanded as Orient closed the door behind him.
Orient tried to focus his eyes as his brain shrunk away from the singing vibration of the presence. "If she's with Raga, she won't come back," he said wearily. "Do you still feel sleepy?"
Argyle nodded. "I've been dizzy since you called. Can't seem to breathe." Orient walked to the square of protective words on the carpet. "Are you strong enough to link?"
"Think so."
"If we can hold off the dizziness by combining energy, we may be able to gain some time."
Argyle recognized the urgency in Orient's quiet voice and suppressed his questions. He sat down across from Orient, on the other side of the strange letters scrawled on the carpet.
Orient used his dwindling reserve of will to relax his fear-knotted brain and concentrated on the breathing pattern. He drew his concentration inward and as he tentatively flexed and opened his mind, he felt the familiar orbit of Argyle's consciousness drawing closer. He waited until the gravity of their thought was generating a sure, beveled rotation before opening his eyes.
His lungs were free and his muscles relaxed. It was easy to move again. The presence was nearby but their combined wills seemed to be able to withstand its velvet pressure. He looked at Argyle and saw that his eyes had recovered some of their animation.
"Can you tell me what this is about Sun Girl and Raga?" Argyle asked softly.
Orient began to talk. There was nothing left for him to hold back. Nothing for him to protect except illusion. He told Argyle everything: the bag he had delivered to Pola, Janice's death, Pia, Presto's death, Raga, Francesca, the night he killed Alistar Six—everything. The confusion and guilt spilled out of him and, by the time he described Raga's photograph, his emotions were wrung dry and arid. The only details he omitted were his days with Ahmehmet.
"Are you sure about the photograph?" Argyle's mind was still linked to Orient's and he knew his friend was telling him the truth, but he still found it hard to accept the reality of it. "Do you have a print here?"
Orient looked around. "I don't think so. I must have dropped it somewhere. But it was Raga. For some reason she didn't register on the original photograph."
Argyle snorted. "She's got Sun Girl and Julian and now she's working on us. All this time I thought she was frail and gentle."
"Probably both Raga and Pia are combining forces," Orient said tonelessly. "I should have seen it before."
"Can't figure it yet," Argyle said softly, remembering how lovely and serene she had seemed, how right for Orient. He shook his head. "Anything we can do?"
Orient looked at his hands. "Nothing. Not unless I can find out what force she's using."
"So we're just sitting ducks?"
Orient didn't say anything. He could feel the listless mustiness stealing over his senses. He knew that he couldn't survive another attack and he had lost his desire to stay alive. The meaning he'd found with Raga had been seared out of his soul. "Doc," Argyle warned. "It's getting hard to breathe again. There must be some way to hold it off." Orient's reply was interrupted by a weak tug at the base of his thoughts. A dim picture of a girl sleeping. The picture faded but the impression remained, a feathery glow in his brain.
"That was Julian," Argyle said.
"Can you still feel him?" Orient nodded.
Argyle nodded.
"Fix on it."
The two men opened their linked consciousness to receive the barely pulsing impression from Julian's mind. Orient waited until he was sure of his connection to the pulse, then got to his feet.
Argyle opened his eyes. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to try and follow Julian's emanations. Maybe I can get to him." Argyle stood up unsteadily. "Don't forget your other head."
"It could be fatal to go after him."
"It won't be any better here than anywhere else. May as well go out on our feet." Argyle smiled. "If Julian broke through, maybe Sun Girl got him out of danger."
Orient nodded. "Could be," he said. But he felt the weight of his legs increasing as they walked to the door and knew that Julian's call was a lure.
The night was clear and a curve of moon shone hard against the sky. Argyle and Orient walked slowly, silently concentrating on the link of energy between them that was flowing toward Julian. The oppressiveness clogged their lungs and throats as they plodded through the crowded, display-lit streets. They tried to veer off into the alleys but the wavering pulse led them back to the busy thoroughfares. As they crossed the street toward the Spanish Steps, the distant notes of Julian's pulse rose in Orient's mind like a high-pitched curve of melody. They followed the echoes up the huge stone stairway. Their heavy breathing sounded loud on the shadowy, deserted stairs as they negotiated slowly against the exertion. The chorus in Orient's thought came clearer as they neared the top of the steps.
He turned and looked at Argyle. "It's stronger," Argyle said. His face was covered with sweat from the climb.
As he spoke, the pleasant drowsiness disintegrated Orient's reflexes. He started to lean against the stone wall and say something but Argyle was already at the top of the stairs and moving down the street. Orient followed him, lurching against the exhaustion.
The street above the Spanish Steps was silent and empty. A few yards away there was a tall iron gate with a pebbled path behind it that ran down to the columned entrance to a house. Argyle walked past the gate, then came back and stood next to it, waiting for Orient to catch up. "This is it," he said as Orient approached.
Orient felt for the pulse in his brain. There was nothing except the luscious drowsiness. His hold on their link was gone. They were too late.
"It's locked." Argyle's words were thick as if they were made of fabric. They stuffed his mouth, gagging off his breath. He closed his eyes.
Orient sagged against the iron gate.
There was a sharp electric buzz and the gate opened. Orient grabbed for the bars, missed, and fell down on the gravel. The shock of the fall was muffled by the undulating vibration winding through his senses. Orient took Argyle's hand and clumsily pulled himself to his feet.
"How nice that you're finally here," Pia called out.
Orient looked up and saw her framed in the doorway at the end of the path. The light behind her yellow hair set up a halo of reflections around her silhouette.
He began walking down the inclined path toward the door, his arms hanging limp at his sides as the paralyzing pleasure curled around his brain and fed at his will.
Pia stepped aside as they reached the door.
"How nice to see you again, Owen," she smiled, as she locked the door. "And you've brought a friend." Pia looked at Argyle appraisingly. "He's very handsome," she purred conversationally. "I think I'll devote all my attention to him tonight."
"Where's…Julian?" Argyle rasped. He stood swaying in front of her, his face twisted with anger.
"All in due time," Pia said lightly.
"Now!" Argyle's voice became a cough.
"Don't waste your energy," Pia snapped. Her chiseled features hardened momentarily, then went soft. "You're in no position to be rude, Argyle."
Orient watched Argyle's fist clench, go rigid, then open slowly, and he knew his friend had no strength left in his arm to lift the fist. He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat and he began to cough.
"You look tired, Owen," Pia said with concern. "Come inside and rest." She gazed at him fondly for a moment, then padded ahead of him on her bare feet.
Orient's will crumbled as the crooning vibration rose in his brain. He walked slowly down the corridor, his shoulder sagging against the wall. All his perceptions were hazed by the soothing pleasure smoldering at the ends of his nerves. He stumbled forward into the room at the end of the hall and stopped.
The room was large and windowless. It was lit by two foot-high candles spaced apart in the center of the floor. Raga sat in between the candles, reclining on a long green silk pillow that matched her gown. Sun Girl was lying on the pillow, covered by a green cloth, her head resting on Raga's lap.
Even through the roaring tumult in his brain, his exhaustion, and the dim flickering fight, Orient could see the smoothness of Raga's pale skin. Her silver hair reflected the movements of the candle flames and her eyes flashed with yellow points of light.
"Hello, Owen darling." Her husky voice penetrated the reeling confusion of his thoughts and held his attention.
He felt Argyle jostle past him trying to get to Sun Girl. He watched him strain to move against the pressure, one arm outstretched. Then he saw the arm drop and Argyle stand limp and trembling, unable to reach her.
Raga shook her head with condescending pity. "It's useless, Argyle," she whispered. "I let you come here only because I wanted you to see how senseless it is to defy my power." She looked at Orient. "I enjoyed our little games, Owen. You're surprisingly adept. But no one can stop what must occur tonight."
"Let—the boy free." Orient managed to squeeze the plea through his sandy throat.
Raga laughed as if she were delighted by some clever remark he'd made. "But that's the whole point, darling. Julian is the reason we're all here."
"Damned bitch," Argyle groaned.
Raga's eyes narrowed. "You don't understand, Argyle." Her voice was honeyed and warm. "Julian is going to live forever. With me."
Pia floated into the wavering line of Orient's vision. She moved lightly on her toes, her wispy green gown trailing after her. When she reached the pillow she knelt close to Raga. "Is it time?" she asked.
"Soon." Raga began stroking Sun Girl's hair. "I can feel it rising."
Orient's vision began to wither as the luxurious vibration wound around his spine, throttling off every function of his body. The room swerved and he sagged very slowly to the floor, as if he were being supported by invisible strings. He felt the soft rug against his face. He lifted his head and opened his eyes.
The sensual pressure was toying with his consciousness—becoming full and heavy—cutting off his breath—then easing back to allow a few quick gasps of stale air; easing away, then returning to feed at the remaining ebbs of his vitality—nibbling at his energy as he spoke...
Raga shook her head slowly. "I need the boy," she said. As she spoke, Argyle began sinking down to the floor. "You see, Pia and I are stronger than the two of you. I want the same thing as you do. Potential to develop. But we offer them more than telepathy. We offer eternity without death."
"Eternity—of killing—" Orient tried to raise his body.
"Not killing," Raga said quietly as if she were lecturing a small boy she found amusing. "Allowing the lesser beings to serve the purposes of the higher will is the universe's own ritual. A natural sacrifice.
You reason like Alistar. In some ways you're like him, darling. That's why I had to sacrifice him." She looked down at Sun Girl and caressed her neck. "And you when it's time."
Orient felt the pressure intensify and take him to the brink of a silken blackness. It receded just before he lost consciousness, toying with his senses.
"I could have sacrificed you in Ischia instead of Alistar," Raga was saying. "He was so good to me. But he wanted to stop me from completing the ritual. When my cycle came that night, it was too late for the girl. I had to choose. I found you so attractive. I hoped you would come to understand. But then I knew you never would. You want to stop me. Like Alistar."
"Sacrifice Alistar—" Orient grunted, trying to steady his vision.
"It had to take place at the moment of my menstrual flow. But instead of ejecting blood, I absorb life." Raga closed her eyes, smiling dreamily as if anticipating some supreme satisfaction. "Tonight my cycle will mark the beginning of my reign on earth." She opened her eyes and contemplated Orient and Argyle groveling against the relentless, tantalizing vibration of her power.
"I could never begin to be effective before," she mused, as she slowly stroked Sun Girl's arms. "Alistar gave me that. For a hundred and sixty years I was forced to live only by night. Always in fear of being discovered. Always moving. Until science proved I didn't exist." She began to laugh. "Even Alistar didn't believe me. He thought he could use me and isolate a chemical from my body that would renew life. But he developed a serum that would enable me to live like an ordinary human." Her voice rose and her laughter rippled across Orient's mind. "I was an empress before I was thirty and I'll rule again. For an eternity."
Orient felt the pressure fade and his lungs fill with some air. Through his fuzzy vision he saw Raga lean close to Pia and kiss her cheek. She whispered something and a wide smile broke across Pia's features. She rose and walked silently out of the room.
Then Orient heard Argyle's voice. He turned his head and saw him trying to stand up. "Sun Girl—" Argyle pleaded. He fell back to the floor. "Wake—up, baby."
"Sun Girl has made her decision, Argyle," Raga smiled calmly. "She has placed herself at my disposal for the good of Julian. Julian will be initiated with his mother's blood into my service. Two beautiful telepaths, Pia and Julian; a prince and a princess who will bring others to serve their undying empress. The telepathic power will become the instrument of my unending rule."
"No." Orient strained to move the word past his tingling, rubbery lips.
Raga looked at him. "You're such a fool, Owen. If you hadn't been so stubborn you could have ruled at my side. But Julian will be raised as my consort. A prince worthy of eternity. I didn't want to sacrifice you. Pia didn't want to let Presto die. He became suspicious when he found that she left no image in photographs." She began to giggle and the intensity of her madness echoed through Orient's
throbbing brain. "Science always proves we don't exist."
Orient squeezed against the pressure caressing his lungs and brain to sleep. He bit his lip and concentrated on trying to smother the silent implosions of ecstasy at the base of his brain.
Raga reached down and picked up a large-vesseled hypodermic filled with a brownish liquid. Its color was turgid next to Raga's eyes, flashing like yellow lightning as she lifted the hypodermic to the candle flame. "This is Alistar's legacy to my beauty. A simple mixture of rare herbs, cocaine, and B12. It needs only a little of your blood to renew my life, and my youth."
The pleasure in Orient's body bristled, sending small shocks of sensation along his spine. His awareness began to fade into his senses.
"I didn't want to sacrifice you, Owen." He heard Raga's voice inside his skull as his will shriveled under the intensifying sensation. "But you're so very stubborn. Like Alistar." Her voice was warm and husky. "Don't resist. It will be pleasant, I promise you. More pleasure than I've ever given you. I won't take much of your blood. Just enough to make the serum active. As soon as your blood is joined to mine, your life will be absorbed." Orient groaned as the rapture in his cells began to spread down his chest. "It's the highest form of love, my darling," Raga crooned.
"Julian."
Argyle's cracked voice opened Orient's eyes. He saw Argyle lying on his side on the floor. He was trying to lift his head and his mouth was opening and closing like a fish tossed onto land. His vision jumped as Pia approached the pillow, holding Julian against her naked breasts. She put him down gently on the pillow next to Raga. He was asleep. Pia reached out and removed the sheet from Sun Girl's body. He saw her hands moving over Sun Girl's breasts and stomach as Raga lifted the hypodermic. Then a jolt of raw delight crackled across his belly and squeezed his eyes shut.
"Woi, woi, moi, woi Agovi—" Raga chanted softly, her voice increasing the ecstasy in his million nerve fibers and bringing him to the edge of some delirious, pulsing release. "Woi, moi Bouki.'The words rose and fell in his brain like sugar cubes tumbling into boiling milk, dissolving as they reached his bubbling comprehension. The rhythm of her voice touched a half-consumed response and snapped across his disintegrating memory.
The singsong of Raga's chant shifted slightly as his reflex blocked the vibrating pleasure spilling out of his senses. She paused and intensified the intonation of the words, sending an electric spatter of new sensation through his consciousness. Another reflex twitched and he remembered. He dug his concentration into the reflex, and it opened. "Woi, woi, woi Agovi—-woi, woi, woi bouki—" the rhythm of her voice beat against the spasms of his thoughts like warm rain in a forest. And then he understood the rise and fall of Raga's voice. He understood the source of Raga's power.
"Agovi." Raga hurled the word against his memory. The demon of Voodoo.
Orient clenched his fist and opened his eyes. He glimpsed a blur of blue on his outstretched hand and the knowledge lashed across his mind. The source. He brought the lapis ring on his finger close to his face.
"Woi Agovi, mount thy empress Diana—" Raga implored, swaying from side to side, her mouth open and slack. Pia held Sun Girl's head tenderly as Raga touched the tip of the needle to the girl's neck.
His memory clawed against his delirium and he felt the connection. Raga was calling a voodoo prayer. His reflexes jerked at he tried to breathe the word…The key.
He flexed his trembling memory against the delicious vibration sucking at his nerves and pulled the word along the dust-clogged tunnel of his throat.
Loupgarou, the name in Martinique for the vampire. And Raga was from Martinique.
"Loup-gar-ou," Each sound scraped across his cracked tongue.
Raga stopped her low chant. Orient's careening vision slammed to an abrupt stop against the glazed smooth skin of her face. He saw Raga open her eyes, turn her head, and start to stand, her features poised on the brink of surprise. All reality floated in slow motion through a cottony silence that stuffed every fraction of perception. He saw Pia's mouth move slightly and her head lift. Raga was still getting up. As she turned, she stared at him wonderingly with her flame-rippled gold eyes. He saw the stone on his finger and opened his tips. As he spoke, each word disappeared into the dry, thick silence arotmd him. Raga was on her feet and Pia was rising, balanced on her toes. Argyle was on the floor, looking at him with a startled expression. His sounds were frozen into the stillness. Everything became motionless.
"... maroshana Sphytaya hun traka . . . "
The noiseless words of power swelled in his throat, accelerating momentum as he completed the invocation of his judgment.
"Ham...MA!" The last word was a loud rasping shout of desperation that sent the delicate structure of the silence tumbling down around him. Fragments of movement flashed past his vision with blurred rapidity. Raga dropped the hypodermic and extended her hand to help Pia. Pia was falling to the floor. Argyle was up on one knee. Julian had opened his eyes and was screaming, his high shrieks rising over the sudden, crashing motion.
Orient tried to stand up. He saw Argyle reach Julian and Sun Girl. He got to his knees, then fell forward as the noise and the blurs faded and his senses faded with them.
A long distance away, through the thick fog, someone was sobbing. He tried to see through the mist as the sounds came nearer. The sobs were close and the fog became a blur of flickering colors that focused into hazy images.
Argyle was rocking Julian back and forth in one arm. He was crouched over Sun Girl. Orient sat up and his vision blurred again. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw Raga and Pia lying on the floor in front of the pillow. He got up slowly to one knee. He heard Sun Girl moan and Julian cry out. He stood up, his arms extending in front of him to maintain his balance.
"It's all right, baby," Argyle whispered as Sun Girl woke up struggling. She stopped struggling and fell weeping against Argyle's shoulder when she saw Julian reaching out for her.
Orient took a few unsteady steps. A movement across the floor stopped him. Raga's white fingers were fluttering over the rug groping blindly for something. He realized it was the hypodermic. He bent down and picked it up.
Argyle looked up.
"Should get them out of here—" Orient said.
Argyle nodded, his face streaked with sweat.
Orient reached down and took Julian in his arms. The boy felt light against his chest as he lifted him. Argyle got to his feet and helped Sun Girl stand up. She leaned against his arm and lifted her hand out to Julian. Argyle picked up the sheet and wrapped it around her shoulders. When they reached the door, Orient stopped. "Can't go with you," he said.
Argyle looked at him.
"I've got to stay. Take them home." Orient's voice was hoarse.
He set Julian down.
Argyle didn't say anything. He lifted Julian with one arm and put the other around Sun Girl's shoulders as Orient opened the door. He paused and looked up. "If you're not back in half an hour, I'm coming back," he grunted.
"I'll be back in the morning," Orient said. He closed the door behind them. He stood there for a moment, his hand around the knob as he cleared his lungs. He had an impulse to follow them, but the certainty that he must remain crushed his desire to rush outside. He turned and started walking back to the corridor.
When he reached the room, he saw Raga stretched out on the floor near the candles. Pia was lying a few feet away, her body very still. Raga arched her back as he came closer and twisted her mouth to speak. Orient heard her breathless rasp against his ear. "Please, Owen—give it to me—" Her eyes were fixed on his hand. He looked down and saw that he was still holding the hypodermic. "Don't let me die, darling—" Raga whispered. She tried to smile.
Orient looked away. With a sudden lunge he wheeled and threw the hypodermic against the wall. The glass shattered, sending a brown spray of liquid up to the ceiling and staining the air with the stench of rotted flowers.
"Owen!"
He turned as Raga cried out. She was staring up at him, her delicate face set in hard lines of rage. Her slender hand opened and closed as she tried to speak. Her lips curled away from her teeth with loathing.
Orient turned away and walked across the room into the shadows. He sat down on the floor, wrapped his arms around his legs and waited. The light from the candle flames across the room caught the surface of the stone on his finger and glinted in the corner of his vision.
He stared at the ring and concentrated his tattered energy on the word of his judgment. Loupgarou. As he looked at the dark blue lapis, the numbers of the calculation loomed in his thoughts. The sum of the letters was five five four. Divided in half it became two seven seven. He shut his eyes and rested his head against his knees. The reality of the key consumed the remains of his doubts and left him empty. There was no emotion left except the certainty of his judgment.
After an hour had passed he got to his feet and walked back to the candles. He bent down to examine Pia. The girl's face was wrinkled and her features were swollen. Her hair was steel-gray. She looked like a woman of seventy. A dead woman.
He stood up and walked to where Raga was lying. He knelt down next to her. The smooth white face had become brown and mottled like old photograph paper. A parched web of cracked, flaky skin covered her shoulders and withered breasts. He put his hand over her heart and felt his fingers sink slightly into her chest, as if her ribs were made of dust. He pulled his hand away and looked at her, trying to remember. There was nothing.
He stood up and blew out the candles.
Julian was the first to forget.
He spent his days in the present; swimming in the sea, playing beach soccer with Sordi, or sailing with his mother and Argyle. Sometimes Sordi took him to explore the fishing villages along the green coast and Julian began to learn a few words of Italian as he made friends with the Ischians.
During the month Orient spent with them on the island, he watched Julian as the quiet days took fascinating shapes for the boy and the wonders of the moment disconnected reality from the dreams of the past. After a while Sun Girl and Argyle also left their memory behind and slipped into the daily joy of their lives together.
Orient felt the days ripen slowly to contentment, but he knew there was a void inside him that had to be filled elsewhere. He swam and enjoyed the hours with his friends and tried to shape the moments like Julian did, to help him touch whatever life they held.
He realized that he needed to begin to build something right away; form new time to fill the emptiness.
He waited a few weeks, then spent his last few dollars for passage on a boat leaving Naples for New York.
The boat was crowded with tourists returning from vacation. The proximity to their intrepid exuberance and the routine events of the voyage broke down Orient's tendency to be withdrawn. When it became known that he was a doctor, a few people came to him for advice. One was a shy pretty girl who was about to enter medical school. She asked him many questions during the days they spent on deck, taking the sun. And as Orient tried to answer her, he found the replies to some of his own questions.
By the time the boat neared New York, Orient was making plans to try to restructure his video tape experiment. He knew that it would take money and time. He also knew that he could take a job at a hospital and do it a few steps at a time. The first thing was to get a place to live and a job within the next few weeks.
Orient calculated the money he had left as he waited in line with the passengers, waiting for his passport. He wondered if he could afford a cab to a hotel. It would have to be a very short ride.
"Doctor Owen Orient?" A burly man in customs uniform came out of the door at the front of the line and called out his name. "Step this way, please."
Orient picked up his bag, walked past the line of curious, smiling passengers, and went into the office. There were four men in the room, waiting for him.
None of them were smiling.
The burly man who had called Orient inside was standing next to the desk, glowering at a passport in his hands. Two men in raincoats stood on either side of the door, their arms folded. There was another man, also in uniform, sitting behind the desk. He looked up as Orient entered. "Doctor Owen Orient?" he asked.
"That's right." Orient heard someone close the door behind him.
"It says in our books that you left New York in May," the man behind the desk went on. "Yes, I did." The man nodded, his eyes flicking to the officer next to the desk.
"Give them the passport," he said.
The burly official folded the passport shut and handed it to one of the men at the door. The man at the desk wrote something down. "Will you go with these two men, Doctor," he said, not lifting his head.
Orient followed the two men in raincoats into the other room. When they closed the door behind him, he realized that it was made of solid steel. The room next to the office was bare except for a table and two chairs standing bleakly under a fluorescent light. One of the men took the suitcase from his hand.
"This all your luggage?" he snapped.
Orient nodded. It was beginning to occur to him that this wasn't routine procedure.
"Do you have the key, Doctor?"
Orient reached into his pocket and saw the men tense slightly. He found the key to his bag and held it out. One of the men took it from his hand and walked over to the table with his suitcase.
The other man walked over to Orient. "Do you object to being searched?" he asked, his voice flat.
Orient shook his head.
"Do you mind removing your shoes?"
Orient took off his shoes, then his pants and shirt as the two men checked his clothing and luggage. They spoke to Orient or to each other only when necessary.
When they were finished they gave him back his clothes.
"May I have my passport now?" Orient asked as he began to repack his bag. "Not yet," one of the men said.
"Why not?"
"Because you're under arrest," he said patiently.
"I don't understand."
"You're wanted for suspicion of narcotics traffic," the man said quietly. "We're Federal officers."
Orient stared unbelievingly at the man. "Are you serious?"
The man stared back at Orient. "We've had a warrant out on you since before you skipped the country."
Orient tried to sort out what the man was saying. "Are you sure you're not making a mistake?"
"Finish packing your bag," the other man said. "There's no mistake. Do you know a man called Joker?"
"Yes. Sure I do."
"Well, he told us everything." Orient folded his shirts into his bag, his mind spinning like a wheel in mud, trying to find some traction of fact to clear his confusion.
The two men took him to a police station in Brooklyn in an unmarked car. Orient heard himself booked by the desk sergeant as being held for suspicion of conspiracy to transport narcotics and unlawful flight to avoid arrest. Then he was taken to a small cell on the first floor. It was just a bare cage with no bed or toilet facilities. Orient made himself comfortable on his suitcase. He knew the charges were false so he was more impatient to establish his innocence than apprehensive about the arrest. Still, there was always the possibility that if they checked his activities over the past few months, they might uncover some things he wouldn't be able to explain.
One of the men who had arrested him came to the door of his cell and unlocked it. "This way, Doctor," he said amiably.
Orient followed him to a small office. The man took a chair behind the desk and gestured to a chair across from him. Orient sat down. The man was wearing a brown suit, blue tie, and pink shirt under his raincoat. He took a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Orient.
Orient shook his head and waited.
The man lit his cigarette and looked at Orient. "It all looks like a mess, Doctor," he admitted, watching Orient's face. "We have evidence that you and Joker conspired with Pola Gleason to deliver a pound of cocaine. Names, times, everything. We also know about your outstanding professional record, Doctor. Especially on the Mulnew case. You could avoid a lot of bad publicity by cooperating with us."
"I admit I know a man called Joker, but as far as I know, he didn't traffic in narcotics."
"We have evidence," the man said softly.
"There's no possible evidence," Orient insisted. "I'd like permission to call my attorney."
"Who is your lawyer?"
"Andrew Jacobs."
"You mean the senator?" The man lifted his eyebrows. "Any reason why a doctor needs the services of a high-powered legal man like him?"
"I think I have the right to have a good lawyer without it implying that I'm guilty of anything."
"So you do," the man agreed mildly. "Any special reason why you moved out of the country?"
Orient smiled. "Nothing illegal."
The man took a puff on his cigarette. "Do you know Pola Gleason?"
"I met her once."
"At her apartment?"
"Yes."
"Why?" The man looked down at his cigarette.
"I'll answer all your questions when my attorney gets here."
The man sighed. "If you cooperate, you might even save your license to practice," he suggested.
"There's nothing to cooperate about," Orient said. "Do I get my phone call?"
The man pointed to the telephone on his desk and ground out his cigarette.
After he made his call, Orient was taken back to his cell. In an hour he heard Andy Jacobs's hoarse voice downstairs. A few minutes later he saw the senator's ponderous bulk and lined bloodhound face at the cell door. "Let's get goin', Owen," Jacobs rumbled in a deep monotone as a guard unlocked the door. "Take your suitcase. You're leaving this establishment."
Orient dumbly picked up his suitcase and walked out of his cell.
"Good to see you, Owen," Andy Jacobs grunted, holding out a thick hand.
Orient took it. "Same here, Andy," he said.
"Just as I thought," Jacobs said gruffly. "I let you out of my sight for six months and I have to collect you in jail." A broad smile creased his jowly face. "Still good to see you though. In jail or out."
Orient shook his head. "The charges are kind of vague."
Andy Jacobs frowned and his voice rumbled louder with indignation. "Vague? That's an understatement. They're nonexistent."
He turned and glared at the cell guard who looked up at the ceiling.
"You mean I'm free?"
"Of course. And as soon as the warrant charges are cleared up in court, we'll be in a position to file a countersuit." Jacobs took Orient's arm and started walking to the stairs. His voice dropped to a loud whisper.
"The warrant they took you in on had expired months ago. They had no right to take you, Owen. But we'll discuss all that in the car. These cells are wired."
Orient signed a release document from the station which Andy Jacobs countersigned "under protest," insisting that one of the officers witness the objection.
When they left the station, Orient saw the senator's brown Lincoln limousine parked outside. Jacobs opened the door and waved Orient inside. "Come with me," he said. "You can tell me about it on the way to the City. You don't have to worry. I have a security expert check the car once a week for bugs."
Jacobs sat silently in the back seat, glowering at the back of the driver's head through the partition as he listened to Orient explain that Joker was a friend he had met casually.
"Apparently they believe he's involved in some kind of traffic," Orient told him, "and they think I'm part of the conspiracy." As Orient spoke, he remembered the bag he had delivered to Pola for the Joker.
"Well, it's always a good idea to be careful who your friends are," Andy growled. "But it doesn't give anyone the right to arrest you without cause. The warrant was based on one telephone conversation mentioning your name. Issued in May and never renewed. Those things are only good for ten days. They thought they could pressure you. But your name is on all kinds of fugitive lists at the airports and docks. We'll have to make a motion that it be stricken from the record."
"Is all that necessary?" Orient asked.
"Of course." Andy lowered his voice. "After we have the case dismissed, we'll be in a position to file countersuit. All mention of this charge, all record must be removed as without basis in fact. A thing like this could damage your reputation as a physician. And your credit rating." Andy leaned over to him. "You are going back to work, aren't you?" he demanded.
"I think so. That's why I thought I'd like to let the matter drop."
Andy frowned and shook his massive head. "Not wise, Owen, not wise. It won't take much of your time. I'll attend to it. It offends me that people's rights are so easily swept aside."
"Maybe you're right, Andy," Orient sighed.
"Of course I'm right. And you'll see it won't take more than a few days." He turned and picked up the microphone dangling next to him. "What am I doing Thursday, Hank?" he rambled into the mouthpiece.
The driver snapped on the seat light and studied a list attached to the dashboard. He looked up into the rear-view mirror and Orient heard his voice on the instrument in Andy's hand. "Free until noon lunch, Mr. J."
"Put me down for court that morning." Andy replaced the microphone and frowned triumphantly at Orient. "There, you see. By Thursday it will be all over."
Orient looked out the window. The car was on Riverside Drive going uptown along the Hudson River. "Where are we going now, Senator?" he asked.
"Going to your house, of course," Andy pulled a pocket watch from his vest. "Then I've got an appointment at the Lawyer's Union." Orient smiled. "You must remember that I sold that house six months ago."
"You did, Owen." Andy jammed the watch back into his pocket. "But the buyer couldn't meet the first payment. He lost money in the market and had to file papers. Since then, no one's been interested. So you still own a house. But your tax is coming due and you're going to have to find some way to cover it."
"You mean the house is still mine?"
"For another few months, until you decide to handle the financial end of it. Personally, I hope you decide to hold on to the place."
Orient didn't answer. He found that it pleased him somehow to think that there was a place in his memory he could return to, and rest.
It took Orient a short time to find a job as a physician in a private hospital. For a few months he put all his concentration on relearning the skills and reflexes of the journeyman doctor. Soon he found that he was able to fulfill his responsibilities as a physician and had free time for his personal projects.
He also found that Andy Jacobs's estimate of how long it would take to untangle his legal affairs had been conservative. It was another six months and fourteen court appearances later before the case was dismissed. By the time it was finished, Orient had already replaced some of his videotape equipment and was cutting his first reel. The hours he spent away from the hospital were completely absorbed in the structuring of his visual examination of the psychic experience. The house remained empty except for the bedroom and study, both of which were crammed with books and pieces of electronic gear. As the days passed, he came to see that each moment had its own shape that he could understand. He became satisfied with his work and its reality filled his emptiness.
He was in his study one day, examining a series of color slides of occult symbols being projected on a screen from a microfilm reader, when he heard someone at the door.
When Orient answered, he saw a tall, bearded man wearing a hat and dark glasses climbing the stairs. His overcoat reached his ankles.
"Howdy, Doc," the man said happily. "You mind if I visit?"
There was something familiar about the man's voice but Orient didn't place it right away. Then the man lifted his sunglasses and he recognized the clear blue eyes. Orient grinned and stepped aside.
"Why the gear, Joker? Lose a big bet?"
Joker stepped inside. "Just being extra cool these days." He looked around. "You sure got a layout. You could turn this place into a first-class game parlor."
"Come in and relax." Orient led the way to the study. "Maybe I'll let you talk me into it."
Joker lifted his hat and his orange-red hair spilled out. He took off his beard, put it in his overcoat pocket and then removed his coat. He threw everything down on a couch and sat down.
"Well, damn, Doc," he smiled broadly and leaned back, "you look together."
"Now that you've lost the disguise you look almost human yourself. I see you haven't retired the birds yet."
Joker ran his fingers fondly over one of the green eagles embroidered into his brown silk cowboy shirt. "Not yet anyway. I've been out in Reno and Vegas working at my legal trade. Just in town for a sightsee, you understand. How was your little vacation?" he asked casually.
Orient frowned and sat down across from him. "You should have told me there was cocaine in that bag, Joker."
Joker hung his head. "I suppose so, Doc," he agreed. "But I figured there was better than an even chance you wouldn't go for it. They would have snapped me off the street in a second, but the heat had no line on you. You were certified. And the stuff wasn't going to a pusher. It was a legitimate deal." Joker looked up. "Just a transfer for a good profit." He smiled and leaned over toward Orient. "And you got to admit that a nice quiet vacation in Tangier was just the ticket."
"Some ticket," Orient said, looking down at his wrinkled hands. He shrugged and looked up, "Staying a while? There's room here if you need a place to sleep. But no gaming parlors and no deals."
Joker slapped his palm on his knee. "Wouldn't that be something? The fanciest, coolest, hardest-working gambling saloon in New York." He chuckled sadly as he considered it. "But we can't do it. After coming so close to the Feds, I decided to just do my poker playing in Nevada. Man can't concentrate on his work when he's got to worry about the heat."
Orient leaned forward in his chair as he thought of something. "Listen, Joker," he said evenly, "maybe you could stay here a few days and help me work out some lab experiments with playing cards."
Joker thought it over. "You know," he said after a long pause, "I did some asking around on you when I first met you. Just being cool, no offense," he added quickly. "I heard about the psychic stuff you did. At one time I thought we could work something out for card games."
He held up his hand as Orient started to protest. "But then I thought it over again and decided cards wouldn't be fun no more." He stood up. "I only got a few days in town and I promised this lady from Vegas I'd show her around. I just dropped by to make sure you were doing okay and weren't sore at me."
Orient stood up and held out his hand. "Case dismissed," he smiled.
"Doc," Joker said solemnly as he shook Orient's hand, "you got my word that from now on everything between us is absolutely cool." He pulled the beard from his overcoat pocket and put it on. "I didn't want anyone to see me in case they're watching the house."
"You really think they might be?" Orient said incredulously.
"Well, Doc"—Joker put on his dark glasses and began stuffing his long hair into his hat—"you can't be too careful. Faye made me promise. She's this lady from Vegas I'm with. This is her first time in the city and she wouldn't forgive me if I got into trouble with my old friends. Faye is very particular about me staying respectable."
He pulled the hat down, buttoned up his overcoat, and ambled to the door. "Sorry I can't stay and help you with your experiment. And I sure apologize for any hassle over that bag." He opened the door and turned to shake hands with Orient. "But you got to admit you learned something from that hand I dealt you. It's just like Faye always tells me."
"What's that?" Orient asked.
Joker lifted his sunglasses and winked. "Never trust a gambler."