by John Walters
"I feel cold," Paul said.
"This won't take long," Finwinkle replied. "Well, depending on your cooperation, of course. When you left Jason and Jasmine did the power fade?"
"No."
"Do you still have this power?"
"Yes."
"Can you read my mind?"
"No. It only works with someone else who has the ability."
"And how does one get the ability?"
"I don't know if I could make a general statement about that."
"How did you get it?"
"I think it was a combination of the acid and proximity to Jason."
"Hmm. So you think if I took a large dose of LSD and stayed in the same room with you while I was under the influence that I might catch telepathy the same way you'd catch a contagious disease?"
"I don't know. Maybe. It's possible."
During the exchange Finwinkle had been scanning an instrument panel. "Honestly spoken straight across the board. Thanks for your help, Traven. Better late than never." He motioned to the two attendants. "Disconnect him and return him to his room."
* * *
When Paul was gone Finwinkle tapped a button on the intercom. "You heard?"
"Yes. And the veracity of his statements is beyond doubt?"
"According to the machine he was telling the truth."
"Excellent. I will consider how this information can best be used. In the meantime confine him to his room. You didn't ask about the man he was captured with. You should have. He appears to be ours, but though I can't be sure I suspect they are in communication with each other. I want you to put Townsen to sleep and implant a homing device under his skin. Then we will arrange his escape and follow from a distance. Perhaps he will lead us to a whole nest of these creatures."
"As you say."
"I know them better than you do. Until they are purged from this planet we can never have complete control. They are sinister adversaries who come in a guise of peace and then wrest power for themselves with their pacifistic propaganda."
"I'll take care of Townsen right away."
"Then you personally lead the tracking team. I don't need you here any more."
"And Traven?"
"He is mine. Just obey. Obey. The rewards will be great."
Chapter 10
The Call of the Sirens
Martin Lewis was surprised at his own audacity. Not only had he quit his job, withdrawn all the money from his bank account, and bought an airline ticket to India, but he couldn't find within himself the faintest vestige of his former gnawing desire to rise in the corporate world, make more money, buy more things, get an office with a view, and somehow carve his niche in the upper rodent echelon. When his father heard the news he thought Martin was certifiably insane, and he yelled and broke plates and glasses; his mother wept, clutching a hankie and shaking her head from side to side. His boss called, offered him a raise, and suggested he reconsider his decision. None of it phased him, but all the commotion did shake him up enough that he booked his flight round-trip.
As he turned off all the utilities and locked his apartment a tremor of uncertainty gripped him. He felt himself pulled back and forth all the way to the airport. After he paid the taxi driver, grabbed his bags, and started walking towards the check-in counter, he kept putting one foot in front of the other though his confidence dissolved like ice in the summer sun. Had he made a mistake, as they all had kept telling him? Was it really a delusion, a figment of his imagination, a mental mirage? Had he thrown away everything he'd worked for and headed into the unknown, only to be met with nothing at the other end? Was the world really flat and he'd fall off when he reached the edge?
No. There it was. First the faintest hint of a barely discerned thought, like the first wisp of light in early morning, then stronger and stronger like the indomitable sunrise. The signal: come to Goa, come to Goa, India.
Chicago to San Francisco to Hong Kong to Bangkok to Bombay. For hours he watched the Pacific Ocean far below, like a flat but ever-changing blue and silver prairie. The jungled hills of Indochina fascinated him. And then there was India. Even from the air it was vast, kaleidoscopic, diverse, mysterious, fascinating.
He stepped off the plane into a furnace. Beads of sweat popped out on his face and arms and he found it hard to breathe. Suddenly he was surrounded by strange people wearing strange clothes speaking strange languages. What am I doing here? he thought.
Then he felt voices.
"Somebody's here."
"Who is it? What's your name?"
"Martin Lewis."
"Welcome, Martin. We're glad you could come. My name is Rose. I'm so excited to hear from you."
"Uh...me too."
"Don't worry if you feel a little disoriented. Shall I give you a few directions?"
"Sure. Go ahead."
"After you claim your bags take a taxi to Bombay center, the area called Colaba. There you can easily book either a boat or a bus to Goa. The boat takes twenty-four hours; there are cabins if you want. The bus is a little faster but not very comfortable, some say. We're at a place called Anjuna Beach. Ever heard of it?"
"No."
"Well, to every hippy in this part of the world it's famous. You won't have any trouble finding it if you ask around. But if you get in trouble, send out a psychic shout. Someone will eventually pick it up and we'll figure out a way to help you."
"Are you there in Goa?"
"No, our individual range isn't that great. I'm with a team in Bombay keeping a mental eye on the transportation points for people coming in."
"Have many come?"
"Not many, but some."
"Will I see you?"
"I'll join you in Goa soon. And...Martin?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
* * *
Jimmy Thornberg had reached an impasse. He pulled out a Camel and lit it, then crumpled the empty packet and slipped it into a side pocket of his backpack. As the strong acrid smoke seared his lungs it woke him up, warmed him, and calmed him. In the past few years he'd quit smoking a dozen times and started again. A cigarette after a joint is like dessert after a good meal, he told himself. Who's gonna live long enough to die of cancer anyway, especially at this rate?
He stood in knee-deep snow at a freeway entrance in New Jersey, his backpack leaning against him, his thumb out; passing cars sprayed him with slush, and fresh-fallen flakes powdered his head and shoulders. He had been there for hours, and no one had even slowed down. A few people had given him the finger while passing, and some had rolled down their windows and shouted obscenities, but most had just ignored him as they drove warmly on about their business. He began to shiver; he imagined himself inside a luxurious limousine, the heater blowing hot air on his hands and feet.
He realized that his situation was ludicrous: even if he could get a ride on to New York and make it to the airport, he didn't have money for a ticket. All those drugs really must have scrambled his brain. But it had seemed so real, so right.
When he had left the Bay Area the fear of the dark shadows tinged with red, the fetid breath, the underground burrows, had sloughed off like dead skin off a snake. He'd headed straight across the country, undaunted by weather reports foreboding freezing temperatures and snowstorms. He'd travel for as long as he had strength to move; he'd eat not for pleasure but to shove fuel into his body to keep it moving; if he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer he'd find a cheap motel and crash out for as long as he was allowed to occupy the room, but if he wasn't quite that exhausted he'd sit up in the quiet black early hours of the morning at a truck stop, sipping endless cups of coffee, with a sign propped on top of his backpack next to him for the drivers to read, in case one of them was going his direction and wanted some company. He managed to bypass a blizzard from the north that was heading down across the Midwestern States, and he managed to avoid heavy snowfalls in the Appalachian Mountains; but now here he was, and the cold had caught up with him and his money had run out
and he didn't know how he was going to make the big leap across the Atlantic. He figured if he had solid ground and a road before him, he could keep going somehow; but he couldn't swim an ocean, and he didn't have the time to get a job and earn some cash. It was a dead end, a dilemma from which he saw no way out.
He paced back and forth, stomping his feet to get some feeling back into his toes. "Damn," he said to himself. "Damn, damn, damn." And he let loose a flood of the most eloquent verbal abuse he could think of, to the snow and the slush and the icy wind and the gray sky and all the drivers who wouldn't stop and the passengers who wouldn't make them stop.
"Now what kind of language is that?"
He paused, and looked around. He was alone, but not alone. "Who's there?"
"In my day people wouldn't think of using language like that. You should be ashamed of yourself."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Mildred Winters. My, it is a surprise to be talking to you like this. And who are you?"
"Jimmy Thornberg."
"Where are you, Jimmy?"
"I'm hitchhiking at a freeway entrance. Nobody's stopping and I'm freezing."
"You shouldn't be out on a night like this."
"I don't have any choice. I don't have a place to stay and I don't have much time to get to...to where I'm going."
"I see. Jimmy, could you come and visit me?"
"I don't think..."
"It won't take long, and it would mean so much to me. I can't get out, but I can give you directions. You couldn't stay the night, but at least you could warm up a bit."
"All right." Her directions were unclear, but her mind was like a homing beacon. He followed her signal to a nearby residential area, down street after snow-covered street, left right left right right left, until finally he stopped outside...Bright's Senior Citizens' Home? "This can't be," he said to himself.
"Just tell reception you're a relative and they'll let you in."
"You live here?"
"Surprised?"
"I'd never have guessed it."
He felt her amusement.
The overweight matron in the stained white frock hardly glanced up, and directed him down the austere hallway with a wave of her hand.
The wrinkled woman in the wheelchair looked frail enough to blow away if he sneezed on her. "Hi," he said.
"Sit down, Jimmy. You don't know how happy I am to see you. I haven't had a visitor in longer than I can remember."
They sat silently and conversed mentally.
"Forgive me, but...how can you survive here? It's like a prison, and so lonely."
"I live in my memories. I have a lot of them; I've lived a long time. I play cards and as I play my mind drifts and I almost feel like I'm living those experiences again. Until recently, that is, when something else caught my attention. You know what it is, don't you?"
"Goa."
"Yes, Goa. Since I first heard the call I've been listening intently, trying to catch more. Can you imagine, I actually tried to go there myself. Aren't I the crazy old lady?"
"No, you're not. It's hard to resist."
"It certainly is. They stopped me, of course. This is a prison, in a sense. But the real prison is this worn out body that won't do what I'd like it to any more. If I were your age I'd drop everything and come with you in a second, and we might even have a good time on the way. Now don't be embarrassed, ha! When you're young it seems like old folks have always been old, doesn't it? But I remember my teen years like they were yesterday." She paused. "Well, I could go on and on, Jimmy, because I really have been lonely, with a kind of loneliness that stabs deep like a knife and then never goes away, like a malignant cancer. But your coming has changed all that. I know now that what I've been hearing is not the delusion of a senile mind. I want you to go to India for me."
"What do you mean?"
"God has done a great miracle for both of us in bringing us together. For me, to restore my faith. I knew it was true, but I suppose I needed the reassurance. And for you..." She reached under the table and pulled out a tattered envelope. "I want you to have this."
He thumbed through the bills. "I can't take your money."
"I don't need it here. They provide me with everything. I want you to take it and go to India. I know we won't be able to keep in touch over such a distance, but whenever I think of you I'll know you're there and it will give me such joy."
He put his hand on hers. It was cold, and light as folded paper, and felt as if it would crumple if he squeezed it. "All right, Mildred. Thanks."
* * *
It was again the clack-clack-clack of the guard's footsteps, the rattle of keys, needles injecting death and hell and torment into his veins. Webber Clark hadn't heard from Randy in two days.
"Hey, Web."
"Where the fuck you been, man? Who the fuck you think you are to cut me off like that?"
"They took me outside to a hearing. Web... They gave me parole, man. I'm out of here. I just came to get my stuff. This is goodbye."
"You goddamned motherfuckin' white piece of shit."
"Yeah, I know. I'll miss you too."
"What the hell am I gonna do now? You were the only thing keeping me from going nuts."
"You'll be okay."
"Bullshit."
"I couldn't stay if I wanted to."
"Of all the stupid-ass things to say. Of course you can't stay. You gotta go to Goa and do some swimmin' and fuckin' and eatin' and fuckin' and..."
"I get the picture. But if I take off to another country I'm breaking parole. If they catch me they'll throw me back in and I won't get another chance, at least for a lot of years."
"You gonna let that stop you? Listen to me, Randy Whittaker white corporate trash. You get your ass out of here and take the first ride to India and don't look back."
"I'll miss you, Web."
"Don't pull that teary-eyed shit on me."
"They're calling me. I have to go."
Webber didn't answer. Randy walked through gate after gate until finally he was outside blinking in the sunlight.
"Randy? Randy? You still there?"
"I'm here."
"Take care."
"You too, Web. You too."
* * *
Margaret set her wine glass down and nervously twirled a few strands of hair with her forefinger. Fred Senior sat expectantly, with a puzzled expression, in the opposite armchair. I can't go through with this, she thought. It had taken days to summon up the courage to talk to him, and now... She drew in a breath to start, then exhaled, tried again, exhaled.
"Are you all right?" Fred asked.
"Just give me a minute."
"All right. I'm waiting." He took a sip of wine.
This time words came out with the exhalation. "I don't know how to start. Please hear me out. Let me finish before you comment."
"Fine. I'm listening." Fred crossed one leg over the other and clasped his ankle. "Go ahead."
"Have I been a good wife? Faithful? Taken good care of the children?"
"The best, Margie. I've never felt otherwise."
"And you've been a good husband, good provider. Wait. This is coming out wrong. Don't worry; I'm not dissatisfied or anything. I've been happy; I'm still happy. It's just that..."
Fred uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.
"Even in situations that look ideal something comes along sometimes that... Listen, I'm not having an affair or anything, it's nothing like that."
"I know that. I trust you, Margie."
"There comes a time in every marriage, even a marriage like ours that looks perfect, that someone wants to cut loose for awhile and do something crazy. Well, it's not really crazy but it sounds crazy. At first I was going to forget it but the urge got stronger and stronger until I just can't help it, I want to do it. If I don't at least ask it will just eat away at me inside and I'll never forgive myself for not trying."
"So are you going to tell me?"
"Yes. I really hope you don'
t think I'm crazy. But even if you do think so, I still want to do it."