“Buck up, it’s early yet. Rome wasn’t built in a day, to coin a cliché. I wanted to see you again about the power. After I left you I was scared. I know we were talking about it all cosily in a bar, but suddenly it hit me, just what it meant. And I was scared, I don’t mind telling you. Well, not exactly scared, but wary all of a sudden. Wait, have other people been the same? Is that why you haven’t got anywhere?”
“What other people?”
“You mean you haven’t tried it with anyone else?” He looked searchingly at Arnold, then shook his head sadly. “Can you wonder if you’ve got nowhere?”
Arnold shrugged. “But why, if you were scared, or wary, have you been looking for me?”
Vic grinned. “Human curiosity. The wary feeling wore off. That feeling of people—I’ve still got it—well, it’s something that gets you. I even tried a bit of research on my own, trying the mind reading act with other people. It didn’t work, of course. I suppose I thought it might be catching—like measles!”
Arnold felt disappointed. He had had a hope that Vic might have thought of a new approach. He knew now that the hope had been illogical.
“It’s catching, all right,” he told Vic. “But I’m the only carrier. I and this girl Claire. I gave you first-stage symptoms, but Claire passed on the full power to a young girl she knows.”
“How young?” Vic’s eyes lit up, then, seeing the expression in Arnold’s, “Whoops, sorry.”
“Eleven or twelve,” Arnold said curtly. “The point is—”
“Wait. You’ve mentioned Claire twice. You don’t mean to say you went back to her, after all?”
“I had to,” Arnold confessed. “The power isn’t just mine, as you tried to convince me. That was the reason I looked her up again, to tell her she didn’t have to worry about it. Then I found this kid and I knew that Claire had the power as much as I did. We both have the power; we can both pass it on. The first stage in transmitting it is this feeling of empathy—that’s what it’s called—knowing people are there. The second is full contact. At least, from what Claire told me, I believe that one follows the other.”
“You mean, that what I reached was a stage, not a limit?”
“I think so. I’m sure so.”
Vic stared at him. He said, finally, “Do you realize you’re sitting on a bomb?”
The word jarred Arnold. It woke disturbing memories of what Claire had argued with him about dangers. Certainly during these past two months the chief danger seemed to be no worse than apathy, but he found himself suddenly wondering if he had discounted Claire’s fears too quickly.
“Bomb? Why, do you see dangers in it?”
“Dangers?” Vic looked puzzled. “Not dangers, man. Opportunities.”
He felt relieved, then pained. “Opportunities!”
“Of course. If anybody can learn this power, my God you could charge the sky for it.”
“I’d give it free to anyone who would stop and listen and be willing to try. I don’t intend to go around begging people to try it.”
“Pride, man, pride,” Vic said chidingly.
“It’s not just that. I want people to come to me because they want the power, people who can see the scope of it. I’ve been trying to make it known—heaven knows, I’ve been trying. But it’s not so easy as you seem to think. I went first to a so-called research foundation which was specially set up to investigate things like this. They refused to believe it. I’ve just come away from a bunch who’d believe it all right, but they’d believe anything. What good would that be? I tell you, I didn’t know such people existed. That’s what’s got me depressed, I suppose. It seemed funny at the time, but—”
“Mm-mm, I can see it might not be so straightforward. I remember reading a story once about a chap who discovered something big like this. What was it? The elixir of life, that’s it. Take six doses and you never got any older. It started in 1800 and finished several centuries later… he still hadn’t convinced anybody.”
“Thank you for those reassuring words.”
“Sorry, old man. I was only trying to understand your problems. It was fiction, anyway. Though the old story about the chap who stood in the street offering fivers for sixpence each, that happened. At least, my old man always said it did. He said he actually saw him, and passed on. But, cheer up, things have changed. This is a problem in mass communication.”
“You can say that again.”
“Eh? Oh, yes. But I’m surprised at you, working in advertising and not being able to solve this problem.”
“I’ve tried small ads in the papers. I invited the press. One reporter turned up. He thought it was a clever act.”
“How about TV?”
“Hell, I couldn’t afford to buy time on that. That’s what it boils down to, I suppose. Not enough money.”
“No, I mean news, feature programmes.”
“I sent invitations to all three networks when I invited the press. Nobody came.”
“You need somebody with entrée, as the waiter said to the vegetarian. Do you know a programme called People Who Matter?”
“No. I don’t watch TV. Well, hardly at all.”
“It’s a weekly programme about interesting people. I know the woman who’s assistant to Steve Conrad. It’s his programme. Don’t say you’ve never heard of him?”
“I have.” He had sponsored a cigarette whose account Arnold had handled once.
“If I fix it, will you do it?”
“Of course. But I don’t know about Claire. No, I couldn’t ask her to appear on TV with me. What you don’t know about my personal problem in all this is that Claire is dedicated to her work. She’s an artist, if I didn’t tell you before.”
“But it wouldn’t be much interruption to her work. And think of the publicity she would get.”
Arnold laughed ruefully. “You don’t know Claire. That’s the last thing she’d want.”
“Funny girl.”
“No, she’s got her point of view. I respect it.”
“Well.” Vic pondered, then brightened. “How about me? You said anybody could do it—reach the second stage, I mean.”
Arnold looked at him dubiously. He liked Vic, but he wondered how responsible he was. Heck, he was balanced enough. What did it matter, as long as a demonstration was made before an audience of millions. True, they might, like the kid reporter, think it was a good act and only that. But out of millions, surely a few, even if only a very few, would be interested enough? Anyway, what was there to lose?
“All right,” he said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The television centre was a huge building towering above Wembley Stadium. The preliminary interview had been at an office in Mayfair. Vic’s friend had briefed them.
To Arnold’s surprise, he had found that the show was unscripted. “Apart from Mr. Conrad’s commentary, and even that’s only roughed in. There’s a lot of ad-libbing in this programme. We’ve got the quickest team of technicians in the business. We have to—we get some real screwballs at times.”
Her words struck disquiet in Arnold’s soul, but he revived when she said, “The great feature of this show is that all the people who appear have complete freedom to express their views. Within the ordinary limits of convention, of course. For instance, it’s forbidden to mention—”
She read a list that started with four-letter words and ended with jokes about the Secretary-General of the UN. None of them, Arnold considered, came into his likely gamut of utterance.
“It’s advisable,” she went on, “to prepare your own outline of what you’re likely to say or perform. But just the general pattern. Don’t be too rigid. For one thing we don’t want any impression of reading anything by rote. For another, Mr. Conrad will almost certainly butt in with questions, which might dislocate a set spiel. You’ll have a maximum of five minutes.”
“Maximum?” Arnold asked.
“You won’t be the only ones on the programme. The time you personally will get will depe
nd entirely on the way things go—entertainment level, programme balance etcetera. Now, on the day it’s advisable to wear plain clothes with no pronounced pattern; they show best on colour TV. Unless, of course, you need to appear in costume. No? Good. Don’t break your neck seeking which camera to look at—there are too many on this particular programme. We just want you to be as natural as you can. Now, I’d like a few personal details from you to act as programme hooks.”
And that had been that. The harder work had come before, in getting Vic to second stage. He was eager to reach it, but his eagerness was counterbalanced by a strong resistance—which struck Arnold as curious until he divined that Vic was much more on the defensive than he had imagined such a seemingly extroverted person would be. It was only when Vic learned that he could communicate without laying his whole mind bare that he really got moving at it.
They arrived, as instructed, half an hour before the programme was due on the air, both of them dressed in, for them, unusually formal garb—Vic in a dark mauve sports jacket and slacks, Arnold in a bottle green business suit.
“This way to the crematorium,” Vic muttered as they went in. They waited, with a dozen other people, in a large room, divided into open cubicles. Vic’s friend came in and gave them a last-minute pep-talk, then they were ushered into a huge barn of a studio, hung with blowups and mobiles. Scattered round were a dozen cameras, couchant or poised like pterodactyls, together with their crews. The studio, for all its size, was crowded with people, standing in groups or rushing around making last-minute checks.
Arnold and Vic, together with the other people due to appear, were ushered through the mob and shown to their stations. Arnold found himself seated opposite Vic with a camera gaping at their profiles. He saw to his surprise that Vic seemed more nervous than he himself felt. That might have been deceptive, but he grimaced at Vic with what he hoped was a reassuring expression—and jumped as he saw himself doing it in full colour on a giant monitor screen slung from the roof.
Then several things happened almost simultaneously. The crowd of technicians melted away. One side of the barn disappeared and Arnold realized that they were on a stage in front of an audience. A red light came on above their heads. Canned music blared forth and on strode a tall individual dressed in a wave-check suit of chartreuse and puce and carrying a sheaf of papers under one arm.
So much, Arnold thought, for plain clothes and no pronounced patterns!
The audience erupted.
The vision held up its hands. The applause died in its tracks.
“Thank you, and good evening. This is Steve Conrad, your favourite people-caster, here once again to demonstrate that it’s People Who Matter.” Music flared and died. “First we have Mr. O’Duffy of Northampton.”
He walked across the stage, one pterodactyl tracking above him, another camera on tracks retreating before him. He stopped in front of a third camera, and on the monitor screen he showed up in profile with his first subject.
“Now, Mr. O’Duffy. What’s your first name? Jim? A little louder please. Thank you. You don’t mind if I call you Jim, do you? Fine. Now, Jim, it says here that you have just returned from the Antarctic. Is that true?”
“That’s right.” Mr. O’Duffy was a big man with a mop of black hair.
“And what have you been doing there?”
“I’ve been working on—”
“On what? Just a little louder, please.”
“On the Antarctic settlement.”
“That’s the place with its own sun stuck up in the sky, isn’t it?”
“Well, not exactly. There’s a whole lot of suns. It’s a system of atomic heating units.”
“It’s a big affair, isn’t it?”
“Pretty big.”
“Pretty big. You hear that, folks?” Applause. “You know how big that hookup is?” He consulted his notes. “Only three miles square, that’s all!” More applause.
“But let Jim O’Duffy tell you about it in his own words. Because—no matter how big the project is—it’s always People Who Matter.”
Mr. Duffy launched into a succinct description of his part in the project. A few more words from Conrad and the focus moved to a woman who had had three sets of triplets in four years.
Arnold felt a sense of relief. So far, so good. The presentation was less gimmicky than he had begun to fear it might be.
After the woman a man was spotlighted who claimed to be in touch with Pluto by radio. He wasn’t quite sure on what frequency; his receiver wasn’t accurately calibrated. Conrad went to town on him, the man got hotter and hotter under the collar and—suddenly the red lights on Arnold’s camera flashed on at the moment that he was bending towards Vic and giving him a silent last-minute nod of encouragement.
Arnold cursed the fact that that might hint at some kind of collusion, but turned to face the camera with a smile that felt as stiff as the whipped cream on a commercial. Conrad came strolling over.
“Having left our friend to go back to his long-distance conversation—wonder how much three minutes on that line would cost, eh, folks?—we come to Mr. Arnold Ash of London and his assistant Vic Emery. Their line is also communication. But not by radio.” He tapped his head. “No sir, Mr. Ash here claims that he can communicate without even using words. In fact, he claims to be able to read minds. I—”
He broke off as a top-heavy blonde, clad in sheer-black tights and little else, wiggled across the stage. Arnold realized that Conrad’s head-tapping had been, not the ham gesture he had thought, but a cue. Conrad’s eyes tracked the blonde across the stage until she disappeared from sight. Arnold squirmed as the audience roared.
“Now, Mr. Ash,” Conrad asked, “can you tell me what I was thinking?”
“It wouldn’t take any special power to guess that,” Arnold replied, which was about all he could find to say, but that, too, raised a laugh.
“Ah yes, special power—that’s what it says here, that you have a special power. Right-ho, then. I give you Messrs. Ash and Emery, Mind Readers.”
The build-up had been flip and all wrong and the routine started disastrously. Vic had also been following the blonde’s progress. That, allied to his nervousness, was raising hell with his powers of communication. Arnold bludgeoned him mentally, and they began. Vic muffed the beginning and held up the card at such an angle that it was obviously visible to his partner. The audience laughed jeeringly.
But things improved after that. He scored nine out of nine with the rest of the cards, and he read confidently—from a volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica which they had brought in. The passage which Vic transmitted to him was one he asked Conrad to select.
Conrad repeated the passage from the book. “Yes, folks, word perfect.” Applause. “And, I’m not in the act, believe me.”
Laughter. “I only—what was that, Mr. Ash?”
“I just want to say that what you saw wasn’t an act. It was genuine telepathy. Anybody can learn the power. If you will write to me—”
He blinked. The red light on his camera was abruptly off.
Conrad lifted his hands in mock horror. “Heavens! A commercial right in the middle of the programme!” The audience roared. “Which reminds me. See you in a minute or two, folks.”
And that was that. A break for a commercial, the latter half of the thirty-minute programme and all the red lights blinked off. The curtains fell.
Conrad shook hands with all the participants in turn, saying, “Naughty, naughty,” to Arnold before he strode off.
Arnold got up, feeling stiff. He hadn’t realized the sheer physical tension involved. “Thanks, Vic,” he said.
“Sorry I fluffed. How do you reckon we did?”
Arnold shrugged. “It was an experience, anyway.” But he had the same sensation that he had had before, that the gift in his hands had withered away under the bright lights of the television studio, had become something on the level of a prize in a give-away show.
He declined Vic’s offer of
a drink and took the Tube home. He bought an evening paper to read on the way. He saw the headlines: TENSION IN NICARAGUA, shrugged and turned to the back page, reading idly from back to front. He always read a paper like that. He didn’t get to the front page again until he was home and had finished the salad that Claire prepared for him. And then—
The small picture at the foot of the page seized his eye. Words rose from the paper like clenched fists—
Sally Acres… Entchley village, Sussex… missing for twelve hours… found criminally assaulted… police alert… man in leather jacket sought…
Claire felt the shock in him and looked up into his white face.
“What’s wrong?”
But he was searching desperately through a gathering yellow mist for one word. He slumped in relief when he found it—alive.
Claire snatched up the paper.
“My God; Oh, my God! This is our fault.” She amended it immediately to, “my fault”, but it was too late.
“How? But how?”
“The power,” Claire said brokenly.
“But Sally couldn’t pass it on. We’re the only ones who can do that. She can only communicate with us.”
“How do we know? You said yourself that somebody else might turn up with the power.”
“I know. But already? And Sally? She’s only a child.”
Then he remembered a phrase that Vic had used. “It might be catching like measles.” Could it be?Could it be that passing on the power meant vastly more than that—the ability to pass on the power in turn? But Vic had tried it and failed; he had said so. But he had only had first-stage power then. Sally already had second.
He could imagine it all too clearly—the poor child having this power and not being able to communicate with anybody. It must have intensified all the pain of her young life. It was bad enough not being able to talk to people, but after knowing the power, for a few days being able to communicate with Claire, then having the opportunity snatched away from her—that must have been infinitely worse. Perhaps she had tried with her mother, More probably she hadn’t; kids were funny like that.
He himself had come to her door and she had “talked” to him. He had felt her innocence, felt the nakedness of her young mind. Somebody else had come to the door, or she had met him on a walk…
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