Barbara Thompson gave no indication of embarrassment. Honor wondered if she had just put that bathrobe on the professor. She led Honor into a close confrontation and performed a sober introduction. “Professor Wenssler, this is Mr. Patrick Honor ... from the White House.” She emphasized the latter phrase.
Honor extended his hand but the professor seemed not to notice. “Did you bring the nines?” he asked intently.
Honor shot a glance at the girl. “What nines?” He was asking her.
Wenssler’s agitation increased. “Don’t hedge, man,” he said loudly. “Did you bring them or didn’t you?”
“I just brought myself,” Honor admitted tightly. He wished he could catch the professor’s eye, but the gaze was constantly roving about the room, flicking violently from one spot to another. The guy is scared out of his skull, Honor quickly decided.
“Get out! Get out of here!” Wenssler had erupted suddenly and was shoving both Honor and the girl toward the door.
Barbara hooked an arm inside Honor’s and pulled him back to the reception room. She closed the door firmly behind them and rubbed the back of a hand across her forehead.
“I need to talk to him,” Honor protested.
“Obviously you cannot do so right now,” she replied.
“That guy is nuts! You shouldn’t leave him—”
Honor’s agitated retort was cut short by the crash of the heavy door opening violently and rebounding against the wall of the passageway. Honor was staring through the open doorway with uncomprehending wonderment. The door at the other end had opened also, and the professor was framed there in the dim light. He screamed, “If you didn’t bring them, who did you bring?”
“How’d that door bang open?” Honor asked in an awed whisper.
“Can’t you understand?” Wenssler was screaming. “It’s the only hope, the only hope! You must persuade them! You must bring them here!” He staggered back from the doorway, the robe flapping full open, fell over a chair, and crashed to the floor. The chair immediately skittered across the floor with tremendous force and impacted against the glass wall of one of the cubicles. The wall shattered and rained broken glass in a jangling series of crashes.
Electrified, Honor set himself into motion toward the open doorway. The heavy door swung shut in his face, and only then did he realize that the girl was clinging to his arm. He was fighting to get the door open and she was crying breathlessly, “No—don’t—you can’t go in there now!”
“The hell I can’t,” he muttered. He had succeeded in opening the door, and was now trying to free himself from the girl’s frantic grasp.
“No! Wait until he calms down! He’s dang—”
Honor flipped her away and set her on the floor, hard, then he was rushing along the short passageway and crashing through the other door and into the lab. Wenssler was cringing on the floor in a kneeling position, arms folded atop his head as though to ward off invisible blows. Honor dropped to one knee and encircled the professor’s shoulders with his arms, then abruptly jerked away, tingling as though he had grabbed a live electric wire.
“What th’ hell?” Honor cried.
He glanced up and found the girl standing just inside the doorway. Singh stood just behind her, peering around her with frightened eyes.
Honor tried again to assist the kneeling man, and again jerked back quickly. “F’ God’s sake, he’s electrified or something!” he exclaimed.
“Is kundalini,” Singh declared in awed tones.
“Is what?” Honor snapped.
“Kundalini,” Barbara whispered. “Vital life forces. See the aura?”
Honor could, indeed, see something which could be called an aura. A wavering and faintly pulsating light emanation of some sort seemed to be cloaking Wenssler’s head and shoulders. The old man’s arms abruptly jerked down from atop his head. His face, tortured and constricted with strong emotion, elevated toward the ceiling, and a moaning cry tore from his lips: “Oh God! I’m sorry! I quit! Help me! I give up!”
Barbara Thompson’s face went white and she cried, “No! Don’t! Curt... don’t surrender!
Obviously, however, the professor had already done so. The expression faded from the eyes, the face went slack, and all evidences of the personality seemed to evaporate. The girl dropped to the floor beside Honor, tears flowing, and took the old man in her arms. He went easily, unprotestingly, like a sleeping child into mother arms. But he was not asleep. Honor seized his wrist and found a faint but steady pulse.
“Seems to be okay,” Honor murmured.
“No, he is gone,” the girl sobbed.
“Gone? What do you mean, gone!” He glanced at Singh, who was sadly shaking his head.
“He is gone,” Barbara repeated. She released him, moving carefully away. Wenssler’s posture remained unchanged, awkwardly off balance as though the girl’s arms were still about him. The pulse was still firm under Honor’s grasp. He lifted the arm, pulling it stiffly outstretched over Wenssler’s head, then released it. It hung there, as though suspended by wires.
“Catatonia,” Honor said softly.
“Yes,” the girl agreed, wiping at her tears.
“Is living death,” Singh declared in a hushed voice. He spun about and quickly left the lab.
“We’ve lost,” Barbara said mournfully. She became suddenly galvanized, leaping to her feet. “Come on, help me,” she said to Honor, tugging at Wenssler’s curiously lethargic mass. “We must get him out of here! Right away!’’
Honor’s heart was thudding in his chest. He did not know why. He knew only that suddenly that laboratory had taken on an ominous atmosphere. He pushed the girl aside and dragged what was left of Professor Curt Wenssler out of there.
4: Beyond Sex
Honor made the necessary telephone calls and cleared the way for Professor Wenssler to be admitted to the Bethesda Medical Center, and under special security arrangements. They had carried Wenssler down to the station wagon and made him comfortable on the rear deck; a worried and nervous Singh was chauffeuring him in to Washington, where he would be met and escorted on to Bethesda.
Honor and the girl went to the house on the knoll. She had quickly gained control over her emotions, busying herself in the kitchen with a coffee pot and a pan of scrambled eggs. Honor scouted the interior layout of the house, finding it adequately supplied with city conveniences and gadgetry, sumptuously appointed, and far too large for the average American family. Built along the contour of the knoll, it sported three levels, counting the basement which was only half-finished into a huge recreation room complete with billiard table and bar. The main level housed kitchen and dining facilities, utility room, library-den, and a fully equipped office. Five bedrooms and a sitting room were on the upper level. Honor snooped and found that three of the bedrooms showed signs of tenancy. Male clothing, large like Wenssler, was in one room; smaller stuff, Singh-size, in another. Barbara’s room was obviously feminine, frilly, with a large rag doll seated in the middle of the bed. He went on back downstairs and seated himself in the breakfast nook just as Barbara was dishing up the eggs.
They ate in silence, Barbara staring stonily at her plate, Honor lost in mental gymnastics. He finished the eggs, tasted the coffee, lit a cigarette, and tossed the pack to her side of the table. She wrinkled her nose, smiled wanly, and said, “You shouldn’t. Cigarettes kill.”
“Lots of things kill,” Honor grunted. “Anything wrong with choosing your own death?”
“Sometimes we lose that choice,” she replied, her eyes wistful.
“Like Wenssler?”
She nodded. “Like Wenssler.”
“What’s been going on out here, Barbara?” Honor exhaled a cloud of smoke and added. “Which brings up another question. Why out here? Fifty miles from Atlantic?”
“Curt insisted upon isolating the lab,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“Oh, it’s Curt, eh?”
“Certainly it’s Curt. Would you prefer Uncle Curt? I’ve known
him all my life. He and my father were friends.”
“Your father still living?”
She shook her head in an abrupt negative. “Died five years ago, in the same accident that killed Katy Wenssler, Curt’s wife. Automobile. Curt was driving. He has baby-tended me ever since. Mother died when I was three.”
“Why did Wenssler want the lab way out here in the sticks? How does that blue car run with no ignition system? What is all that weird gear in the lab? Who is Singh? What sort of oddball stuff have you people been poking into? What caused Wenssler to flip his skull?”
Barbara was staring at him with a tight little frown. “You still don't know?”
He grinned and shook his head. “Of course not. How would I know. You haven’t told me a damn thing yet.”
Barbara tossed her head and said, almost angrily, “You’re playing games with me.”
Honor’s grin faded. “The hell I am,” he said, making it sound like a question. “Games, yes, I go along with that. But the joke has all been on me, so far.”
Barbara’s face reflected her puzzlement. “But Curt was certain that you ... you ...
“I what?” Honor growled.
“Well I... you know it would have been impossible for me to do anything behind his back. I had decided to go to Washington, and of course he discovered my intentions. And he ... he gave me his blessings and . . . said . . . that I would find the . . .” Her eyes dropped and she finished lamely, “... the one.”
“The one what?”
“The one . . . to . . . help. He said I would find you, that it was written.”
“Written in what?”
“You really don’t understand?”
Honor solemnly shook his head. “I don’t understand any of it,” he assured her.
“But I... I felt your mind cross.”
Honor’s hairs were beginning to lift again. “You felt my mind cross what?” he asked in a strained voice.
“In Mr. Clinton’s office. When you picked up the security folder with my name on it. I felt your mind cross.” She was staring at him in an almost pleading manner.
Honor shifted his gaze to the glowing tip of the cigarette. “Yeah, okay,” he replied softly. “So something queer did happen back there. I knew what was in that folder the instant I touched it. But that’s the least understandable part of all.” He lifted his eyes in time to see a warm smile flooding her face. His hairs continued stiffening. “What’s it all about, Barb?”
“This was your first such experience?” she asked breathlessly.
He nodded his head. “And I hope the last.”
“Oh no, not the last. That was merely awakening. The development will come quickly now.”
Honor didn’t like the sound of it. He shifted into another track. “What’s .the secret of the blue car?” he asked quickly.
“I honestly don’t know. Curt does that. He would never tell me how.”
Honor accepted the answer for the moment. “And Singh?”
“Curt brought him back from India several years ago. He was supposed to be an adept. Now he—”
“Wait. Adept at what?”
“It’s a term applied to the Hindus who have mastered the concept of mind over matter. Singh was very helpful at first, but Curt very rapidly surpassed everything Singh could teach him. Now Singh is a sort of general handyman. He—”
“You still haven’t said why you’re buried out here in the country.”
Wrinkling her nose, she replied, “We’re not buried. The campus is only an hour’s drive. The controls which Curt insisted upon couldn’t be met on campus. This is a very delicate program, you can understand that, and—”
No, I can’t understand that, Barb, because I don’t know what the damn program is. Even after studying our files half of last night, I have little more than a glimmer. In fact, I just can’t believe that our government would subsidize something like this, on the strength of the information in our files. And believe me, I have access to—”
“Well they did,” she said emphatically, interrupting his growing blustering. “And I can tell you why they did. What if a foreign power were to develop this capability before we could get a—”
“Now wait, dammit,” Honor said. “Who’s going to take over now that Wenssler’s out of the picture?”
The girl’s eyes flipped wide. “Oh, I ... I hadn’t thought of ...”
“You mean there isn’t anyone else?” Honor asked incredulously.
She shook her head in thoughtful misery. “Not since Dr. Gibson’s collapse, two months ago.”
Honor was getting inwardly lathered. “You mean to say that you’ve got all that junk out there in the barn, all those glass cages and a million bucks worth of . . . and just you and Wenssler to play with it?”
The girl’s defenses slipped into place, faced by Honor’s wrath. Her voice was cool and controlled as she said, “We started with a full-scale experimental project. It was Professor Wenssler, Dr. Gibson, myself, and two other research assistants. And 15 student volunteers. Curt had been working out the details of this program since his return from a visit to India, several years ago. As soon as he got the funds we started right in, full scale. And then ... some of the students began . . . well, exhibiting undesirable characteristics. Curt dismissed them immediately. He and Dr. Gibson began a review of the data. They began experimenting alone. The other two research assistants quit. I believe they became frightened. Then . . . Dr. Gibson suffered his collapse. Over-work, we thought then, but he still doesn’t know his own name half the time. And then, lately, the strange behavior by Curt th-that I told you about yesterday.” Her eyes were beginning to water, the lips tremble. Stony-faced, Honor watched and listened. She paused briefly to dab at her eyes with a napkin, then continued. “Singh has been flapping around like an excited hen ever since Dr. Gibson left. He’s ... I believe he’s devoted to Curt, but strongly disapproves of the directions the research has taken. He seems to think that we are toying with the very foundations of the universe.”
Honor was wondering about Singh. “A guy that young,” he said musingly, “ . . . how is it that he’s a . . what did you call him? An Adept?”
She nodded. “He isn’t so young. Just shows what mind can do to matter. Singh is 64.”
Honor’s jaw dropped. “He isn’t a day over 25!” he declared.
Barbara shook her head adamantly. “He is 64. You should have been there when we were trying to get his visa. They didn’t believe it either.”
Honor sighed wearily. “Okay,” he said resignedly. “Just exactly now, Barb, in eighth-grade words, what is PPS?”
She stared at him for a thoughtful moment. “Psychic Power Sources,” she slowly replied. “It’s an outgrowth of the work started by the Rhine Foundation many years ago. But that was ground-level stuff. Curt has taken it on through the so-called occult sciences, the metaphysics of the East, and added a lot of his own discoveries. We spent a year in India. Curt taught at a university there to finance the Eastern research.” She smiled sadly. “Wasn’t exactly a lost year for me, either. I did some, work translating ancient Sanskrit writings and worked it into a thesis which won this fellowship for me.” Her eyes fastened onto Honor’s. “We saw some amazing things over there. Patrick. That really represented the beginning for Curt, even though he’d already devoted a lifetime to, first, ESP . . and then to metaphysics. I know that it was there that he first started using the term Psychic Power Sources.”
Honor sniffed and reached for another cigarette.
“He’s a scientist, you know,” Barbara went on. “Any scientist who is worth the powder to blow him up, once confronted with seemingly inexplicable phenomena, is going to start looking for the answers. But ... well ... it has become ... like ... an obsession, for Curt.” Her eyes raked Honor’s face and she took a deep breath, the delectably unfettered chest heaving against the thin fabric of the shirt. Honor’s eyes were drawn like magnets to the darkened circles of delicate areolae and suggestively-pee
king nipples. She colored slightly and crossed her arms in front of her. “It uh ... there seems to be uh . . . sexual considerations.”
Honor’s eyes crackled. “You can say that again,” he agreed.
Her eyes fled to the far wall. “I didn’t mean ... what I mean ...”
“There are sexual considerations,” Honor prompted her, grinning.
“I’m speaking of the work,” she said, coloring more noticeably. “Curt told me that it ... well ... he’s sort of ... past his prime, you know ... and besides, we’re like family.”
“What are you trying to tell me?” Honor asked, suddenly hyper-interested.
Barbara’s face was now a furious red. She uncrossed, then recrossed, her arms and leaned forward against the table. “Curt thinks that the safest ... route ... to the psychic source ... is through ... sex ... the sex act, I mean.”
“And this is how you assist—”
“Of course not!” she cried. “I told you, we’re like family. B-but if he could have started ... all this ... thirty, or even twenty, years ago, he feels ... or he felt ... that he could have made immense strides that are now ... denied him ... because of ... physical limitations.”
“Uh-huh.” Honor was watching her skeptically. Her eyes were still wandering. “You’re already speaking of him in the past-tense,” he observed softly.
“It’s entirely appropriate,” she said, sighing. “That ... that body we took out of here ... that’s not Curt Wenssler. Curt is ... elsewhere.”
Honor’s eyes narrowed. “Elsewhere where!”
“I-I can’t say. B-but, I believe sex could have saved him.”
“I see.” He did not see. If it was a romantic pitch, it was certainly the most outlandish Honor had ever heard—and he’d heard a few. “You still have not told me what PPS actually is,” he reminded her.
“You were using it, yesterday, when you crossed me,” she told him. Her discomfiture was dissolving, the eyes flashed to his, and she said, “It was not a romantic pitch!”
Honor’s jaw dropped again. “Huh?”
“That’s PPS,” she declared, almost laughing.
Don Pendleton's Science Fiction Collection, 3 Books Box Set, (The Guns of Terra 10; The Godmakers; The Olympians) Page 19