INTERVENTION

by May, Julian; Dikty, Ted

  Ra'edroo and the Poltroyan, Trosi, were completely absorbed in the scene. The human leader, a female of commanding aspect, had directed members of the circle to join hands. She said:

  "Fellow Aetherians, the time has come. Empty your minds of all earthly thought. Prepare to divorce yourselves from your fleshy bodies and take on the astromental configuration. Banish all physical discomfort. Close your eyes. Shut out all sounds except that of my voice. Feel nothing but the Presence of the Universe. Join with me as I call to it. Let our thoughts arise with a single voice. Call out! The Universe sees us and loves us. It is alive with powerful and friendly spirits who are watching us even at this moment. If we only have faith and strength of will, these extraterrestrial beings will answer when we call. They will come and save our world from the death that threatens us. Call out! Bid the otherworld creatures come! Let them know they are welcome. Together, now, with me..."

  Come.

  "Why, she's a borderline suboperant!" Ra'edroo exclaimed. "The others are hopelessly latent, but what meager faculties they can project are actually in a loose mind-meld with the leader. How extremely interesting!"

  Come.

  Trosi was radiant. "The dear things—what a splendid effort." His voice broke with compassion. "What a pity that the subsidiary humans are so inferior in mind to the leader."

  Thula'ekoo said, "All humans possess latent metafaculties to a greater or lesser degree. In this case, only the leader has the projective farspeech capacity to penetrate the ionosphere. At this distance, none but the Krondaku and the Poltroyans can detect the metapsychic emanations of the subordinates in the meld."

  "Thanks be to Sacred Truth and Beauty," muttered the Simb.

  "I agree with Trosi," offered Ra'edroo, "that the effort of this little group is most affecting, a foreshadowing of the metaconcerted request that must take place before Intervention."

  COME.

  "Hah!" scoffed the Simb. "A futile mockery of such an effort, rather. One might as well compare a chorus of chirping insects to a symphonic ensemble. These poor things are one of a handful of cranks who periodically attempt to make mental contact with exotic beings—what they so quaintly call extraterrestrials. They are only unique in having a meagerly talented latent as their leader, which is about what one might expect in New Hampshire."

  COME!

  "Again I detect overtones of satire in your remark, colleague," Ra'edroo said.

  "Oh, the place is crawling with latents. Even imperfect operants. It's one of the irruptive metapsychic nuclei of the planet. This world's Mind isn't evolving overall, but breaking out in spots. Quite grotesque. Makes it devilish hard for the immatures. It's a wonder any of them reach adulthood sane."

  COME!

  The sentimental Gi clapped a hand over its central heart. Its intromittent organ glowed crimson in empathetic passion. "Oh, feel the goodwill in the female entity's cry, citizens. The yearning! One longs so to console her."

  Come come come.

  "Hold your honey, colleague," the Simb jeered, "until you've traveled down below the planet's ionic shell as we Simbiari have, and experienced the full unsavoriness of its puny knots of consciousness—the selfishness, the irrational suspicion separating one nation from another, the perverted male sex-dynamic that keeps them endlessly at war."

  "What you say may be true, Salishiss," little Trosi said, "but the fact remains that these people have the greatest metapsychic potential in the galaxy, according to the Lylmik."

  "The Lylmik tell us a lot of things they never bother to prove," grumped the Simb. "I'm no magnate of the Concilium, only a lowly number-cruncher. But my trade gives me a certain insight into social dynamics. Left to itself, this world Mind would inevitably destroy itself."

  Come. Please come.

  "So far humans have refrained from using atomic weapons in battle," DriDri Vuvl noted, "even though they've had them for thirty years. They keep making more and bigger weapons, but they don't use them. It seems to be a sort of threat-display mechanism."

  "Oh, yes?" Salishiss gesticulated at the view-screen. "What do you think that group on the mountain is so worked up about? They're convinced that only a galactic civilization can rescue their world from atomic suicide. That's why they call out to us in this pathetic fashion. Of course, they have no conception of what Intervention would really mean, with the vast majority of Earth's population still metapsychically latent and socially infantile. Why, we'd have to occupy the planet and play nanny to it for more than a hundred orbits until its Mind matured—and the humans would oppose our proctorship almost every step of the way. The very thought of it makes me cringe."

  The Krondak officer, Thula'ekoo, said, "The picture is by no means as bleak as you paint it, Salishiss. Large numbers of Earthlings already experience feelings of universal fellowship, the precursor to true coadunation. And the Lylmik profess to be gratified by the accelerating mental evolution."

  "And who would dare question the ineffable judgment of the oldest and wisest race in the galaxy?" the Simb inquired archly. "Those architects of the Milieu, those masters of absent-minded subtlety? Hard luck for the rest of us that Lylmik reasoning is sometimes just as ethereal as their bodies..."

  Come!

  "The human leader is weakening," said Ra'edroo. "It must be very stressful on that cold mountaintop for such high-metabolism creatures."

  "So few in the little group now." DriDri Vuvl shook its ruff of filoplumage sadly. "They may not show up at all next Midsummer Day."

  Come oh come.

  Trosi the Poltroyan leaked compassion from every neuron. "If only we could encourage them—let them know that we're out here, and we really do care."

  Great Thula'ekoo responded with implacable authority. "Even if every human being now living on Earth called out to us, we could not answer. It would violate the scheme of the Concilium."

  "Just some tiny gesture," Trosi begged. "Something that wouldn't warp the probability lattices. Love's Oath—we do enough manipulation of them, what with the mental analyses and the technical experiments and the flybys. How about a simple gesture of friendliness for a change?"

  "Statute Blue-4-001," Ra'edroo said respectfully to her superior, "gives the officer of the watch certain discretionary powers. Thou and I, Umk'ai, have the expertise to direct a most delicate farspeech beam in metaconcert."

  The circle of humans still held hands and had their faces raised to the clouded sky. Their attempt at mental synergy was crumbling. The leader urged them to one last effort.

  Come!

  Opaque membranes flicked over the accessory eyeballs of Thula'ekoo. His primary optics glowed an intense blue and seemed to suck in the willing psyches of his fellow Krondaku, the eager Poltroyan, and the Gi. After a nanosecond's hesitation, the Simb Salishiss blended into the fivefold brain, and it broadcast a mental chord that blended tranquillity with patience—and the merest hint of Unity:

  Persevere.

  For just an instant, the uplifted human faces were transfigured. Then the spell was broken and the twenty-three startled people turned to each other with whispers. The female leader buried her head in her arms. Several others crowded around her anxiously, touching her. She finally looked up, not seeing her companions, lifted an arm to the sky, and smiled.

  Then she started off down the Star Lake Trail to the Madison Huts. The others came straggling after.

  19

  BRETTON WOODS, NEW HAMPSHIRE, EARTH

  25 JUNE 1974

  "WAKE UP, DENIS. We're here."

  The Volkswagen Beetle slowed for the left turn and swung into the hotel entrance road. The seven-year-old boy was immediately alert, straining against his seat belt to see over the dashboard of the car. Ahead of them to the east was a majestic panorama, several hundred acres of rolling lawn fronting a wooded rise that hid a tantalizing glimpse of white and red. Beyond this, a vast slope that stretched almost from horizon to horizon culminated in a mountain rampart, dark with timber in the middle reaches and a gleaming p
ewter along bare summit peaks that reflected the early-morning sun. This was the Presidential Range of the White Mountains. Even though it had been ground down by ice-age glaciers, it was still the highest part of northeastern North America.

  The child cried: Wherehotel? Wherecograilway? Look thatmountain SNOW top in June!

  That's Mount Washington. The one we're riding to top of today.

  Studied allmountain names let's see: JeffersonClayWashington-MonroeFranklinEisenhowerClinton north/south. (Notall presidents!) Why Eisenhower so dinky UncleRogi?

  He got his mountain last and beggars can't be chosers. State changed name MountPleasant to Eisenhower. Once tried change name MountClinton to MountPierce honor only president born NewHampshire. Try never amounted to much. Neither did PresidentPierce. People still call mountain Clinton.

  Laughter. Why thesemountains look bigger from here than from Berlin? What that funnystreak MountWashington? When we see yourHOTEL?

  Rogi laughed out loud. "Take it easy. You've got three whole days to ask questions. Batege! I'd nearly forgotten what a frantic little quiz-kid you are."

  "You haven't forgotten at all." The child was complacent. "I see inside your mind how much you missed me. And I missed you, too."

  The car slowed beside a guard kiosk painted a spotless white, decorated with window boxes of scarlet petunias. The old watchman stuck his head out. "Morning, Roger. Got your nevvy here all safe and sound, I see. Plenty time yet for breakfast."

  "Morning, Norm. Yup—give him a treat before we go up the cog. Say hi to Mr. Redmond, Denis."

  "Hello, Mr. Redmond." Why hecallyou ROGER UncleRogi?

  "See you, Norm." Because that myname here: Roger Remillard. Bettername man works bighotel easier people remember&pronounce than Rogatien. (And Rogi sounds naughty.)

  Appreciative mirth.

  The car swung around a long curve and the famous old White Mountain Resort Hotel came into view. At first it looked as though it must be a toy castle, or a chateau made from white spun sugar with the glistening roofs of the towers and wings colored like cherry jam. The hotel had more tiny windows than you could count, and little flags flying, and a candy-spill of flower gardens amidst miniature trees in front. The actual size of the place only gradually became evident as the driveway seemed to stretch on and on, with the hotel growing steadily larger until it blotted out the mountain vista entirely. The five-storey building was made of white stuccoed wood. It had a two-tiered colonnaded verandah curving from the central porte-cochere all around the entire south wing.

  "It's a palace," exclaimed the overawed boy. "Are you really the boss?"

  Rogi shook his head, laughing. "Hardly. I'm only the assistant convention manager." [Explanatory image.] "But I get to live here where I work, and I like this job much better than the one I had at the paper mill. It pays better, too."

  They drove past the grand main entrance, which was crowded with autos and tour buses and guests and bellmen scurrying to load and unload people's luggage, and pulled into the employees' parking lot behind a screen of tall shrubs. Denis insisted on carrying his small suitcase himself. They entered an annex building that housed resident staff members. A man dressed in a white jacket and bow tie hurried past them, greeting Rogi and mussing Denis's mousy brown hair.

  Rogi said, "That was Ron, one of the waiter captains. Just wait until you see the dining room here. There are two of them, but we'll eat in the biggest one where Ron works this morning." They climbed carpeted stairs.

  "You like it here a lot, don't you, Uncle Rogi." There was a tinge of dejection in the boy, imperfectly screened.

  "Yes. But I can come visit you in Berlin while you're home for the summer. It isn't even an hour's drive."

  "I know. Only..." UncleRogi I miss you. Miss mindspeech. Miss friendadult questionanswers fearcalming. Teachers at Brebeuf nice kids notbad but not same YOU.

  Comfort. Denis you know grownups must work sometimes goaway oldhome.

  Understand. But can't speak you through mountains down Concord school can't speak you from Berlin whileyou here either.

  There's your Maman & littlebrotherVictor to bespeak.

  Denis stopped at the top of the stairs. He averted his eyes, clumsily trying to conceal a dark emotional coloration. "Mom's changed since last fall. When I came home from school last week she could hardly mindspeak me at all anymore. She was like that when I went home at Easter, too, but I thought it was just because of the new babies. Now she—she just doesn't want to share her thoughts with me the way she used to. She kisses me and says she's busy and tells me to go play."

  "Your mother has a lot to do taking care of Jeanette and Laurette. Twin babies are a terrible handful unless you have older children as ready-made baby-sitters, the way Tante Lorraine had with your Papa and me ... Have you been able to mindspeak with your Papa?"

  "Not very much. I thought he'd be pleased at the way things worked out at the academy. My good grades, and the way I was auditing classes with the college kids, and how Father Ellsworth has been getting me parapsychology books and publications from the library at Brown University, and how I'm learning archery, and how to play the piano. But he wasn't much interested. He doesn't like me, you know. Not like he does Victor."

  The hallway was deserted and quiet. Rogi knelt down to face the boy. "Your father does love you, Denis. The thing is—Victor's only a little boy and he needs more attention right now."

  But Victordumfeerthanme! Weakfarspeech/farsight/farhearing/PK. (Strong coercion though.) And he fights and swipes things and mindpinches new babysisters awful when thinks nobody looking. Tried mindpinch me HA! myshield reflected pinch back him.

  "Victor is probably jealous of his new sisters. Maybe even jealous of you now that you're going to school. Four-year-olds are still pretty uncivilized. It takes time for them to learn right from wrong."

  "He already knows," Denis said darkly. "I can tell. He hurts the little twins anyway whenever their minds make telepathic noises that bug him. You know how little babies are."

  Rogi made a comical grimace. "I remember."

  "Jeanette and Laurette can't help being pests sometimes. But Victor doesn't seem to be any good at putting up a protective mental shield, so the baby-thoughts drive him crazy. I told Mom how he was tormenting the twins and she told him to stop—but there's really not much she can do about it."

  "I see." (Poor Sunny, retreating into fatalism and saying her beads and watching soap operas on television! Inside of a year she would be enceinte once again.)

  "I tried to explain to Papa why Victor shouldn't harass the babies. I told him it would discourage them from developing their own ultrafaculties—maybe even make them normal. He laughed."

  Rogi stood up, keeping a tight lid over his own thoughts. "I'll talk things over with your father when I take you back. Don't worry."

  Denis smiled at him. "I knew you'd help."

  "My room's right down here. Let's hurry. We want time for breakfast, and the shuttle bus to the cog is at ten." (And what can I say to Don to show him how he's poisoning his younger son and endangering his daughters and breaking the older boy's heart? The only time he opens to me is when he's drunk. His precious Victor can do no wrong.)

  They went into the small suite that was Rogi's apartment and left Denis's suitcase on the rolla way bed that had been brought in for his visit. The child inspected the premises gravely and admired the sweeping vista from the windows.

  "That's a view that costs the hotel guests at least two hundred dollars a day," Rogi told his nephew, "but I get it for free. Of course this place of mine is pretty small, and I have to walk up a lot of stairs. But I have a nice office over in the main part of the hotel with room for my books, and when I sit up here and watch the storms play around the mountains I have a show that beats anything on television."

  They went downstairs, crossed a courtyard, and entered the hotel's north wing through a side door. Denis's eyes popped at the sight of apparently endless corridors with pillars and chandelie
rs, ornate Edwardian furniture, potted palms, gilt-framed mirrors, and fireplaces—large enough for a boy to stand in—that now had bouquets of red and yellow peonies in the grates instead of flaming logs. They looked into a great ballroom with green velvet drapes and standing silver candlesticks as big as hat-trees. Two men ran polishing machines across a floor that looked shiny enough to ice-skate on. Rogi told Denis there would be a Midsummer Night Ball there that evening. Another salon, lush with ferns and tropical flowers, overlooked a golf course and the approach to Mount Washington.

  When they came at last to the dining room, Denis was struck dumb. It was fancier than any restaurant he had ever seen in his life. Ron, the captain who seated them, treated Denis like a grown man and called him Sir when he gave him a menu. There were weird things for breakfast like kippers and steak, and eight different ways of having eggs, and twelve varieties of fresh fruit including New Zealand gooseberries. The table was set with crystal and shining silver and monogrammed damask napery. There was a vase with a single mauve rose, so perfect in form and so outré in color that Denis had to touch it to be certain it was real. The sugar came in hard lumps wrapped in embossed gold paper. (Denis stole two.) Milk was served in a faceted goblet, sitting on its own small plate with a paper doily underneath. They ate eggs Benedict and had mini-croissants and strawberries Wilhelmine, and were served funny little cups of espresso, which Denis drank politely but didn't much care for.

  When they had finished, Denis sighed and said, "I expect you'll stay here forever."

  Rogi laughed and touched his lips with his napkin. "I'll tell you a secret. What I'd really like to do is save my money until I have enough to buy a little bookstore in a nice quiet college town. I could stay in a place like that forever."

  The check came. Rogi signed it and he and Denis stood to go. The boy said, "That doesn't sound very exciting—a bookstore."

  "I'm afraid I'm not a very exciting man, Denis. Most people aren't, you know. Movies and television shows and books are full of heroes, but they aren't too common in real life anymore."