INTERVENTION

by May, Julian; Dikty, Ted

  "Yes."

  Jamie spoke once again to the BBC man who had read Nigel's results aloud: "Sir, will you please select a colleague in your immediate vicinity to write our sample message for Alana?"

  "Right," said the Beeb technician. "How about this Swiss bloke over here with the Hasselblad?"

  There was a brief wrangle when the Swiss seemed reluctant to cooperate, apparently perturbed when camera lenses were aimed in his direction by the TV crews of several dozen nations.

  Fabian Finster felt the skin along his spine tingle with the same uneasy premonition he had experienced earlier. He whispered to the KGB agent, "You know anything about that guy? Otto Maurer, his badge says, photographer for the Neue Zürcher Zeitung ... but I have reasons to doubt that he's legit."

  "He would not have been admitted without a computerized credential check. He is surely a bona fide journalist. As legitimate as you or I."

  "Idi v zhopu," scoffed The Fabulous Finster. The thunderstruck Russian gaped at him.

  Meanwhile, the Swiss had evidently complied with the request to pen a brief message. Jamie MacGregor was saying, "Thank you, Herr Maurer. Now if you will place the sheet of paper on the floor, face down. None of the people around you have seen what you've written?...Good. You must try not to think of it, either. EE seems to be an ultrasense quite distinct from telepathy. It also seems inconsequential what position the target object may be in, or what barriers of matter may lie between the target and the percipient. What we seek to demonstrate is that EE makes it possible for trained persons to remotely view virtually anything in any part of the world."

  A wave of incredulous exclamations swept the hall. Somebody called out, "But if that's true, it means—"

  "Please!" Jamie held up his hand again. "Let us have the demonstration first, then the questions."

  "I have already read the paper," came the amplified voice of Alana Shaunavon. Her young face was enormous on the screen, the brilliant green eyes fixed, wide open, blinking slowly. "He has written a verse in German:

  Die Gedanken sind frei,

  Wer kann sie erraten?

  Sie fliegen vorbei

  Wie nächtliche Schatten.

  Kein Mensch kann sie wissen,

  Kein Jäger erschiessen.

  Es bleibet dabei: die Gedanken sind frei.

  I can translate it rather freely : 'Thoughts are free, who can discover them? They fly past like shadows of the night. No one can know them, no hunter can shoot them down. When all's said and done, thoughts—' My God, look out! His camera! It's a weapon!"

  A wild fracas broke out on the floor and there were shouts as the Swiss attempted vainly to rush away. But too many bodies and too much equipment hemmed him in and he went down, tackled by two intrepid Canadian Broadcasting Corporation telecasters. The lethal Hasselblad was wrestled away and smashed by a soundman of the Fuji Network. Plainclothes police officers materialized and camera crews leapt about balletically recording the capture.

  As Maurer was being hauled away, he screamed, "Fools! Crétins! Er hat Sie alles beschissen! Don't you know what's going on here? What this MacGregor has done? Um Gottes Willen ... Pandora's box ... ruin ... chaos ... anarchy ... Weltgetümmel ..."

  The uproar subsided slowly. Jamie spoke into his microphone and the screen was wiped clear of the New Zealand transmission. There was a burst of video clutter and then the simple advisory:

  OVERSEAS TELEPHONE MESSAGE READY

  AUDIO SIGNAL ONLY

  "Jamie? Jamie? I could not wait!" A woman's voice, speaking heavily accented English, came through a hiss of interference. "I saw everything—but then I became so excited that I lost the sight! Tell me—is everything all right?"

  The confusion subsided and the attention of the crowd of newspeople was drawn once again to the platform. Jamie MacGregor tugged at one of his Dundreary cheek-whiskers. His expression was resigned. "All is quite well for the moment, lass. But I think this wee carfuffle's only the beginning of what we'll be seeing anon."

  "Yes, that's true ... Are you ready for me to speak? I must not waste any time. We may be cut off at any moment if my little bypass of the monitored circuitry is traced."

  Jamie said, "Just wait for a moment, while I ask our Edinburgh University communications people to show the journalists in our audience where this telephone call is coming from."

  The loudspeakers trilled a brief electronic aria and the video display printed an advisory:

  ORIGINATING: 68-23-79 ALMA-ATA USSR

  VIA SKS-8 + EUS-02 GTE/BT 4-3

  The female voice said, "I am Tamara Petrovna Sakhvadze, Deputy Director of the Institute for Bioenergetic Studies at Kazakh State University, and a member of the Kazakh Academy of Sciences."

  "Nevozmozhno!" A pained whisper escaped the false Hannula. Others in the lecture theatre seemed equally unbelieving and they sprang to their feet shouting questions.

  "Silence!" Jamie roared. Then he spoke gently into the microphone. "Tell us why you've joined the demonstration today, Tamara Petrovna."

  "I am a person who loves my country and its people. I am also a scientist, dedicated to discovering truth. And finally, I am the mother of three small children whose minds are just beginning to flower. I have worked in the field of parapsychology since 1968, when I was only a young child. My late husband, Dr. Yuri Gawrys, was my close associate. Like Jamie MacGregor, I have specialized in the phenomenon of excorporeal excursion, along with clairvoyance and certain other metafacuities. On several occasions, I have ... met with Jamie and with certain other scientists in other parts of the world. When Jamie told me he was determined to demonstrate EE, I agreed with his decision. The work we are doing here in Alma-Ata falls under the highest security classification, and this telephone call is a technical violation of Soviet law. And yet I make it with the full consent of every one of my colleagues here at the Institute, in the interests of all humanity.

  "You people, listening to my words being beamed to you via many satellites, try to understand! You Americans, especially, listen! The whole world will benefit from what we do today. To my fellow citizens of the Soviet Union who hear me, I say: Eto novoye otkrytiye prinesyot polzu vsyemu chelovyechestvu! An extraordinary door is opening, and from behind it shines a light that does away with all state secrets. There can be no more clandestine weapons research, no surprise military actions, no first-strike capability. The people of the Soviet Union need no longer fear attack by the USA, and Americans need no longer fear us. We can now work to resolve our differences without the threat of accidental or deliberate nuclear war. Our children can look into the future with hope again. My children can ... and Jamie's ... and yours."

  The voice paused, and the immediate response of those listening was like the upsurge of a tremendous rising wind, wordless, laden with emotional energy. But before the sound wave could crest, Jamie cried out, "Wait! Let her finish!"

  She said, "I was there with you, a witness to one man's despair. I saw his violent reaction when he realized what changes we must expect when the higher mind-powers come into common use. He was afraid. He warned of Pandora's box, and perhaps his warning is justified. 'Die Gedanken sind frei' ... thoughts are free, but with freedom comes responsibility. There will be great difficulties to overcome if we are not to exchange one kind of danger for another. But the door is opened and nothing can close it! A new age of the mind has dawned on our planet and all of us must enter into it. We must face this terrible new enlightenment courageously, together. As a first step ... I invite you, my dear Jamie, and all of the scientists in the world who study the higher mind-powers to come to a meeting—the First Congress on Metapsychology. I invite the journalists of the world also. Come to Alma-Ata next year, in September when the fragrance of ripening apples fills our lovely city. Come and let us take the first step toward mir miru—a world at peace."

  "Tamara, my lass, we'll be there," said Jamie MacGregor. Then he bowed his head to the tumult of shouting that erupted in the theatre and waited patiently until ord
er was restored and he could begin answering the questions.

  ***

  After the press conference was long over, two foreigners with press ID badges still pinned to their raincoats sat together in Greyfriars Bobby's Bar, making steady inroads on a bottle of the Macallen. The astonishing news had spread like wildfire and the place was packed, rocking with song and jollification as students and other celebrators marked the arrival of the new age of the mind with an impromptu ceilidh that showed signs of escalating into a riot.

  "I never knew 'Comin' Through the Rye' had words like that." The Fabulous Finster was slightly scandalized.

  "Hah," said the KGB man. "You should hear the unexpurgated version of 'For A' That.' Or 'Duncan Gray.' Or 'Green Grow the Rashes, O!' Yes, the Scottish hero poet, Robert Burns, wrote very earthy songs. We are very fond of him in my country. He was truly of the proletariat." He brought his glass down onto the tiny table with a thud and caroled in a raspy basso:

  "Green grow the rashes, O!

  Green grow the rashes, O!

  The lassies they hae wimble-bores,

  The widows they hae gashes, O!"

  The patrons gave a yell of approval. Somebody with an accordion tried to drag the Russian from his seat; but he shook his head violently, red-rimmed eyes gone wide, and croaked, "No! I will not sing! I cannot sing!"

  Nobody took it amiss. Usquebalian dejection is no novelty in an Edinburgh pub. The musical gilravagers directed their attention elsewhere and Finster refilled his companion's glass. "Drink up, Sergei, old hoss. I know why you're feeling low. To tell the truth, I'm a trifle shook-up myself. Talk about a bombshell! My Boss back home'll be farting flames. Yours, too, I betcha."

  The Russian agent tossed down the dram and began to pour another. "You are talking nonsense. And my name is Sami, not Sergei."

  Finster shrugged. He reached out, clamping the other man's hand tightly to the bottle, and leaned very close. His face was so friendly, so droll. With that gap between the large front teeth, the face seemed like that of a saucy squirrel in a cartoon show for children. Who could feel threatened by a squirrel?

  "Tell me honestly, Sergei. Do you think that dame in Alma-Ata will be able to pull it off? The open-door psychic congress? Or has she bought herself and her bunch a quick ticket to the Gulag?"

  It was not a comical squirrel asking such questions. It was not even a reporter from Seattle, U.S.A. Who was it? Why was it so necessary to answer this funny little man?

  "She was devilishly clever ... Deputy Director Sakhvadze ... just like a damned Georgian ... knowing our countries still officially embrace détente ... and we must uphold noble world-image ... next year Diamond Jubilee Revolution!...Sakhvadze all but confesses she and her cohorts are involved in Mind Wars research ... just as your scientists are also, belka!...What a joke on both our countries ... we must fulfill the world's expectations of us now, like it or not ... Die Gedanken sind frei und wir stehen bis zum Hals in der Scheisse..."

  The squirrel did not seem willing to believe this. "Do you mean your government is going to let her get away with it?"

  The tipsy KGB man laughed, then blew his nose resoundingly. Finster's coercion was no longer needed. "Little squirrel, she has already got away with it. In that lecture hall were perhaps forty television cameras, trained on MacGregor and his video screen. Sakhvadze's words and their origination were broadcast live to our people as well as to the rest of the world. We cannot claim her message was a hoax because its source in Alma-Ata can be verified easily by the computers of British Telecom. Doubtless this verification will also be trumpeted to the world via the free satellite transmissions ... Oh, yes! The lovely Tamara Petrovna has caught both the Soviet and American governments by the balls, and she is on a downhill slide. The Cold War is over, thanks to the Scottish Professor. You and I are washed up, Amerikanskiy. You are not CIA—but whatever you are, you are finished. The soul-travelers and the mind readers will expose the most closely guarded secrets of our two nations as easily as cracking hazelnuts. There is nothing left for us but to become friends ... just as Robert Burns wished. Yes, little squirrel! The proletarian poet of Scotland was a great prophet! Do you know what he said?

  For a' that, and a' that,

  It's comin' yet, for a' that!

  That man and man the world o'er

  Shall brothers be for a' that."

  "Sure," Finster agreed, smiling. "Sure, Sergei. One for all, and all for one. At least until we get rid of our mutual enemies."

  19

  FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ROGATIEN REMILLARD

  WHEN THE LIVE telecast from Edinburgh ended at 7:00 A.M. Eastern Time I was in a state of near-mortal funk. I downed a neat tumblerful of Canadian Club sitting there in my armchair in front of the blank television screen while my brain kept replaying that scene of the crazed Swiss photographer screeching his Cassandra warning as the Scottish police hauled him away.

  Pandora's box! Oh, yes, indeed. It was opening wide to an amazed and fascinated world, and what was inside was us.

  I had to call Denis. I told myself it was to find out what plans he and his people had. On my first three tries, his home phone was busy; then I only got his answering machine. I called the lab and reached Glenn Dalembert, who had come in early to make a videotape of the Scottish demonstration.

  "Yeah, I got detailed for the scut-work while everybody else watched the big show in comfort at home. This afternoon we'll do a replay for the full Medical School faculty, together with learned commentary by yours truly and homegrown EE talent displays by Colette and Tucker. With Denis gone, I'll be in charge. Want a freebie ticket?"

  "Denis has gone where?" I demanded.

  "Down to West Lebanon. They're sending an Air Force chopper to shuttle him to Burlington International where the Washington flight will be held for him—"

  I cut Glenn off. "They! D'you mean those Mind Wars bastards roped Denis in after all?"

  My nephew's associate gave a strained laugh. "Oh, no. Nothing so picayune as the Army or the CIA this time. The President himself called Denis at home right after the telecast. Seems he read the book and was very impressed, and now he's pegged Denis as the guy most likely to give him the straight poop about the authenticity of MacGregor's blockbuster."

  "Oh, shit," I groaned. My nephew—the Kissinger of metapsychic realpolitik! He would be asked to help recruit American operants for MacGregor's noble scheme. He would certainly reveal his own operancy. Or would he?

  Glenn had turned solicitous. "Roger, is there something wrong?"

  "Everything's wrong."

  "Listen—come to the faculty meeting and we'll talk. Better yet, join Colette and me for lunch—"

  "No thanks. You folks have a good time at the show-and-tell. I'll be just fine." I hung up, then took the phone off the hook.

  Denis. He was the only one who could help. I could try to reach him at the airport by telephone ... but that was no good. I wouldn't be able to say what was wrong ...

  Farspeak him, then. Make the appeal mind-to-mind.

  I slouched over to the bedroom window and stood there in my pajamas and grubby old terry-cloth robe trying to marshal my booze-addled wits. It was not going to be easy to attract Denis's attention with the all-important telepathic "hail." My mind was weakened and Denis would surely be preoccupied with the enormity of MacGregor's gamble and by the upcoming Oval Office meeting. Furthermore, the bulk of Crafts Hill lay between me and the West Lebanon Regional Airport, four miles south of Hanover. I would have to muster up sufficient strength to "flow" my mental shout around the hill and puncture my nephew's brown study. Once alerted, he would have no difficulty tuning in to my puny thought-beam.

  But how was I going to manage that initial hail?

  An idea slowly formed. One of my yogic exercises featured a spiral focusing of body energies spinning centripetally in toward the heart, which certain psychic authorities proposed as the vital center of the modern human being. This so-called in-spiraling chakra meditation had tended
to promote feelings of comfort and power even in my beleaguered soul. I could do it. The reverse form of the exercise, the out-spiral, had carried a cautionary note for novices. It was alleged to have more drastic effects in the focusing of energies and was more difficult to control. Since additional psychic trauma was the last thing I had needed during the awful summer and fall, up until now I had given this particular form of meditation a firm miss. But it might just offer me my best shot at reaching Denis.

  I assumed the appropriate posture, one I had dubbed "Leonardo's X-Man," still standing there at the window. I closed my eyes, shielded myself from external stimuli as best I could, and concentrated on the region of my heart. Far more than a mere blood-pump, the heart is also a gland whose secretions help in the regulation of the entire body. I tried to visualize it as the focus of my being, a receptacle of life-force and love. When there was a distinct knot of warmth behind my lower breastbone, I coaxed it out to begin a slow, tight, flattened curve. It moved to the left and downward, traversing my solar plexus. Gaining strength and speed, it spiraled smoothly up to the branching of the trachea and the thymal remnant, then arced left within the body's frontal plane. It dove down through my spleen, illuminated the suprarenals, and swung back up toward the thyroid in my throat—for the first time passing outside my body as the spiral widened. A long curve brought the still-meager ball of energy to the root of my spine, where lay the chakra that yogic tradition deemed one of the most vital. I felt a great influx of fresh power enlarge and accelerate the ball. It swung upward, seemed to blaze behind my closed eyes, and began its final swift circuit through the elbow of my extended left arm, through my left and right knees, through my right elbow. I was waiting as it flew toward the crown of my head and branded it with the impress of a single mental signature, adding a dollop of heavenly appeal as a sop to the faith of my fathers. Then I hurled it away from me, that cri de coeur véritable: