Doctor Orient

by Frank Lauria

  “Mr. Simpson has a more ambitious use for his talents,” Susej said, “or do I presume?”

  Argyle decided on a wide, open grin. “Where did you come from?”

  Even though his actor’s body maintained its loose posture, thoughts were tumbling through his mind like laundry in a machine. He looked from Susej to Seth, and then to Addison, still stretched out on the couch. “Are you in the music business as well as the healing business?” he said evenly.

  “I’m interested in youth,” Susej said, coming closer, his voice heavy with an emotion Simpson couldn’t identify. “The young hold the most promise, and need the wisest counsel. I am interested in anything that will further the cause of the power I serve.” He was standing next to Argyle now, at the control board. He looked out through the glass at the swarm of children in the main room. “The young are exuberant and unafraid of change.”

  “And what is the power you serve?” Argyle asked softly.

  “You.” Susej turned. “You are the power I serve, Mr. Simpson, the power that is the birthright of every human being.” He smiled.

  Argyle felt a warm blanket settle over his muscles, easing the tension at the base of his neck.

  “I came at an opportune time, Mr. Simpson,” Susej continued. “Seth sometimes projects his own enthusiasms into the work of others. You have another, unique potential that I wish to speak to you about.” He lifted his hand and let it drift toward the chairs. “Would you mind talking now or shall we discuss at some other time?”

  “We can talk now.” Argyle moved across the room with Susej. The man gave him a feeling of complete confidence. His presence seemed to draw off conflicts, leaving him refreshingly secure. He had been right. There was another channel to light up. “You knew I was coming,” he said.

  The priest smiled. “Would I have been any use to you if I hadn’t known? The Bowl of Observance permits me access to certain people. Even unusual people such as yourself.”

  “There’s so much to be done,” Susej confided when they were seated. “Each of us is interdependent upon the other, a chain of pure energy girdling this planet. Can you imagine, Mr. Simpson, the possibilities, if every human being on earth could consciously link that energy with the rest of humanity?”

  Argyle could imagine. Susej sounded a lot like Orient in his thinking.

  “My life is devoted only to this purpose, to give every human being the power that is his birthright. And with your help, Mr. Simpson, it will be a reality. Seth has put together elements of persuasion that will make the task simple.” He looked fondly across the room at Seth, sitting hunched over the control board.

  “Time,” Seth called out. He put on a pair of earphones.

  Addison rose and began straightening her skirt. She smiled sleepily at them both and started across the room. There was a rush of sound when she opened the door. Then it was quiet as the three men watched her ease fluidly through the crowd to the platform. As she mounted the stage she was gowned in streamers of green light from spots all over the room. Then her body stiffened and she began to sing.

  They couldn’t hear the outside sounds in the control room, but the vibrational level seemed to intensify.

  Just Seth’s concentration, Argyle decided, but as he watched Addison use her body he knew that she was generating something else in that room.

  Susej’s voice broke the silence. “It is young creative minds like Seth’s and Addison’s that find ways to remove people’s fears and make them ready to receive the change of the Clear Power.”

  “Persuasion must be constantly supported,” Argyle said suddenly, remembering something Levi had once told him about hypnotism.

  “Exactly, Mr. Simpson, and it is within my power to affect immediate physical cures. And soon my representatives will be among the populace doing this same work of the Clear Power. Those we do not reach on a personal basis we will touch—and touch constantly—through the communication systems. The elements of support are perfect. Tangible, physical evidence, constantly available. And when the Clear Power is allowed to enter, there will be the unending ecstasy of release.”

  Argyle nodded. His brain was alive with plans.

  “Tell me, Mr. Simpson, why does your group withhold its precious secret from the world?” Susej asked, his eyes amused at Simpson’s startled reaction.

  “What do you mean?”

  “With the technique of telepathy man could become great. With the technique of telepathy and the Clear Power man could become greater than God,” Susej said fervently.

  Argyle understood completely. Not three generations from now when selective instruction would begin to have effect. Move now. Now. And we could hurl into the next phase. Orient was wrong about holding back on it.

  “And you could find your deepest wish gratified, Mr. Simpson,” Susej’s persuasive voice seemed closer. “You could easily find the way to unite Africa and lead your people to the fulfillment of their destiny. The great destiny of the African race as directed by you, Mr. Simpson. Truly it is a dream worthy of your talent.”

  Argyle didn’t question how Susej knew his most secret, and most precious, wish. His main button. It was there, out there. This man knew and understood.

  “The Clear Power will give you the key to that dream.” Susej’s voice seemed to be right inside his skull now. Argyle felt his consciousness envelop the voice.

  Suddenly the quiet in the room shattered. The grunt of Addison’s rough voice riding the amplified crest of a booming organ throbbed through the small room. Underneath, the contrapuntal squeals and yells of the kids forced his ears open as Addison’s sound intensified its thrust.

  He was there, right there in the full slide of the ride. And he could build enough momentum to roll right through history. He would own history.

  History.

  He tried to think.

  Addison’s voice crashed against his brain and inside Susej was whispering…

  History. He held on to the word.

  The sound was relentless, Susej’s voice serene within the careening music of thought. His mind fought down the desire to embrace the voice.

  Addison’s voice was a rising chant; Indian, Arabic, African, Chinese.

  The game was so simple, and so beautiful.

  History.

  Then he felt the riff and knew the bargain. History is a shuck. The old concept. Telepathy eliminates history time and moves out into another equation. Trade telepathy for yesterday. He tried to squeeze Susej’s voice out of his thought. The voice resisted.

  He painfully formed the image of the golden swastika as every vibration in the room battered his efforts. He reached out for Orient and dropped into a chill pocket of fear as he realized that if he opened his consciousness he would be taken.

  He forced a more vivid image of the swastika and tried to remember the prayer.

  The voice twisted through his thoughts.

  “You can resist, but only for a moment. Eventually you will come to the wisdom of the Clear Power and when you have ascended you will call up your pilgrims to the ledge of your new vision. You shall be the herald—and the fusion of your technique and my power will create a new universe.” The voice congealed in his mind.

  Simpson made a single, staggering lunge for the door which was now far, far across the room. He held the picture of the swastika and looked for the blue light. The blue light.

  Susej’s voice faded then droned louder.

  The door. He reached out.

  He never made it.

  XV

  Orient woke up late. He lay in bed and let the fuzziness subside before slowly getting out of bed and going to the mat. He stretched his body. Today it was important that his consciousness be perfectly tuned. He extended his head back, loosening his neck, lifting his arms, arching his back, trying to feel the pull of muscle from his fingertips to his chest.

  He began the warm-up exercises. Leg ups, tumbles, hand- Stands. The yang series. Then he sat on the mat and went into the ying forms. The
careful breathing and stretching of Yoga.

  He concluded with a prolonged headstand and when he got back to his feet walked around the room for a few moments, before sitting down on the bed. He took a cigarette from his case and leaned back on the bed. As he smoked he went into a casual meditation using the case as a concentration object.

  His mind built constant patterns of Malta. Even the emptiness was relative to her presence. He stood up and began to get dressed.

  When he came downstairs he found Redson, Levi and Hap in the recreation room. The three of them were huddled around the TV set watching the news. There was a collective glumness about them that disturbed him immediately. A profusion of newspapers was scattered at their feet.

  “D’Te made quite an impression last night,” Redson said, before Orient had a chance to greet him.

  “The papers are full of Susej,” Levi added, his eyes on the TV. He reached into the pile and picked up the Times. “Just for helping one woman?”

  Redson sighed. “D’Te’s way ahead of us, Owen. There was a press conference arranged after the program and he gave the reporters a dose of his cures.”

  Orient nodded. “No wonder he’s getting front page coverage.”

  Levi picked out a copy of the Daily News from the jumble and tossed it to Orient. “One member of the press was cured of a case of gout he’s been carrying for seven years. Luckily he has national syndication.”

  Orient scanned the story. “Kirk himself arranged the conference. Calls him the most important man in the twentieth century.”

  “The bastard probably has a piece of the action,” Levi growled.

  “But what action?” Hap said suddenly. “What is this guy D’Te or Susej doing that’s worth all this?”

  Levi was the first to speak. “For one thing, the religion business is a sure profit operation. No taxes.”

  “The more faith Susej acquires,” Orient said quietly, “the more energy he wields for his rituals. The fuel he needs is faith. If he can hold the faith of a great number of people he can direct extremely powerful energies.”

  “So you think that’s what he’s after?” Redson said.

  “Using all the communication media—the newspapers, television, magazines—there’s no limit to the number of people he can reach,” Levi suggested.

  “But why did he wait until now to make his play?” Hap persisted.

  Orient paused. “That’s a much better question than you might think. Perhaps there’s a special reason for his choosing this particular time.”

  “I don’t follow you, Owen,” Redson said.

  “It’s just a hunch. I’ll have to do some research this morning.” Orient looked around the room. “Where’s Argyle?”

  “He had to see his agent about that Rome business this morning.” Redson yawned, flipping through the pages of the Daily News.

  “When was that?”

  “About ten this morning.”

  “Ten this morning?”

  Redson looked up, his brow furrowed. “Yes, Owen, that’s what he told me yesterday.”

  Orient shrugged and went to the library.

  He settled at the table for a long morning’s work. It was complicated. Even though he felt reasonably calm everything told him that time was getting short. He was still disturbed about Argyle. The balance of his pilgrims was shifting. He reached for the phone and dialed Argyle’s agent.

  “Henry Winston Agency,” a pert voice informed him.

  “Mr. Winston, please. I’m looking for Argyle Simpson.”

  “Both Mr. Winston and Mr. Simpson are out. I don’t expect to hear from either of them today. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “If you hear from Argyle ask him to call his doctor.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” The phone clicked off.

  Orient disconnected with his fingers and dialed another number.

  “Waxoff,” a voice answered. “Hold on.” Then the phone went blank.

  Orient held his patience. He was used to J.J.’s frantic pace. U. prided himself on his network of connections. Promotions, suggestions, quips, quotes, items, decisions, predictions; J. J. Waxoff was the marketplace incarnate.

  “Okay,” Waxoff said. His voice had the breathless quality of a communiqué from the front.

  “J J., Orient. Need a ticket to a show.”

  “Which?”

  “Kirk’s TV show today.”

  “Tough ticket. I was planning to make it myself. If you’re in on it, must be hot. What’s the angle?” J.J. was very close to his mouthpiece.

  “Can’t tell yet, that’s why I need the ticket.” Orient hoped he wasn’t too late. If J.J. couldn’t deliver there wasn’t anywhere else to go.

  “I can get one to you.” The answer removed the anxiety. “But I’ll expect some kind of report. I feel this.” JJ.’s radar was still infallible.

  “Send it by messenger.” Orient gave him the address. “Thanks.”

  “Later.” J.J. switched off into another deal.

  Orient rallied his concentration and, by the time the envelope arrived, had calculated the equation. Hap’s question was answered.

  He checked the time and the address on the ticket. There was still an hour before the program started He decided to walk.

  If his group of pilgrims couldn’t maintain a harmonious control, even telepathy would become difficult.

  Orient took the winding path along the river at a fast clip, trying by sheer physical effort to free his tensions.

  Argyle was impatient, Hap still weak, Levi fairly stable. Redson missed some points but was reliable. But they all needed more knowledge of this man. This was a safe risk. He could hold protection against Susej before the sun went down. He wanted Susej to know that.

  The defensive posture they were forced to maintain put stress on communication. Unity might depend on a successful, visible, confrontation. But… he wondered if this wouldn’t be rationalizing an ego need.

  He stood for a moment, looking across the water, trying to empty his mind. He went back to the first breathing pattern he had learned as a neophyte. He concentrated on the great sea of nothingness, then let his concentration ride with the drifting swirls of the river, the liquid forms, the beginnings of consciousness…

  When he turned again toward the structures of New York, it was as if returning from a place far away. A place uncluttered with the compounded desire of men. He hummed the “Hare Om, Hari Om, Hare Krishna” to himself as he continued to walk to his appointment. All along the way he read the Ching signs of his fate. In the trees, the sidewalks, the tawdry grace of the perfect seagulls, was the assurance that all would pass as it should pass. He was refreshed by the news.

  When he reached the block where the studio was located he saw the large crowd milling in the street, carrying signs, choking traffic. A line of policemen was patiently trying to contain the demonstrators. They weren’t having much trouble. There were no dissenters. All the demonstrators were there as a tribute to Susej.

  There were the usual group of unkempt children but today they weren’t on the defensive. Others stood beside them; businessmen, housewives, old women,, the white right and the black right, the new left and the old guard, all joined together in the name of Susej. The crudely scrawled balloons, posters, and banners proclaimed their belief in the healer, but more significantly, their faith was imprinted on their fragile, human faces. The reality of their need settled over him like a fall of dead leaves. He put his head down and went inside.

  The studio was larger than usual for a television show.

  The seats were arranged in an ascending horseshoe shape around a wide raised platform. There was a podium just in front of the stage where members of the audience came to air their views. Orient saw an empty seat near the podium and sat down.

  He was early. The audience was just beginning to stream in. It struck him that the people taking the seats around him weren’t the ordinary citizens that usually attended Kirk’s show. They had the look of gam
e players. The ones like J.J. who measured the worth of a painting or a film or a person by its significance to their season. And with them, the luminously brilliant faces who provided the objects for the game. These were the people who decided what was valuable. The excitement that charged their presence was unmistakable. Then something else struck him, which started his heart pumping faster.

  Outside, the crowd had been parading with hastily painted expressions of their enthusiasm for Susej. There had been only twelve hours for them to prepare posters and banners. But many people in the audience were wearing machine-made ribbons and buttons. Susej had been getting ready for this surge for some time.

  Orient started a deep breathing pattern, imposing a controlled calm on his pounding apprehension.

  The warm-up man, a congenitally congenial type with horn rimmed glasses, came out on stage.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he began predictably. “Welcome to the Joe Kirk show. For those of you who are new to our Joe, let me just say that our leader is known as Mr. Kind.”

  The audience wasn’t amused.

  “Seriously, folks,” he continued smoothly, “we here of the Joe Kirk Show believe that controversy is the healthy, American thing. We want you to participate in our little forum here.

  “When the time comes just step right up and speak your mind… Of course, I can’t guarantee you won’t suffer..,”

  A wave of appreciative laughter.

  “Our guest tonight is a man whom Joe believes to be the most significant human being in the history of man. Now,” he raised his hand, “now, I know that’s some mouthful, but you stick around and see if you don’t agree.”

  He went on, mixing homey humor with hard sell. Toward the end of his spiel he admonished everyone to laugh and clap as they were cued by the electric signs in the studio. “Just to make sure,” he yelled, “let’s see how loud you can clap right now.” Everyone clapped with enthusiasm.

  He cupped his ear with his hand. “Louder… let’s really smack them hambones together… ”