by Frank Lauria
Orient was tempted to limber himself up by using his telekinetic power to send the man spinning into the wings.
As the applause rose in volume Joe Kirk came out and walked directly to his desk. Ignoring the applause he sat down and pretended to study a sheet of paper.
As the clapping subsided he looked up into the camera.
“Hello,” Kirk began. “The man I’m about to introduce is an extraordinary human being. He has the power to see into the future, explore the past and to heal the afflicted. Last night, on camera, in this studio, this man performed what I consider to be, in my own humble opinion, a miracle. Apparently you feel the same way, because your calls and telegrams poured in. Well, he’s back tonight. And any night he feels like it. I hope he’ll be with us for the next two hundred years. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Susej.” The applause lights flickered unnecessarily. The reaction to the robed priest’s entrance was spontaneous.
For a moment Susej stood in the center of the stage, looking out into the cheering audience. His penetrating eyes seemed to touch everyone in the studio. The audience suddenly became subdued.
Orient hunched lower in his chair.
“Thank you, my friends,” the priest’s voice was high and clear, “I am honored by this opportunity to be with you again.” He turned and sat in the chair next to Kirk’s desk.
“Susej,” Kirk said, “last night you did a very amazing thing. As a matter of fact, for those who haven’t seen the newspapers or heard the news, last night, the man sitting right here with me cured five people of illnesses they’ve had for years. I think that’s awesome, Susej.”
“Was it?” Susej shook his head. “I don’t think so, Joseph. The very basis of the Clear Power is that I must use it to help others. I am only an emissary. It is you for whom it is intended.” He lifted a hand.
Kirk’s voice was low. “Can you teach this power to others, Susej?”
Susej beamed. “Most definitely. I have a number of students at this time. When our learning centers have been established, men and women who are interested can attend, and learn the methods of harnessing the forces available to every human being.”
“Susej,” Kirk said, lighting a cigar and leaning back, “what exactly is the Clear Power?”
The priest shifted in his chair. “Well, Joseph,” he began, his eyes on Kirk. “Once I was an ordained priest. I found that my religious affiliations were preventing me from true knowledge. There is a great inorganic energy in the universe which can be used to serve man.” He paused. “To serve man. To give man all he desires.” His eyes swept across the audience. “And this energy will enable any one of you to become wealthy, to improve your physical appearance and to cure yourself of any disease.”
No one spoke, or stirred, or even coughed.
Orient looked around. The men and women in the audience were leaning forward in their seats, wholly intent on Susej.
The priest was comfortably aware of the rapt attention he commanded. His high voice was controlled, musical. He moved his hands with casual grace. .
“Can you explain further, Susej?” Kirk said.
“Well, why don’t we invite the members of the audience to come up and ask me what they wish?” Susej murmured, looking down toward Orient. “I feel some disturbing elements tonight but I’m sure that communication will overcome all.”
Orient started moving with the priest’s first few words but he still finished third in the race to the podium. A large, lace-veiled woman and a short, thin man wearing a hat were in front of him. He tried to loosen the bunched muscles at the base of his neck as he waited. His hand squeezed the case in his pocket and he concentrated on his breathing pattern.
“I’m glad you said that, Susej,” Kirk was saying. “By the response I think that’s what most of our audience has been waiting for.”
“I have been just as anxious.” Susej smiled.
“What is your name, madame?” Kirk glowered at the fat woman.
“My name is Brenda Hart; I would like to ask Mr. Susej…
“Susej. Just Susej, Brenda,” Kirk corrected, flicking the ash of his cigar impatiently.
“I would like to ask”—the woman paused—“Susej if this power is a religion.”
Susej regarded the woman fondly. “No. There are certain forms one must follow but to gain this power one must throw off the untruths of the past. The first rule is to live for yourself alone. This is the basic law of the universe.”
“Do I have to believe first to get this power?” the woman asked shyly.
Susej smiled. “No. Just ask me what you wish. If what you ask is given to you then you will have true faith. If you believe in the Clear Power I will know it.”
“Do you think you could help my sister’s son?” The woman looked from Kirk to Susej. “He’s very sick. My sister’s husband doesn’t have any money now.”
Susej stood up. “Your family’s health will be improved and you will also prosper, this I can promise you. Our audience will not be able to see the results but you will, and in your heart you will know the truth of the Clear Power. And you will have faith.”
The woman stood for a moment, unsure of what she had heard.
“Thank you, Brenda,” Kirk said. “And you, sir,” he said automatically, then he stopped and peered dramatically as he recognized the face. He stood up, walked around the front of his desk and down the steps to the podium, and shook the man’s hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Kirk called out, still holding the man’s hand, “we are honored tonight by the visit of one of the great journalists, great columnists, great stars of our business… Martin Weldon.”
There was immediate applause from the audience.
As Weldon turned to acknowledge the hand, Orient saw for the first time the large growth distorting his chin.
“What brings you here tonight, Martin?” Kirk asked.
Weldon’s hand went to the side of his mouth. “This year, this silly thing,” he touched the tumor on his face, “came up, and the doctors don’t seem to know what it is.” Weldon’s voice, once breathless and biting to millions of gossip-starved Americans, was muffled and indistinct. “I don’t like this overgrown peach here and I saw what Susej did for that woman last night. I want to see if Susej can help me.” He pushed his hat back on his head and looked up at the stage.
Susej bowed low. “I will try.”
“Well if you can, I’m on your bandwagon, brother.” Weldon tried to smile. His skin had an unhealthy blue pallor.
Orient pushed his breathing. He felt Susej and pushed harder, gambling that the daylight would weaken the priest’s power. He was sure he could hold him. And if he could stop this cure he would stop his momentum.
Susej began a hoarse, whispering chant. Orient strained to pick up the words. Then he recognized the chant.
It was an invocation to the demon Ose, as written by Gerbert, the sorcerer who rose to become Pope Sylvester II, and who was a supreme adept of the Arabic forms of power.
Orient charged his being, taking in a single, unending flow of air through his nostrils as he carefully intoned the Spell of Annulment.
“Elion, Esarchie, Adonay, Jah… ” Orient whispered the secret words passed down from Albertus Magnus, the Dominican priest who discovered the secret of artificially created life.
Instantly Orient’s mind froze in the cutting wind of some nameless snowstorm. He was pushing through waist-high drifts, his teeth chattering with uncontrollable fury in the deep, bitter chill of the white snow. He couldn’t see. His eyes were iced half-shut and all around him was the swirling whiteness. White.
The audience stirred. Susej seemed to be taking a long time with Weldon.
Orient tried to get up. His chest was heaving in shivering convulsions. He staggered erect and stumbled forward into the howling whiteness…
In the audience someone coughed. Someone started to whisper. “Shh,” someone else said.
Something black loomed up in front of Orient and he crawled toward the
relief of its color, the promising hot shadow across the flat, unblinking white…
Inside it was warm.
He lay on the floor for a long time, waiting for the sudden pain in his fingers and wrists to subside. Then he heard the words. The deliberate singsong of a mass being said in reverse. He looked up.
Susej was standing before an altar of polished black wood, intoning the words of his mass. Calling up the icy storms of nothingness… And kneeling beside him was Argyle…
Orient felt the brief warmth drain from his limbs as he saw his friend across the length of the floor. His mouth opened but no sound came. Argyle turned his head.
The words of Susej’s mass drummed against his thoughts like hard rain… he let them scatter to shelter…
Orient opened his eyes to thundering applause. The entire audience was on its feet, roaring Susej’s name.
Just in front of him Weldon was embracing Kirk.
He looked up to the stage. Susej was sitting in his chair. When he met Orient’s eyes, his mouth curled into a mocking apologetic smile. He bowed his head slightly,
Weldon had taken the microphone and was shouting through the din.
“Mr. and Mrs. America, I would like to invite the members of the State Department to meet this man. After thirty years of scooping every top story on the big beat I have to admit that Joe Kirk has scooped your reporter.” His hand poked at his cheek. The tumor was gone. The flaccid skin just under Weldon’s jaw was the only indication that a growth had existed there.
“You saw it and I felt it, and from now on I’m working for Susej, the greatest man I have ever met,” Weldon concluded.
“Thank you, Martin,” Kirk’s voice rose above the stomping and cheering that followed Weldon’s remarks. “I know that what you say, you’ll do, and when you let the whole country know about Susej’s great work you’ll be helping millions. And I know that’s what you’ve always worked for.” He put his cigar in his mouth and began clapping his hands, pushing the applause to a peak as Weldon waved, adjusted his hat, and took his seat.
“And you, sir, what’s your question for Susej? I think what you just saw should answer most everything,” Kirk was saying. The applause diminished to complete silence.
Orient suddenly realized Kirk was speaking to him.
“Sir, do you have a question or did you come up to wave at your mother?” Kirk called out as he went up the steps and across the stage to his desk.
For a second Orient’s eyes were locked on Susej. Then he turned and started pushing his way to the exit.
“The man’s obviously been frightened by his hairdresser,” Kirk remarked behind him.
A wave of laughter accompanied Orient to the door.
XVI
Argyle was hungry.
His head had ceased throbbing, but the wretched emptiness in his stomach remained. He looked at his hand.
A wide iron bracelet had been locked around his left wrist. A long chain was attached to the bracelet. The other end of the chain was secured to a thick overhead pipe. Not uncomfortable but not deluxe.
He stood up and started going over the area of his confinement in detail. The only furniture was the cot he had found himself occupying when he awakened, and a chair over across the room, near the door. As he moved he repeated the prayer of protection to himself.
The pull of the chain against his stretched arm stopped him short of the chair. He retreated in a large half-circle, kicking at all the floorboards, looking for a piece of loose wood. Everything was solid. But not for him. He reached up and grabbed the chain with both hands. Lifting both feet off the floor he threw his full weight on the pipe and pulled. It held without a tremble.
Argyle sat on the cot and checked his pockets. Empty.
His free hand went to his neck. The stone was gone.
He took a deep breath and continued the thread of his prayer.
He tried to remember what happened. The last clear recollection was the music blasting into the control room. The girl. Susej talking at his head with that mellow voice. Jiving him. He remembered the flash of understanding, tumbling to the game when he felt Susej’s sudden rush of greed punctuating the word. History’s a time shuck. Susej was offering beads for power that was infinite. If telepathy was valuable to Susej, that meant he couldn’t duplicate it.
Then he felt anxiety stab at his chest, jogging him back to his prayers. Something close by didn’t feel right.
The door opened. Susej walked in smiling.
“Ahh Mr. Simpson,” he said, his voice curiously grating, “you’re up. Did you rest comfortably?”
Argyle concentrated on the breathing pattern, running the prayer along each breath, fusing the words to the rhythms of his body.
Susej came nearer, his eyes never wavering from Argyle, until he was standing directly in front of him.
Argyle gritted his teeth and fixed his gaze on the spot between Susej’s eyes. Last night he’d been tremendously attracted by the sheer animal dynamics of the man, now he was physically repelled by the priest’s closeness. Something foul and decayed emanated from Susej.
He remembered the sign of defense Orient had taught him, and tried to call up a picture of the golden swastika.
“Your simple charms are a waste of energy and time, Mr. Simpson,” Susej said gently. “At best they are a temporary diversion. But reason. We can make any agreement you wish. In time I will have your talent anyway. If I use my methods to obtain your technique they will leave you destroyed as a man. You will have nothing—and I will have what I want.” His voice rose in pitch.
“Apage Satanus,” Argyle whispered to himself.
Susej stepped back. “You are a foolish man,” he said slowly, “but I will attempt to reason with you still. Look.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a balled-up white handkerchief.
“This might interest you.” As he spoke he carefully separated the folds of the handkerchief and took out a small black figure. “Do you know what this is, Mr. Simpson?” Susej held it close to Argyle’s face.
It was a tiny black doll. It was made from black clay. There were small objects imbedded in its surface. It was the source of the foul emanation he had felt around Susej. He twisted his head away from Susej’s hand.
“But why do you turn away?” Susej chuckled as Argyle put the cot between them. “This is a powerful instrument of your people, Mr. Simpson. This is the form of the Clear One Shango. Everything about this doll is yours: your hair, your fingernails, a piece of your shirt. I was very thorough.”
Argyle tried to direct the words of his prayer at the doll, not as an attack but as a blessing, the most effective defense form.
Susej stood regarding the doll. “I am going to let you keep it for a time. It will stay here with you and absorb your patterns. Shango will be my instrument of entry. When you finally succumb it will be he who holds your consciousness. And you will succumb, Mr. Simpson.”
Argyle shook his head savagely.
“Oh yes, Mr. Simpson,” the priest nodded, “you cannot maintain a constant defense night after night; as soon as you drift into sleep, Shango will be here to receive you.” He placed the doll on the chair and turned to leave. When he reached the door he stopped, one hand on the knob.
“Do you know who Shango is, Mr. Simpson?” he said, his back to him.
Argyle shut his eyes against the sudden surge that washed cold against his brain. He didn’t want to know anything about Shango.
“Shango is you,” Susej said. He closed the door behind him.
Susej was gone but the intensified anxiety vibration that had signaled his entrance remained behind him, churning Argyle’s thoughts.
Reaching Orient was out. He wondered if Susej was telling the truth about falling asleep. He decided he was lying, otherwise he would have taken over while he’d been unconscious. But he couldn’t chance it. He had to stay awake. He opened his eyes.
The first thing he saw was the doll sitting on the chair, facing him.
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br /> He groaned aloud.
He had forgotten to ask his host for something to eat.
XVII
Orient didn’t even bother to check Argyle’s room when he returned to the bishop’s home. He went to his own room, undressed, pulled the covers over his head and went to sleep.
Later, Sordi awakened him. “Mr. Simpson isn’t back and his bed hasn’t been slept in,” he said apprehensively.
Orient smiled. Sordi did have his own ways of knowing what was going on.
“I know,” he said casually.
Sordi set the tray he was holding on the night table. “You’d better eat something,” he said.
Orient stretched. “I will,” he replied through a yawn.
Sordi waited.
Orient looked up. “Thanks,” he said by way of dismissal, knowing that it wouldn’t register.
Sordi shifted his weight from foot to foot.
Orient inspected the tray. “Ahh, papaya juice,” he said, reaching for the glass appreciatively.
“Listen, Doctor, why don’t you let me help you?” Sordi burst out.
He considered it carefully. Perhaps it was time. Certainly Sordi’s risk was as great as anyone’s. He stood up and went to his closet. “I’d rather have you help me find Argyle.”
“Has Mr. Simpson been kidnapped, too?” Sordi followed him across the room.
“Yes. And beginning tonight you’re going to sit in on our meetings. After dinner I want you to join us in the study.”
“Very good,” Sordi said gravely. “But, Doctor… ” he paused uncomfortably. He turned away.
“What is it, Sordi?”
“I can’t eat that food.”
Orient grinned, and realized he had been holding his breath. He was jumpy, running scared like a quarterback who’d lost his pocket. He needed loosening up.
“Eat what you like,” he advised, easing Sordi toward the door, “but eat very little.”
Redson and Levi were waiting in the recreation room. The bishop was on the couch in front of the blaring TV and Claude was at the chessboard perfecting his game. Both men looked up when he came in.