by Frank Lauria
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Lady Sativa
Frank Lauria
Copyright © 1973 by Frank Lauria
Published by E-Reads. All rights reserved.
www.ereads.com
For M.P.L. and V.A.L.
the three bravest people I know
1
The plump woman was nervous.
She shifted her weight, trying to find a more comfortable position on the carpet. She tugged at her pink leotard, sat up, crossed her legs, and looked down through the almost transparent surface of the floor next to her. As she watched the darting rainbow flashes of the small fish swimming in the water underneath the glass panels, she took a deep breath. She imagined that she was with them, gliding lazily across the room toward the base of the large rock jutting up through the surface of the open pool. She took another breath and felt the muscles in her diaphragm relax. She closed her eyes.
Liquidy coolness caressed her skin. A sudden floating vertigo caused her to open her eyes. She was in the water, looking up through the milky substance of the glass at a round pastel smear above her. She swam up closer to the glass, moving with luxurious, weightless, ease. As the giddiness subsided her vision cleared and the pastel smear focused into a rippling image.
A woman with red frizzy hair that framed her wide, florid face.
The woman was wearing some pink, skin like material that folded and bulged with the curves of her body.
She realized, without surprise, that the woman was herself.
A looming shadow darkened the water nearby. She flicked away, reacting with instinctive swiftness to the intrusion. Then she saw the angular face and long, lean body of the man coming toward her and the anxiety was replaced by a sense of joy. The man lifted his arms and held something out to her: a statue of a cupid figure, with a clock in its belly. She swam closer to the cupid statue and saw that the hands were set at six-twenty. The focus blurred into blackness as a flush of dry warmth poured over her skin like sun-baked sand. “Perfect.”
She opened her eyes. She was inside her body. She saw the rock across the room, the floating green vegetation, the strip of transparent glass panels along the edge of the running pool of water. She looked across the carpet at the man sitting facing her. The man she’d just seen swimming underneath the glass.
“I think you’ve got it,” he said.
Sybelle uncrossed her legs and leaned back on her hands. “You were holding an absolutely grotesque clock. Why you chose that cupid I’ll never guess.” She smiled at him. “But it was a lovely swim.”
“Anything else?” he prompted. He hugged his bony knees against his chest and waited.
Sybelle let him wait. She suppressed the glow of satisfaction rising within her and pretended to be confused. He wasn’t going to get his answer without making a deal, she decided. She deserved it.
His green eyes watched her face and a slight smile lifted the corners of his wide mouth. “Well?” he said softly.
“Do I get a decent meal if I tell you?” she demanded. “I feel like Oliver Twist for heaven’s sakes!”
“Did you see anything else?” he repeated, ignoring her offer.
She shook her head slowly. “Owen Orient you are the most stubborn man. But not today. A full five-course meal. With wines. Or no time.”
When Orient grinned, the bony angles of his sculptured face softened with boyish delight. “So you did see the time on the clock,” he chuckled.
“I’m not saying another word.”
“Don’t worry about your food,” he told her, “this is an occasion. Sordi s getting everything ready now.”
“It was six-twenty,” Sybelle muttered, not convinced she wasn’t being tricked out of her dinner.
“Tell me something.” Orient leaned forward watching her intently: “Did you have any particular emotion when you saw the time?”
Sybelle furrowed her brow. “Not clear. Perhaps a kind of worry. As if I was late or something.”
Orient nodded. “Great. The intent of my mental image was to let you know we were running late.” He smiled. “Sordi doesn’t like to warm his meals over.”
“So that was all there was to it,” Sybelle mused. “After all that hard work and exercise it came down to just relaxing my mind.”
As Orient stood up, Sybelle saw his long, corded muscles, flexing in sharp relief against the stretch fabric of his gym tights, and wondered if she wanted that five-course dinner after all. Since she’d started training with Owen, her own weight had dropped twenty pounds. Her body still retained its lusty curves, but now they were firm and her skin glowed with vitality, almost as pink as her tights.
“All that physical exercise helped establish a vital harmony between your mind and your senses,” Orient was saying. “A balance. To keep perfect balance it’s important to continue the exercises. But now that you’ve located the fulcrum point of that balance, you’ll be able to use it whenever you wish.”
“You mean that’s really it?” Sybelle whispered as the full significance of his statement spread through her understanding. “Do we have full communication?
“You’re a full-fledged telepath Sybelle,” Orient said. “Welcome pilgrim.”
She took his extended hand and pulled herself easily to her feet, reveling in the new smoothness of her movements. “Well then,” she said, “what’s for dinner?”
Orient’s face was blank. “Fish, I think,” he murmured.
Sybelle thought of the graceful, languid moments her mind had just passed beneath the surface of the water and decided she wasn’t hungry after all.
To Sybelle’s relief, she found that Orient had been sending her up. There was no seafood. Instead Sordi served tomatoes stuffed with wild rice and herbs, a flaming Grand Marnier omelet garnished with orange slices and resting on delicate crepe’s, green salad with lemon dressing, candied yams, various cheeses and dark, fresh-baked bread. For dessert he had made a buckwheat cake layered with sour cream and juicy strawberries. And all through the meal, Sordi kept her long-stemmed glass full of chilled champagne.
“Just divine,” Sybelle cooed, batting her violet-tinted lashes at Sordi. “How is it such a talented man decided to waste his time working with this awful vegetarian?” Distinguished, too, she added silently as she gazed at Sordi’s blue-gray eyes. They were sensitive and soft in contrast to his sharp features. His gray-streaked hair and elegant dress gave him the air of a visiting diplomat. She wondered if he’d ever been married.
“Glad you like my cooking Sybelle,” Sordi murmured. He wanted to say much more, but he was seized by a rush of embarrassment.
“Sordi’s help has made the big difference in my being able to continue research,” Orient said. He shook his head. “But we may have to cut off operations for a few months.”
“There must be a way to keep going,” Sordi blurted. To his surprise the intensity of his feelings seared through his momentary shyness. “It’s too important; you can’t stop now.”
Orient shrugged. “No choice. The upkeep on this place is too heavy. If I don’t sell the house, I’ve got to sell the equipment. It makes sense to stop now and look for another
place to setup shop.”
“It does seem a pity to let this place go Owen, darling,” Sybelle scolded. She sipped her champagne and looked around at the large room that served as Orient’s library, studio, equipment area, media lab, and living quarters. Situated on the second floor, it spanned the entire length of the three-story townhouse, and the high stretch of crossed-beam ceiling was unbroken by walls or partitions. Instead the huge space was divided by functions. The rolltop desk stood next to the bookshelves in one corner; the stereo audio equipment extended past the study area into the center of the room, becoming part of the video and film complex. The lights, cameras, and wires stopped short of a pillow-lined conversation pit in the near corner. Tools, furniture, and occasional objects of art all merged to form a flowing environment of possibility, where form and function could stimulate creativity. Paintings, graphs, bulletins, diagrams of projects, posters, and ribbons of exposed film coexisted on the walls, their shapes and colors pulling the disparate elements of the room into scattered harmony.
“It’s perfect for your work,” Sybelle reflected. “A little busy for my taste, but I think Sordi’s right.”
Orient started to say something, but she wasn’t listening. She was thinking about the rest of the house; the meditation room upstairs, the biochemical lab next to the “garage, and especially the oversized kitchen on the first floor.
“No,” she said firmly, interrupting him, “it just won’t do to sell this place. Not when you’re on the verge of a significant discovery. Besides, there isn’t a kitchen like yours in the entire city. No darling, it’s out of the question.”
“Exactly what I’ve been telling him.” Sordi glared at Orient. “I’m glad somebody appreciates that fact. Not to even mention the herb garden.
“The meditation room Owen,” Sybelle persisted, “the lab. There must be some way to keep the house. Let me help you. I’ve got some loose cash tucked away. I’ll lend it to you.”
Sordi sighed. “He won’t take any money Sybelle. I tried too. He’s too stubborn.”
Orient looked at them and smiled. “No use ganging up on me. I like this house myself. Money’s just a temporary solution. When that runs out, I’ll be left with the same problem.”
“What problem?” Sybelle asked.
“No way to Continue research until I find a way for it to support itself financially. Not only current expenses, but a way to cover the costs of another eight months. That would give me time to develop the telepathic technique further. Since the overhead here is too high it’s simple logic to sell the house and use the proceeds to set up another lab. Perhaps somewhere in New Jersey.”
“New Jersey?” she lifted an artfully plucked eyebrow. “Darling you can’t be serious. That’s like going to Pittsburgh. Just listen to me for a moment.”
Orient folded his arms and listened. He knew it was useless to argue with Sybelle when she was enraptured with a cause. And he had the distinct impression that she’d just taken up the colors of a righteous crusade: saving his house.
“Today in your meditation room you did something absolutely historic. You taught me how to communicate telepathically. And you told me yourself that my telepathic potential wasn’t even evident before you snowed me the technique.”
“Only partially true,” Orient reminded her. “You were already a professional medium. The barriers to developing your natural telepathic faculty were already partially open.”
Sybelle paused. “True,” she said finally, flashing a smile at Sordi, “I am exceptionally gifted.”
The smile faded when she looked at Orient. “But you forget that being able to communicate mentally is still quite an achievement. For any human being. Surely there must be scientific foundations or grant foundations that would sponsor your work.”
“Sordi and I spent two solid months looking up research grants. The only program interested was a Pentagon unit that wanted to investigate telepathy for possibly military application.” He shook his head and grinned. “Even if I agreed to get involved with that absurd choice. I wouldn’t even be able to make basic muster. Any security check on me would bounce.”
Sybelle waited for him to say more, but he just shrugged and reached for his glass. She was very tempted to pursue his last remark. Even though she’d become very close to Owen Orient she knew very little about his life—past or present. But something in his wide green eyes stopped her. They glinted with amusement over the rim of his glass, but the jade centers of his pupils were dark and very private. “Are you sure you’ve tried everywhere?” she asked instead. “Perhaps darling there’s a few things you don’t know about,” she added, frustrated by her inability to feed her taste for savory gossip.
Orient set his glass down arid looked at her. “Appreciate hearing some,” he said calmly. “Sordi and I hit every name on the list.”
Sybelle felt a sudden rush of remorse at her snappish attitude when she saw the quietly attentive expression on his face. He looked very young, despite the white streak that shot through his shaggy black hair. The lean, high-boned features were as earnest as those of an inquisitive boy. There’s one good possibility,” she said softly, “if you want to save the house. It’s exactly the kind of foundation that can help you. And I happen to be a member of the board.”
“What board is that Sybelle?” Sordi prompted when Orient didn’t answer.
Sybelle gave him a grateful smile. “It’s called SEE,” she told him. “Society for Extranorjnal Exploration.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Orient said slowly. It’s backed by Bestman Corporation. But when I tried to get in touch with Anthony Bestman, his office told me he was unavailable. And they had no information about an organization called SEE”
“There, I knew it,” Sybelle gushed enthusiastically. “You tried to contact the wrong man.”
“I checked the corporation listing myself,” Sordi protested. “Anthony Bestman is President.”
“Oh, he runs the business,” Sybelle said, patting his hand, “but most of the stock is controlled by his brother Carl. Carl Bestman is the inspiration and financial benefactor of SEE. Anthony is a horrible man. Of course, he wouldn’t speak to you. He considers us all a crackpot club out to fleece his brother. All Anthony knows are money and big-game hunting. But Carl is a biologist; he’s quite different. I knew there was something I could do.” She picked up her glass and drained it. “Simply perfect.”
Orient drummed his long fingers on the table. “Sounds good,” he said, “as long as Carl Bestman understands that the telepathic technique has nothing to do with SEE’s interest in the occult.”
“I told you Carl is a biologist,” Sybelle sniffed. “And all five members of our board approach the study of extranormal phenomena scientifically. Don’t be such a snob, darling. I recall you also having a morbid interest in the occult your own self.” She sat back in her chair, adjusted the pink lapel of her satin pantsuit, and gave Sordi her most devastating smile. “Give us a try.”
Sordi shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You think this Carl Bestman will give Dr. Orient some money?”
“In a month,” Sybelle said, lowering her voice. SEE is going to meet at Carl’s estate. At the conference each member can present a candidate for the approval of the board. The person who, in the opinion of SEE’s board, is most deserving takes a prize of fifty thousand dollars.” She looked at Orient. “And when we show them the results of your research I’m positive they’ll award you the prize.”
“Sounds great to me,” Sordi looked hopefully at Orient. “What do you think?”
Orient’s smile relaxed the jutting contours of his face. “Sounds like just what we need to keep us going,” he said softly.
“Now stop being such a conservative, darling,” Sybelle said. I’ve decided it’s just the thing. It’s about time you started meeting people. You’ve practically become a hermit.”
“Just what I’ve been saying all along,” Sordi put in, unable to restrain his enthusiasm. “He needs to get o
ut more. He works too hard.”
Orient beamed at Sybelle and Sordi. “Seem to be outvoted and out-diagnosed. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
“And you won’t regret it.” Sybelle extended her glass over the table. “To the new Dr. Owen Orient.” She looked at Sordi and lowered her lashes. “And to new friendships,” she added softly.
Later, as Sordi drove her home, Sybelle curled down against the deep, leather upholstery and regarded him carefully. He certainly was a good-looking man, she noted, going over his assets. And very loyal to Owen. She liked that quality in a man. She decided to wait for him to make the first move. But after only a few seconds of watching him maneuver the large limousine through the traffic, her curiosity won out. “You drive so well,” she said, “and it’s such a huge machine.”
Sordi snorted and shook his head sadly. “This monster. Dr. Orient spent a lot of time and money getting this tank together.” He remembered how he had tried, tactfully, to convince the doctor to get himself something more modern.
Orient had explained patiently but firmly that the coachwork on the Rolls Ghost had been done by a special designer. An American called Brewster. Orient also told him that the car had been specially built in America. Sordi shook his head. Lots of cars were made in America. “It runs great, he made sure of that,” Sordi muttered, “but he should have something with more styling.”
Sybelle agreed. The polished wood and dark leather interior were very tasteful, but she preferred the lush convenience of a newer car. However, she didn’t intend to discuss automotive engineering. “How long have you been with Orient now?” she asked casually
“About six years,” Sordi’s gaze was fixed on the wide windshield, but his voice betrayed his interest. “How about you?”
“Ten years,” Sybelle admitted with a trace of annoyance. It occurred to her that in all that time she had discovered very little about Owen Orient. They had become good friends in the time they’d worked together, but she still hadn’t managed to crack that quiet, deceptively mild exterior. The thought irked her.