To Ride Pegasus (3 page)

“Stop him!”

Henry signalled to Ralph and coffee cups crashed to the floor. The hammer bounced and fell to the table and the waldoes went limp to a discordant twang on the guitar.

“For chrissake,” and the man on whom a cup of coffee had fallen sprang to his feet, wiping at soaked pants and dancing from the hot bath. Instantly the cup righted itself and incredibly refilled with the just-emptied coffee.

“Sorry about that, mac, but someone said stop!”

The abrupt surcease of the parapsychic was recorded on the graph, as was the minor activity of mopping up the spill.

“Hey, my pants are dry!”

“Are there any other questions?” asked Henry, winking surreptitiously to the grinning Ralph.

“Yes,” and a heavy set man towards the rear of the room stood slowly to his feet. “Coffee vending machines handle this sort of service, an idiot can drive a nail; granted a waldo is used for delicate sterile operations, any rock musician plays electric guitar … not all at once, admittedly, but how would someone like Ralph be employed? And incidentally, I know his background.”

“You might say,” Henry said with a smile, “that Ralph is a real product of his background of reform school and correctional institution. That’s how he acquired his Talent. Society wasn’t ready for Ralph or his Talent. We are.

“We’ve demonstrated here that Ralph can do a variety of things simultaneously; tasks requiring multiple action such as assembling coffee implements and teleporting them to the proper destination, as well as exercises requiring a certain strength and/or precision.

“However, Ralph has a limited range. We’ve duplicated today’s fun and games over a distance of half a mile, but not further with any precision or strength. Ralph is not a superman. That’s the first point I wish to impress on you. He has a Talent but it’s a finite one, suitable for certain, rather limited use. He would be a profitable investment for someone like yourself, Mr. Gregory, for precision assembly under vacuum, sterile or radiation conditions.

“I don’t say that Ralph is a totally reformed character at all,” and Henry grinned at Ralph, “but he is now able to purchase legally the things he used to heist. He is subject, and he knows it, to the mental examination of a strong telepath. He also thoroughly enjoys his present occupation.”

“You bet, mac.” And the scathing look Ralph bent on the audience left no doubts that the little man delighted in disconcerting the men of distinction, rank and position.

“If you can’t cure’em, recruit’em,” Henry added.

“Are you implying, Mr. Darrow, that half the population
of jails and mental institutions are peopled by your misunderstood parapsychics?”

“Not at all. I admit we’re testing many so-called misfits to see if thwarted or yes, misunderstood, paranormal Talents are not partly responsible for their maladjustment. But that does not mean they are all graduates of institutions.

“Talent, gentlemen, can include something as simple as being a born mechanic. We’ve all known or heard of the guy who just listens to the sound of an engine and knows what’s wrong with it. Or the plumber who can dowse the exact location of a break in water pipes. Or the pyromaniac who “knows” when and where a fire will break out and has so often been accused of starting it; the woman whose hands ease a fever or soothe a pain, the worker who knows instinctively what the boss needs, the person who can always find what’s been mislaid or lost. These are everyday, but
valid
, evidences of the parapsychic Talent. These are the people we want to include in our Centers—not just the more dramatic mind-readers and clairvoyants. The Talented are rarely supermen and women, just people who operate on a different wavelength. Employ them in the proper capacity and utilize their Talents to your advantage.”

“Besides money, what do you want from us, Darrow?”

“Doctor Abbey, isn’t it? From you and your colleagues all over the world, I want the public admission that Talent has left the tearoom and entered the laboratory. We have scientific evidence that the parapsychic faculty exists and can be used, at will, with predictable result Science, gentlemen, by definition, is any skill that reflects a precise application of principles. The principle in Ralph’s case is moving objects without artificial aid.”

“I might buy the teleportation, Darrow,” replied Doctor Abbey, slightly contemptuous, “but go back to the tearoom a minute. Give me an example of the science behind precognition.”

“I knew you’d ask that, Doctor Abbey. And I predict
that you will receive a favorable answer to your latest inquiry into the problem—” Henry raised his hand to suppress Abbey’s exclamation, “I’m discreet enough, Doctor Abbey—into the problem you’re investigating with Doctors Schwarz, Vosogin and Clasmire. That, Doctor Abbey, is predictable, scientific and accurate enough—since your correspondence with the three men is a closely guarded secret—to be convincing. Right?

From the stunned expression on Dr. Abbey’s face as he sank into his chair, Darrow knew he was right and Abbey was convinced.

“Now,” Henry asked the audience in general, “all of you have had problems which I believe some of our Talents can solve. What am I offered?”

“Why after fourteen years and nine rent increases—which I didn’t protest by the way—will you not renew my lease?”

“Mister Darrow, I’ve been told that your lease is not renewable and that’s what I’ve been told to tell you.”

“How come the ‘Mister Darrow,’ Frank? Now look, I’ve paid my rent right on the button for fourteen years. I’ve had no more than legitimate redecorating, why am I not able to renew my lease?” Henry knew the problem, had foreseen this situation, but he was human enough to like to see people squirm. Particularly if it might let in a little wisdom and understanding of Talent.

Frank: Hummel looked very uncomfortable.

“C’mon, Frank. You know. Don’t try to kid me you don’t.”

Frank looked up with a miserable expression in his eyes. “And that’s it, Hank. That’s just it. You do know. You know too goddamned much and the other tenants are scared.”

Henry threw back his head and roared with laughter. “No one’s conscience is clear? My God, Frank, do they
really think I
know
or care, for that matter, about their petty intrigues and affairs?” Then he saw he’d offended Frank and wished he were a telepath, not a precog. “Frank, I ‘see’ no more than I did when I used astrology to focus my Talent. No one was afraid of me when I was just a star-gazer.”

Frank did squirm at Henry’s choice of phrase because that’s how the man thought of Henry.

“I can’t read minds,” Henry went on, “and come to that, Frank, I don’t really know what’s going on under my nose. My Talent is not for individuals: it’s for mass futures. Oh, yes, important individuals who will affect the lives of millions. But not if Mrs. Walters in 4-C is going to have a baby … not unless I have cast her individual horoscope … and she’s too scared of her husband to come to me for that.” Henry sighed for even that piece of common sense insight was now being misconstrued by the apprehensive real estate agent. “Look, everyone in the building knows Walters’s opinion of me, and how scared she is of him. That takes no Talent at all, Frank. And it takes no Talent either to know that Walters is probably one of the prime instigators in getting me evicted.”

“You’re not being evicted, Mr. Darrow.”

“Oh no?”

“No! It’s just that your lease is not being renewed.”

“How much of an extension can I have to find new quarters? You know how tight the housing situation is in Jerhattan.”

Frank looked everywhere but at Henry.

“Frank … Frank? Frank, look at me,” and reluctantly, hesitantly, the man obeyed. “Frank, you’ve known me for fourteen years. Why, suddenly, are you afraid of me?” Henry knew the answer but he wanted Frank to admit it. One man, one Frank Hummel, wouldn’t change the struggle of the Talented for acceptance but it might change one other mind now, three next week. Every ally was valuable. And to have allies one had to admit to enemies.

“It’s just that … that … hell, you’re
not
a star-gazer anymore, Mister Darrow. You’re for real.” The apprehension in Frank Hummel’s face was equally real.

“Frank, thank you. This isn’t easy for you and I will make it less easy but I want you to remember fourteen years of a very pleasant relationship. I knew you’d be here today. I knew it four months ago when Molly and I had that series of graffiti painted on the door and the so-called burglary attempts. I’ve a lease on new quarters. We’re moving tomorrow.”

Frank already had too much to think about. “You mean, you
knew?
Already? But I just got the orders yesterday and you
told
me that you didn’t see individual … and you’re—”

“I’m not lying about what I can see, Frank, but I’d certainly better see what affects myself, or a fine star-gazer I’d be. Right?”

Hummel was slowly backing out of the apartment, less and less convinced. Once again Henry wished he were a telepath—or at least empathic—and could know what was running through Frank’s mind and counter it.

“Do me one favor, Frank,” Henry said “On the 18th of next month, in the fourth race at Belmont, bet every credit you’ve been saving on a horse named Mibimi. Only don’t place your bet until the last minute before the race. Will you do that for me? And then when Mibimi wins, remember Talent is useful.”

Frank had retreated to the elevato and Henry wondered if the confused man had taken in his tip. He didn’t often give them but for a friend you can do a favor … if it’ll cement his friendship.

Henry shrugged as he closed the door. The scene just played in his living room had been repeated over and over, with acknowledged Talents as reluctant dramatis personae.

Just another of those paradoxes which assailed them from all sides now that Talent was respectable. By removing the onus of haphazard performance, by having Talents
registered with the Center, they could contract for premium wages. But suddenly the Talents were also elevated into the genus “pariah,” found themselves untouchables, unwelcome and feared, all through misunderstanding.

Watson Claire was mounting a massive soft-sell public information program, abetted by his contacts in the media profession who were delighted at something newsworthy. Judiciously applied blackmail kept the worst newsmongers at bay. But it would take time, Claire said (and Henry understood), for the program to seep down to the level where it was most required … in the housing developments which were now ousting anyone suspected of possessing Talent.

Well, the immense warehouse Henry had leased in the dock area would suffice until he’d figured out how to appeal to George Henner. That financial wizard had an accounting to make and Henry was vastly amused by recent findings. It was going to be fun watching Henner’s reactions.

He picked up the comunit to call the warehouse: the shielding had been in place a week ago so there had been just the finishing of the living quarters. Maybe he should have used telekinetics to move his furnishings? No, that would be a bad scene, however personally satisfying it might be. Some things even Talents had better do the usual way.

“My name is Henry Darrow, Commissioner Mailer. This is my wife, Molly; Barbara Holland is our finder, and Jerry comes along to lug the Goosegg. I believe this is your list of most wanteds?”

“Just what is this?” The Commissioner for Law Enforcement and Order had risen in indignation from his paper-free desk. “My appointment was with James Marshall, not you, Darrow.”

“I know. Jim got it for us because you’ve refused to see …”

“A bunch of tearoom crackpots!”

“Well, we’re here and you’re going to listen …”

“Not if I have any say …” The Commissioner was fumbling with his desk set and swore when the telltale lights did not wink on at his touch.

“It won’t work, Commissioner Mailer,” Henry told him. “I forgot to mention that Jerry’s telekinetic and keeps closing the switches as soon as you press. Sorry. You’re incommunicado until you listen. And watch. Barbara, if you would, please? Here’s the list. Just sit here. Ready, Molly?”

The Commissioner’s raging did him no good since his office was soundproofed. He continued to fumble futilely with his comunit, unable to believe that it wouldn’t function because some nondescript young man stared at it. He didn’t notice that Molly was quietly placing the electrode net on Barbara’s head. The girl adjusted it into the scalped spots in her hair and nodded to Hairy.

“I gather these are in order of preference?” Henry asked the Commissioner. Henry perched on the desk, unperturbed by the Commissioner’s belligerence and profanity.

“Preference? What’n’hell are you talking about, Darrow? Get your circus out of here. This is a law enforcement and order …”

“Neither of which you are able to maintain with the current restrictions on your men,” said Henry, interrupting with such a forceful tone that the Commissioner’s sputtering died and he stared at Darrow in amazement. Few people had addressed the LEO man in that tone of voice. “That’s why I’m here, to render assistance you can’t get from any other agency. Now sit down, shut up, and listen. Who do you want us to find for you first?”

“Find?”

“Find!”

The two men locked eyes and there was a quality in Henry’s that wrought a sudden change in the Commissioner.

“All right,” Mailer said in a tight hard voice, “find me the man they call Joe Blow.”

“The Joy Pill man?”

“That’s him.”

Henry flicked out the second IBM card and handed it to Barbara Holland.

“Enough for you, Babs?”

The girl studied the sketch drawn by police artists from verbal descriptions of victims of the elusive Joe Blow. She read the notations on his most frequented locations, his general modus operandi. Then she looked up at Henry with a grin.

“This isn’t a really fair test, Henry,” she said.

“Hal” exclaimed the Commissioner, an unholy delight in his eyes.

“No,” said Barbara, “because I’ve encountered him so it’s easy to track him down.” She closed her eyes, clasping the card between her hands. The needles on the Goosegg began to whip across the graph paper. Her smile widened and she opened her eyes. “He’s on the corner of 4th Avenue New East and 197th Street. He’s wearing a long blue duty mac, with waterproofed shoulders, and a long blond wig. No moustaches today. He’s carrying nothing illegal but he has a great deal of money on him and some folded papers.”