The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Psilent Partner, by
John Victor Peterson and Edward S. Staub
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Title: The Psilent Partner
Author: John Victor Peterson
Edward S. Staub
Release Date: March 22, 2010 [EBook #31735]
Language: English
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Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe March 1954. Extensive
research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this
publication was renewed.
[_Without stressing the technological aspects of the strange
powers of the widely-talented ones--the psis, espers, telepaths which
have been so painstakingly forecast by Stapledon, van Vogt, Weinbaum,
Vance and others--Messieurs Peterson and Staub have whipped fantasy,
forecasts and facts into a stirring and mentally titillating story of
a too-imaginative mind._]
the psilent partner
by ... Edward S. Staub and John Victor Peterson
A pstrange probing mind that crossed pstate lines, the
pseas, even high in the psky--to bring psomething new to
Wall Pstreet.
* * * * *
_He had never cast his consciousness so far before. It floated high
above New York, perceiving in the noonday sky the thin, faint crescent
of a waning moon. He wondered if one day he might cast his mind even
to the moon, knew with a mounting exultation that his powers were
already great enough._
_Yet he was as afraid to launch it on that awesome transit as he still
was to send it delving into the tight subway tunnels in the rock of
Manhattan. Phobias were too real now. Perhaps it would be different
later...._
_He was young, as a man, younger as a recognized developing psi. As
his consciousness floated there above the bustling city, exultant,
free, it sensed that back where his body lay a bell was ringing. And
the bell meant it--his consciousness--must return now to that
body...._
* * * * *
Dale V. Lawrence needed a lawyer urgently. Not that he hadn't a score
of legal minds at his disposal; a corporation president must maintain
a sizable legal staff. You can't build an industrial empire without
treading on people's toes. And you need lawyers when you tread.
He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, a stocky, slightly-balding,
stern-looking man of middle age who was psychosomatically creating
another ulcer as he worried about the business transaction which he
could not handle personally because of the ulcer operation he was
about to have. Neither the business transaction nor the operation
could be delayed.
He needed a particularly clever lawyer, one not connected with the
corporation. Not that he had committed or that he contemplated
committing a crime. But the eyes of the law and the minds of the psis
of the government's Business Ethics Bureau were equally keen. Anyone
in the business of commercially applied atomics was automatically and
immediately investigated in any proposed transaction as soon as BEB
had knowledge thereof. There was still the fear that someone somewhere
might attempt, secretly, to build a war weapon again.
Lawrence had an idea, a great, burning, impossible-to-discard idea.
Lawrence Applied Atomics, Inc., had been his first great idea--the
idea that had made him a multi-millionaire. But through some devious
financing he had lost control of the corporation. And although his
ideas invariably realized millions, the other major stockholders were
becoming cautious about risking their profits. Overly cautious, he
thought. And on this new idea he knew they would never support him.
They'd consider it a wild risk. He could blame BEB with its psis for
that. BEB was too inquisitive. A business man just couldn't take a
decent gamble any longer.
The real estate firm in Los Angeles was secretly securing options from
individual landowners. Fortunately the firm employed a psi, one of the
few known psis not in government service. Lawrence had wondered why
this psi was not working for the government, but decided the 'why'
didn't matter if there were positive results.
Lawrence knew a little about psis. He knew, of course, what was
commonly known--that they possessed wide and very varied talents, that
they were categorized as plain psis, psi-espers, esper-psis, telepaths
and other things. They weren't numerous; the Business Ethics Bureau
which employed at least sixty percent of the known psis showed thirty
on the payroll for this fiscal year.
Despite their rumored emotional instability, he knew that they were
clever and he would steer clear of them in the present stages of his
transaction. Although his idea wasn't unethical, the so far closely
kept secret would be out if BEB investigated. Then anybody could cut
in. BEB advertised whatever it did on its video show, "Your
Developing Earth."
So, he needed a lawyer who could act for him personally, now, and
steer his project clear of the government service psis. But where to
find a psis....
* * * * *
Of course! Bob Standskill! Standskill had helped him once years before
when he had had that trouble with the Corporation Stock Control Board
over a doubtful issue of securities he had floated to build Mojave
City out of desert wastes. Without Standskill's techniques he never
would have put that issue across. Standskill could handle this if
anyone could.
Lawrence reached to the visiphone, punched the button sequence of
Standskill's office number. The bell rang interminably before a rather
bored young voice said, "Offices of Standskill and Rich,
Attorneys-at-Law."
"I know," Lawrence said harshly. "I don't button wrong numbers. Is
Standskill there? And where's your courtesy? There's no visual."
The picture came in then. Lawrence caught a flash of long, skinny legs
going down behind the desk at the other end of the circuit; then he
saw a most remarkable thing--the open collar of the young man's shirt
seemed suddenly to button itself and the knot of the gaudy tie to
tighten and all the while the fellow's hands were lying immobile on
the desk!
_Impossible!_ Lawrence thought. _I'm cracking up! Too many worries
about the psis ... I think I see them everywhere!_
As the youth gulped as though the tie was knotted too tightly,
Lawrence was sure that he saw the knot relax itself!
"I'm sorry, Mr. Lawrence, Mr. Standskill's on vacation and Mr. Rich is
in court. May I help you, sir, or take a message?"
Undoubtedly the fellow had recognized him from news fotos.
"Well, who are you, the office boy?"
A frown of annoyance crossed the young man's thin, dark features. He
snapped, "Are corporation presidents exempt from common courtesy? My
name is Black--Martin J. Black. I'm not connected with this firm. I
answered as a courtesy. Shall we disconnect?"
Lawrence was silent for a moment. He thought of the shirt-tie business
and said, "You're a trainee psi, aren't you? A prospective service
psi?"
"I'm afraid so. I wish I weren't. It's not a pleasant prospect."
"What do you mean?"
"Would you like to probe minds for a living? And it has its other
drawbacks. You can't live normally and you'll have very few friends.
Unfortunately no two psis are alike, which makes the job more
complicated. I'm un-normal, abnormal, subnormal or some other normal
they haven't prefixed yet."
"Any special talents?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Rather young," Lawrence mused. Then said, "Are you economically
stable?"
The young man hesitated, then said hastily, "Oh, yes, of course.
Economically, yes. Somewhat more stable than most, I think. I'm in
final training now. The legal phase comes last, you know."
"Then you're not committed yet? You've not taken the Oath of
Anterhine?"
"No. I won't until the training is done. Wish I didn't have to then."
"And your training?"
"Complete except for criminal psychology."
"Would you like to make a hundred thousand dollars?"
Black said, "Your firm bought out Black Controlled Atomics, remember?
That was my dad, and that was the end for him." He hesitated. "Let's
say I'm vaguely interested. What's your proposition?"
Lawrence was silent for a moment. At length he said, "Being a psi your
ultimate destiny is to aid in the development of the world whether you
like to look forward to it or not. But would you not like to see
desert areas developed through applied atomics as Mojave City, Sanup
Plateau City and Quijotoa City were?"
"Certainly," Black said quickly. "It's in my blood. The old man did
well at such developments; in fact, he started Quijotoa. Sometimes I
wish Standskill hadn't liquidated our estate, but my mother's will
made it mandatory."
"How much do you know about Standskill's techniques?"
"I'm a psi," Black said. "I can find out anything I want to know."
"Where _is_ Standskill?"
"Paris. His first vacation in years. Going to be away quite a while."
"Will you come to my office?"
"Why?"
"I'd like to discuss a business proposition."
"What's wrong with doing it over the visiphone?"
"This is confidential," Lawrence said.
"Something not exactly legal?" Black asked. "Big deal, eh? The Control
Board again--oh, oh! You'd better see Standskill!"
Lawrence felt uneasy. "Are you--are you reading my mind?" he
stammered.
"Sorry," the young man said, smiling faintly. "It's easier that way. I
dislike physical movement on such warm days as this. And it's easier
for me to pick up your proposal this way than to go through that
beastly traffic."
"Then you know?"
"Certainly. I'm a psi so I can read your mind."
"Do you accept the job?"
"Well, people in that area and the country in general would certainly
benefit from the development. I don't know about that lawyer from Los
Angeles though. They teach us in Service Psi School that non-service
psis are not to be trusted. In fact, service psis are forbidden to
associate with non-service psis. They're considered unethical."
"You're not in service yet, Black, and you must realize that the
psi-ethics as taught in your school are much more strict than business
ethics. If Standskill were here he'd certainly help me, and you know
he has a fine code of ethics. It's desperate, Black. I need your
services urgently. Won't you please accept the job?"
* * * * *
"I suppose so," the young man said wearily, resignedly. "Standskill
would agree, I'm sure. But, as a trainee, I'm not supposed to meddle
in business transactions. However, I'd hate to see you lose out on
this because I know Standskill would unhesitatingly help you if he
were here. Also, I'm curious to meet that psi from Los Angeles." His
sharp chin grew resolute. "I'll try, Mr. Lawrence. And my conscience
will be clear; I haven't yet taken the Oath."
"Will you need anything--any physical help, any tangible thing?"
"I'll need your power-of-attorney."
"You'll have it before I go to the hospital."
"And, Mr. Lawrence," Black said softly. "About the surgery--don't
worry, you'll be okay. It's chiefly psychosomatic, you know. In a
couple of weeks you'll be fine. You couldn't have picked a better
doctor than Summers."
Lawrence felt better already, a result of his talk with this brash
young man.
"Thank you, Black," he said. "Thank you very much. But, look--as a
psi, can you assure me that my idea is not slightly lunatic? I've
begun to doubt that it will work."
_Lunatic.... Mentally unsound.... Luna.... Moon.... The crescent of
the moon in the noonday sky. Yes, he could go now.... The transit was
brief.... No! He must go back, must bear the consciousness that was
Martin Black back from this airless, cratered sphere! Panic seized
him. He fled._
Lawrence was astounded to see the young man at the other end of the
visiphone seemingly fall into a deep sleep, his head down suddenly on
the desk.
"Black," he cried, "are you all right? Shall I send a doctor to--"
"_No!_"
The young man raised his head. "I'm quite all right, Mr. Lawrence,
though slightly exhausted. Didn't sleep well last night. Sorry! I'll
ring you after I contact Dick Joyce."
"No names, please," Lawrence said. "I go into the hospital this
afternoon, Black. You'd better not contact me there. The doctor said
no business while I'm there. From now on you're on your own."
_Your own! He was drifting! He fought it...._
"Right, Mr. Lawrence. Goodbye!"
II
Martin Black _was_ tired. His consciousness had almost drifted off to
home again, back to that old mansion on the Hudson River which
Standskill had sold as directed under Black's mother's will. The old
house in which he was born, where he had first found that he could sit
in his room and send his consciousness questing down the hall to meet
his father when he came home, pry into what his father had brought for
him and surprise his parents later by invariably guessing correctly.
Sometimes now he wished that he hadn't "guessed" correctly so often in
those days. Then his uncle Ralph wouldn't have mentioned his unusual
ability to the Business Ethics Bureau and the psis wouldn't have
investigated him. Once they found that he had such mental
qualifications he had been sent to the Service Psi School, a virtual
prison despite his family's social status.
Anger suddenly choked him at the thought of what his uncle Ralph had
brought upon him. The psi training had been so rigid, so harsh at
times.
Well, of course they have to be sure that psis develop into useful
members of society. But couldn't they treat you more normally, more
humanly?
Now, perhaps he'd show them, repay them for the cruel years of a
lonely, bitter youth. He hadn't taken the Oath yet, and if he were
clever enough he'd never have to! The real estate lawyer in Los
Angeles with whom Lawrence was making a deal had evaded service
somehow, apparently. So it was possible.
He had learned long ago that money wouldn't buy him out of service.
He'd tried also to purchase certain liberties at school. Some of the
less scrupulous teachers had taken his allowance, but only one of them
had ever given him anything in return. And of course he couldn't
protest when he had violated Ethics to give the bribes. In any event,
no one would take the word of an untrained psi over the word of a
stable, normal human being.
During the stabilization course one professor had permitted him to
skip some classes. Now he wished that he hadn't missed them; he
probably wouldn't have this semantic instability to contend with now.
Oh, well....
He _was_ tired. He'd spent the previous night, or most of it, worrying
about the miserable state of his finances. He needed money, a lot of
money. But he wouldn't, of course, admit that to Lawrence.
Lawrence would have understood why he needed money--even more than the
hundred thousand he had offered. But then Lawrence might mistrust his
motives in accepting the proposal so readily if he knew.
A year before Black had invested too much of his own money in a "sure
thing" upon the advice of a fellow psi trainee who, he subsequently
and sadly found out, had _economic_ instability. Semantic instability
was bad enough!
Not that Martin Black didn't have a hundred thousand dollars. He was,
indeed, a rather wealthy young man, thanks to his mother who had been,
to her son's knowledge--and to his alone--a psi with definite powers
of pre-vision and persuasion.
He recalled the tale Mom had told him of her first meeting with Dad,
of how she'd lingered over Dad's well groomed nails three times longer
than desire for a good tip made necessary, while she'd gently
insinuated into his mind an idea that was next day translated into
action on the stock market, with a modest investment from a modest
purse that brought the young man a small fortune. After the wedding
Martha Black dedicated herself to further improvements in the same
direction.
As for Martin's father, his chief business assets had been an
unswerving adoration of his wife and complete willingness to do with
his money as she saw fit. The combination had been unbeatable.
When Martin's father was laid to rest, Martha Black, concerned over
the future of her somewhat unusual son and fearing that economic
instability might beset him, continued to improve the fortune he would
some day inherit.
Long before the death of his mother five years before, Black
Controlled Atomics, Inc., had grown sufficiently important to command
the services of a lawyer of Standskill's caliber. Gradually Standskill
had become general counsel to the Black enterprises and at the same
time a close friend of Martha Black and her son.
It was chiefly in the latter capacity that the widow consulted
Standskill as she approached the end of her life. Her Last Will and
Testament, duly signed, sealed, published and declared, left one-half
of the immediately-to-be-liquidated estate to her son outright. The
other half was put in trust.
Under the trust Martin was to receive the income until he was thirty.
If then an audit showed that his net worth, exclusive of the trust,
had increased by thirty percent the trust was to end and Martin was to
receive the principal. If not, the trust would end and the full amount
thereof would go to his uncle Ralph, a prospect which caused Martin
completely to lose his stability whenever he allowed himself to think
of it. He just _had_ to make the thirty percent!
R. W. Standskill was trustee, and the will gave him full power to
invest the trust estate as he saw fit and without liability if his
investments went bad and without any bond or security required of him
whatsoever. More in token of appreciation of his services than
anything else, Standskill was to receive one percent of the trust as
long as he was trustee.
Martin Black's mind dwelled on the thought of the thirty percent
increase. After five years of conservative investing he had taken some
bad advice in the past year. And now he had to make some money fast in
order to catch up to the quota which was necessary if he were to
achieve his goal.
The Lawrence deal would give him his chance. But not if Standskill
knew about it. The Lawrence deal seemed a good thing, but perhaps it
was only a _sure_ thing if he kept to himself, for the time being at
least.
He was so tired.... _Fatigué._ The French for tired. Funny, he did
remember some of the French from school. Standskill was in Paris.
Association. _Fatigué._ The word stuck. That club--Bob Standskill's
favorite--_Le Cheval Fatigué_ in Montmartre. The Tired Horse.
Tired....
Sleep closed in.... He drifted ... and came to with a sudden start as
a hand roughly shook his shoulder. It seemed as though he had been
hovering mentally in a dimly-lighted cellar cafe, where there was a
babel of voices speaking continental languages, and Standskill was
there.
But, _no!_ he couldn't have been in Paris any more than he had been on
the meteor-pounded wastes of the moon! It was ridiculous. As far as he
knew, no psi had ever been known consciously to flit to the moon--or
unconsciously, for that matter--or to the other side of an ocean!
Standskill's partner, G. D. Rich, was shaking his shoulder. "What's
the matter, Marty? Big night?"
"Big day," Black said. "Why don't you fellows stick around and take
care of your business? I'm not even supposed to answer the telephone,
you know, but someone has to!"
"Can I help it that the Legal Secretaries Guild has called a
three-day convention? There's not a secretary present in any law
office in New York right now! I personally cut the phone in to the
answering service before I left for court."
"Inadvertence, I guess," Black said thoughtfully.
"Inadvertence?" Rich said quickly.
"Mine. I must have cut it back."
He didn't tell Rich that he hadn't stirred from the desk since Rich
had left. The switch was in the outer office. Had he with his
consciousness floating high over New York sensed subconsciously that
Lawrence was about to call and so cut in the switch? Had he built into
himself something of the pattern of his mother, something of
pre-vision or prescience, or call it what you will? Was a latent hunch
power coming out in him now, something that would manifest itself by
acts not consciously controlled? He hoped not! Semantic instability
was bad enough!
III
Sleep evaded Martin Black again that night.... There was no doubt that
Lawrence had a great idea.
Lawrence held forty-five percent of the company's stock. He wanted
control. In fact, he wanted outright ownership, but this was not
possible because the other major stockholders, holding forty-five
percent, seemed to be perfectly satisfied with their lucrative
investment. Cautious inquiries had failed to disclose any inclination
on their respective parts to sell.
There were, however, enough independent shares outstanding to give
Lawrence control if they were added to his own. The thing to do was to
figure a way to buy them. The problem was that no matter how secret
his operations, news or rumors of them would certainly leak out. The
shares would then undoubtedly jump to outrageous highs. Lawrence
couldn't risk that. He'd not be able to buy sufficient shares if the
price rose.
His corporation had completed Quijotoa City and had built Mojave City
and Sanup Plateau City, had through applied atomics created verdant
and lovely places out of wasteland and desert. It still owned the
atomic piles that provided power for the cities and the profits
therefrom were enormous.
Lawrence was progressive. He was at heart a humanitarian. He wanted to
develop other areas more from the humanitarian view than the profit
motive. He had learned long ago that the profits would take care of
themselves.
In probing the man's mind, Black sensed Lawrence's great desire for
adulation, his great desire to be remembered as a public benefactor.
Now if only he, Martin J. Black, could benefit financially from this
new deal--if he could corner enough of those independent shares, he
could and certainly would vote them Lawrence's way. Then, perhaps the
possibility of making the thirty percent he needed would approach
probability, would reach it. With Lawrence's Midas touch the
corporation would also realize millions in profits if the deal went
through.
Figures revolved in Black's mind. If Lawrence--or if he--could corner
six percent of the stock.... Could some of the independents be
persuaded to sell, _psionically persuaded_? Or one of the other major
stockholders? No, that would be unethical and the strongest part of a
psi's training was a fine code of ethics.
Black began to doze--and felt something ever so softly probing at his
mind. _A probe!_ Probably a service psi checking on him. _Why?_ Just
the usual check? No, it wasn't due.
He knew what to do. He had been probed before. Probing was part of the
training at psi school but he had never revealed--and his tutors had
never guessed--that he could create a block that could not be sensed
by the prober. A block which could close off whatever thoughts he
wished to conceal.
He blocked his thoughts of Lawrence and the deal now, and opened
freely that part of his mind which held the routine thoughts of the
law offices. He felt that feather of thought brushing lightly through
his brain, then it was gone as quickly as it had come.
There was a cold sweat over him but he knew that he had passed the
test. Why the probe? Perhaps a BEB psi had wind of Lawrence's deal and
by probing Lawrence's mind--or the mind of someone in the West Coast
realty outfit--had somehow learned of Black's association with the
industrialist. If that were the case there would be more probes. One
time or another a probe might come at a moment of nervous tension or
stress and the information would be gleaned from his mind before he
could block!
He must work fast.
He arose and went to the visiphone, placed a person-to-person call to
Los Angeles.
"Dick Joyce?" he asked before the visual contact was complete, and
only his voice went out.
The face that came in sync on the screen was round, jovial. "Well,
hello, Marty!"
_Lawrence must have called him, or else he plucked the name from my
mind. But he didn't probe--or did he?_
"Dick, do you register?" _With the mind now--cautiously!_
"Yes, Marty."
_Pretend you're my personal friend, Dick. There's no psi on us but we
may be wiretapped by BEB--lots of law offices are and trainees
connected with them. Can a definite date be set for the picking-up of
the options?_
"It's good to see you again, Marty! When will you be coming out for
another visit?" _Yes, the options are in the bag. My agents have them
all lined up. Confidentially, they couldn't miss. The only trouble
they ran into was that some of the landowners thought they were insane
to be interested in the property and one of them actually suffered a
sprained wrist from the hand-shaking of an overly thankful owner._
"Soon. That's why I called you. Thought we should get together after
all these years." _What's the latest date for signing?_
_Tomorrow night._
_Tomorrow night! That doesn't give much time! Since I'm acting for
Lawrence I have to see what we're getting._
_Well, Lawrence told us to work fast. But I agree that it's a good
idea that you see the properties._ "How about this weekend?" His voice
was casual.
_Tomorrow evening local time it is then. But where will we make
psi-contact?_
A mental picture of a map. Desolation.... Oklahoma....
"Okay, Dick. See you then. Regards to the family!"
"Goodbye, Marty."
He rang off.
He was tired. He went to bed and sought sleep, praying that the block
his fatigued mind had set would remain firm.
IV
Martin Black passed a very bad night. Maintaining a mental block when
asleep is a major feat, especially when one has semantic instability
and a dream can so often be so realistic as to bring one's
consciousness awake and mentally screaming miles from the physical
being it has involuntarily left.
He dreamed with incredible regularity, waking five times out of
nightmares, five times strangely on the hour as though he had tied
some part of his mental being to the irresistibly moving, luminescent
minute hand of his electric clock. _Time is of the essence_, he had
told himself during the psi-visiphone contact with Joyce.
_Association!_
Two A.M. He had dreamt of Joyce, dreamt that Joyce had somehow
revealed the proposed transaction to BEB, putting Dodson on his trail.
Wide awake now, he forced himself to think of the options which must
be picked up the following night, options drawn so that not only the
landowners must sign them but both the realty outfit and he, as
Lawrence's attorney-in-fact, as well. Could he sign for Lawrence if
Joyce had spilled?... No, it was only a dream. Joyce was so _very_
stable!
Three A.M. He had dreamt of Standskill, tall, lean Standskill striding
through the lovely early morning along the Champs Élysées, moving
purposefully. He had even dreamt he had for a moment invaded
Standskill's mind and caught the lawyer's pounding thought, "Lawrence!
_Buy_, Lawrence!" Oh, but that would never do. The service psis would
catch Standskill, would test the ethics of it now that Joyce had
spilled, would cause Standskill to be disbarred. But Standskill didn't
know! A dream. _A lunatic dream._
Four A.M. The coincidence of the timing of his wakings struck him
then. For a moment the latest dream eluded him and then the sense of
airless cold, a bleak, cratered landscape, stark stars staring in a
lunar night swept coldly across his mind. He shivered, drew the
blanket over him, thought: _How many shares? Six thousand? I can do
it. I'll contact the broker in the morning. Six thousand at two
hundred per. One million two hundred thousand dollars._
But that would raise the price, the attempt to buy so many shares. You
can't buy a million plus in one stock without driving the price
up--_unless you manage to buy all the shares at once_! If only he
could persuade--psionically persuade--but he couldn't! It wasn't
ethical.
His mind drifted.... I'll call the broker in the morning. Perhaps he
can start picking up some of the independent shares when the market
opens. If only he could snag the four thousand that--what was that
name in Lawrence's mind?--yes, Redgrave! The four thousand that
Redgrave has! That would be a start!
Redgrave had always fought Lawrence tooth and nail. Lawrence would
derive vast personal satisfaction from seeing Redgrave an
_ex_-stockholder. Thankless cad! Investment in the corporation had
helped make Redgrave a very wealthy man. Lawrence stock was only part
of his vast holdings. Redgrave was definitely out of the red!
Black chuckled, then told himself that this was a grave and not a
laughing matter. Sleep was coming again.... _Out of the red. Grave.
Redgrave!_
Five A.M. He awoke in a cold sweat.... This time the dream came back
slowly, drenching him with fear as it came. It was sheer madness, this
dream! To have even considered investing in Lawrence Applied Atomics!
The Government would never condone the deal Lawrence was
contemplating--the Applied Atomics Corporation was nearly insolvent,
the BEB psis were investigating it....
Black tossed fitfully on the bed, seeking sleep desperately, seeking
to escape the black night pressing in, to evade the imagined--or was
it real?--probing minds of service psis.
Six A.M. He almost forgot the fears that had assailed him an hour
before. He realized then that in the last few minutes or seconds or
however long the latest transient phantasm had been in his mind he had
dreamt of his broker pacing a dimly-lighted chamber, muttering, "The
man's out of his mind. Economic instability, that's certain. Thinking
of selling good stock to invest in Lawrence Applied Atomics! Not that
Lawrence stock isn't fairly good, but he'll never make enough out of
the corporation's piles; the returns are not that great!"
8 A.M. Black stretched, felt strangely relaxed. He realized then that
as he had slept and, despite the fitfulness of his sleeping, his mind
had apparently gone on analyzing the possible reactions to the big
deal.
He arose, took a shower, shaved, ate breakfast. Then he went to the
visiphone and buttoned Charles Wythe, his broker, at his office.
"Charlie," Black said to the cadaverous looking man who answered.
"Where's the boss?"
"Went to see a psychiatrist."
"Why?"
"I don't know. What's on your mind?"
"I want you to do some selling and buying for me. Sell whatever you
like, but buy Lawrence Applied Atomics."
"Look, Marty, let's not go off half-cocked. Last year you had a sudden
brainstorm and remember what happened. Lawrence may be a good stock,
but it won't help you to build up to that thirty percent you need. Not
in the time you have to do it in. It's bad enough for you to take a
big licking once. Let's not be stupid again."
"Now, Charlie, don't be nasty. I want you to buy Lawrence as quietly
as you can. I want six thousand shares at the current price. Get them
for me."
"Are you shaken loose from your psyche or id or whatever?" Wythe
cried. "Do it quietly, the man says, do it quietly! You can do it
about as quietly as they launched the space station. Where do you
think I can get six thousand shares of Lawrence?"
"Why, you buy them!" Black answered innocently. "Isn't that what you
do down at the Stock Exchange?"
The broker groaned. "Sure, that's all I do. Buy, that is. But not
Lawrence. Look, Marty, see this chart? Yesterday was a big day for
Lawrence Applied Atomics. It was unusually active. Three hundred
shares changed hands. The day before it was one hundred. Once in my
memory Lawrence had a four thousand share day. That must have been
when Redgrave bought in. Now you tell me how I'm going to get you six
thousand shares, get them quietly, and get them at the current price!"
"Start buying," Black said, "because I've got a hunch you'll find
them. My mother had hunches, didn't she? Did she ever tell you or the
boss to buy the wrong stocks? Did she--"
"That was your mother, Marty. What about that hunch you had last year,
the one that cost you a couple of hundred thou--"
"That was last year!"
"So, what's changed?" asked Wythe.
"Maybe _I've_ changed, Charlie. Do it; that's all I ask."
"Okay, Marty. But I think you're out of your mind, especially with
what was on the morning news."
"And what was that?"
"Lawrence is in bad shape. He's not likely to pull through. They
operated last night, in case you didn't know."
"But that should drive the stock down!"
"Why? It won't affect the profits from the corporation's piles."
"No. I agree. But that's not the only thing that keeps the price up.
What about Lawrence's reputation?"
"Well, there's also a rumor about a government investigation of the
corporation," Wythe admitted. "That might have some downward effect."
"Buy, Charlie, buy! I'll ring you later."
Black rang off. He felt an overwhelming confidence. He had only one
small doubt in his mind--during or following one of those disturbing
dreams had he been sufficiently overwrought to have relaxed his mental
block, thereby letting in a fleeting probe from a service psi who
would then have gleaned, in a moment, knowledge of the proposed
transaction?
The unease waned. The exuberant confidence was in him again. The
prescience of Martha Black?
He went out and caught a heli-cab to the law offices. He'd be a good
trainee to the eyes and minds of anyone who might check. If the
service psis were on his trail, he'd show them how good a trainee he
was. He could check with Charlie Wythe later.
V
At ten A.M., Standskill's partner, G. D. Rich left the office to
attend court.
At ten-thirty A.M., a contact call came whispering to Black's mind. He
thought it at first a probe and blocked part of his mind; then
relaxed as it realized it was a psi asking with overbearing politeness
for him to connect the visiphone circuit. The mental touch seemed
somehow familiar, but it wasn't Joyce. He knew it wasn't Joyce; there
was something unsure and tentative about the whisper of thought.
Black psionically cut in the outer office visiphone connection. The
bell rang almost immediately. He switched on the inner office
instrument and a familiar face came in sync on the screen--that of
Peter Dodson, the principal administrative officer of the BEB psis.
Dodson's blondly handsome face showed concern. He said, "I wanted
visiphone contact, Black, because of an unfavorable report I've
received on you. I'll get to that in a minute. First, I'd like to
explain the background. As you may have learned from the news this
morning, we're investigating Lawrence Applied Atomics because of a tip
we'd received from Los Angeles that Lawrence is engaged in a venture
which will eventually affect corporation funds without proper advance
authorization.
"Finding that Lawrence had some dealings with Standskill in the past,
we thought that Standskill might be able to shed some light on the new
venture. When we were unable to contact Standskill, we sought to
contact you psionically last night, but found that your mind was a
completely unreadable jumble of nightmares, filled with phobias and
instabilities. We stopped probing then, realizing that you might be
seriously ill."
Apparently visual examination had convinced Dodson that Black wasn't
as ill as had been thought. Black felt the feather touch of a probe
coming now and he blocked, his thin face expressionless.
"I did have a rather bad night," Black said. "Association. Semantic
instability." He felt the tentacle of thought that was sweeping across
his mind.
"Well," Dodson said, his eyes probing from the screen, "it's obvious
_you_ know nothing of the Lawrence deal. Strange, though, since
there's a record of a call placed to that office by Lawrence
yesterday, and as far as we have been able to determine only you were
there and only you could have answered. How do you explain that?"
Easy now! The block is most difficult to maintain when you're lying.
Easy....
"There was a call," Black admitted, "from someone I don't know, a
fellow who wanted Standskill. Wouldn't say why or give his name. The
moment I told him Standskill was in Paris he said with some reluctance
that he would have to contact another law firm. The caller was
probably Lawrence. If you could describe him--"
"So Standskill's in Paris! The answering service didn't know that.
Well, that rules him out. Thank you, Black. Are you sure you're all
right?"
"Rather tired," Black said. "Overwork, I expect. The training is
rather strenuous, and I do wish you wouldn't probe. As you found in
psi school, my powers have a very delicate balance."
The probe withdrew hastily.
"Sorry, Black. Very sorry. Perhaps you need a rest. I'll be only too
glad to send through an order--"
"Oh, thank you, sir," Black said, trying to make it sound fervent and
properly subservient. He sent a thought of thankfulness after his
words, a weak one. He must not appear too strong.
Dodson rang off.
The coast was clear! They would not probe again soon!
Black immediately called Charles Wythe, found his broker's cadaverous
face puzzled.
"Marty, the market's crazy! I managed to pick up four thousand shares
within ten minutes after the market opened. One purchase. The broker
from whom I obtained them represented Dan Redgrave--"
"Redgrave!" Black almost shouted.
"Yes, Redgrave. He said Redgrave is plain cuckoo. Ordered him to sell
at one hundred fifty. Said he'd bought them at that and would sell
them at that. No profit wanted. Glad to get out in time to recoup his
original investment. What's cuckoo about it is that, except for the
momentary flurry when we picked up the Redgrave shares, the stock has
been rising all morning. It's up to two twenty-five as of this moment.
"Lawrence must have someone else buying regardless of the price. Three
concerns are still trying to buy at the present price. Ethics forbids
me to ask who their clients are. Not that they'd tell me anyway! Now,
look, Marty, do you want me to buy at that price, if I can, that is?"
"Well, I must have six thousand, unless Lawrence is buying and I'm
quite sure he isn't. See if you can find out who the buyer is, won't
you?"
"Everybody's crazy today," the broker said. "I'll call you back."
Wythe did, a few minutes later.
"I'm afraid it's no use, Marty. There's not another share to be had.
There's been news from the hospital. Lawrence has rallied. Although
he's still in a coma, his chances are good for recovery. Not only
that, but the Business Ethics Bureau has issued a statement to the
effect that the tip they'd received about Lawrence and a deal has not
been proved to have a foundation in fact. Those things have put the
stock way up. Everybody wants to buy Lawrence but nobody wants to
sell--except me! Let's sell, Marty!"
"Not on your life," Black said decisively. "And, look, we _must_ get
two thousand more shares! Get them, Charlie!"
He clicked off again.
So Dan Redgrave had sold at a ridiculously low price! Had his
consciousness wandered in those dreams? Had he psionically persuaded
Redgrave to sell? That wouldn't be ethical. But do ethics apply to
_involuntary_ acts?
His mind was in turmoil. He dared not exercise his psi powers again
just now. He feared above all the wrath of Dodson and the other
service psis. If they came to suspect that he had persuaded
Redgrave--that he had, according to Ethics, misused his powers ... he
knew only too well that there are ways of banishing psi powers,
insulin shock and other treatments.
And for all his present aloneness he was beginning to realize his
latent powers--powers which, when fully developed, would doubtlessly
bring him into contact with others like himself, with someone who
could share the fierce ecstasy of probing with the consciousness to
the moon, or even farther, at the speed of light at which thought
moved. No, perhaps he need not always be alone....
He went out to lunch, returned, called his broker. Wythe told him
there was no activity in Lawrence. The afternoon wore. A few minutes
before the exchange closed the broker called.
"It's hopeless, Marty," said Wythe. "Let's sell. The price is still
two twenty-five and nothing for sale. How about it? Three hundred
thousand profit in one day."
It sounded attractive. Black hesitated, then thought of Lawrence,
good, old would-be humanitarian and philanthropist D. V. Lawrence
lying in coma. Lawrence, whose dreams were in his hands now. He had
come to like Lawrence, the trail-blazer where there were so few trails
to be blazed. He had to help him. If worse came to worse he would cast
Ethics to the winds. He'd have to! His conscience couldn't permit him
to do anything else. He would psionically persuade at least one of the
other stockholders to vote Lawrence's way.
Well, at least his mind was made up. Lawrence would have his options.
And with forty-nine percent of the stock between them they could
gamble on getting a favorable vote.
"What about it, Marty?" the broker asked impatiently.
"Sorry," Black said. "The answer is no, Charlie! I want that stock."
He rang off.
Moments later his consciousness was on its way to keep the rendezvous
with Joyce high in the evening sky over Oklahoma, up where the blue of
the atmosphere turned to the black of infinity.
And moments later lights blazed over a table in a realty office in Los
Angeles where no one sat. But pens lifted and wrote....
"_D. V. Lawrence by Martin J. Black, his attorney-in-fact._"
"_J. F. Cadigan Realty Corporation by Richard Joyce, Vice-President._"
Another pen lifted with the invisible but delicate twist of a feminine
psi-touch.
"_Before me this ninth day of September in the year Nineteen Hundred
and Seventy-six Anno Domini psionically appeared...._"
The options were psigned, come what may!
VI
An oak-panelled conference room. Lawrence's first vice-president
reading the proposal. The board of directors. The major stockholders.
Smaller ones. Attorneys-in-fact for both Lawrence and Black.
And _Bob Standskill_!
What was Standskill doing here?
But the first vice-president had finished reading the proposal and was
asking for a vote.
Lawrence--forty-five thousand shares--_yes_!
Maryk--twenty thousand shares--_no_!
Carrese--nine thousand shares--_no_!
Tonemont--seven thousand shares--_no_!
Black--four thousand shares--_yes_!
Turitz--five thousand shares--_no_!
And the smaller stockholders, one by one--_no_, _no_, _no_!
Forty-nine thousand shares--_no_! Forty-nine thousand shares--_yes_!
Black felt ill. His hovering consciousness almost fled from its
invisible vantage point above the conference table back to the mansion
on Riverside Drive, back where the memories of Martha Black
remained.... But it wavered, stabilized....
Standskill rising, so implacable, so sure and saying, "Two thousand
shares--yes!"
Black probed Standskill's mind almost involuntarily then, realizing
instantly that he should have disregarded Ethics and probed before.
Standskill was a psi, a _non-service psi_! And Black knew then that
when his consciousness had flitted through association to _Le Cheval
Fatigué_ in Montmarte, Paris, and had fixed there for a brief unstable
moment it had yielded to Standskill all knowledge of the Lawrence
deal, persuading Standskill to order his brokers to buy the
corporation's stock for the trust....
Black's consciousness sped to join Joyce's in a law office in
Oklahoma. It watched the landowners signing the deeds even as it
signed psionically the checks which represented the good and valuable
considerations.
The deal was closed.
VII
_Joyce, tell me--did you, to your knowledge, tip off the BEB psis?_
_Yes. Inadvertently, of course. I had a nightmare. I'm afraid I'm
sometimes unstable, anonymously so, when asleep. Only then, though,
thank Heaven!_
_And, Joyce, why aren't you in service?_
_For the same reason you can't be._
Confusion.
_What do you mean?_
_Your mother knew._
_My mother?_
_Yes, Marty, don't you realize that only unstable psis are taken into
service? Stability is the mark of the superman. Do the majority of men
want the minority--the supermen--running their world even though the
supermen are their brothers, sisters and children? And they must
surely realize that all mankind will evolve to psis one day. Marty,
you were in psi school. So was I. Did you complete Stabilization?... I
see you didn't. No psi does! They let you think you're getting away
with something when you skip classes, but you're not!_
_Fortunately, if you are strong enough, you stabilize on your own.
Perhaps you'll realize now that your mother gave you the incentive:
the thirty percent angle, realizing that an uncle you definitely did
not like would inherit if you didn't strive to the utmost. It worked._
_They can't touch me, Marty, and they can't touch you! We can elude
them mentally and physically. They know they can't touch us; so they
just have to tolerate us! I can read in your mind that you've
stabilized. You can fit physically now. Why don't you try? Lawrence is
waiting...._
Black's consciousness sped back to his body. His body lifted and sped
to a hospital room.
Lawrence was awake. He viewed Black's materialization with
incredulity.
"The deal is closed," Black said.
"But--you--" Lawrence stammered. "Closed?"
"Yes. And, considering the shares I hold, I guess that makes me
something of a psilent partner of yours!"
A brash young man, Lawrence thought. A very brash young man!
Black grinned. _Thirty percent? He couldn't miss!_
They shook hands.
It was a deal. Psigned, sealed and delivered!
* * * * *
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