Authors: Anne McCaffrey
“Yes, Titter’s always wanted to drive a big one. The car belongs to the Center. You can check the registration papers.”
“And that … that Charity McGillicuddy has a blue ranch mink coat.”
“Indeed she has. She requisitioned it from Stores about four months ago.”
“She requisitioned … from Stores?”
“She has a position to maintain now and her appearance is of great concern to the LEO office. Think how embarassing it would be for someone employed by the LEO Commission to be arrested for wearing stolen furs. Of course, Charity says that now she can buy ’em instead of ‘lifting’ ’em, half the fun’s gone. But it gives her a great moral boost to wear blue ranch mink in the LEO Block. We try to keep our workers happy.”
Rambley had stared at Henry Darrow through this ingenuous explanation but his indignation rose with every gently spoken word.
“This won’t be the last you’ll hear from me, Mr. Darrow. You do not mock the Internal Revenue Department, Mr. Darrow.” He slammed the file cards into his case, hands trembling with outraged dignity. “You’ll hear from us.”
“That’s fine by me. Just call ahead for an appointment. Only consider the fact that Senators Maxwell, Abrahams, Montello and Gratz approved our corporate structure.”
Rambley’s eyes widened.
“And the presidential advisor, Mr. Killiney, acted as our financial assistant. Don’t you have
his
card in that file?”
Rambley exited, reduced to mutterings.
“Do you often trick your way into a private home, Mr. Darrow?”
“When I’ve been unable to secure an appointment any other way, yes, Mr. Henner.” Henry smiled pleasantly, trying not to glance with obvious envy at the spaciousness of the magnificently furnished living room. Such accommodation was almost archaic.
George Henner appeared more amused than irritated by Henry Darrow’s impertinence as he leaned back in his Italian brocade armchair.
“If it’s money for your palm-reading, table-tilting crystal-gazing tricks, forget it.”
“On the contrary, sir. I’ve affirmation that I can ask you to join our happy band.” Henry smiled at the surprise in Henner’s yellowed eyes.
“Join you?” Henner burst out laughing. His head went back showing a veritable gold field of fillings in his upper teeth. “By God, Darrow, you’ve made my day! If you can’t lick ’em, recruit ’em?”
“Actually,” Henry went on smoothly, seating himself and crossing his legs, counterfeiting an ease he didn’t feel. He noted the flicker of irritation in Henner’s face but the financier had a reputation of letting a man have enough rope to hang himself. “Actually, Mr. Henner, your abilities in the financial world are as solidly derived from the parapsychic as my own. Incidentally, you’re the crystal ban reader … although I see you’ve got a modern computer for stock market print-out instead of the old glass case.”
Henner gave an amused grunt but said nothing, his silence a subtle prod to keep Henry talking.
“You’re known,” Henry continued obediently, because that was the way the interview ought to proceed, “to have a genius, a second sight into what stocks are going to rise, which will fall, what bond issues will pay the keenest long-term profit. And I can prove that you’re parapsychic.”
Henner cocked his head slightly to one side, Us amusement deepening, as he tacitly encouraged Henry to produce his proof. Darrow spread the graph out on the table. “I know you’ve followed the newsmedia coverage on us, so you’re familiar with this sort of graph. What you may not immediately appreciate is the fact that this is your graph.”
Henner became immobile with attention.
“When you had your last routine physical a month ago, your physician employed a Goosegg. He didn’t realize
that it wasn’t his own office model so he’s blameless. You did, however, experience what we call an Incident and it is recorded on this graph, here and here. I believe the Incident was in connection with the Allied Metals and Mining merger in which you managed quite a ‘killing.’ ”
“You don’t read thought from an EEG graph, Darrow.”
“Hardly. But you placed a phone call directly you were through your physical to your office and within the next few hours the merger was announced … but not before you had acquired a tidy pile of Allied stock. Are my
facts
correct?”
Henner nodded slowly, his eyes, narrowed to intense slits, watching Henry Darrow’s face.
“That’s proof,” Henry said, rustling the graph paper, “that you’re parapsychic, Mr. Henner.”
The silence which ensued designed to make Darrow exceedingly uncomfortable, did not. For a long space, Henry returned George Henner’s stare, then folded his arms and gazed around the beautiful room. Finally he turned back to Henner and smiled.
“Blackmail?” asked Henner.
Darrow shook his head.
“No. You’d be far too clever for that. No, I’d hazard the guess that you want to borrow my Talent as you call it, to make your fortunes? That would still be essentially blackmail, wouldn’t it Darrow?”
Henry pursed his lips a little, expressing dubiety.
“Well, then what is it you want from me? It’s something.”
“Actually, it’s the twelve acre tract of land on the Palisades.”
Once again Henry wished he were a telepath to read the emotions swiftly passing through George Henner’s mind. He had startled the financier, he had touched the most vulnerable point of the shrewd man’s life: his intense love, and need for, the beautiful estate of Beechwoods. It had
been in Henner’s family for a hundred and forty years, was a showplace which few saw. And Henner’s need of Beechwoods was as great and for the same reasons as Henry Darrow’s.
“How could you know?” demanded Henner in a hoarse whisper.
“That the State intends to confiscate all privately held lands within a hundred mile radius of the Jerhattan city limits? I know because it is as important to me as it is to you to know these things.”
Henner was on his feet, pacing to release the energy of his anger. In a barely audible monotone he inventively assigned destinations to the State en masse, the needs of the unhoused, unwashed multitudes in general and those particular officials who had failed to keep Henner’s ancestral home inviolate.
“If, however, the property is already owned by a religious, medical, educational or charitable institution. Which will accommodate a sufficient number of our ever-expanding population, they cannot confiscate your property even under the terms of Section 91, Paragraph 12 of the Housing Act of 1998.”
“This is 1997, man. That Act isn’t passed yet. I can still defeat it.”
“No. It will be passed.”
Henner tried to stare that knowledge out of Henry’s mind.
“And you know the inevitability, Mr. Henner. None of your contacts can hold out any hope of defeating that measure, nor of defending your Beechwoods.”
“And it’s your table-tilting tea-leaf readers who’ll infest my home?”
“Your physical condition is poor, Mr. Henner, and your nerves damned near the breaking point. The solitude and privacy of this house and its grounds are vital to your life. It would be to any parapsychic mind forced to tune in on the emotional chaos that haunts the very air we
breathe. You know you’ve been living on borrowed time for the past year. You know what alternative dwelling accommodations will do to you.”
“Do you happen to know,” asked Henner casually for he’d got control of himself again, “the exact date of my death?”
“As I know the exact time of mine, Mr. Henner. You will die of a heart attack, the aorta will be closed by a globule of the arteriosclerotic matter coating your veins, at nine-twenty-one
PM
, exactly one year, nine months and fourteen days from now.”
A gleam of challenge livened the deadly intent of Henner’s gaze. “And if I don’t?”
“If you don’t, then revoke the grant of Beechwoods to the Center. In the meantime, you’ll have secured your last days in the ancestral home, which is your prime concern at the moment.”
“I could have a heart transplant …” Henner was clearly enjoying this.
“Not with a diseased liver and the condition of your arteries.”
“And that’s your prophecy, Darrow?”
“A medical certainty,” Henry said. “I’ve toyed with the notion of a transplant myself since my death will also occur from myocardial infarction on a certain May twelfth, at ten-fifty-two
PM
. But by May twelfth of that year, I intend to have accomplished the major part of what needs to be done to establish a viable, self-sufficient Parapsychic Center in North America …”
“On the Beechwoods estate?”
“On the Beechwoods estate. By May twelfth, I shall be grateful for the peace and tranquillity of my grave.”
Henner’s eyes flicked from Darrow’s to some inner middle distance, the harsh cynical lines of the financier’s face softened.
“ ‘Ease after war, death after life does greatly please’?” The words were softly spoken but there was no quartet in the hard look Henner then turned on Henry Darrow.
“In your scheming where does this house end up?”
“As an integral part of the Center.”
Henner’s expression was ironic. “And my money? I’ve no next of kin.”
Darrow laughed. “You keep harping on your money, Mr. Henner. We don’t
need
your money. Check our books on that. But only the Center can offer one of its own members what his money hasn’t been able to secure for him.”
For a long time Henner gazed out the French windows that gave on the flagged terrace, towards the sweep of magnificent lawn and the superb beech trees. When Henner finally turned back to Henry, his hand was extended. The two men shook three times in the ancient custom of binding a bargain.
“Answer me one thing, Darrow! Did you foresee winning?”
“I knew that we would eventually secure Beechwoods, Mr. Henner,” he said, permitting regret to tinge his voice. “But I wanted your cooperation.”
“Cooperation? You goddamn well know I had no choice!”
“Didn’t you?”
George Henner had wandered into the Graph room just as the first of the three Incidents was recorded. He had the habit of appearing in the various departments, taking what he called a perverse interest in the eventual eviction of the Center from Beechwoods. In point of fact, Henner had admitted to Molly Darrow that the Center had given him something to live for. He’d been feeling much better since Henry’d conned him out of Beechwoods. Despite his professed intention of harassing Henry, George Henner’s passing suggestions were usually solid advice. And despite his crotchety and often irascible manner, the Talents became fond of him.
“Got a strong Incident,” Ben Avedon, the duty officer,
told Henry on the intercom just as George Henner wandered into the Graph room. “Patsy Tucker.”
In moments, Henry and Molly arrived in time for Patsy’s phone call of such details as she’d “seen.”
“I’m on the water again,” she said, breathless in an attempt to verbalize before details escaped her. “And there’re boats. Four. Sun’s at a late afternoon angle, on my left so I must be looking north. There’s land beyond the boats, pines, a bluff. And oil on the water. I can see it all rainbowy. The oil scares me. It’s going to ignite, and then the water’s covered with flames and the boats are eaten up and … oh, it’s going to be wicked, Ben. Can you locate? Have I given you enough? I can’t remember anymore and the flames cover any details.”
“It is a sooner?”
“Awful soon. Today. I’m sure of it. But it’s morning, and I saw late afternoon … is there time enough?”
“Sure. Plenty of time. I’m feeding the computer with the data right now. Old didactic will pin the place down, Pat. But have you a notion about the size of the boats involved?”
“Oh, yes, of course. How stupid of me. I forget you haven’t seen. One’s small, a pleasure craft … a power boat … no sails. That’s the one that goes on fire. Two long low boats … I guess they’d be tankers. And a higher boat … I mean, one higher above the water … And they’re all much too close together. That’s the problem because they’ll all catch fire.”
“A pleasure boat, two tankers and a freighter in the late afternoon. That’s fine, Pat. And the pines and bluff and being close together indicate a channel of some description. Now … think hard again, Pat. Did you see any markings on the boats, funnel markings, ensigns, names?”
After a silence Pat mournfully admitted “seeing” nothing because the fire and smoke occluded.
“Get one of the pyros on it,” Henry told Ben. “Patsy, Henry here. That’s a good job, lass. Now take it easy.
We’ll buzz you back with confirmation. Grand work, Pat.” Henry disconnected her line, shaking his head, knowing how worried the girl would be until she heard they’d prevented the collision. If only there’d been markings to speed up identification, and then if the participants could be dissuaded from arriving on the previewed scene.… He moved deliberately to the computer panel and began tapping out queries. “Undoubtedly a seaway. Could be Sheepshead Bay area, East River … no, not there. Or one of the canals …”
“St. Lawrence, with tankers
and
freighters …” suggested Ben.
“Or the Great Lakes …” said Molly.
Before there’d been a print-out on possible locations or what traffic was already in the St. Lawrence Seaway, a second graph began to chatter.
“Right on time,” said Ben. “Here’s Terry, our local friendly reliable pyro.”
“How come you don’t
know
, Hank?” George Henner asked, settling himself on a stool in the corner.
“Not enough people involved, George, and too close a range for me. That’s Patsy’s specialty—cliff-hangers. Besides, don’t you agree that the good executive makes all the long-range decisions and leaves the picayune nitty-gritty details to keep his staff occupied?”
George grinned but he said nothing more, listening as intently as the others to Terry Cle’s verbalization of his “sight.” The broad outline correlated with Patsy’s although he “saw” the event from a different perspective. He had sufficient detail on one tanker and the small craft to result in exact IDs for both from Ship Registration. And there was a tanker of the Iricoil Line proceeding down the Seaway en route for Toronto, ETA 7:48
PM
at that port. The small craft, the Aitch Bee, was registered to an A. Frascati, and was at that moment moored in a small boat basin on the American side of the Seaway.