INTERVENTION (45 page)

...And now some of the oldest of all to be new again Gran.

Affection! To think I'd live to see it! Eighty-one years but not even my Sight gave me a hint of how it would
really
be and I'm so proud so proud.

Well I still have misgivings. If only we could have waited until there were more as adept at the soul-travel as Nigel Alana and I.

No you could
not
wait not with Them skulking about Godbethankit you've been unmolested you must get it into the open then you'll all be safe.

If the demonstration succeeds.

Now stop that. What have I taught you man and boy for thirty-nine years but that doubt's the mind's poison causing the powers to sicken and wane? Shame on ye!

I expect it's all this science that's spoiled me.

Laughter. Now don't be afraid. I See that your showing will bring about a new world and it's Mother Shipton's joke you see:
The world then to an end shall come in Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-One.

! So that explains
that...
still I wish I had the Sight like you and Alana and your confidence. When I remember what happened back in April my narrow escape I still get a cald grue if it hadn't been for that big chap who came along by chance—

So it was chance was it!

Ah Gran.

Ah Jamie. Stop fashing yourself laddie just do what you've prepared yourself and Nigel and Alana for don't think of the cold world watching with its mechanical moonlet eyes pretend it's the first soul-trip just like long years ago a natural thing if a wonder an old thing cherished in spite of doubts and oppression and now it's time we showed it proudly and how will you like being a famous man my own wee Jamie?

You're a cruel old woman to laugh at me when I'm all in a flaughter but I love you. Now charmbless me in the Gaelic for I must be off to California and the Antipodes to make sure that all's ready.

Very well: Cuirim cumerih dhia umid sluagh dall tharrid do vho gach gabhadh sosgeul dhia na grais o mullach gu lar unid ga ghradhich na fire thu i na millidh na mhuaih thu ... I put the protection of God around you a host over you to protect you from every danger the gospel of the God of Grace from top to ground over you may the men love you and the women do you no harm.

Amen! Thank you dear Gran goodbye.

Farewell Jamie my own heart.

***

As he waited with the throng of journalists to be admitted to the auditorium of the University of Edinburgh's George Square Theatre, Fabian (The Fabulous) Finster amused himself by ferreting out others like himself who had crashed the event with forged credentials.

The exercise was not difficult. All intelligence operatives live their waking hours wrapped in a miasma of hair-trigger vigilance and subacute anxiety. A sensitive like Finster perceived this "loud" mind-tone as easily as if a neon sign were being worn on the forehead of the emanator. So far, he had spotted spooks from France, East and West Germany, Britain's domestic intelligence service MI5, the Israeli Mossad, the CIA, and (rather strangely) the Swiss Banking Regulatory Bureau PRD. Four Soviet GRU agents were among the sizable press corps from TASS. There was also a lone KGB man playing a clandestine game whom Finster had contrived to stand next to. This Russian was a squat, fair-haired man with a nasty head cold and rumpled clothing. He wore a lapel badge identifying him as
S. HANNULA—HELSINGEN SANOMAT.

There was a flutter of action near the theatre's main entrance.

"Look at that!" Finster exclaimed to the counterfeit Finn. "They're going to let the TV crews into the hall ahead of the working press! It happens every goddam time."

A rumble of indignation went up from the less favored media representatives. Their protests were partly appeased when some two dozen young people wearing University of Edinburgh Psychology Department sweat shirts came out a side door and began passing out press kits.

The alleged Hannula growled, "Now maybe we will get a clue about the kind of circus these academic publicity-hounds are planning."

Considerately, he handed one of the thick information packets to the little squirrel-faced American next to him, whose ID badge read: j.
SMITH—SEATTLE POST-INTELLIGENCER
. As the Soviet agent opened his own packet he was thinking:

But surely it cannot be significant EE breakthrough not coming from here this oldfashioned ridiculous place they couldnot have kept data secure most likely merely another crude stunt suchas MacGregor described literature but if demonstration not crucial then why CIA crablice pursuing him&associates try lure to America HoIyMother what awful stuffed head fever perhaps I come down pneumonia this prickish Scottish dampness at least GRU donkeyfuckers aborted lunatic scheme kidnap MacGregor conscript into RedArmy psiresearch overcome KGB advantage Alma-Ata ...

Finster studied his press kit for a few minutes, then asked the KGB man, "Is there much interest in psychic phenomena in Finland?"

"Oh, yes. That kind of thing is part of the national tradition. We Finns have been accused of practicing witchcraft by Swedes and other superstitious people from time immemorial." He sneezed and cursed and made use of a stained handkerchief.

"Gesundheit," Finster told him cheerfully. (He was getting very good with other languages.) "How about your neighbors to the east? Would you call the Russians superstitious?"

"Hah! They are perhaps the worst of all." Hannula became very absorbed in the handout material.

"Not much useful stuff here," Finster noted. "Will you look at this, for chrissake?
A History of the British Society for Psychical Research, 1882 to Present.
Did my editor send me halfway around the world for that kinda shit? And this bio-sheet on MacGregor is hardly anything except summaries of the guy's publications. How's this for a grabber? 'EEG Beta Activity Correlates Among Six Subjects During Short-Range Excorporeal Excursions.' Jeez!"

The Soviet agent managed a perfunctory chuckle. He thought:

Shortrange it
must
be shortrange source New Hampshire assured us remoteviewing still unreliable but if so
why
Americans offer so much money Weinstein
who
try assassinate MacGregor April
when
idiots allow us enter hall begin sodding demonstration?

"Any minute now," Finster said absently, still studying the press-kit material. "Say—here's a choice bit. Did you know that MacGregor's official title here at Edinburgh University is 'Holder of the Arthur Koestler Chair of Parapsychology'? This Koestler was a famous writer, an ex-Commie who wrote about the abuse of power in the Red Bloc. When he died he left a pile of money to found this psychic professorship. Wouldn't it send up the Russkies if MacGregor has discovered something big? We all know the Reds have been trying to develop Mind Wars stuff for twenty, thirty years. Lately, there've been rumors that they're close to succeeding."

Hannula was blank-faced. "I have heard nothing about that."

Finster flashed his chipmunk grin. "I'll just bet you haven't." He folded the information packet lengthwise and tucked it into the Louis Vuitton shoulder bag that contained the tools of his trade—audiovisual microcorder, cellular telephone with data terminal, and the seasoned reporter's indispensable steno pad with three Bic pens. Only the most careful scrutiny would have revealed the illegal comsat-scrambler hookup on the phone and the needle-gun charged with deadly ricin concealed within the Bic Clic with the silver cap.

"Look!" Hannula cried. "Something happens!"

The doors of the auditorium were opening at last. A ragged cheer arose from the media people waiting in the lobby and the mob surged forward in a body. Finster called out to Hannula, "Stick with me, buddy! I always get a good seat!" And somehow the throng did part minimally to let the dapper little American pass through. The KGB agent hastened to follow, and the two of them raced down the center aisle and plopped breathlessly into seats in the third row. "What'd I tell you?" Finster bragged. "Best seats in the house."

Hannula groped beneath his own rump. He extracted a placard that said:
RESERVED TIME MAGAZINE
. Consternation creased his brow.

"Relax," Finster told him. He took the Russian's sign, together with one from his own seat that said:
RESERVED CORRIERE DELLA SERA
, and tore both sheets to bits. Reporters milling about in search of their proper places were open-mouthed. Finster's eyes swept over them. "We have a perfect right to sit anyplace we want. Versteh'? Capisce? Pigez? You dig?"

The other journalists looked away, suddenly absorbed in their own affairs.

The hall was jammed with more than a thousand people, and some of those lurking about the fringes were plainclothes police officers. Finster pretended to jot down items on his notepad as he relocated the other spooks. Only the CIA, masquerading as an SNN Steadicam team, and the TASS crew were more advantageously placed than Finster and his Soviet acquaintance. The Brits were clustered fifth row far left. Both sets of Germans were way in back with the luckless standees—who now included a distinguished Italian science editor and a hopping-mad
Time
stringer. The Israeli agent and the lady from the Direction Générale de la'Sécurité Extérieure were side by side, chatting chummily. But what had become of the Swiss bankers' spy? Ah. Somehow he had wormed his way to the very front of the theatre, to the area between the seats and the platform edge, where he stood focusing his Hasselblad in the midst of a crush of television technicians. The fellow's mind was wrapped in feverish excitement, but because of the distance, it was impossible for Finster to sift out coherent thoughts. Obscurely troubled, Finster frowned.

"Ah," breathed Hannula. "It is about to start."

A white-haired woman in a heather-colored suit had come out onto the platform and stood expectantly, holding a cordless microphone at the ready. Behind her was a simple small table with another microphone, and a wooden chair. Hung upstage against a curtain backdrop was an impressive GPD video screen that measured four meters by five. It had been flashing enigmatic test patterns while the audience settled down, but now it had gone blank except for the digital time display in the lower right-hand corner that indicated 09:58. No other apparatus was in evidence.

Ready-lights on the TV cameras surrounding the platform began to wink on like wolves' eyes glittering in fireshine. Technical directors muttered into headsets, giving last-minute instructions to their colleagues who manned a great gaggle of satellite-transmission vans massed outside on George Square and Buccleuch Place. A few still-cameras clicked and buzzed prematurely and print-media people whispered establishing remarks into their microcorders. At precisely ten o'clock, the university spokeswoman cleared her throat.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I am Eloise Watson, the director of media relations for the Medical School of the University of Edinburgh. We would like to welcome you to this special demonstration and press conference organized on behalf of the Parapsychology Unit of the Department of Psychology. Immediately after the demonstration, questions will be accepted from the floor. We must ask that you hold all queries until then. And now, without further ado, let me present the man you have been waiting to meet—James Somerled MacGregor, Koestler Professor of Parapsychology."

She withdrew, and from the wings shambled a tall and loose-jointed figure. His jacket and trousers of oatmeal tweed were baggy and nondescript, but he had compensated somewhat for their drabness with a waistcoat cut from the scarlet MacGregor tartan. Still-cameras snapped and whirred and TV lenses zoomed in for close-ups of a lean and wild-eyed face. MacGregor's beaky nose and thin lips were framed with extravagant Dundreary whiskers of vivid auburn. His hair, unkempt and collar-length, was also red. He clutched a sensitive dish-tipped microphone with big bony hands, holding it up as though it were the hilt of a Highlander's claymore presented in defiant salute. When he spoke his voice was gruff, with the barest hint of a lilting western accent.

"What we're going to show you today is a thing that people of a certain mind have been doing for hundreds of years—perhaps even thousands. I learned it myself from my grandmother in the Isles, and I've managed to teach it to numbers of my colleagues. You'll be meeting some of them today. The phenomenon has been called out-of-body experience, remote-viewing, astral projection, even soul-travel. Lately, psychic researchers have taken to calling it excorporeal excursion or EE. I'll stick to those initials during the demonstration for the sake of simplicity, but you journalists can call it anything you like—just so long as you
don't
call it magic."

There were scattered laughs and murmurs.

Jamie's fierce, dark eyes glowered and the audience fell silent. "EE isn't magic! It's as real as radio or television or space flight!...But I didn't invite you here today to argue its authenticity. I'm going to show it to you."

He half turned, indicating the huge video screen at the rear of the platform. "With the kind assistance of the University's Astronomy Department and the GTE Corporation, we have arranged for several live television transmissions to be beamed exclusively to this theatre from other locations. I will be able to speak directly to the persons you will see, using this microphone—but they won't see me. All they will receive from me is an audio signal, like a telephone call ... Now I think we're ready to begin."

At a gesture from MacGregor, a balding bearded man in his forties came on stage, saluted the audience with a wave, and seated himself at the table. Jamie said, "I'd like to introduce my old friend and colleague of twenty years, Nigel Weinstein, Associate Professor of Parapsychology here at the University. He will explain his role in a few minutes. But first—may I have the California transmission, please?"

A color picture flashed onto the screen. A smartly dressed woman and an elderly man sat in easy chairs before a low glass table. Opposite was a long settee and behind them potted plants and a window that appeared to overlook moonlit waters spanned by an enormous suspension bridge. City lights starred the surrounding hills. The display in the corner of the screen now read:
SAN FRANCISCO USA
02:05.