INTERVENTION (59 page)

They stood now in front of its door, armor-plated steel without a knob or latch. Kieran pressed his right hand against an inset golden plate. There was a complex clicking sound and a single electronic chime. "Open up," Kieran commanded, and the door slid silently aside, admitting them.

Shannon uttered a low cry of astonishment.

Her father smiled. "Do you like my study? I do, very much. You may come here as often as you like from now on. I'll reprogram the door. But please don't attempt to operate any of the equipment until I've given you proper instruction. I can begin that now, if you like."

"Oh,
yes.
"

"Sit there while I make our coffee." He opened a taboret and took out a Chambord. "I amuse myself by thinking of this room as the high-tech equivalent of the kingdoms of the world that Satan showed to Jesus from the pinnacle of the temple. If I
were
the Earth Boss, I could certainly supervise things very nicely from right here ... Kona or Naviera?"

"Kona," she whispered. She sat on the edge of a maroon leather settee, looking very young. Her mental barriers had fallen completely. Kieran came to her, unwound the turban from her head, smoothed the damp hair, and kissed her crown. As he did so he slipped a subliminal command into the exposed psyche that would prevent voluntary closure until he released her. It was a thing he had learned to do instinctively when he bonded the first hurt minds to himself—how long ago?—before her birth.

Daddy I feel very strange.

Relax dear baby.

He handed her the steaming coffee with a splash of fine cognac, feeling his energies begin to mount. He had feared there might be an insuperable inhibition, but there was not. So, he thought, we think we know ourselves, but we don't! Perhaps all devoted fathers keep the thing repressed in the unconscious. It was as true an instinct as the other, so closely related, that bound mind to mind in perfect loyalty. He wondered if anyone else among the operants had discovered it. He thought not. The hierogamy was an old mystery that repelled the overcivilized mind, dying with the old Celtic and Greek votaries...

"Are you comfortable now, Shannon?"

Her smile was dreamy. "Yes. The coffee is good."

"Drink it all." He slipped off his Shetland cardigan, folded it, then unknotted the blue silk scarf he wore at the open neck of his shirt.

"I thought the coffee would wake me up. But now I feel very sleepy." The dark lashes fluttered. She set her empty cup aside and relaxed against the cushions.

"You can spend the night here," Kieran said. "I often do. It's the one place I know that I'm completely safe. The windows are armored glass and the entire room is a self-contained little fortress. Secure."

Shannon's eyes had closed. "It's snowing. I can see the snowflakes with my mind, blowing in the cold wind. Whenever I do that I feel so lonely." Her face was as white as the soft velour suit she wore.

"You aren't going to be lonely. You'll be part of our group now." Would she remember? The others hadn't—except Arnold, whose love had been strong enough to overcome the posthypnotic suggestion. You won't remember, he told the deepest part of her soul. Not unless you want to.

"I feel cold again," she murmured. "A little."

"Let me warm you," he said, and touched the switch that would turn off the lights and blind the machines.

***

Shannon remembered.

EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, EARTH

7
APRIL
1994

W
HEN THE GIRL
came with the sandwiches, Jamie and Jean and Nigel fell to with the usual voracious appetite of the EE adept, but Alana Shaunavon didn't even seem to notice the plate in front of her. She stared out the pub window at the statue of the wee dog, faithful and melancholy in the rain. A hardy Japanese tourist focused his camera on it, took the shot, and hurried off along Candlemaker Row. Two nurses huddled under a single umbrella came into the pub for lunch, and an old man in a black trench coat moved slowly in the direction of the churchyard gate. He had a plastic carrier bag.

Alana sighed, lifted the teapot, and poured a bit into her cup. It had gone cold.

"Here now, we can't have that," Nigel said. He took the pot in both hands, squinted at it with keen determination, and grinned when steam spurted out of the spout.

"What a useful talent," Jean MacGregor observed. "With you around the house, one wouldn't even need a microwave. Or an electric blanket."

Nigel filled Alana's cup. "So I've told this lovely lady many a time to no avail."

Alana smiled absently. "You want a wife, luv, and I'm not the marrying kind."

"Piffle," said Nigel. "I won't give up, you know. Drink your tea and eat your sandwich. You'll need your strength for this afternoon's outing. It's Dallas again. Sibley and Atoka think the Super-Stealth skin formulation may be hidden there in a fabricating subcontractor's place."

"How dreary." Alana took one bite of sandwich and one sip of tea. "We've wasted five months haring about after this silly ferrite coating process. Why couldn't the bloody stubborn Yanks simply hand the thing over to the Russians instead of daring us and Tamara's people to find it? There's so much more important work we could be doing."

"They're testing," Jamie said. "Measuring our capabilities and our resolution, and making a classic American 'Don't Tread on Me' gesture. You can bet that the formulation is in a lead box walled up in a reinforced vault surrounded by an electrified grid in the midst of an alligator pond ... but we'll find it, whatever the rigamarole, and we'll send copies to Washington and Moscow via diplomatic pouch and tell the world press we've done it. Then we'll chalk up another triumph for globalism and wait for the next confrontation."

"Neither side really cares about the radar-invisible gunk," Alana complained. "It's only a matter of scoring off each other. They may've thrown away their nuclear arms, but it seems they're just as determined to dominate the world as they ever were—and our metapsychic peace initiative is nothing but a referee in the charade."

"Did you really expect an instant Golden Age, my lass?" Jamie's smile was ironic.

"I hoped it would be better than this," Alana admitted, looking out the window again. The old man in the black raincoat was consulting a small book and gazing about. "We don't have the specter of nuclear war between superpowers anymore, but the old East-West antagonism and suspicion are still there, and the little countries cling to their eternal squabbles. There's war in Arabia and war in Kashmir and war in Botswana and war in Bolivia..."

"And I'll never pray at the Wailing Wall," Nigel said, "and your tea is getting cold again, and what is so fascinating about that old chap lurking about out there?"

Alana said, "It's odd. He's subvocalizing both the words and tune of 'Amazing Grace.' I can tell he's in a great state of emotional agitation, and one would normally be able to read his thoughts like a hoarding under those conditions—but because of the hymn-singing I can't get a glimmer. I wonder if the poor old thing is lost?"

"A kind of normal's thought-screen, is it?" Jean asked. "How interesting. Do you know, I think our young Katie and David may have cottoned on to that one! There've been times when I've noticed television commercials and theme songs and other nonsense cycling over and over in their sly little brains when they were obviously up to some deviltry."

"We'd better hope the technique doesn't catch on in diplomatic circles," Nigel said.

"According to Denis Remillard," Jamie said, "it already has. But fortunately, not too many normals are able to keep it up for any length of time ... I forgot to mention that Denis popped over via EE very early this morning. He had some important news. Dartmouth is establishing a Department of Metapsychology with some whacking great grants that've fallen down the chimney, and Denis is being promoted to full professor and will head the thing up."

"Lucky sod," groaned Nigel. "And here we are with the University casting about for ways to put us under the U.K. Civil Service! Can't you just see our metapsychic peace initiative tucked tidily away in Whitehall?" And he sang, in an excruciating fruity tenor:

"But the privilege and pleasure
That we treasure without measure
Is to run on little errands for the Ministers of State!"

"Denis had some bad news, too." Jamie spoke in a lower tone. "The bill for universal metapsychic testing of all American children died in committee. The Civil Liberties Union and the Bible-thumpers carried the day. Now the testing is to be done on a strictly voluntary basis. There was some demand that the names of the participants and the results of the metapsychic assay be made a matter of public record, but Denis is fairly certain that meta-supporters in Washington can shoot that one down by invoking the famous American right to privacy. I asked Denis if he senses any serious groundswell of antimeta sentiment building, but he thinks not. More like a blasé attitude on the part of the normals, he said—taking the mental marvels for granted the way they do space travel."

"We were all heroes," Nigel declaimed, "right up until the last nukes in North Dakota and Skovorodino were dismantled! But what have we done for humanity lately?" He lifted his beer in a mock toast.

"Denis's new book is about due," Jamie added. "He's calling it
The Evolution of Mind.
He said it may shake people up. I hope the lad hasn't said anything too reckless. Sometimes he strikes me as a bit toplofty, and I don't think that would sit well with the American public. Your Yank-on-the-street tends to follow egalitarianism right out the window, pretending that people really are all created equal and deserving of equal treatment across the board. It doesn't work out that way in actuality, of course—but God help the fellow who advocates any elitist scheme." He chomped up the remains of his sandwich and took a deep draft of Arrol's.

"We, on the other hand," Nigel said, "just love an aristocrat."

"Speak for yourself, you kosher Sassenach!" said Jean with spirit.

A number of colorful racial slurs were exchanged in good humor, and then all of them but Alana concentrated on food and drink. She persisted in her abstraction until she suddenly said:

"Will Denis's new book have an explanation for precognition?"

"Have you had a skry, then?" Jean's face was troubled. "Not another warning?"

"Not exactly," Alana said. "No firm premonition, only a kind of feeling. Just now."

Nigel regarded the young woman with a pretense of exasperation. "She's facing her weird again, that's what. So she can get out of the excursion to Dallas."

"It's no joke," Jean admonished him. "Not to anyone born and reared in the Highlands. Our own little Katie's had the Sight—and I don't mind telling you it scares me. The other metafunctions are only extensions and elaborations of our normal mind-powers, after all. But precognition seems supernatural somehow..." She turned again to Alana. "Your feeling: was it for good or ill?"

"I—I don't know. I've never felt anything like it. It wasn't frightening. No vision, no notion of an event impending. Perhaps just the opposite." She gave a small laugh and once again turned to the window. The old man was stooped over, rummaging in his carrier bag while the rain beat on his exposed neck. "He's still singing the hymn," Alana noted softly. "Still upset. Perhaps it's
his
precognition."

"Funny you should ask about the theoretical aspect of the Sight," Nigel said. "I was defending the crystal-ball effect as a legitimate metafunction to Littlefield and Schneider just the other day. It has to be a warping of the temporal lattices producing a wormhole in the continuum through the agency of the seer's own coercion. In theory, one could catch glimpses of the future or the past quite as readily as contemporaneous remote-viewings in the here and now. It's a matter of willing—coercing—a momentary plication of time rather than space."

"But how," Alana said slowly, "can you explain the
unpremeditated
glimpse of the future? The vision one doesn't ask for?"

Nigel looked uncomfortable. He swirled the last of his beer in the bottom of the glass. "It's hard to explain that through dynamic-field theory, I admit. You see, the temporal nodalities that we call 'events' require instigating forces. Causes, if you like. But if the unexpected premonition doesn't originate in the coercivity of the seer, we must ask just what the source of the coercive vector is. It could be another person. It could be the collective unconscious of humanity, if you want to accept Urgyen Bhotia's theory."

"Or it could simply be angels," said Jamie MacGregor.

Alana started. "Oh, you're putting me on!"

He was rummaging in his notecase for the Parapsychology Unit's credit card. Discovering it at last, he waved it at the barmaid. "If you eliminate the coercivity of the seer as the instigator of Sight, and eliminate the coercivity of other
people
—using the term in its broadest sense to mean 'sapient entities inhabiting our physical universe'—then you are left with an enigma. An extradimensional genetrix. An initiating force outside the eighteen generative dynamic fields, but nevertheless congruent to the three matrix fields."

The barmaid took Jamie's card away. Her face had an old-fashioned expression.

"Are you speaking of God?" Alana asked.

"Not necessarily," said Jamie. "The Universal Field Theory doesn't define God, or the Cosmic All, or the Omega, or whatever. But if such an entity exists outside our physical universe, then it must have a method of relating to that universe. Denis Remillard believes in God and suggests that an integral sexternion—or a whole gaggle of them—operates between the All and the dimensional construct we call the physical universe. He says the sexternions already have a perfectly good name in religious tradition: angels! Word means messenger." He signed the credit-card slip with a flourish and pocketed his copy.

Alana peered at him with suspicion. "Do you mean to say you
really
believe second sight is instigated by angels?"