Lady Sativa (3 page)

Orient came out of his meditation with a refreshed awareness of the harmonies within himself. The relationships between his mind and body were supple and new. But this time something else remained: a lingering sense of disturbance.

He went back to his bedroom, took a shower, and went to bed. He tried to channel his thoughts to the editing job he had waiting for him in the morning.

He had to cut and arrange the footage of his work with Sybelle into something usable. He only had a month.

Just before he went to sleep, however, the smiling face he’d seen during his meditation flickered across his memory like a recurring television image, rolling monotonously over a badly tuned screen.

2

After two weeks of steady work, Orient managed to put together the first ten minutes of what he hoped would be a thirty-minute visual demonstration of his work in telepathy with Sybelle.

As he went through the tedious hand process of marking the tape, cutting and splicing, he thought of the CBS Automatic Editor he once planned to add to the studio. Just mark the special screen with an electronic pencil and the computer does the rest. Handy but very expensive, and there was other lab equipment more crucially needed:

He had cut a full twenty-one minutes of the film by the time Sybelle called to tell him SEE had agreed to consider his project. “In two weeks,” she told him breathlessly. “Isn’t it marvelous?”

“Great.” Orient cradled the phone between his neck and shoulder as he spoke, hands moving restlessly over the strips of tape on his worktable. “Should have our visual finished by then, with luck.”

“Well, of course you must. This is your chance to educate the public darling. They’re going to be astounded.”

“Have you been keeping up your routine?”

“Like a drudge. And my powers have never been keener.”

“Who else is competing?”

“Just some sort of girl prophet. But that’s old hat.
I’ve
been known to have my moments myself. The conscious transmission of thoughts is something new. I’m positive we’ll absolutely stop them dead.”

Orient laughed. “Going to need
your
help to do them in, so keep on your diet. Anything else I have to do?”

“No, I don’t think so. The conference lasts for a few days. They’re supplying the tickets so you won’t have to worry about that end, and—there was something else—
oh
yes, bring lots of warm clothes.”

“How come? It’s only September.”

Sybelle giggled. “Didn’t you know darling? Carl Bestman lives in Sweden. That’s where we meet every year. It gets very cold, very early. Better bring long Johns.” She giggled: again and hung up.

Orient’s luck proved to be running lame during the next couple of weeks. He was plagued with underexposed images, overheated power packs, inferior skills, and an increasing desire to forget the whole thing.

An hour and a half before he was due to meet Sybelle at the airport, he found himself still running the last three minutes through the screener. Sordi stood behind him, alternately checking his watch and giving last-minute instructions. “I packed the cashmere blazer and a couple of extra sweaters; I left the leather trench coat out. You’ll need it when you reach Stockholm.”

“Okay, thanks,” Orient murmured, intent on the screen images. “Do you like the close-up of Sybelle here, or do you think I should splice in a medium shot?”

Sordi glanced at his watch. “Keep the close-up. It’s more personal. The tux is packed, too.”

Orient’s attention was still distracted as he began winding the tape. “What?”

“Your tuxedo. It’s right on top. Hang it up right away when you get there,” Sordi explained.

“What makes you think I’ll need a tuxedo?”

“Sure you will, when you win the prize.” He waved away Orient’s protests and pointed at his watch. “Don’t worry about anything. Just make your speech and collect the money. Go get your coat. I’ll finish packing this stuff. We don’t have much time. We still have to pick up Sybelle.”

When the Ghost pulled up to Sybelle’s brownstone Orient saw her sitting in front, on the sidewalk. She was perched on the largest of four pastel green suitcases that matched the color of her Laurent lapelled, shantung pantsuit. She waved and picked up a hooded, red fox fur coat that complimented the orange highlights in her hair.

“We’re late,” she called, as Orient and Sordi started loading the bags into the trunk.

“Don’t worry. We’ll make it.” Sordi held the door open for her. “You look great Sybelle.”

“Why, thank you.” She smiled and lowered her lashes, silently grateful that the Rolls’ large door made a graceful entrance possible. She began to appreciate Owen’s fondness for the vintage car.

She was bubbling with anticipation as Sordi sped along the East River Drive toward Kennedy airport. “It’s going to be a fascinating trip, darling,” she told him. “You’ll meet the biggest names in the psychic field.”

“Looking forward to it,” Orient grunted. He was stretching the truth. Groups, gatherings, and academies made him uneasy. He preferred to work alone and avoid the inevitable politics. He took a silver case from the pocket of his coat and looked at the oval design on its surface. The swirling figure was his Mandala, his meditation scroll The case had been given to him by the master Ku many years ago in Tibet. It was a sign that the time had come for him to return to the cities after months on the mountain. It was also a reminder that he had to take part in the affairs of his time to fulfill his destiny. Orient opened the case and extracted a hand-wrapped cigarette. He looked at Sybelle. “Smoke?”

She made a face. “You know I hate the way those things smell.” She took an envelope from her purse and fanned herself vigorously as Orient struck a match and the pungent odor wafted back.

Orient reached over and pressed a switch. A small exhaust fan near Sybelle quickly cleared the air in the car.

“What a good thing to have,” Sybelle said approvingly. “This museum piece of yours has its advantages.” She handed the envelope she was holding to him. “The tickets. We connect to a train when we reach Stockholm. Carl will pick us up at the station. You’ll love it. His place is so beautiful and secluded. A marvelous place for our meetings.”

Orient nodded. “What happens during the meetings?”

“We discuss various ventures the members bring up, examine new findings, bring up projects. Carl’s donated a lot of money to setting up a library in Amsterdam.”

Sybelle stretched out her legs. “We all contribute. A wonderful project. The first library of psychic science.” And then, of course, after the meetings, we judge the merits of the applicants.”

“Are you one of the judges?” Sordi inquired hopefully.

She smiled prettily into the rear-view mirror. “Not for Owen. It wouldn’t be fair. I’ll sit it out. But he won’t need my vote.” She patted Orient’s shoulder. “His research is a real breakthrough. Carl will probably want some notes for the library.”

“I’ll give him a copy of the tape,” Orient said, staring at the burning tip of his cigarette. “And that’s it? No other business at the conference?” He looked up.

Sybelle wavered under the steadiness of his wide green eyes. “Well,” she smiled nervously and sat back, “of
course
there’s the séance.”

She glanced at the back of Sordi’s head and lowered her voice. “Carl is very interested in contacting the dead. I usually assist. We all do.” Orient nodded, vaguely uneasy at the prospect.

“Now I don’t have to be a mind reader to catch
that
stern look of disapproval,” Sybelle chided. “Don’t be such a purist darling.” She pouted at him. “I would have told you sooner, but then I’d have to sit through one of your dreary lectures about caution. And you’d probably have made a fuss about coming.”

Orient smiled. “No fuss unless your chums try to pay us off in ectoplasm instead of cash.”

“That’s the spirit,” Sordi said dryly. “Make your speech and collect the money.”

“I must say your attitude is marvelously festive; pity there isn’t anything in this fancy car for a pre night celebration.”

“Just pull the handle in front of you,” Orient told her. “Glasses, ice, soda, and Scotch. Sordi restocked it specially for you.”

“How
thoughtful.
When we get back, we’ll have to have a nice dinner. Just the three of us.”

“A victory dinner,” Sordi said. “And I’ll cook.”

Orient said something, but Sybelle wasn’t listening. She was absorbed in calculating what she would wear when she next saw Sordi.

Sybelle decided to stay with Scotch on the plane. After an hour of flight and three more drinks, she was ready to spend the next eight hours talking.

Orient kept her busy for a while, reviewing the procedures they would go through. “We’ll screen a thirty-minute documentary then finish with a live demonstration,” he explained. “Think you’ll be able to communicate in front of an audience?”

“I always have before darling,” Sybelle winked. “We’ll floor them. It’s just the kind or thing Carl’s been looking for. Proof of your telepathic technique will finally justify his fight to keep SEE going.” She held up her empty glass as the stewardess passed.

“Two more,” Orient said.

“Doubles,” Sybelle corrected. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

“Did Carl Bestman have much trouble organizing SEE?”

Sybelle opened one violet-shaded eye. “His brother,” she whispered, “hates SEE. He even tried to get a court order to take over Carl’s estate. But Carl had it thrown out.”

“It did seem strange that Anthony Bestman wouldn’t normally refer me to his brother.”

Sybelle smiled grimly. “He’s like that. I met him once and he was terribly rude. Count Germaine told him to his face that a true sportsman never killed except for food, and never insulted a lady.” She took a mirror from her purse and hastily checked her make-up and curly halo of bright red hair. “European men are so gallant— like your friend.” She put the mirror away and leaned closer. “About how old is Sordi?”

Orient grinned. “Any special reason?”

“Of course not. It’s just that he reminds me of the count: distinguished and very kind.”

“Who is this count?” Orient asked, avoiding her question.

She sighed. “He’s a lovely man. Count Germaine is the leading member of our board. A remarkably gifted hypnotist. Very tall. Stately. He’s the head of the library in Amsterdam. And so kind, so gallant.” Her reverie was interrupted by the arrival of the stewardess with the drinks. She plucked a glass from the tray and handed it to Orient.

“The count
devastated
Anthony,” she said, relishing the moment.

“Carl and Anthony seem to have a messy time of it.”

“Oh, it was awful. For a long time. It was especially hard on Carl. He’s such a gentle soul. But after he lost the court suit Anthony went back to his silly big-game hunting.”

“Now that you mention it, that coat you’re sitting on looks like a big-game trophy,” Orient said.

“Damn right, darling.” Sybelle winked. “I begged a dear French furrier who was mad about me.” She patted the red coat draped over her chair. “Isn’t it marvelous? It’s the warmest thing I have. And it’s perfectly legal. It’s an antique that was made
pre-ecology.”

Seven hours later, when the plane landed at Arlanda, near Stockholm, Orient discovered that his own trench coat was poor protection against the sharp North wind cutting steadily through his clothing, Sybelle, wrapped to her pink ears in red fur, was ecstatic. All during the long cab ride into Stockholm, she continued to chatter. Orient half-listened and watched the scenery, grateful for the comparative warmth of the taxi. Sybelle’s words filtered through his thoughts as a splendid parade of trees, their gold and rust leaves brilliantly arrayed against the dark green foliage, flashed past his widow.

“Maxwell is a dear. He’s a genius. Only twenty-one and he’s been a member of our board for three years. Marvelous boy. I’m sure the two of you will have a lot in common.”

“Who?”

“Maxwell Andersen. You must have heard of him. He’s the British chess champion.”

Orient half-closed his eyes. Sybelle’s enthusiastic drone set off a contagious air of well-being and he began thinking ahead to the details of their presentation.

“Don’t you
dare
go to sleep,” she scolded after he failed to respond a few times. “We still have the whole train ride and I need company.”

“Just going over the check list for the televised section.”

“Are you having it shipped?”

“It’s on the plane. In my suitcase.”

“But you only have two bags. Didn’t you bring
anything
to wear?”

“All we need is the equipment in one suitcase. All portable-screener, laptop, and CD. Unless your friends are beyond electricity, we’re in good shape.”

“That’s lovely, dear,” Sybelle murmured. “Now do try to stay awake for a few hours longer. I detest traveling with no one to talk to.”