The Link

by Richard Matheson

  “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

  “Sitting in my purse, even as we lie here, is a ticket stub to the Mayfair Theatre,” she says. “I went there, bought it, sat in the seat for fifteen minutes, got enough of the play in mind to discuss it in case I was asked, then left, with a program in my purse, to join you here for illicit revelry.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier, my love, to simply tell your husband we love each other?”

  “I have,” she says.

  He looks at her in amazement. “You have?”

  She nods. “I’m still married to him though,” she goes on. “I couldn’t very well follow it up with an announcement that I planned to join you in your hotel room.”

  “For illicit revelry,” he adds.

  “For that.” She clings to him. “Oh, Rob, oh, love,” she murmurs. “Why do we have to hurt anyone?”

  He holds her tightly, stroking her hair.

  After a while, she sighs heavily and says, “I’ve been asking my mother about the psychological background of psychics.”

  “Want to make sure they aren’t going to put me away before you marry me?” he asks.

  She hits him on the chest. “Ouch,” he says.

  “Well, actually, my beloved,” she informs him. “Mumsy did say that psychics are inherently schizophrenic.”

  “A vote of gratitude for Mumsy,” he says. Cathy giggles softly. “Mumsy have anything else to say?” he inquires.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact she did.”

  “Lay it on me, kid,” he says.

  “Her feeling is that OOBEs are psychological attempts to simultaneously escape from external reality and ones private self.”

  “Reassuring. Is that all?”

  “No. She believes that they are also attempts to dissociate ones self from the body and, in so doing, deny the reality of death.”

  “Mumsy has really made my day,” he says.

  She cuts off another giggle as the telephone rings jarringly on the bedside table. “Oh, dear Lord, I hope it’s not the house detective,” she says casually.

  Robert picks up the receiver.

  “Mr. Allright?” says Harry on the other end.

  “Yes,” says Robert quietly. Seeing his expression and hearing the tight sound of his voice, Cathy stares at him worriedly.

  “I apologize for calling so late but I wonder if I might talk to you for a few moments.”

  “Uh… well, yes, yes, of course,” Robert falters.

  “I’m down in the lobby,” Harry says. “I’ll wait for you in the bar.”

  He hangs up and Robert stares dumbly at the receiver.

  “Who was it?” Cathy asks in a tone which indicates that she already suspects who it was.

  “Harry,” he tells her.

  “Oh, dear lord, dear lord,” she says. “Where was he calling from? His office?”

  “The lobby,” he tells her.

  “What?”

  “He wants to meet me in the bar.”

  They stare at each other, mutually stricken. Then Cathy says, “He couldn’t know I’m here. He couldn’t.”

  Robert draws in shaking breath. “If you’re wrong,” he says, “I trust the murder trial won’t inconvenience you too much.”

  Cathy clutches at him. “Don’t joke like that,” she tells him.

  “Sorry,” he mutters.

  “If you really think such a thing, you mustn’t go down there,” she says. “I’ll go down.”

  No, he tells her. If she’s sure that Harry doesn’t know she’s there, they have to go on that premise.

  “I don’t want to gamble your life on it,” Cathy says, panicking a little.

  “Shh.” He manages a smile. “Why do I feel like a character in a British B-movie?” he asks.

  They hesitate. Then Robert decides. He must go down. He’ll find out soon enough if Harry knows she’s here. If it turns out that he doesn’t, it would be unconscionable to tell him.

  In spite of both Robert’s and Cathy’s alarmed depression, the sequence which follows is initially farcical.

  Robert, descending in the creaking cage lift, is unable to avoid a foresight into the British B-movie he feels a part of.

  We do not realize, at first, that it is one of his fantasies. It looks very realistic.

  Harry waiting in the bar, a raincoat on, a tweed hat on his head, a pipe in his mouth. Mumbling, “Sorry, old chap. Bad show.” Informing Robert that he knows “the wife” is upstairs, “badly compromised”.

  They are sitting at a table. Harry reaches obviously into his raincoat pocket.

  “Wait a second,” Robert says.

  “Sorry. Rum go,” Harry responds. He tries to pull a perfectly enormous military pistol from the pocket. Robert stares at it in horror. “Wait,” he says.

  “Sorry. Hard cheese,” Harry says. He is forced to rip apart his raincoat pocket in order to pull out the gigantic pistol. “Sorry, this is all I could find,” he apologizes. “Belonged to pater’s pater in the Argonne.”

  BAM! The report is like that of a cannon and Robert, hit square, goes flying backward through a wood and glass partition. “Filthy swine!” screams Harry in a cracking voice.

  Robert stands outside the bar, looking in. The sound of his gulp is audible. Harry really does have on a raincoat and, sitting on the table is a tweed hat. “No,” he mumbles. Was it really a fantasy this time—or a “prime example” of precognition?

  He braces himself, accepts his possible fate and, entering the small room, pulls out a chair and sits across from Harry. Behind him is the wood and glass partition. “Yes,” he says.

  Harry nods. “That you for coming down,” he replies.

  “A drink?” asks Robert.

  “No, thank you,” Harry says.

  Robert stiffens, eyes embossing, as Harry reaches into his raincoat pocket. The faintest noise wavers in his throat.

  Harry takes out a pack of cigarettes, offers it to Robert. “No, th—” Robert has to clear his throat with some effort. “No, thank you.”

  “Mind if I—?” asks Harry.

  “Not at all.” Robert watches the other man light up and blow out smoke—discreetly, to one side, so as not to bother Robert.

  As it turns out, what Harry has come for is to ask what Robert really feels for Cathy. She’s told him that she loves Robert. Is it an affair that Robert seeks or is it deeper?

  Robert feels sick. The man is so damned decent. Quietly, he tells Harry that he’s sorry this ever happened but it did, that he loves Cathy very much and doesn’t want an affair, he wants Cathy to be his wife.

  “I see,” Harry nods. A breath shudders in him. “It’s just that… well, I love her so, you see, and only want the best for her,” he says.

  Later. Robert comes back to his room and finds Cathy sitting on the edge of the bed, still naked, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. He sits beside her, puts an arm around her. She leans against him limply. “Oh, God,” he says.

  “What?” she murmurs.

  “He’s such a nice man,” he says miserably. She sobs. “I told you,” she is barely able to get out before she starts to cry.

  They sit without a word, Robert stroking her back, staring out the window.

  His gaze becoming fixed on a neon sign down the block. It looks like a four-bladed scythe, a circle in its center, the slow turns of the blades moving clockwise.

  It is a sign for a disco called THE PRIMARY FORCE. He doesn’t know why he stares at it but he cannot remove his gaze.

  CUT briefly to the temple glyph in Arizona. BACK to the sign in London. Robert staring at it.

  SEVEN

  They de-plane at Kastrup Airport in Copenhagen to transfer to the Aeroflot Ilyushin 62 shuttle flight to Moscow.

  Waiting in the terminal, they have a drink. Only Cathy seems exuberant. Teddie is still morose about what happened at Harrowgate. Peter is grim because Carol has refused to go to Russia with him, insisting that she visit with her family until they have to return to the
United States.

  Robert’s solemnity is less apparently motivated. Alone with him for a few minutes, Cathy asks him what’s wrong. Is he already regretting her break with Harry?

  He feels terrible that she thinks this and hugs her, gives her a warm kiss. Not at all, he says. It’s the one thing about going to England that made total sense to him. Harrowgate was intriguing but sidetracking. He is apprehensive that Russia will prove to be even more so.

  Sidetracking from what? she asks.

  He can only smile haplessly and shrug. That he doesn’t know, he has to admit. It is still in the nature of a gut feeling rather than a state of knowledge. However, since he has now pretty well accepted the fact that he’s psychic (although he has no clue whatever as to what direction it is taking him in) he has to accept the gut feeling as something genuine.

  “What is the feeling, love?” she asks.

  “If I can put it into words,” he says.

  “Columbus looking for his boat?” she suggests.

  “More like Columbus on the ocean, looking for a continent,” he says. “Hoping to hell he isn’t sailing in the wrong direction.”

  “Like Russia,” she says.

  “Oh,” he says concedingly, “whichever way I go, I seem to discover something. It’s just that I have this increasingly urgent sense that I’d discover more and faster if I went in the right direction.”

  “Arizona?” she asks.

  He chuckles. “No, I doubt that,” he says. “What in hell would digging up a few skulls do for me?”

  He leans over and kisses her. “If I act like this again,” he tells her, “remember what it is. It’s never you. I adore you and I’ve got dibs on you for the rest of my life.”

  “Dibs?” she asks, not understanding.

  “Just claim,” he says. He kisses her hand and they exchange a smile of love.

  En route, they discuss the coming trip.

  So far there are five names on their approved list. “Five in all Russia?” Cathy says, taken back.

  “It’s just a beginning,” Peter assures her. “I’m certain it will open up as time passes.”

  The five are Adamenko, Ermolaev, Vilenskaya, Mikhailaev, and Bekhtereva.

  “Why Bekhtereva?” Cathy asks. “She isn’t interested in psi.”

  Peter shrugs. “One does not complain under the circumstances,” he says.

  Cathy nods. “Of course; I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re right and it will open up as time passes.” She looks momentarily regretful. “I do wish Kulagina were on the list though.”

  “Perhaps she will be in the end,” Peter says.

  Briefly, they discuss the approach to psi in Russia.

  The scope of their inquiry, covering more than forty years, indicates, without question, that they take an interdisciplinary approach to the phenomenon called, by the Soviets, bio-communication.

  Their efforts are funded annually by upwards of several million dollars, a conservative estimate, Peter feels. Most of this work centers on the effects of electromagnetic and electrostatic fields on the central nervous system during certain forms of paranormal phenomena.

  “Elmoski Staffordski,” says Robert and they smile.

  “Literature coming out of the Soviet Union indicates an enduring interest in mental radio, biological radio, long distance telepathy and hypnosis,” Peter says.

  “Mind control in other words,” says Teddie dourly.

  “Let’s not assume the worst before we even get there,” Peter says. He and Teddie have taken on a minor adversarial posture since Harrowgate.

  They arrive at Sheremetyevo airport in the afternoon and look for their contact. “Should be here,” says Peter.

  Robert has a brief fantasy about the contact—a brooding, black haired and mustached man in a Stalin-like outfit; deep-voice, cold, suspicious.

  “Mr. Clarke?” says the lovely, young woman coming up to them.

  “Yes,” he says, smiling.

  “I am Ludmilla Viyakov, your guide,” she says. Robert smiles to himself. He continues to bat zero on his fantasies.

  A Zil limousine is waiting outside the terminal after Ludmilla gets them quickly through customs and the official government tourist agency where they are checked off as anticipated foreign arrivals.

  Teddie gives the man behind the counter a look as the man mumbles something.

  En route to their hotel, Ludmilla tells them that “as formally agreed upon” she will “pilot” them around during their visit to the Soviet Union. She represents a government outlet that assists foreign visitors inside Russia.

  Teddie says something to her in Russian and they look at him in surprise. They didn’t know he spoke the language.

  “I was going to keep it a secret,” he tells them. “But I’ve decided instead to let them know, from the outset, that they will not be able to say anything in our presence I will not understand.”

  His smile is humorless. “Like that ass at the airport who referred to us as ‘stupid tourists’.”

  Ludmilla looks embarrassed by his words and Peter, glancing at Teddie critically, quickly changes the subject.

  “We were saying,” he tells Ludmilla, “that we’re disappointed that Kulagina is not on our list.”

  Ludmilla says that she will “see about it” but Kulagina doesn’t see people as a rule any longer.

  “A pity,” Peter says. “She was high on our list in light of her awesome ability at telekinesis.”

  Ludmilla nods.

  “What about Kirlian?” Cathy asks.

  “Oh, that would be impossible, I’m afraid,” Ludmilla answers.

  It is early rush hour as they drive through downtown Moscow. People are lining up at bus and trolley stops. Dusk is falling and, in the distance, they see the huge, five-pointed stars atop the spires of the Kremlin’s towers. The stars glow with a ruby light in the dim illumination of the afternoon.

  Ludmilla asks them if they are up to checking into their rooms, having a quick supper, then going to the theatre to see Wolf Milerovo, the famous mentalist; it is his final performance in Moscow tonight and she thought they might enjoy watching him.

  “Absolutely!” Peter answers for them all without hesitation. He smiles at Cathy. “See?” he says. “Already the list expands.”

  Having supper with Ludmilla, she tells them (“in case you did not know”) that Milerovo is employed by the giant government agency called Goskonzert which “handles” the professional lives (“and personal, no doubt” murmurs Teddie) of some 9,000 traveling entertainers from singers and ballet dancers to clowns, high-wire acrobats and mentalists such as Milerovo and Dadashev.

  As discreetly as he can, Peter asks why they were allowed to come to Russia on such a tour, “—since it has been some time since others have done so.”

  She answers (in much the manner of a churchgoer speaking a much-repeated litany) that the government is “highly interest” to see their reaction to current work in “bio-communicative methods” and, also, of course, “extremely curious” to observe Mr. Berger at work.

  Teddie says something to her in Russian, his tone abruptly intimate. Ludmilla blushes. “What did you say?” asks Peter.

  “Personal,” says Teddie.

  Peter gives him an uneasy look but does not pursue the subject.

  Shortly afterward, they are in a Moscow theatre, watching Wolf Milerovo perform.

  It is a fitting start to their tour. Time and again, the standing-room-only audience roars its appreciation of the dapper, ascetic looking man as he performs astonishing feats of mind reading and thought transference. (Translated by Ludmilla and Teddie). The wiry, gray-haired performer can do no wrong, in full control of his audience. With an almost contemptuous air, he answers correctly every challenge hurled at him.

  Later, visiting him back stage, they see the price Milerovo has paid for being forced to continue his tours by Goskonzert. He is an old man, clearly exhausted.

  In spite of this, he is polite and tries to be conv
ersational, his words interpreted for them by Ludmilla. (Robert occasionally glances at Teddie to see if the translation is accurate; it seems to be.)

  No, he has never been examined by doctors, he answers Peter’s question. True, it might have helped to explain his powers. Once, he had yielded to the insistent pleas of a woman neurologist in Belaya Tserkov and learned that there seems to be, in the regions of his head and chest, more heat than normal. But that is all he has ever learned about his abilities.

  He repeats what is clearly a much-stated anecdote about himself. (We see it dramatized.)

  “I was due to give several concerts in Ashkhabad,” he tells them. “But walking along the street the first day I was suddenly enveloped by a sense of alarm.

  “Something began to ache and trouble me. With every minute, the feeling of alarm increased. I was overcome with a powerful impulse to leave the city immediately.

  “It became so strong that, for the first and only time in my career, I cancelled all my local performances and left for Moscow without delay.”

  They are back in the dressing room. “Three days later,” Milerovo completes the story, “Ashkhabad was leveled by a devastating earthquake which killed fifty thousand people.”

  Ludmilla chatters on the way back to the hotel in their limousine.

  “Wolf Grigorievich Milerovo was incredible,” she says as though he is already dead. “But Tofik Dadashev is already better than Milerovo was in his hey-day. That’s why he’s on the road so much. He is fantastic!”

  “Can we see him?” Peter asks.

  “I will do the best I can to arrange it,” she answers.

  Back at the hotel, Robert walks Cathy to her room and kisses her goodnight. “I suppose it would be gauche of us to room together on this trip,” he says.

  “I’d love to, darling,” Cathy says. “You know I would but Harry would surely hear of it and I’ve hurt him so much already. We are still married.”

  “I understand,” he says. He kisses her again and they cling to each other.

  “Maybe later,” Cathy says.

  Robert returns to his room and unpacks. In his overnight bag, he finds the wrapped crystal cone and uncovers it, holding it in his palm. He stares at it a long time as though hoping it will provide some kind of answer for him.