The Link

by Richard Matheson

  She smiles gratefully. “I feel I should do something you can recollect,” she says.

  “You have done more than enough for anyone,” Peter says.

  “Well, wait; wait,” she says. She looks around the table, then reaches out and tears off a small square of bread from its basket.

  “Ninel, please,” says her husband.

  “A small demonstration, nothing tiring,” she assures him.

  “It really isn’t necessary,” Peter says, concerned.

  “No, no, it is my pleasure,” she tells him.

  Despite her husband’s protestations, she puts her right hand above the piece of bread and concentrates. All of them tense as her features begin to tighten. Cathy even closes her eyes for a moment.

  After a short while, the piece of bread moves a few inches across the tablecloth.

  “Wonderful,” says Peter. “But please—”

  He breaks off as she removes her wedding band and puts it on top of the bread. She holds both hands above them, concentrating. Her husband cannot watch but raises his sight line to the ceiling.

  After several seconds, the ring and bread move haltingly across the tablecloth until they reach the edge of the table and fall into Kulagina’s lap. She sinks back with a weary sigh. “Well, that will have to do,” she says.

  “Wonderful; wonderful,” Peter says, nodding.

  “Thank you so much, Madame Kulagina,” Robert adds. “Yes, thank you,” Cathy says.

  She smiles. “You do not realize,” she tells them, “but such movement does not usually come so quickly. I think it happened because you were not expecting me to do it yet still believed in me.”

  Peter takes her hand impulsively and kisses it. “We believe in you completely,” he says.

  Her smile continues for a moment or so, then fades. “What I also want to say—” she begins.

  “Ninel, are you sure of this?” her husband warns.

  “Yes, yes.” She nods slowly but insistently. “It is something that must be said.”

  She draws in a slow, straining breath.

  “In Leningrad—” she says.

  CUT TO the experiment. The beating heart of a frog is placed in a glass jar. “As is known,” we hear her voice, “a frog’s heart will continue to beat for some hours after being removed from its body.”

  Kulagina (looking more vigorous but still less so than in the early film) sits two and a half feet from the jar and concentrates on it.

  As she does, we see the cardiogram changing, slowing down.

  “I am beginning to slow it down,” she says. She pauses. “Slower.” Pause. “I am beginning to stop it.”

  INTERCUT BETWEEN the heart of the frog and Kulagina’s rigid features as she concentrates.

  “I am stopping it.” Long pause. The heart beats again. “I cannot stop it. I will try again.” Pause. “I am beginning to slow it down again.” Her features tighten, tighten.

  E.C.U. of heart as it stops. “I have stopped it,” says Kulagina, the matter of factness of her tone blood chilling.

  Back to the hotel dining room her worn face.

  “A Leningrad psychiatrist refused to accept the validity of this experiment,” she says. “He challenged me to try the experiment with him.”

  CUT TO Laboratory, Kulagina and the psychiatrist sitting three yards apart, observed by a medical team. Both are attached to separate ECG machines.

  Kulagina concentrates, her features hardening, her black eyes staring into nothingness.

  The ECG graph of the psychiatrist deviates from normal. Moments pass. His heartbeat gets faster, faster. He begins to look frightened. Moments. Terrified.

  BACK TO hotel restaurant, Kulagina’s face. “Dr. Sergeyev said that, if we had continued, he had no doubt that I would have killed the psychiatrist.”

  She looks at them in distress. “I am still frightened by this,” she says. “If I could do this so easily, what might not—”

  “Dr. Clarke, how nice to see you!” a voice breaks in.

  They look around. It is Professor Vitroslava and his wife approaching the table with bright smiles.

  The gathering breaks up quickly, the Kulaginas excusing themselves and leaving, their expressions tense.

  As the three go up to their rooms, they have to admit that Teddie was probably right about the Vitroslavas. They crop up too often for it to be coincidental, especially on this occasion.

  “I wonder if he was also right about the Russians planning to use psi as a weapon against people?” Cathy says uneasily.

  “What Kulagina told us seems to hint at that,” Peter says. He winces. “Murder at a distance,” he says.

  “I wonder if we shouldn’t leave too,” Robert thinks aloud.

  “Leave?” Cathy looks at him in startlement.

  “It’s getting kind of heavy,” Robert says.

  They discuss it briefly. Robert is outvoted. Peter and Cathy do not deny that a depressing undercurrent is appearing in their observations. Still, there is so much more to see. As scientists, they owe it to their work to see it as long as they are permitted to do so.

  “Forearmed, forewarned?” Robert asks.

  “I hope to God it never comes to that,” says Cathy.

  SHOT OF ALEXAI KRIVOROTOV entering a government hospital. “When word of Krivorotov’s powers came to light, the Georgian Republic Ministry of Health ordered a full probe into the claims made about his healing hands,” says Saransky’s voice.

  CUT TO Krivorotov practicing his healing methods on a group of patients. “The commission diagnosed thirty patients with various illnesses,” Saransky’s voice continues. “To prevent the possibility that Krivorotov ‘talked’ his patients back to health by auto-suggestion, they deliberately chose patients who did not speak Georgian or Russian.

  “Nonetheless, all showed improvement in their conditions and several were cured.”

  CUT TO Kirlian photography (motion picture) of Krivorotov’s right hand. The emanations around the hand are normal, namely very little.

  “In a state of rest, it was discovered, the healer’s ultra-violet radiation is normal,” says Saransky’s voice. “During the process of healing however—”

  Shock cut to Kirlian shot of the same hand during healing. The radiation is incredible. “—the ultra-violet emissions increase a thousand times,” Saransky’s voice finishes.

  CUT TO door as it is opened by a smiling Alexai Krivorotov.

  They meet him and his son and sit together with them in the living room of their apartment, the windows of which overlook the Kura River which cuts through the heart of the picturesque town of Tbilisi.

  “When my son was nineteen,” says Krivorotov, his words translated by Saransky, “he discovered that he had powers similar to mine.”

  CUT TO Viktor with his girlfriend as she complains of a violent headache.

  “Well, I don’t know if it will work,” Viktor tells her, “but I’ve seen my father at work.”

  Seating her, he puts one hand on her forehead, the other at the back of her head.

  The reaction is quick. “It feels as though your hands are burning me,” the girl friend says, amazed.

  “In ten minutes, her headache was gone,” says the elder Krivorotov; they are back in the apartment. He smiles. “Of course, my son then discovered that he had the headache; he was, of course, not developed enough to prevent that from happening.”

  Robert and Cathy exchange a secret glance, remembering.

  “When a person is ill, you see,” Krivorotov Senior says, “the entire organism is weakened. Scientists who have studied us think that we reach the affected part of the body with a high-power bio-electrical current. This current can reverse itself and harm the healer if he is not trained to resist it. Ivanova has said this many times.”

  The group hesitates because of Saransky. Then Peter tells Krivorotov of their meeting with Ivanova; Cathy tenses as he does, glancing at Saransky in concern.

  “Is she in danger?” Peter asks. C
learly, some of Teddie’s and Robert’s open questioning of the state of psi in Russia has rubbed off on him.

  “In danger?” Krivorotov says. He does not seem in the least concerned by Saransky’s presence. “To some extent, I suppose. But they will not touch her because she has so many admirers among important Soviet scientists like Adamenko. They realize, of course, that she is something of a fanatic but dedicated nonetheless—and talented beyond measure.”

  Krivorotov Junior seems aware of Saransky’s possible menace if his father is not. “So are there any ailments in your group?” he asks.

  They look at each other questioningly. Robert feels inclined to mention Peter’s health but doesn’t want to take the chance of offending Peter.

  “What about your arm, Robert?” Cathy asks.

  Robert hesitates, then goes along with her suggestion for the sake of cooperating. Briefly, he tells the Krivorotovs of his injury in Vietnam. Krivorotov Senior tells him that his healing method is particularly effective when a patient has limited paralysis and has Robert sit on a straight back chair, begins his work.

  The effect is startling. It feels, to Robert, as though discharges of electricity are taking place between the healer’s hands and his body. A distinct sensation of heat becomes apparent to him, then a feeling of heaviness, of becoming dizzy. His head starts to roll as though he has gotten very drunk and he makes faint noises. “My head is whirling,” he mumbles.

  Ten minutes later, the treatment ends.

  To Robert’s amazement, he finds that he can stretch his left arm all the way.

  “You may revert somewhat,” Krivorotov tells him. “It would take a series of treatments to permanently dispose of the problem.”

  Robert, sitting dizzily on the chair, nods.

  “I became aware of several other factors,” Krivorotov continues. “One is physical: a problem in your right groin area. Keep an eye on that; there is a vulnerability.”

  Then he says something which makes Robert stare at him.

  “I don’t know if you are aware of it,” he says, “but there is a psychic potential in you I have rarely seen.” He grips Robert’s shoulder. “Nurture it, my friend,” he says. “It could lead to something most important.” He squeezes Robert’s shoulder. “Most important.”

  The ride to the hotel after their visit with the Krivorotovs is only partially perceived by Robert. He speaks and responds but most of him is elsewhere.

  He does not realize it but Krivorotov’s treatment has done more than partially heal his arm.

  It has been in the nature of a Spring thaw melting an ice jam in his psychic system.

  Restoring flow.

  He is conscious of standing in the middle of the hotel room. Conscious of his other self lying in the bed with Cathy. Conscious of the luminous, elastic-like cable joining him to his sleeping self, his end fastened to the medulla oblongata region of his skull, the other end centered between the eyes of his sleeping counterpart.

  Conscious, then, of moving across the floor of the room and through the door. Along the corridor to a window.

  And out the window into dark space.

  Something pulls him back. He is in another corridor. It is filled with smoke. He peers through the smoke and sees flames coming from an open doorway.

  Abruptly, he is back in his room, standing by the bed. He tries to shake Cathy but his hands, like vapor, pass through her. He starts to panic. If he goes back into his body, they might both die in the fire.

  He starts to feel himself being drawn back toward his physical self. His face becomes a mask of dread. “No,” he mutters.

  His gaze is caught by a small vase on the nearby bureau. Something makes him stare at it. He moves close to it and gazes at it fixedly, teeth clenched, eyes wide, unblinking.

  The vase begins to tremble and he concentrates harder. “Move,” he says. “Move. Move. Move!”

  The vase leaps suddenly across the room and shatters against the wall.

  He and Cathy wake with a start. He looks around groggily.

  Then he says, in a quiet voice, “We have to leave. There is a fire in a room two stories down.”

  Ten minutes later, having woken Peter, the three are in the lobby and the city firemen are putting out the blaze upstairs.

  “How did you know there was a fire?” Cathy asks, still amazed.

  He tells her that he saw it. “I was having another OOBE. I was going somewhere. Then, instead, I was in the corridor, seeing the fire.”

  “And the vase?” asks Cathy, staring at him.

  He shrugs. “I… think I made it jump,” he tells her.

  “When you were out of your body?” she says.

  Peter grips his arm. “You may well have saved our lives, old man,” he says. “Krivorotov was right. There is a psychic potential in you which you must nurture.”

  Robert nods. He is grateful to have been able to warn them of the fire. But something bothers him.

  It is not until the fire has been extinguished and they have been allowed to return to their rooms that he is able to express it.

  “When I saw that surveillance room,” he tells Cathy, “I was looking for something else. When I saw that fire, I was looking for something else. I actually went out a window into the night to look for it.”

  He stares at her in confusion.

  “But what is it?” he asks. “What am I searching for?”

  Later, he dreams—or seems to dream; it is another OOBE?

  He is flying high above an ocean, looking down at the water.

  As he looks, across the surface of the water appears a transparent latticework of immense pentagonal slabs.

  He stares at them, reacting as an overlay of equilateral triangles appears on the latticework.

  At every intersecting point, there is a sudden glow of white light.

  He opens his eyes. A wind outside is rattling the blinds at the window.

  He lies motionless, hearing Cathy’s breathing beside him.

  Wondering what he has just seen.

  He speaks of it at breakfast. He feels that it means something but has no idea what. Neither of them have a clue.

  “I feel different somehow,” he says. “I think Krivorotov did more than help my arm.”

  “Like what?” asks Cathy.

  On impulse, Robert reaches over to the bread basket and tears off a square of bread approximately the size of the one Kulagina tore off.

  He lays it on the table and holds his hand over it. They watch him, taken back.

  “I know, now, that I made that vase move,” he says. “I think…” He stares at the bread, his features tightening. “Yes. Yes,” he says quietly. “I feel it coming.”

  As they stare at him, he moves his hand across the tablecloth and the bread slides with the movement, falling into his lap.

  “Good Lord,” murmurs Peter.

  Robert slumps back in his chair. “Oh,” he says. “I see what she meant. It does take something out of you.”

  They look at him with such odd expressions, Cathy actually open-mouthed, that Robert has to laugh. He makes a sudden finger-wiggling gesture toward her with both hands, making the traditional ghost sound. She jumps, then smiles awkwardly.

  They look at each other in silence.

  “I think I have to leave soon,” he tells them quietly. “I feel as though I have to… do something.”

  He chuckles. “God, I sound ridiculous,” he says, his mental side reacting.

  They are about to pursue the subject when Saransky enters the dining room, looking—for him—excited.

  “An unexpected opportunity,” he tells them. “Dr. Adamenko has arranged for us to meet Dr. Kirlian himself!”

  Fog at Krasnodar forces a cancellation of their flight there.

  Adamenko, who has flown from Moscow to join them for their visit to Kirlian, will not accept the possibility of losing this opportunity.

  With Saransky’s help, he locates a taxi driver willing to drive them the two hundred mile
s to Krasnodar for 80 rubles—110 dollars. Quickly, they put their luggage into the trunk and speed off.

  While they are riding, Peter tells Adamenko how Robert’s OOBE saved their lives the night before. Trusting the Russian scientist, Robert adds an account of his later OOBE or dream or whatever it was.

  As he describes the sensation of flying east across the Pacific, (he “knows” now that this was the ocean he was over and the direction he was traveling) the sight of the pentagonal slabs appearing, then the equilateral triangles. Adamanko regards him fixedly. He nods, his reaction apparently one of little more than polite interest.

  But his eyes tell another story.

  CLOSE ON a headstone on which are carved the buds of lilacs. The name on the stone is VALENTINA KHRISAFOUNA KIRLIAN.

  “I thought you would like to see it,” Adamenko tells them. They are in a little cemetery on the outskirts of Krasnodar.

  He points at the lilac buds, a tender smile on his lips. “See,” he says, “around each bud, an aura.”

  As they walk back to the cab, Adamenko starts to tell them the story of Kirlian and his wife.

  “For most of his life with Valentina,” he says, “they lived in a dingy, two-room apartment on the corner of Gorky and Kirov Streets.”

  We see the story dramatized with occasional narration by Adamenko.

  “When it all began in the early 1920’s,” says his voice, “Kirlian was a self-taught electrical repairman with a magic touch.”

  We see the young Kirlian in his tiny apartment workshop. There he fixes anything electrical from burned out fixtures to bicycle lights. Summoned by customers, he brings his toolbox and rolls of wire to put in new electrical wiring, fuse boxes, fixtures et al.

  “As the years went by,” says Adamenko’s voice. “He advanced to repairing cameras and microscopes. What he didn’t know, he figured out. He did his own schematic drawings. He stayed up nights, reading to learn what he needed.

  “Literally, this man was in love with electricity and the machines it powered.

  “Then one night in the late 1920’s—”

  We see the young couple sharing their tiny bedroom with their equipment. It is a humorous sight to watch them preparing for bed, forced to move photographic plates, develop pans and induction coils off their bed. In the corner of the room is a monstrous, black Tesla generator. They use it, at night, as a clothes hanger.