As Mac came into the front yard, Lem came toward him, one arm still cradling the rifle he did not happen to be carrying at the moment. Mac could feel his own fingers curling and uncurling. The urge to throttle the turkey neck was almost overwhelming.
“Sorry ‘bout the ranch. No way any of us could bid ‘gainst them insurance fellers. But we’ll be deliverin’ the house goods to your house in town. Some of us will hang onto the farm ‘quipment til you can use it or sell it when you figure you can get some kind a price for it.”
Mac was speechless. Recovering, he said, “The bank’s foreclosing on the town house, too. It won’t do any good to take anything there.”
“We heard ‘bout that. Couple of the boys and me went in to talk to Charlie. He saw the light—quick like. You can keep the house for a year and won’t have to pay nothin’ on it til then. You ought to have your feet on the ground by then.”
There was nothing Mac could say. Lem started to go off to his truck, then turned and said. “Your Pa was a neighbor.”
ONE WISH
To say Larry Pearson was envious of Bill Hammil was putting it much too mildly. They had first met on The Club’s racquet court, and Larry had been completely outclassed. As a consolation prize, amiable Bill offered to treat him to lunch, and though Larry was still smarting from the lopsided defeat, he accepted.
The luncheon evolved into an intermittent acquaintanceship, mostly fostered by Larry. It was a relationship which only gave him more and more reasons to be envious. Bill had inherited a fortune from a father who had been a workaholic and had made a fortune in machinery of some kind. The father also managed to die at a relatively young age, leaving his worldly wealth to a son now doing his best to spend it as quickly as possible. Bill was duly grateful to his deceased dad and had made a vow in his father’s honor to never to do a day’s work—a vow he had so far meticulously observed.
In addition to being an ace racquet-ball player, Bill was an all-round athlete, with a build and appearance attracting even those women who were unaware of his wealth. At the top of his list of female worshippers was Debra Dawn, number one box office attraction, sexpot of the decade, pin-up girl to every hungry male in America, as well as in the assortment of foreign countries where her films were ragingly popular.
The news photograph of Bill Hammil escorting voluptuous Debra Dawn, with her awesome cleavage, on her way to receiving a second Oscar, was firmly fixed in Larry’s mind. The statuesque blonde, as tall as her handsome companion, was stunning beyond description.
Larry was consumed with envy. To make matters worse, Bill drove him by Debra’s in-town apartment one day and dangled the key to it in front of his passenger while grinning maliciously at the look in Larry’s eyes.
Why couldn’t he have the kind of life Bill had, Larry asked himself as he read his horoscope in the morning paper. “Today is your lucky day. Beyond all expectations, you will accomplish what you have always hoped for, but you will have to act on impulse.”
Larry had more than a passing belief in astrology and so immediately began looking for the impulse to act on. He found it in a small advertisement on the same page as the horoscope. “Lucy Nomed, Psychic. Readings into your future, $50. Why wait? Do it now!”
Nothing could be more impulsive than clipping out the ad, stuffing it in his pocket and deciding to make an appointment as soon as possible.
Ms. Lucy Nomed, M.C.P., PS.D., F.F P. was not an impressive person. Middle aged, matronly, muddled—seemingly someone incapable of telling her own future five minutes ahead of time, much less predicting anyone else’s beyond five minutes. Larry shrugged. The impulse had been acted upon; he might as well go through with it.
There were no frills, beyond a partially darkened room, a table with an oilcloth cover, and Ms. Nomed sitting across from him telling him she could describe not only his future, but could actually change it to suit him. Larry, usually gullible when it came to the occult, was sufficiently skeptical at the claim the emotion showed on his face.
Ms. Nomed frowned. “Since you don’t believe me, let me give you some proof of my powers. When you were six—in fact, just five days after your birthday—you climbed up into a neighbor’s oak tree, found a robin’s nest, took out the four eggs and started back down to the ground with them. You dropped the eggs by accident and were so angry you climbed back up and destroyed the nest. And you never told anyone what you did.”
This was truly magic at work. How could she know? The skepticism morphed into bewilderment as incident after incident in his past unfolded in front of him.
“Who are you, anyway?” he asked, leaning forward across the table to get a better look at this woman sitting there retelling his entire life.
She shrugged. “Some things you do not need to know. Now do you believe me when I say I can tell you your future, even change it if you wish? What would you like for the rest of the day—more than anything else? I’ll see to it you have it.
This was insane, but there was one thing he wanted more than anything else. “I want to be Bill Hammil.”
“Granted! Let me see,” she went on, checking her wristwatch. “It’s now five o’clock. You will be Bill Hammil until midnight.” And he was!
The surroundings were familiar. He had once visited Bill at home. The suit was also one he recognized: a fifteen hundred-dollar, perfectly tailored model from the most exclusive clothier in the region. Larry quickly found a mirror. The transition had occurred and, even while scarcely believing it, he began making his plans. Much would be crammed into those seven hours.
It took him only moments to find the desk with the important information in it. Bank statements! Never less than a million dollar balance. Larry laughed aloud. There would soon be a massive withdrawal from his bank. Fortunately, they would be open until six today. Plenty of time to make the transfer. Even more important was Bill’s address book.
Darnton, Dashiel, Dawn! Apartment number and studio number. The answering machine in her apartment came on. Larry cursed and slammed down the phone. The studio number produced a bored operator who transferred him to an equally bored receptionist, who moved him down the line through three other persons. The magic name of Bill Hammil finally worked. Larry recognized Debra Dawn’s sultry voice.
“Why, of course,” she said, in answer to his question, “My apartment right after work. But we’d agreed already to be there. Don’t you remember, silly boy? Is your memory playing tricks on you? Be there at seven, right on the dot.”
Would he ever!
And now to the bank. He wasn’t sure which branch of First National Bill habitually went to, and then decided it would make little difference. The teller, a plain-looking girl with thick glasses, blushed furiously as he wrote out the check and told her to transfer it to Larry Pearson’s account. Her apologies were profuse as she excused herself to consult with her supervisor. Amounts over ten thousand had to be approved, she told him apologetically as she slipped away.
The supervisor, a balding overweight male, did no blushing. “Sorry, but this signature does not match Mr. Hammil’s.”
Damn! He might have become Bill, but he hadn’t acquired his signature. Only with difficulty did he finally extricate himself from the situation, vowing to go some place quiet to practice the unfamiliar and ornate name he found on several credit cards in Bill’s wallet. The Club seemed the obvious place to retire to.
There was no problem with recognition there. “Hello, Mr. Hammil.” “How are you, Mr. Hammil.” “I’m sure we can find a free table in the book room for you, Mr. Hammil.” Attendants were helpful to the point of obsequiousness.
Larry was staring morosely at his forgery efforts when the racquet pro who gave lessons at The Club came in. “Hey, Bill! How about a round?”
“Why not?” Larry decided. The pro was the only one at The Club in Bill’s league. Larry was angry enough at his continuing ill luck he promised himself Bill’s body would triumph on the court. It didn’t.
The coordination a
nd stamina were there, but the mind anticipating shots, playing to the opponents’ weaknesses, weighing and measuring distances in an instant was missing. “Tough,” the pro said after an ignominious defeat. “You’re not up to your usual, today, Bill.” He shook his head and, wrinkling his forehead, added, “You’re just not yourself.”
Larry looked up at the clock in the locker room. Six. Time to shower and shave for something needing no authentic signature, no special adeptness of mind. Debra Dawn, the unachievable sex object of millions of men, might already be waiting for him. The shower and shave were quick ones.
After the armed security guard saluted and waved him along, he let himself into her apartment. He found it empty—but it was early yet. Then he noticed the blinking light on the answering phone. “Billy Baby, I’m going to be late. Please, wait. This nasty old director is going to hold us till eight.”
Eight! Then maybe another half-hour from the studio to the apartment. But a lot could happen between eight-thirty and twelve. He paced the floor, finally searched for and found some X-rated movies on DVD’s and started playing them.
Shortly before eight-thirty, the phone rang. “Billy, I’m so sorry. Please don’t be angry, and please, please wait! I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I am so aggravated at this director. He insists on more takes, and the ones we did were perfect already. I’m going to have to stay till ten. I’d stomp out, but it’s in my contract. I have to work until ten if I’m asked to. Don’t leave! Please, Billy!”
It was actually almost eleven when the absolutely gorgeous image opened the apartment door. Larry was in a frenzy, but Debra pushed him off. She laughed. “Oh, you’re so impatient. But I am, too. Just give me time to clean up and get into something more comfortable. I won’t be five minutes. Get in bed. I’ll be right there.”
It was less than five minutes, but seemed an eternity. The beautiful head poked out of the bathroom doorway. “Do you want the usual, tonight, Billy Boy?”
“Yes, yes!”
Just an hour left, but what an hour it was going to be. Within moments, Debra Dawn—movie queen, star of stars, Hollywood’s sexiest sexpot—emerged from the bathroom. Stiletto heels added several inches to her already imposing stature, leather encased almost her entire body, and she carried a rawhide whip in her strong hands. “Roll over, Bad Boy! Mama’s going to spank you like you’ve never been spanked before.”
PI
“What did Henley have to say?” Thomas Colefield had long ago ceased to hold out much hope for his son Jonathan, but Nan was always optimistic. And Dr. Henley was supposed to have a fresh new approach to autism.
Nan was obviously trying to suppress her enthusiasm. “He’s convinced the new drug Jonathan is on will make a big difference, even though we haven’t seen any changes yet. He also said how, with someone as intelligent as Jonathan, there’s bound to be a breakthrough.”
Thomas had heard promising prognoses many times before from expert after expert in the field. The only breakthrough had come when Jonathan showed a surprising and all-consuming interest in numbers at age three. Otherwise, he had been an all-too-typical autistic child—unresponsive, excessively sensitive to loud sounds, very limited in speech, almost never smiling. And now, at nine, he was little different than he had been six years before. The special school had helped some. He had been induced to read simply by exposing him to math books, which he devoured.
Jonathan had been a disappointment, especially since he was such a marked contrast to his older sister who had been an affectionate, happy child. Fiercely protective of her brother, Naomi had established with him a rapport which neither Thomas nor Nan had been able to achieve.
As he mulled over a Physics Department meeting he had just attended, Thomas was only half listening to his wife. “Dr. Henley insists even though autism probably has a genetic basis, it can be greatly modified by environmental circumstances. He says with this new drug—secretin—Jonathan should become more open, more prepared for dealing with his environment. But we have to be careful as he opens up. Dr. Henley says he’s found how autistic persons have low self esteem. They can’t tolerate failure or rejection the way most people can, and they withdraw into themselves as a result. He feels the withdrawal might tend to mask the effects of the secretin.”
Thomas was annoyed. “Is he saying we’ve rejected Jonathan?”
“Not at all. He’s just saying if Jonathan can succeed at something—and he’ll probably be more willing to try now—it can be a way of releasing him from this cage he’s built around himself. Dr. Henley wants us to do everything we can to encourage him in those things he already does best.”
“Math?”
“Yes. He says we can’t overdo it. If Jonathan does well at that, and if he’s rewarded for doing well, it can make him open up more and more.”
“Hmm. The Math Department has a new mainframe computer. ‘State of the art,’ Weinstein calls it. Maybe I’ll take Jonathan in on Friday and show it to him.”
Sidney Weinstein, head of the Math Department, was a ferociously enthusiastic theoretician. He was young, as were most of the department’s faculty, had an extraordinarily bushy head of hair, two gold earrings in one ear, an overwhelming presence, and a T-shirt with the uncompromising statement “Everything is Numbers” written across it.
Though Thomas had taken care to ensure Jonathan was wearing his ear protection, he still expected him to shy away from the loud and exuberant Weinstein. Instead, Jonathan surprised him by responding immediately to Weinstein’s proffered handshake. “Your Dad tells me you’re interested in numbers. Well, it’s never too soon to start. Let’s go into the lab and take a look at our latest cruncher.”
He led the way into the adjoining room where computer screens lined one wall and where a half-dozen faculty and students were busy working away at keyboards. Weinstein pointed to one of the screens sitting on top of what looked like a two-drawer file cabinet. “There’s the beauty,” he announced. “A Numac V. I beat out MIT, Caltech and CERN for it. The only one of its kind. Absolutely nothing—even on the drawing boards—to match it. And you wouldn’t believe the tetraflops it’s working at.”
A single number filled the screen. In a few seconds, the number flashed off to be replaced by another single number.
“What’s it doing?” Thomas asked, glancing over at Jonathan, whose eyes were fixed on the screen.
“You’re watching the first test run. We’re computing decimal digits of pi and verifying them as we go. We’re well over seven trillion digits, so even the Numac is slowing down. Takes about five seconds now to generate and check the next number.” Weinstein looked at his watch. “About six more hours to go, then we’ll recompute this weekend. We’ll have a record for pi, by the way. Far more than the existing record.”
“I thought we had algorithms for estimating pi which didn’t slow things down as you continued to compute.”
Weinstein nodded. “Yeah, but the total time expended using this one comes to less. That’s the important factor.”
While they were talking, Jonathan—still watching the screen—said, “Five.”
Weinstein looked over at Thomas and raised a bushy eyebrow. Thomas shrugged. The number on the screen had faded out to be replaced by a five.
Weinstein guffawed. “Great guess, Jonathan. Guess the next one, and I’ll treat you to ice cream at the cafeteria.”
“Nine.”
The seconds ticked off. A nine showed up on the screen.
“Hey. You’re doing all right. How about the next one?”
Thomas could have sworn a rare smile flitted across his son’s features. “Six.”
Again, they waited. Another member of the faculty drifted over to watch. Nine faded to be replaced by a six. Weinstein looked over at his colleague. “Three in a row.”
“Four.” Jonathan said, without prompting. Ten pairs of eyes were glued to the screen. Within moments, the six faded to be replaced by a four. Silence followed. The tenseness attracted others away
from their computers.
“Four.”
The appearance of another four, brought a comment from someone. “The possibility of calling five in a row from a random set is…”
“One in a hundred thousand,” Jonathan interrupted, without taking his eyes off of the screen, then shook his head. “The numbers aren’t random. The next one’s going to be a six.”
It was. A wide-eyed Weinstein turned to Thomas. “What’s going on?”
Thomas’ answer was a look of bewilderment, then a hand waved at the boy, “Ask Jonathan.”
As the six came up, Jonathan said, “Two,” then added, “That’s the one-hundred-and-eighty-fifth digit after the decimal point.”
A wild scrambling followed the announcement as someone set up another screen to run the early digits of pi. Jonathan’s claim was quickly corroborated, and voices were anticipating in unison the next and the next and the next numbers.
“Well, Jonathan,” Weinstein announced as he put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “You’ve saved us about seventy-two hours of checking. That’s a bad glitch in the hardware. Just wait ‘til the manufacturer hears about this. Wow!”
Thomas had cringed at seeing Weinstein touch Jonathan, who ordinarily would have backed wildly away from the professor’s hand. Instead, he simply looked up, gave him a smile and said, “Ice cream.”
Weinstein looked baffled, then his face cleared. “Sure thing. There’s not much else we can do here until the technicians come in, and you deserve ice cream—several times over.”
Thomas explained at the table as Jonathan appreciatively ate away at a triple helping of chocolate ice cream. “ Jonathan had the multiplication table memorized at the age of three. But he especially loves irrational numbers. His favorite is epsilon. I think he’s committed over a thousand digits of it to memory.” Turning toward his son, he asked, “How many digits of pi do you have memorized, Jonathan?
Expect the Unexpected Page 25
