Black Horizon

by Robert Masello

  Burt's voice came up over the room speaker. “All right, boys and girls, the rhythm section is done. The rest of you can come in now. And please, park the munchies in the waiting room.”

  Vinnie got up off the sofa, his rumpled shirt hanging loose in back.

  “Don't forget to untie your laces,” Jack said.

  “Never do. You sticking around?”

  Jack gave it a moment's thought, then said, “No. If this show's in that much trouble, I better start hustling up some alternative sources of income.”

  “If it's drugs, I don't want to know. See you tonight.” He shuffled off through the padded door, just behind the panic-stricken Catalano.

  Jack went back to the pay phones, to claim a fast two hundred dollars.

  Chapter Eleven

  THIS TIME SPRAGUE studied Jack with a special intensity. The way he walked, the way his eyes moved around the room, the way he smiled at Miss Liu when she asked him to sit at the table with the random-number generator on it. Was there anything about this man, Sprague kept asking himself, that he might have missed the first time, that should have jumped right out at him and declared “Here's the one you've been waiting for, the one with that hidden reservoir of special powers and abilities"? He was tall, he was dark, he was, Sprague supposed, good-looking; but even now—knowing what he knew, and paying attention to every nuance—he was damned if he could see anything out of the ordinary about this guy.

  “Is this a paranormal machine?” Jack asked, somewhat facetiously, and Sprague replied, “It's a machine we use to measure paranormal abilities.” It was a rectangular metal box, with a circle of ten red lights on its upper surface: in the center of the circle, there was a little counter with two spaces, both of which now read “0.”

  “Inside this box,” Sprague said, tapping it with his finger-nail, “there's a small quantity of a radioactive substance called strontium ninety. The subatomic particles of this strontium are constantly deteriorating in a random fashion. This machine acts like a Geiger counter; every time a particle decays, these here,” he said, pointing now to the two zeroes, “will read either one or two, depending on the split second the particle has arrived. A one will make the red lights flash, one each time, in a clockwise direction; a two will reverse the pattern, and the next red light in a counterclockwise direction will flash. Do you understand so far?”

  “I guess so,” Jack said, “but I sure hope you're not going to test me on this stuff.”

  “No; in fact, you don't really need to know any of this. I explain it as a courtesy. We call this a random-number generator because it guarantees us a mathematically reliable source of absolutely random events. What I want you to do, once we start the machine, is simply try to influence, with the powers of your mind alone, the flashing of the lights: I want you to try to make them flash, one at a time, in a clockwise direction.”

  “You're joking.”

  “Not at all.”

  Jack glanced at Nancy; with Sprague sitting right next to her, she remained impassive.

  “How am I supposed to do this?”

  “By concentrating on either the lights themselves, or on the counter in the center, every time it stops at number one, you'll get the result you want. It's up to you. For that matter, you can actually try to influence the decay of the particles inside the box. Just so you get the lights to flash clockwise.”

  Jack considered this utterly ridiculous, but reminded himself of the two hundred dollars.

  “Are you ready?”

  “As I'll ever be.”

  “Then we'll begin.” Sprague paused, to let Jack focus on the machine, then flicked a small switch on its base. A few seconds later, the light at the top of the circle flashed; a few seconds after that, the light to its right—the clockwise light —also flashed. Nancy made a notation. Jack stared down at the lights, his fingers resting on his temples. A third light flashed, also clockwise.

  “Guess I've got it knocked,” Jack said.

  “I suggest you not talk.”

  A fourth light flashed; again clockwise. Nancy noted it on the tally sheet. And glanced at Jack.

  The next red light took a step back; then there were three more flashes in a clockwise direction. Sprague was pleased. Jack bent closer to the machine. Was he actually influencing the lights?

  Nancy's data sheet was numbered one to one hundred, and split into two columns: Clockwise and Counter. She would record one hundred flashes in all, and the order in which they came. She'd done it several times before, with different subjets; it was very boring, and not once had the results been statistically significant. So far at least, this Logan was the most promising she'd seen.

  But then he missed the next three flashes—or at least they were all counterclockwise. He leaned back a little, as if to try a different angle; two clockwise flashes followed. Then two counterclockwise. Sprague was looking less pleased. Nancy could see that the early pattern was probably going to prove to be a fluke; the flashes were coming in no discernible sequence now, and the numbers in both columns were starting to even out. Jack shifted in his chair, his eyes still on the machine. Nancy wondered again what had made Logan so especially interesting to Sprague. After a few more minutes, the run of one hundred had been completed and she announced that Jack had totaled fifty-three flashes in a clockwise direction, and forty-seven against. Not, she knew, a significant score.

  “Shall we do another run?” she asked Sprague: they generally did.

  “Yes,” he said, “just to be sure. Then we'll try the Zener cards.”

  The second run went even worse than the first; Jack seemed to be earnestly applying himself, hunkering down over the machine, but the final score was forty-five clockwise, fifty-five against. Sprague appeared unaffected by the bad result. He pushed the machine to one side of the table, and laid down a deck of oversized cards.

  “These are called Zener cards,” he said. “There are twenty-five in a deck, and they show five different symbols.” He put one of each faceup in front of Jack. “The star, the circle, the square, the cross, and this last one we call ‘wavy lines.’ As I draw each card and look at it, I want you to tell me what it is. We'll go through the entire deck once, reshuffle, and then do it again, just to improve our statistical base. Have you got it?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Repeat to me the five symbols.”

  Jack did, and Sprague grunted. Nancy pulled her chair back, so she could see each card as Sprague pulled it. He quickly shuffled the deck between his long, bony fingers, then drew the one from the top—a square.

  “Circle,” Jack guessed.

  Sprague, expressionless, put the card down and lifted the next.

  “Wavy lines.”

  It was a cross.

  As the run progressed, Sprague studied Jack across the table. He was clearly trying to exercise some sort of intuitive power, but it was equally clear he had none to draw on—at least in this context. Nor did this cause Sprague any undue alarm or disappointment; he was administering these standard paranormal tests more to be thorough than anything else. He had already decided that whatever abilities Logan did possess would only show up later, during the EMG and hypnosis experiments. Logan could do something, he felt, but it wasn't likely to be some simple ESP stunt. It was almost gratifying, when the two runs had finally been completed, to find that Logan had managed only nine hits in all.

  “Is that good?” he asked.

  “The laws of probability,” Sprague explained, “would dictate ten. You scored one less than you should have done by luck alone.”

  Jack, though he hadn't expected to do well, felt deflated nonetheless.

  “We could do more tests like these, of your clairvoyant or psychokinetic abilities, but I don't at the moment see the point. There are other avenues I'd prefer to pursue. Have you ever been hypnotized, Mr. Logan?”

  “No.”

  “Do you feel any apprehension at the prospect of being hypnotized?”

  “You mean, would I
mind?”

  “I mean, do you feel any internal, visceral resistance to it?”

  Jack checked himself internally, and said he didn't think so.

  “Then we will.”

  Jack suspected that even if he had felt apprehensive, it wouldn't have made the slightest bit of difference. Sprague had just wanted to know in advance if Jack was going to throw up any obstacles.

  They returned to the room where Jack had undergone the EEG and EKG—only now the examination table was cranked up so that Jack would be half sitting on it. When Sprague asked him to remove his shirt and shoes as he had done before, Jack said, “I thought this was going to be hypnosis.”

  “It is,” Sprague said, “but at the same time I want to refine some of the earlier tests. We'll be doing what's called an EMG this time; we'll get some measurements of respiration rate, blood volume, skin temperature, and resistance. You won't feel anything more than you did the last time.”

  For two hundred dollars, Jack figured they could measure whatever they wanted. Nancy attached the suction cups and electrodes, and then, to Jack's surprise, another sensor—this one to his chin—and placed three of his fingers into little silver thimbles, which were wired back to another blue metal machine.

  “Let's see, first of all, how susceptible you are,” Sprague said. He sat down on a stool so that his eyes were exactly level with Jack's. Reaching out, he pressed his index finger to the very top of Jack's skull. “Not now,” he said, “but on the count of one, I will want you to inhale, and then look up toward this finger—without moving your head. On the count of two, and with your eyes still raised, I will want you to slowly, as slowly as you can, lower your lids. On the count of three, I will want you to exhale slowly, and beneath your closed lids let your eyes fall to the normal position. Is this understood? Good.” He pressed his finger harder to the top of Jack's head. “We'll begin. One: inhale—and look up toward the finger.”

  Jack's green eyes rolled up in his head, toward the finger it would be impossible to see. Sprague watched intently as the irises rose higher and higher, so high in fact that they disappeared completely under the lids; Logan's eyes showed nothing but white.

  “Upgaze, extreme four,” Sprague whispered to Nancy. Then said to Logan, “Now I want you, without looking down, to slowly lower your lids.”

  Jack's lids fluttered a moment, then smoothly came down. Not a trace of the iris had shown itself again—a very rare feat.

  “Eye-roll, extreme four.” He took his finger away from Jack's skull. “Now I want you to exhale, and keeping your eyes closed, let them return, slowly, to the normal position.”

  Nancy knew, from the two scores she had just recorded and what she had herself observed, that Jack's ability to enter the trance state was virtually off the scale. He would be the best subject Sprague had ever had. She waited now for Sprague to tell him to open his eyes, as was customary after this quick susceptibility test, but Sprague remained silent, studying Jack and deliberating. Still without saying anything, he lifted his chin and indicated to Nancy that she should turn on the various recording devices. But she hesitated—Jack hadn't been told he was going to be put under yet; the usual advice and instructions hadn't been given to him. It didn't seem ethical to just go ahead with it. Sprague threw a furious glance at her, reached over the top of the EEG machine, and flicked the switch. Then he turned on the other machines, too. Jack continued to breathe evenly, his eyes closed.

  “Mr. Logan, I want you to remain relaxed,” said Sprague, in what was for him an unusually calm and conciliatory tone. “I want you to breathe slowly, and deeply, and to listen only to the sound of my voice. I don't want you to speak yet—only to listen to me and to do as I say.” Sprague had silently moved his stool closer to Jack's side, so that now he was almost whispering in his ear. “I want you to imagine yourself falling into a deep, deep, but dreamless sleep. I want you to feel utterly relaxed, utterly restful. Your limbs are tired, and very heavy. Your legs are tired, as if you'd been climbing, climbing stairs, all day long; your arms are heavy, as if you'd been lifting heavy boxes, all day long. Your whole body feels tired, and heavy, and heavy, and tired. You want only to rest, and to listen to my voice. Only to rest, and to listen to my voice.” His words were coming in a low singsong, purposely lulling and repetitious. From the early results of the machines she was monitoring, Nancy could see they were already having some effect; Jack was indeed in a calm and restful state. Sprague must have assumed, after Logan had scored a double-four on the upgaze and eye-roll tests, that he would approach and enter the trance state effortlessly. He was right so far, though Nancy still didn't approve of his methodology.

  “While you are in this deep, and restful, and pleasant state,” Sprague was saying, “I want you to concentrate only on my voice, and listen only to what I m saying. I want you to answer whatever I ask you as truthfully and as fully as you can. I want you now, for instance, to tell me your full Christian name. What is your full Christian name?”

  “Jack Patrick Logan.” He spoke in a low, sober monotone.

  “On what street do you live?”

  “West Eighty-seventh Street, in New York.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I play guitar.”

  Sprague was apparently satisfied with the manner of his replies. He asked him next some slightly less perfunctory questions. How long had he been playing the guitar? What kind of music did he most enjoy? Were his friends chiefly other musicians? Nancy knew he wasn't particularly interested in any of the answers yet; so far he was just drawing Logan into a thoughtful and receptive state of mind. Gradually, he would lead him, indirectly, to what he really wanted to know.

  In the meantime, Nancy kept a close watch on the machines ranged in front of her. The EKG and EEG were functioning fine, and within the normal parameters; the other measurements, of skin temperature, blood flow, respiration, were also unexceptional. She knew that if anything sudden or unexpected occurred, she was to immediately alert Sprague, though never in such a way as to make the subject aware or alarmed. She saw Sprague adjust his glasses and lean in even closer to Jack. Now, she thought, he's about to introduce the Adolph Zakin episode. But instead, to her surprise, he asked Jack if he'd had what he considered a happy childhood. Odd he should turn the dialogue in that direction.

  As if Jack, even in the trance, thought so too, he paused before answering. “It was,” he said, haltingly, “not really typical.”

  “How was it not typical?”

  Again, a pause. “I didn't have real parents; Mam and Clancy, who raised me, were my grandparents; they were older than my friends’ parents. Our house wasn't the same as my friends’ houses.”

  “Why wasn't it the same?”

  “It was older, and quieter. It wasn't a place my friends felt really welcome. It wasn't,” he added, in that same hushed, reflective tone, “a place that I ever felt I completely belonged.”

  “Did you feel you belonged at some friend's house?”

  “No, I didn't feel that,” Jack said. “But I did feel their houses were more normal somehow.”

  “Whose houses were these?”

  “A few different people's. Jeff Morrison's, Dana Schaeffer's, Freddy Nunemaker's . . .”

  “I want you to think back, to the last time you were here, Jack.”

  Nancy noticed that Sprague was now using his first name.

  “You said then that you had been thinking about a friend of yours, from your boyhood. Was that friend one of the people you just mentioned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  “Freddy Nunemaker.”

  “Freddy was a good friend of yours?”

  “He was my best friend, when I was seven or eight years old.”

  “What sorts of things did you do together?”

  “All sorts.” Jack had a semblance of a smile on his face. “Rode our bikes together. Played tetherball. Shot squirt guns at girls in the neighborhood.”

  �
��Was it one of those things you were thinking about last week?”

  “No,” Jack replied. “Something else.” The faint smile flickered, then died. He didn't elaborate.

  “I want you to think again about what you were thinking about last week,” Sprague said. “And I want you to tell me about it. What were you and Freddy doing?”

  Jack was silent at first. Then he said, “Playing war.”

  “And what did that consist of?”

  Jack described their weapons and gear, and the television shows they drew their inspiration from.

  “And you played this game often?”

  “Yes.”

  “And in all the times you played war together, did anything unusual ever happen, something in particular that might have been in your thoughts last week?”

  “Yes . . . once.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  Nancy noticed a slight blip, not yet worth alerting Sprague to, on a couple of the meters. It could have been an electrical short.

  “Once, we climbed the fence at a construction site, on a Sunday morning.” He was speaking very slowly, as if he were reluctant to speak at all. “We weren't supposed to be there.”

  “Who said so?”

  “Freddy's parents, and Mam and Clancy.”

  “But you did anyway.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you got into some trouble there?”

  Jack hesitated again, then said, “Yes.” Nancy could see him visibly stiffening. “Freddy was pretending to be Rommel, the Desert Fox. He was carrying his toy bazooka. He was running all over the site . . . “

  Jack fell silent, and again, Sprague had to prompt him. “And something happened then, to you or to Freddy?”

  Jack's face had assumed an increasingly cold and distant expression. Nancy glanced down at the thermistor reading; his skin temperature had declined by half a degree, in just the last few seconds. Hurriedly, she scanned the other instruments; his heartbeat was steady, but the brain activity showed a slight decline, too. She tapped Sprague lightly on the shoulder. He turned swiftly on his stool, craned his neck over the instrument display. “Make a note of every change,” he whispered urgently. Then turned back to Jack.