"And so?"
He shrugged. “And so, in every life a little rain must fall. Let's just make certain we're the rain."
Regis chuckled. “Okay. First problem. Money, yes?"
"Right."
"Then we shall go where the money is."
"Hum?” Roger looked back at him. “Where's that?"
"London, Paris, the Cote d'Azure, Nevada, wherever gambling is, from horses to betting parlors. I've calculated that we shall need thirty million to start."
Roger closed his mouth. “You're sure we can get that much?"
"What? Money?” Regis laughed softly, eyes alight with amusement, his voice the equivalent of a British Toff's. “My dear fella, money is the easy part."
"What's the hard part?” asked his friend.
"Psychic mechanics."
A shudder coursed down Roger's spine, having had experience with Regis’ earlier experiments, but at least he had something to contribute.
"You know,” he said, trying not to imagine the worst. “You're right about London, but not for the money alone."
"Oh, what is it?"
"An experiment I read about. It was twenty, no, twenty-five years ago as I recall. An experiment in just that field—psychic mechanics. At the time it was all the rage, and then it turned out a disaster."
Regis urged him to go on. Roger helped himself to another soft drink and recounted the details as far as he could remember.
"As I said, it was an experiment that went wrong implemented by academics on a government project. There were physicists, paranormals, and a plan of action. On the date marking the summer solstice, they collected themselves and their equipment at a place called Stonehenge. Don't ask. It's a place where worshippers gather around huge stone blocks."
"I'm listening."
Roger shrugged. “I have an idea the government clamped down on a lot of stuff, but what did get out sounded genuine."
"Such as?"
"Twenty-odd people died, doing something, and oddly enough you would have thought that a failure. But what came across was that it was a success, whatever that means. So, if you want to learn anything about whatever-you-call-it, sorcery or psychic mechanics, twentieth-century style, maybe you better research the subject from the viewpoint of those who dabbled in it and got burned. Find out what went wrong before you stumble into the same thing."
Regis felt a shiver go down his spine. The ancient text warned that those who had the power had to be cautious as well.
"Twenty people died?"
"Hum. Including the most powerful telekinetic on record."
"What was his name?"
Roger smiled indulgently. “Her name. An Elizabeth Drew. And it was said she could do things with her mind that most people found difficult to manage with fork and knife."
Regis considered it before nodding. “We shall need an account to send money to. Do we have enough to take care of ourselves here?"
"Yes, but not when we get to England. That, dear chum, is more than the natives can afford."
"Well then, what betting houses are there when we arrive?"
Roger shrugged and gestured. “They're all over. And they're legal."
"Big money bets?"
"Um, yes, if you start small without attracting attention. If we're lucky we might make enough to cover our hotel bill and then pick up a wardrobe.” He was joking, but Regis nodded seriously.
"Very well. Where does one get a wardrobe?"
"If you can afford it, Italy. If you can't, and you happen to be in England, Saville Row."
* * * *
Five nights later...
Having parked themselves in a middle class hotel on the corner of Hyde Park, appropriately attired thanks to an illegal cock fight in a dive in downtown Tokyo, Regis saw that it was worth it. This place, Roger declared with a hint of pride, considering that it was, at last, a piece of England, was posh.
Some of the Domino Club's would-be customers, dressed in gold chains and open-toed sandals, were shown the door. They were not dressed appropriately. Regis and Roger got a quick once-over and were ignored.
Wandering around the casino they got the feel of the place and listened to the clacking of the shoe, the sound of flipping cards across felt-topped tables. Some people experienced pleasure. Others, pain.
The roulette table drew Regis. The spinning ball bounced around the wheel, stopping inside the slots and bouncing out again. It caused excited squeals, immediate hushes, and indrawn breaths. Gazes were fixed on the ball as bets were placed on where it would stop.
He could sense the centrifugal forces as they controlled the play of the small inchoate mass beating itself against the grounded base. He wet his lips. Yes, this was the game for him.
Concentrating, his mind flicking about the table, touching first one mind, then another, picking up the habits and the skills that others had honed in a lifetime of clattering ... and then those skills were shared.
A meager chip was put on a number with a black backing. The croupier called a halt to the betting. The wheel was spun, the ball whirled in a counter swing, and time seemed to slow ... the ball beat itself madly in the slot it slammed into, as internal forces sought further release, but there was not enough energy to escape.
The wheeled slowed, slowed further, and he lost. He leant over and placed a few more chips, this time on a different number, a different color, backing a red. He did this two more times, and on the fourth try with a larger bet riding, he won.
Roger stayed long enough to see his friend making headway and then meandered until he was at the twenty-one table. He sat in an empty chair. A round called, and the shoe passed to another.
Then, following his teaching, he focused on the back of the cards themselves. Sweat beaded his forehead. This wasn't easy. Deeper—he had to go—deeper.
Suddenly, it happened. He could “see” the card's face as if the back had become transparent, but the effort was costly. He was exhausted, and in spots, he felt as if he would faint.
Getting a hold of himself he got up, offered his chair to an impatient woman grinding her teeth behind him, and made his way to another table at the other side of the casino and took a chair.
Sedately, he dabbed a handkerchief across his brow, and smiling slightly at the pretty dealer, he indicated he was ready to play with the placement of a five pound note.
Several minutes into the running, he played the dealer one on one. People stood behind him, silently watching, and he enjoyed it.
* * * *
"Sir?"
The general manager of the Domino Club looked away from his tray and wiped his mouth carefully. He nodded, his attention shifting from his dinner.
"What is it, lad?"
The messenger hesitated. “I don't think I can explain it. You better come see what's happening."
Felix Jameson sighed and pulled himself away from his dessert. A month of dieting, just for this ... served at the right temperature ... and when he was about to pounce on it, duty calls.
He pushed the tray back, straightened his tie, glanced at the clock on the wall, and checked his appearance in the mirrored wall. He gave his moustache a touch and followed the other out.
Once he got to the floor what he saw was not a pretty sight. Crowds bunched around two tables, and the croupier at roulette, along with the dealer at the twenty-one table in the rear, looked pale. He sighed again and shrugged. Sometimes it was like that. Two different sections and both players hitting lucky streaks.
Cecily, poor child, was rigidly dealing, and Geoffrey at roulette looked like he was about to faint. The house was losing heavily. The guy at the table was playing her like a sucker with every other hand, and the plaques in front of him looked purple. Those were a lot.
He maintained an outward calm as he glanced at the winnings of the player at roulette and licked his lips. Watchers from both tables saw him and made surreptitious hand signals. Thirty thousand from twenty-one; close to a hundred thousand from roulette. Sure en
ough, they were right.
All thought of returning to his dessert fled. At this rate, he would not be able to afford it. He made his way to the roulette table and glanced over the player's shoulder. The pile of plaques had grown. In less than two minutes, the player made thirty-seven thousand pounds.
There was a sudden hush, and Jameson swooned as a ball clattered to rest in a slot. He signaled the end of the run, and the croupier nodded tightly and announced that the table was closed.
At that point, the player made an announcement of his own. He stood and said he wished to collect his winnings. He was through for the evening.
Jameson stood beside the cashier as the plaques were counted, and with a fixed smile, he asked for the player's identification for the record, or a passport if it was available.
The stranger presented his passport and a slip of paper with numbers on it. “I would appreciate it if you could send this to the Bank of England, Kensington branch, for deposit."
With a rigid nod, the general manager checked both, and finding no discrepancies, pursed his lips and handed back the passport. “A pleasure. Thank you for your patronage and congratulations on your good luck."
"That's decent of you."
"Of course, you will fill out a form at the bank before withdrawing this sum for tax purposes."
Regis smiled warmly. “I wouldn't have it any other way."
A receipt was made out by the cashier and handed over. But then the roulette player moved aside for the one coming in from the twenty-one table.
Mr. Jameson stared at the fifty thousand pounds worth of plaques and left at that point, feeling ill. A houseman had to help him back to his office. He was having trouble breathing.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Five
Regis regarded the place curiously. “This is it, then?"
Roger nodded. “Yes. Man in charge of the Drew party at Stonehenge. Sir Anthony Pembroke. Master of Arts. Doctor of Medicine. Doctorates in physics and biology."
"All right, you don't have to sell him. I believe you."
Roger shrugged and gestured. “Anyway, that's where he's cooped up."
Regis grunted and got out of the car. He stood staring at the grey granite mansion. Overhead the weather had turned foul, and it looked like it would get worse.
"Wait back at the inn."
"And leave you here?” Roger was not keen on the idea. “Look at the place. It's forbidding. The name on the gate shouldn't be Pembroke. It should be Usher!"
Regis grinned.
"I don't think it's safe to go in that place alone."
"Ninny, this is not the time to turn into a nanny."
Irritably, Roger turned the key in the ignition, started the car, and with a last look, he turned around.
Regis paused at the iron gates. It was locked. The spikes along top didn't look inviting. Shards of glass had been embedded on the walls. It looked like the occupant did not want uninvited guests.
The lock on the gate's bolt glowed, twisted, and then fell apart. The bolt slammed back, and Regis gave the gate a shove and pushed it open. He proceeded up the gravel drive.
Doors opened to admit him, and as far as he could see, there were no servants. In the large study, where a fireplace crackled with the warmth lacking in the rest of the house, was his man seated in a great leather armchair, staring into the flames.
"Sir Anthony Pembroke, I presume?"
With a startled curse, he looked up. “Goddamit! Another news hound—I hate you all! Get out of my house! Why is it a man can't get any rest in this country any more? Eh? Eh?"
"If you will forgive me, Sir Anthony. I'm not a newspaper reporter if that is what you think."
With a cough of outrage the old man pulled himself up with a shudder, teetered on trembling legs, and with a steadfastness that was only a slice of what the man was in his youth, he made for the mantle over the fireplace and reached for the shotgun lying on two horns fixed in the wall.
He couldn't reach that high, so Regis shrugged and helped him. The shotgun lifted off its rungs and sat itself neatly in the old man's hands.
"There now. Comfy?"
Sir Anthony stared at the weapon, looked to where it was supposed to rest, and rounded his gaze to the trespasser. Then, with a surprising, blood-curdling malevolence, he cursed every paranormal that ever was.
Over a tray of some hastily prepared muffins and tea, Regis learned the tragic story of the greatest telekinetic of her time. It was not what he had expected.
"Boy, we were on the verge of discovering how matter itself could be formed by the power of the mind.” Sir Pembroke shook his head, feeling dazed at the memory. It was so clear, so sharp. “But we encountered bloody awful problems. No matter how much energy you put into the effort, telekinesis alone wasn't the answer. Something was missing. Something made every effort we put forth a bleeding waste!"
"You're speaking of psychic-mechanics,” Regis said quietly.
The old man looked up angrily. “What do you take me for, some fart-assed fool? Psychic-mechanics, indeed. It was nothing less than bloody sorcery!” He pointed a teaching finger. “And the proper term is telemechanics."
He didn't notice Regis’ start.
"Sorcery ... the mention was cause for hilarious hysterics, and it was nothing more than a joke,” Sir Pembroke grumped. “Old wise men and knowing mystics may have known what we were striving to do, but the keys were missing. They knew, and purposely shrouded their knowledge in all that arcane bullshit. But then, if people knew, really knew the truth, they'd be out there in the streets jumping at the first eerie sound, or screaming at the merest suspicion of movement in the fog, and who could blame them? Matter could be formed with nothing more than willpower."
"What went wrong?"
He rubbed his strained face with palsied hands. “A lot. It was one thing working out the particulars in the laboratory. Oh, with the right conditions we could do it. Repair a broken vase. Even replace it with a duplicate. But a flower? Or even a petal? No. Some kind of matrix was needed to focus all the energy harnessed. And we never figured out what that matrix was."
"Telemechanics..."
"Yes,” he grumped. “We figured out that much. We figured out the bloody name of the concept. We just couldn't work around it. We could picture it. We could theorize until we had tea coming out of our ears and were blue in the face from lack of sleep ... but the key in which to wind it, now that was the problem. We knew telekinesis was the opening of the door. We proved that, but...” He took a deep breath. “It just wasn't enough."
"What happened, Sir Pembroke? Tell me."
His eyes narrowed, and his head dipped. “First there was Elizabeth...” He smiled. “Ah, now, she was a treasure, that girl. Graduate scientist in her own right, damn near a mystic if the truth were told. She was the one who thought up the bright idea, may her soul rest in peace, of focusing energy into shape that was already part of an environment. Once that was done, the shape, composed of that environment would hold beyond the moment of psychic exertion. I was the bright lad who thought of Stonehenge. That was the thing that damned us all."
His sniffling took a dangerous turn, and he whipped out a handkerchief to blow his nose.
"Then what?"
"Ah, blast it, she got a hold of some Druidic versions.” He looked up seeing he'd lost his one-man audience and explained. “Those were a few texts the early priests wrote concerning certain Druidic ceremonies, and if I'd had any sense, I would have prevented their use, but I didn't know any better, then or now."
His glance into the past raised a bitter cast over his features. “Anyway, we'd gone and set up the instruments, went through the rituals, and with Rafael Delambert, our telepathist, Jules Godrenn, our general psychic alarm bell, Elizabeth, and a few others, they gathered themselves together in the centre and outlined a pentagram. I thought it was ridiculous, but it was one of the ritual's stipulations for protection. Everyone thought it couldn't hurt, and then it be
gan.
It was a time of summer solstice, or as near as we could get it, considering the enormous difficulties we had with funds, and the bloody machines were switched on, recorder turning, everyone tuned in...” He took a breath and let it out. “Nothing."
Regis sat up. “Nothing?"
The old man chuckled sourly. “Here we were, at the breaking point fund-wise. We'd gathered all this high-powered talent together and nothing happened."
A spate of coughing had him wiping at his lips. “I tell you I could have laughed if it weren't so damn ironic. But that was it."
"What was the object?"
"They were trying to change the vicinity of the area, make it less positive, more neutral, more amenable to allowing a change in the focus of energy, or that was the idea at the time."
"Then what?"
"To be blunt, I felt relieved. Some laughed, having the courtesy to put humor ahead of reputation, but Elizabeth wasn't in a laughing mood. She stormed around the place checking instrument readings, measuring static charges, recalibrating sensors ... and she kept repeating that she could “feel” something, as if there was something she could “do” about it.
"We shrugged our shoulders, muttered playfully, chuckled about genius-leveled-brats-gone-batty-with-power, and tried again, and again, and again—by God we tried! For three weeks we tried, and nothing for the trouble. Supplies were low, and tempers rose. I thought it best to take time off to pick up a few necessaries from town, and there were my backers to talk to, because by this time the project was supported by funds out of my own pocket."
He stared into the flames of the fireplace. “Then halfway to town...” The memory made him twist with pain. “I got a call over the radio-phone. “One of the techs told me to hurry back. Something unexpected had happened. Anything happening would have seemed a godsend, but this was different. Different and frightening.
"Elizabeth had gone wild. Throwing things all over the place, literally tearing up boulders and tossing them around like tenpins, eyes wide and fixed, screaming how things had to be rearranged. I thought I was being put on until I got back and found they were right. By that time, she was missing. We searched the grounds, but it was no use. We felt it would be necessary to wait until morning to continue.
The Fourth Guardian Page 12
