The Touch

by Brian Lumley

  “Now I’m well aware that what I just said sounds like the introduction to a work of fantasy—like a load of sensationalist hocus-pocus, and all very if-and-butty—and I admit that even as the Head of E-Branch, an organization of rare talents which came into being to discover, investigate, and deal with precisely this sort of event and/or situation, still I myself had doubts when first this case came to my attention.

  “Initial investigations, however, by some of our most respected agents—Ian Goodly, Anna Marie English—would seem to have identified just such a threat. You all know what I’m talking about, I know that; I simply take this opportunity to state once again that we must continue to step lightly, that we can’t compromise St. John in what appears to have become something of his personal vendetta against the unknown organization, faction, or group of persons from which this threat springs. For we feel fairly sure that St. John and his allies—two persons of whom we also know very little—are the only ones capable of putting down or defusing this mysterious threat. So as I said, it’s all very if-and-butty.

  “And that’s enough from me.” Trask picked out a well-known face in his small audience. “Ian, do you want to carry on?”

  The gaunt-looking precog stood up and loomed tall over the other agents in their seats. “I can’t really expand on what has already been said,” he began. “All I can say is that when I was tasked to examine St. John I found evidence of rare skills, and that when I tried looking to his future I discovered the threat as outlined by the Head of Branch. We think we may have learned something of that threat—we do now have at least one name in connection with it—but that’s about all. However, my initial concerns have been substantiated in several ways and by some of our finest talents.”

  Goodly paused and glanced at the almost crumpled figure of the girl seated next to him, and said, “Anna Marie?”

  The ecopath, looking frail and weary as ever, perhaps even more so, struggled to her feet as Goodly sat down. Clearing her throat, and then in a voice that was scarcely more than a painful croak, she said, “As usual, the futures Ian Goodly sees are devious and hard to explain. But he gets them right more often than not, and more often than not by unexpected turns of event. When I joined with him—figuratively speaking, that is—in an attempt to discover the ‘condition’ of Earth in one such future, at first I felt only chaos . . . and then felt nothing at all! As if there was nothing to feel. It’s possible, of course, that because of my so-called talent—which not only inflicts all the ills of the world upon me but also on occasion warns me in advance of declining situations—it is possible that I had gone beyond Ian’s vision. In which case I have to conclude that the current situation is in decline, and seriously.” She paused for a moment to catch her breath, then continued:

  “However, and as the Head of Branch has pointed out, Ian’s future vision—while grim and full of danger—is not so dire as the possible future I experienced. Ian at least finds a hero or heroes in Scott St. John and his as yet unidentified colleagues. One last thing: just like Ian Goodly, when I stood in the presence of St. John I sensed the dawning of incredible skills, talents as wild as any assembled here. And I am glad that whatever is coming St. John and his friends will be standing on our side and not on the other side, wherever that may prove to be.”

  As Anna Marie eased carefully down into her seat, so Trask took it up again:

  “Okay, so we’ve heard from Anna Marie and Ian, but they’re not alone in their perceptions and experiences. Paul Garvey has received definite telepathic warnings with regard to any, well, ‘interference’ by E-Branch, however well intended. And in addition to our ‘ghosts,’ our ‘gadgets’ are telling us something of a story, too.” Here Trask referred to a venerable E-Branch maxim, that the Branch was served by “gadgets and ghosts;” the psychic skills of his ESPers being the ghosts, while the Branch’s high-tech surveillance machineries were the gadgets. And now he continued:

  “Our techs did a top-notch job on St. John’s house, bugged it to the rafters. But last night the bugs blew up. They didn’t just fail—though one of them was probably discovered—but as far as the techs can tell the rest literally blew themselves to pieces! However, not everything was lost . . . But best if I were to let Joe Scathers and then John Grieve supply the details.”

  Scathers, a short, burly, crew-cut man dressed in a laboratory smock, stood up. “Those bugs were sited as best as possible in the time allowed,” he began, “but as the boss has explained, it could be that one of them—in a telephone, probably—was discovered. After that, and I mean shortly after that, the rest of them went out with two or three small bangs! We can’t figure it out; it’s sort of hard to explain; couldn’t be a power surge because there was no connection to the mains. In any case, we’d been having plenty of trouble with reception . . . static, maybe? The Duty Officer should be able to go into that in more detail, but since me and my techs weren’t on the receiving end it isn’t our province.” Frowning, he sat down heavily in his seat.

  “But it is mine,” said John Grieve as he in his turn stood up. Grieve was a man in his late thirties who had been with the Branch for almost half of those years. Despite being extraordinarily, indeed uniquely talented—a far-seeing telepath who was able to read minds even over the telephone—he had never been a field operative; Trask and previous Heads of Branch had found him too useful in the HQ, as the Duty Officer or on standby, to send Grieve into the far more dangerous world outside. Also, he wasn’t an especially physical sort of person. A lifetime smoker and slightly overweight, thin on top and looking older than his years, he might easily be mistaken as a typical clerk—except of course that with his talents Grieve was anything but typical. Proud, upright, smart in his dress, he was also polite and very British. He had the bearing of an ex-army officer or possibly a once-successful businessman; but however he might appear to the man in the street, John Grieve was E-Branch through and through and Ben Trask relied on him, often heavily.

  “I have been in large part responsible for monitoring the tech stuff and listening in on St. John’s bugs,” he began. “Not that there was very much to listen to, not initially. But right from the start a certain name kept cropping up. I was our anonymous ‘Xavier’ when St. John put through a call on our special number, which was then patched to the Duty Officer’s telephone. On that occasion he sounded a bit hysterical, and he was trying to connect with Ian Goodly who he compared—er, favourably, I hasten to add—with someone called Simon Salcombe, a somewhat dubious ‘faith-healer’ or ‘layer-on-of-hands.’ Our conversation was very short; it didn’t add up to much, which gave me no real opportunity to read his mind.

  “Another call, this time on one of his bugged phones, was to one Bill Comber, a journalist—or rather a photographer, or both—who lives not too far from St. John. St. John wanted to talk to Comber about his unfortunately deceased wife, Kelly, to which end he paid Comber a visit that same evening. We, too, have talked to Comber and we delivered strongly worded, er, ‘advice’ that he should forget ever having spoken to St. John and especially to us. As for what he told us: it was all rather garbled and quite odd; but he did mention that when he’d seen St. John that night, the man had acted very oddly—and again the name of Simon Salcombe was mentioned.

  “I had gone on Duty Watch that night at 8:00, and I freely admit to feeling a bit drowsy sometime after 3:30 when suddenly St. John’s tech gear started to act up. He was obviously up and about, but what could he be up to in the wee small hours of the morning? Well, I’m no tech, but still I tuned in as best I could and of course recorded whatever there was to record.

  “The sound on the tape is very distorted and lengthy passages of conversation are either missing or so patchy as to make them useless, but I did get something: namely that St. John had a visitor, a woman! The name ‘Shania’ occurs—which I believe is the name of St. John’s visitor—and also ‘Kelly,’ the name of his dead wife. Also, it appears that for the purpose of some undefined security system, numbers
are in use in place of or in addition to names: where St. John is ‘One’ and Shania is ‘Two,’ and someone else has been designated ‘Three.’ Whoever this last person may be, however, he wasn’t present and doesn’t appear to be greatly appreciated; they can be heard to call him variously a ‘dog’ and/or a ‘wolf’!

  “As for my telepathy on that occasion: don’t ask! As hard as I tried I was—I don’t know—blocked? No, it wasn’t mind-smog, but it came pretty close and was just as strong. Anyway, this man Salcombe’s name surfaced yet again when he was called ‘very dangerous’ and ‘unapproachable,’ if not in those precise words . . .

  “A day or so later and a different Duty Officer on watch, and finally St. John’s bugs seem to be working to good effect. Trying to discover Salcombe’s whereabouts, he makes an exploratory but unproductive call to a hospital. Then, hiding behind an assumed and fictional identity, one ‘Quentin Mandeville’—a supposedly filthy rich philanthropist—he contacts an orphanage with similar queries and spurious promises and discovers that Salcombe is situated at Schloss Zonigen, a ‘facility’ in Switzerland where Simon Salcombe and others of his group ‘meditate’ and ‘aspire to perfect their healing arts.’

  “Now as I have pointed out, I was not the officer on duty during these last-mentioned conversations and recordings; thus I had no opportunity to read Scott St. John’s mind. Last night, however, when I was on duty, ‘Shania’ was once more present at St. John’s house and I was finally able to, er, ‘eavesdrop’ on them and record at least a little of their conversation. As for her being there: that’s quite odd because an observer in situ, our stakeout, failed to see and report her arrival.

  “Anyway, I have a transcript right here.” And putting on his spectacles, Grieve commenced reading from notes clipped to a millboard:

  “Shania’s voice: St. John is told of the importance of his belief in both Shania and ‘Wolf.’ St. John’s voice: ‘Zante,’ or Zakynthos,’ a Greek island in the Ionian, is mentioned. Shania talks of herself, St. John, and this Wolf person as a unit. But by now the electrical interference—which has been there from the moment Shania’s presence was noted—has become a veritable storm of static! Still, I persevere.

  “St. John asks Shania a question—which I think is about the telephone in his study. Her answer is quite unintelligible, lost in the hum and hiss of the ‘static’ or whatever is causing the interference. But then, a few seconds later, I clearly hear St. John say, ‘Damn! I’ve been bugged!’

  “Some five or six minutes later, when the intensity of the noises coming out of the tech recorders and equipment is giving me a headache, I decide to take an asprin and a glass of water, and I very fortuitously remove my headphones in order to do so. Why fortuitously? Because that was when St. John’s bugs decided to self-destruct! And what Joe Scathers didn’t think to mention is the fact that quite a bit of his expensive tech equipment—including the headphones—suffered something of a meltdown at the same time! I consider myself fortunate that I wasn’t burned or deafened.

  “Now let me be plain: I believe the, er, damage caused was a deliberate act on the part of Scott St. John and Shania, whoever she may be. But I don’t think they intended any harm; they were merely protecting themselves. And the mind-smog I’ve mentioned: that was simply another protective device, which goes to substantiate the emergent powers that Ian Goodly and Anna Marie have mentioned, and which David Chung is ready to corroborate.”

  He nodded at locator Chung in a seat nearby, and sat down. A third-generation Cockney, David Chung stood up, and held up a bauble in plain view. Without pause he said, “You’re looking at a spiral of pre-decimal coins—old money—encased in a dome of glassy plastic or clear resin. It’s a paperweight from Scott St. John’s desk, purloined for my use in order that we may know where he is from day to day. And the reason I’m not too worried about having it in my possession is that it’s got no electrical or mechanical bits that might explode at any time now!” Chung’s audience moved in their seats. One or two of them grinned, however uneasily, and some even managed wry chuckles. But suddenly Chung was serious.

  “That’s about the limit of anything we might find humorous about this item,” he continued drily, “for it’s pretty much the weirdest thing I’ve come across since . . . well, since Harry was with us. You see a glass bauble, a desk ornament, a paperweight. And you feel nothing. I hold it in my hand and my arm vibrates, albeit minutely. I look at it and beyond the coins I see a man, Scott St. John. Well, no, I can’t actually see him—but I feel him there, and I know where he is. And that’s how I am with the possessions of most people; it’s how I am with your possessions—those of them which you’ve let me possess. But with Scott St. John I feel a whole lot more than that.

  “Yes, I know where he is: right now he’s in Zakynthos, not long since arrived. But if I try to look, or feel, or sense too hard . . . then it all clouds over and all I feel is the enormous energy of a human dynamo! Three or four days ago when the techs gave me this thing, the power was there but it was weak. I knew St. John was alive and well, and I was able to pinpoint his location at any given time, but his—what should I call it?—his ‘aura’ made little or no impression on me. Since then, however, this feeling of latent power has grown by leaps and bounds. And I can only reiterate what Anna Marie has said: that I’m glad St. John is on our side. Or on the side of planet Earth, anyway . . .”

  Chung was finished; putting the paperweight in his pocket, he sat down. And from the podium Ben Trask said:

  “So that’s where it’s at. St. John is in Zante, but why we don’t know. Ironically enough there’s someone—two someones—on that selfsame island who might have helped us out here. Yes, I mean Zek Föener and Jazz Simmons; that’s where they live now, on the island she was named after. But since Perchorsk Jazz has sworn off this sort of work; likewise Zek. Also, I know she and Harry Keogh were very close; so close that if she had never met Jazz . . . but that would have only complicated matters more yet. Still, I know Zek gave the Necroscope what help she could while he was preparing for Starside. It’s even possible she blames us that we were chasing him out of this world. And I know how she must feel for I’m on the same wavelength. We both know what we owed that man.”

  As Trask grew silent Ian Goodly stood up. “Just a point,” he said.

  “What is it, Ian?”

  “We couldn’t ask Zek or Jazz for their help anyway. Not if it would compromise what St. John is doing. And that’s the same reason we can’t send anyone out there. So all we can do is wait and watch.”

  Trask nodded. “Yes, you’re right, of course. Meanwhile . . . well we can try to check out this Schloss Zonigen place; that’s if we can find it! And we might try doing some research on this Simon Salcombe fellow—his history and such—keeping it all very softly-softly. But I’m sure that each one of you will have your own ideas on where to go from here, so let’s go.” Then, as he got down from the podium, Trask finished with:

  “People, remember, ‘ordinary’ E-Branch work goes on, and my desk is piled high with it. But I’m there and I’ll be available at all times. All I ask is that when you’ve got something solid you keep me in the picture, right up-to-date. And that’s it . . .”

  Following the O-Group, having paused in the Ops Room in order to speak briefly to his 2IC, Ian Goodly, Trask was the last man out into the long corridor. By then most of his agents had gone back to their places of work. But as Trask made for his office, and as he drew level with the elevator, so the doors opened and the Duty Officer, Paul Garvey, stepped into view accompanied by the last person on Earth that Trask wanted to see at this time: the Minister Responsible.

  “Ah, Ben!” said that one, catching at his elbow, while to his rear Paul Garvey pulled one of his faces. “Just the man!”

  “Yes, of course I am,” said Trask wryly. “Always.” And as Paul Garvey went back to his place of duty, Trask and his visitor proceeded to Trask’s office at the end of the corridor.

  The Minister
Responsible for E-Branch was in his early to midforties, small and dapper, with his dark hair brushed back and plastered down. His brow had some few wrinkles; other than these his face was unlined, even young-looking, with eyes that were bright, clear, and blue over a long straight nose, a thin-lipped mouth, and a narrow chin. He had no nerves to speak of, or none that were on display. He wore patent-leather black shoes, a dark-blue suit, and a light-blue tie. He also wore a smile, and seeing right through it Trask knew he wished a favour.

  Inside his office and when they were seated, Trask said, “So then, Minister, what can I do for you?”

  “Aha!” said the other, smiling again but falsely. “But it might just be what I can do for you!” (Another falsehood—or at best a half-truth as opposed to a barefaced lie—which the human lie detector Ben Trask at once recognized, of course.)

  And replying to the Minister Responsible’s smile with another that was just as false, he replied, “Very well then, say on. For I’m all ears . . .”

  23

  The Minister Responsible got down to business. “Ben,” he said, “you know of course that I see copies of almost every document and request that crosses over your desk into your very capable hands? Frequently before you yourself see them?”

  Trask nodded. “Yes. It’s got to be so because you are the man allegedly responsible for our little setup here.” But you don’t see everything.

  “Oh? Did you say ‘allegedly’? I’ll have you know I take my responsibilities very seriously.”