At exactly 16:32 hours of a bright spring afternoon, an Iricoil tanker proceeding down the St. Lawrence Seaway fouled its propellor on a tangle of steel cables, origin unknown. The tanker drifted athwart the current as a United Line freighter entered the narrow channel from the opposite direction. A second tanker, also United Line, making speed enough to reach Toronto port by dark, cruised into the danger zone, although it was apparent that the Iricoil boat was in distress. Both United Line ships continued, evidently hoping to pass the injured vessel, one on the port, the other on the starboard. Likely they would have succeeded but the Aitch Bee, also impatient to reach port, came bucketing down the searoute. It swung rather dose to the distressed vessel. As Frascati ever after maintained, he wanted to see if he could be of any assistance in getting a message ashore: a ridiculous alibi since the tanker was well equipped by radio and ship-shore telephone. Frascati’s propellor became fouled on the same villain cable. The freighter began to pass the disabled pair and her wash slammed the small craft into the Iricoil tanker. The United Line tanker was broadside of the Iricoil when her bow swung out Tanker #2 swung to starboard to avoid a collision and her stern banged into Iricoil, splitting a seam in the aft oil hold just as the small craft was ground between the two bigger hulls. Its galley fires caught old grease and spread in the cabin as the yacht’s gasoline tank was breached. Oil pouring from the Iricoil vessel would shortly ignite from that flame.
At this point the hovering rescue copters intervened as newsmedia cameras recorded the event from every angle. Foam quickly doused the yacht fire, the oil-pollution material gobbled up the spilt petroleum and kinetics held back additional oil loss by pressure until the teleports could get the conveniently handy plates into position. Other kinetics and the frogmen worked loose the steel cable and it was hoisted out of the way. “Captain” Frascati and the two crew members (his sons) of the damaged yacht were lifted up and another team of kinetics kept the little ship floating until the belatedly arriving coast guard cutter could tow it into port.
The Seaway was not blocked since all four vessels were cleared out of the narrow channel before others made the passage. There was no loss of life and no long-term pollution of the water. The Parapsychic teams were volubly and embarassingly thanked for preventing a major disaster, and by cocktail time everyone was pleased by the denouement, especially Patsy Tucker and Terry Cle.
The congratulatory euphoria lasted twelve hours, at which point the Seaway Authority began to realize that matters had come to near-disaster in an unprecedented way.
“What was the meaning of sending us only a fax to announce a major disaster?” the Seaway Commissioner demanded in such stentorian tones that George Henner need not have listened in on the second comunit in Henry’s office.
“You were informed by fax as usual,” Henry replied in a mild tone of voice.
“By fax! When countless millions of credits were at stake? And blockage of the most important waterway in North America? And do you realize that we have only just balanced the sealife ecology in that strip of waterway That oil …”
“You were informed …”
“Well, I’m informing you that you’re in for a suit or criminal negligence …”
“Negligence of what, Commissioner? You were informed nine hours and thirty-eight minutes prior to the accident by this ex-officio group, which is not a government sponsored or accredited agency. We act for and in the public interest. But we are understaffed and overworked. You could have queried this office for more particulars, although all we had were included in that fax. Your Authority could have held back any one of the four vessels involved, thus preventing the …”
“Are you accusing the Seaway Authority of negligence?”
Henry held the receiver away from his ear, shook his head, and replied in his mildest manner, “Forewarned is forearmed, sir.” He caught George Henner giving the high sign of approval.
“You’ll hear from us, Darrow. You people can’t get away with irresponsible behavior like this.”
The connection was rudely and noisily broken.
“Did you figure a lawsuit in your calculations, George?” asked Henry.
Henner rubbed his hands together in glee. “If they sue, we’d win.”
Henry couldn’t exactly share in Henner’s gleerul anticipation. The precog knew of the multitude of lawsuits which would be served on Talents in the next decades and the sheer cost of inspired defense made him shudder. The money would be available but it was credit that could be used to better advantage in training and identifying Talent, not defending against misunderstanding and greed. By late afternoon, Henry’s premonitions of immediate disaster were borne out by additional suits of negligence which arrived from United Line, Iricoil Tankers and A. Frascati.
“Let me handle this,” George Henner told Henry and his hastily convened executive staff. “I don’t need any crystal ball or anerodic graph needle to tell me how to manage this sort of crap.”
Before he had Henry’s voiced approval, he was on the wires to the major media networks, chatting familiarly with presidents and commissioners. By the time the films of the Parapsychic Center’s assistance had been widely aired, with a few choice comments on how the Center operated to forestall major disasters, the threatened legal action against the Talents was withdrawn. Suits were entered against the Seaway for criminal negligence. Then the Center, on George Henner’s advice (“Make ’em pay for it, when they don’t listen to you.”), sent bills for the rescue operations to Frascati, United Line and Iricoil Tankers.
“And from now on, Henry,” George said, “don’t ever follow up your faxed warnings with personal phone calls. Don’t be the supplicant, damn it. Be the prelate!”
Henry watched with inner amusement as George Henner paced up and down the floor, his eyes flashing, even his stride firm and aggressive so that Henry could see traces of the strengths which had amassed George Henner his considerable fortune and which had overwhelmed less determined adversaries in the business world.
“There’s no point in you bruising your larynx with persuasion. You’ve proved your worth over and over again and this Seaway bollix ought to make a validated Parapsychic warning worth the paper it’s printed on, even at the dreadful price of paper these days.”
“A sound argument, George, and I appreciate your help …”
George stopped midstride, glaring at Henry through narrowed lids.
“Yes, I am helping you, aren’t I? Shouldn’t do that, should I?”
“My friendly enemy,” replied Henry with a laugh.
“Ha! Tell me that when my executors snatch the rug of Beechwoods from under your telepathetic feet …”
“And we need you, George,” Henry raised his voice to overwhelm Hennef’s snide remarks. “If I can convince a skeptic like you, I’m well away to swaying John Q. Public to my side. He’s more variable than you, and he will be the hardest to win over.”
John Q. Public, however, quixotically decided the Seaway Authority had been foolish to ignore the Parapsychic warning. Criticism was heaped on the Seaway from every quarter. Later the Authority was somewhat exonerated of primary guilt since the Court felt that good judgment on the part of any one of the other three skippers would have prevented the accident and no costs were awarded the claimants. The official records cited and credited the Parapsychic Center with averting a major calamity, and loss of life and property. All Transport Authorities were severely enjoined to heed any warnings from the Center which involved public transport.
For the next few weeks all precogs of traffic problems, possible fire, storm or spring floods throughout the world were instantly acted upon. The Center was besieged with anxious calls about whether Mr. S could undertake that long distance flight, or Mrs. J could safely make her annual pilgrimage from Florida to Wisconsin, and if there had been any precog about the transfer of cyanide cylinders to the authorized Atlantic Trench dump. Thousands of hopeful people applied for the simple tests which would indicate if they po
ssessed some useful Talent.
“It’s an ill wind that blows no good,” Henry remarked to Molly after another hectic day answering urgent calls and dealing with anxious queries.
“I suppose so,” she said, sinking wearily into the armchair of their private suite in the main house. “But I wish we had more Gooseggs or a surer way of spotting the live ones.”
“Any today?” Henry fixed Molly a stiff drink.
“Yes,” and she brightened as if she’d temporarily forgotten the event “One very strong receiving telepath out of forty-five aspirants.” She accepted the drink, turning the glass in her hand as if the amber liquid held some other answer. “Henry, they come in so hopeful … and some of them leave so angry and disappointed. As if we ought to be able to find what doesn’t exist …”
“Not your fault, love. Everyone wants to be, in some way, unique, and can’t realize that being unique is a responsibility as well as a privilege. You can’t cure that. How strong’s the telepath?”
Molly brightened. “I think he’s very strong, but he’s been blocking thoughts, the way they all do. Out of fear. He may need a lot of training.”
“No, not too much,” Henry said easily, pulling his chair close to Molly and clasping her free hand. “Young fellow, isn’t he? Welsh extraction, Welsh name. Right?”
“I just sent the report in …” Molly began, startled, and stopped mid-sentence, arrested by Henry’s knowing look. “Not another one, Henry?”
“They do seem to appear right on schedule,” Henry grinned at her but there was a shadow in his eyes. “Right on schedule. One day I’ll be wrong.”
“Don’t Henry.” She clasped his hand tightly, reassuringly, knowing the strain of his unfortunate infallibility, knowing that some of the events he foresaw he’d rather not have seen. “And, he is, as you predicted, Welsh,” she went on in a light voice, “by name, Daffyd op Owen. Very likeable chap. He’s important?”
Henry nodded. “He won’t need more than some basic pointers and a few quiet weeks here to wash the ‘noise’ out of his mind and learn to project as well as receive.”
“Well, that’s one on the plus side of the ledger.” She rotated her shoulders to ease the day’s strains but Henry’s disclosure about young op Owen made her feel much better about her labors.
“When is he moving in?”
“Don’t you know?” she asked in a bantering fashion.
“What I know I wish I didn’t. What I’d give anything to know, I have to wait and see.”
She smiled at him lovingly. “You mean, if we retain Beechwoods?” When he nodded, she chided him gently. “How often have you been wrong in the merest detail?”
“It’s not how often I’m right Molly luv, it’s will I be wrong this time, this once? This important, crucial, critical once? Such a terrible gift, luv. Terrible when your knowledge means the loss of a friend …”
“Henry, your recognition, the very challenge of the Center,” and her arm gesture encompassed all of Beechwoods, “have kept George Henner alive … and kicking.” She peered into Henry’s face, reassuring him by touch, word and look. “He’s determined to do you out of Beechwoods, if only by a minute. That determination alone has strengthened his hold on life. I’ve seen his medical reports, Henry. I know.” She leaned back in her chair. “You’ve done him quite a favor and he knows it. I shouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t left the Center Beechwoods anyway.”
“He hasn’t. He showed me the will.”
Molly opened her mouth to say something then thought better of it.
“All right,” Henry went on, catching her look of mischief, “so he could write a second one in secret … No, we’ve a wager on and …”
“I know what you mean, hoping to win the wager loses a friend.”
“I can see horizons wider than mortality but I cannot always see the sparrow fall.”
“So young op Owen will be your successor?” George Honner was in a very testy mood that morning.
“Yes, but of course, not for some time yet …”
“You’ve got it all foreseen, have you?”
“Certainly the basic problems …”
“Ha! I thought you’d already solved the basic problems …”
“By no means, my friend,” and Henry’s laugh was mirthless. “I’ve had the easy part. No, really. The establishment of the Center—and others in time in strategic parts of the globe … is only the first bit: scarcely the worst.
“Once we’d elevated parapsychic Talents to a demonstrable, scientific basis, it was only a question of some decent organizational effort to make us self-sufficient and independent. We did dodge the governmental attempt to take control because we operate more efficiently as a private agency and because you could imagine the tax payers’ shrieks about funding tea-leaf readers? Funding was no real problem once we could prove Talent. Training, now … that is a long term program. We’ve got to develop more efficient techniques in recognizing and training Talent and that takes Talented personnel. Getting industry and the government to accept our workers was child’s play with what we can offer.” Then Henry sighed. “The suspicions of the general public can’t be totally allayed but with the help of a discreet PR program, people can become accustomed to the Talented.
“No, George, some of our biggest problems are yet to be solved. The knottiest one is establishing legal protection for Talent. Without that, all we’ve carefully built could be wiped away in legal fees, damages and law suits … particularly against the precogs. Oh, I see that we’ll get professional immunity sooner or later. I’m greedy. I want it sooner. And that’s why a telepath like Dai op Owen is required as Director. He’s more sensitive to the immediate situation. By God, the times I’ve wished I were a telepath …”
George snorted.
“It’s easier for a man who can delve into thoughts, not the future. That’s assured.”
“Ha!” Light flittered from George Henner’s sunken eyes. “Not yet. You’ve three days, four hours and five minutes to go.”
“No,” Henry replied gently, “no, old friend, you’ve three days, four hours and five minutes to go. And I shall miss you.”
“Ha to that as well! See any new signs of decay?” George jerked his head this way and that.
Henry shook his head slowly. “I will miss you, you old bastard.”
“Will you? Will you when I defy your prediction and you and your Talents are thrown out into the mass noise again?”
Henry summoned a laugh. “Then why haven’t you died long ago?”
George glared at him. “I intend to make you sweat, Henry Darrow. Sweat Bleed. Die a little.”
“And you wonder I want a telepath as a Director?” He gripped George firmly by the shoulder and gave him an affectionate shake. “Play the enemy if it pleases you: if the choler makes the blood continue to run in your veins. You’re more our friend than enemy. And I know it.”
“Ha! You are nervous. You’re worried that you’re wrong. That this time you’re wrong! I’ll prove you wrong if it’s the last thing I do.”
Henry cocked his head at George, grinning ironically. “You may at that, you old bastard. I’ve never claimed infallibility, George. And you’ve heard me state time and again that fore-knowledge of the future can alter it …”
“Cop out! Rationalization!” Henner shook with triumph. “You’re admitting defeat! Ha!”
“Have I made your day, George? Fair enough! I’ve got to go placate that tax man again. See you later.”
“Don’t waste your time with him. He’s stupid. No way they can tax the Talents with the structure I helped you build. And don’t miss the party! The Death Party!”
“Christ Hank,” Gus Molnar complained to Darrow, “he’s had me checking him over on the hour all day! And then that gaggle of ‘impartial physician witnesses’ check on me.” Molnar ran his hand nervously through his long fair hair, his eyes restless with anxiety and irritation. “And suddenly he won’t let Molly out of his sight. Said her hea
ling hands would turn the trick. Give him the minute he needs. Goddamn old bastard!”
“Cool it, Gus. It’s what he needed to keep him alive.” Henry chuckled and straightened his tunic jacket, poked at his softly tied scarf.
Gus made a disgusted noise in his throat. “You’re so damned sure?”
“Not at all. Unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately? With the future of the Center at stake on one man’s heart beat?”
“I’ve seen that we do get the property. I regret that it has to be validated by the death of an old and valued friend. I could almost wish that he does live past the appointed minute …”
“Minute …” Molnar corrected him. “Bastard’s got a huge alarm clock rigged, to the Greenwich-mean-time minute!”
“C’mon, Gus. Let’s go to the wake and cheer the corpse on!”
“My God, Darrow, how do you do it?”
The Death Party was assembling, reluctantly, in the vault-roofed lounge of the Beechwoods mansion. George had invited a select few to be “in at the death.”
Indeed, as he said himself, he had outlasted most of his contemporaries find those three represented today were more enemies than friends. George quipped that business enemies had a reputation of being in at the death. He was dressed in his Vietnam campaign battle dress, remarking that he’d cheated Him then as a twenty-year old, so it behooved him to keep the appointment now suitably attired. Most of those present were Talents or connected with the Center. Young Daffyd op Owen was present. So were LEO Commissioner Mailer, trying hard not to look uncomfortable, Governor Lawson, several Senators, representatives from four charitable organizations (probably benefiting under the will, Henry decided when he saw the guest list), and the four physicians who’d been chosen at random from the AMA directory by George and flown into Jerhattan for the event. That was George’s way of solving any medical question. With a touch of ghoulish humor, George had decreed—not that he didn’t trust the Talents implicitly, but one had to protect oneself—that the autopsy would be performed on his corpse immediately after death had been assumed.
To Ride Pegasus Page 5
