by Jeff Sutton
Farrand was mildly surprised the following day when Sperry Rand closed up three and a quarter points. It was, to say the least, a quite unexpected advance. He wasn't surprised that Androki called him that evening, again on his private line.
"I suppose you noted Sperry Rand?" Androki began.
"How many people did you tip with differing predictions?" Farrand demanded. He wished he could see the other's discomfiture.
"None," Androki answered succinctly. "I'm in a serious business, Mr. Farrand. What is the mathematical probability of my giving a right prediction to the same man twice in a row?"
Farrand considered it. The answer was a multiplicative function involving several variables. "Small," he admitted grudgingly.
"Try General Motors," Androki advised. "It's taking a* big leap at two and seven-eighths tomorrow." Abruptly the phone clicked in Farrand's ear.
General Motors up two and seven-eighths on the present market? Farrand laughed. John Androki, whoever he was, wasn't following the news; not when he'd make that kind of prediction with a big automobile strike on the horizon. For a tout, he was poorly informed.
The following day General Motors closed up two and seven-eighths. Winthrop Farrand contemplated that fact thoughtfully. John Androki could have been gambling on a long shot, of course, but that was an extremely long shot. Could he be part of a stock manipulation scheme? Not with stocks like that. Farrand knew all about juggling stock prices; Sperry Rand and General Motors simply didn't qualify for that sort of shenanigans.
He made a quick call to the head of a nation-wide investigation agency having, among other things, excellent access to important government records. While the name alone wasn't much to go on, the agency head was quite certain that he could quickly uncover Farrand's caller; if not, they'd work on the John Androkis one by one until they did find him. Not that Androki actually would be difficult to find, Farrand reflected. The man was begging for a personal audience.
Despite his skepticism, Farrand was quite polite when Androki phoned that evening.
"I know you believe it was a long shot," Androki said quietly. "Try Xerox tomorrow for a gain of three and five-eighths." The phone clicked in Farrand's ear.
Farrand was thoroughly confounded when, next day, Xerox closed ahead at that precise amount. While the probability of a man hitting it right three times in a row on three different stocks was not impossible, it was highly improbable, especially in view of the. big gains predicted. On Farrand's scale, the chance approximated zero. To him, that indicated one thing: John Androki, whoever he was, had a pipeline that would shake the SEC. Still, with that kind of pipeline, why was Androki fooling around with him? He could be making millions. That part didn't make sense. The thought disturbed him.
A number of discreet telephone calls to financiers and others in the brokerage business revealed that none had ever heard of John Androki. Neither was he listed in the new Standard & Poor's directory, nor in Men of American Business. Farrand had the distinct impression that John Androki was not apt to be listed anywhere.
Was he being gulled? Farrand smiled sourly. Perhaps Androki believed so, but he would soon learn better. No man could gull Winthrop Farrand; he had forty million dollars to prove that. He'd learn the man's game quickly enough. Perhaps he could turn it to profit.
That idea pleased him. John Android needed him; he didn't need John Androki. That placed him squarely in the driver's seat. Any dealings he might have with Androki would be at his convenience, his terms; John Androki would have to buy them.
When John Androki called that evening, Farrand snapped, "See me in my office next Friday afternoon at four o'clock sharp."
"A week?" Androki sounded surprised.
"I'll be out of town until then." Holding Androki off for a week gave him a malevolent pleasure; it would be good to make the fellow wait. It would also give the agency time to return a complete report on him.
"Next Friday at four then," Androki acknowledged.
"You're quite certain of yourself, aren't you?' Farrand snapped.
"Shouldn't I be?"
Farrand angrily slammed the instrument into its cradle.
Winthrop Farrand was vaguely perturbed. His quick but thorough check of John Androki had revealed a number of men by that name, all of whom could be excluded as his caller. But, of the John Androki he sought, there was no discoverable record. The agency, still digging, had suggested that the name was probably false.
Androki? The name did sound suspiciously phony. Yet if a man wanted to assume a false name, why one like Androki? Such a name was easy to check. Or had he selected it because it was unusual? Well, he had to wait and see.
John Androki appeared at Winthrop Farrand's office promptly at four o'clock. As the secretary showed him in, Farrand's first impression was far from favorable. Quite tall and slender, John Androki had a sallow, narrow face dominated by an overly large nose. His eyes, small, were quite dark. His clothes were on the shabby side, as were his shoes. To Farrand, shoes were a sure indicator of the state of a man's prosperity. His own were of hand-tooled English leather. The nibbling suspicions he'd had that Androki might have influential connections were promptly erased.
He gestured toward a chair and brusquely said, "You have five minutes, Mr. Androki."
"Fair enough." Androki sat down and eyed him musingly. "I can name you a stock that will jump two and five-eighths points as of the close of the market Monday."
"What's your take?" Farrand demanded roughly.
"You buy one thousand shares in my name… the stock in my care."
"Do I look crazy?" Farrand exclaimed. "You could sell the shares immediately. Regardless of what the stock might do, you'd come out with a fortune."
"Scarcely a fortune," Androki countered. "It's not that expensive a stock."
"But enough to make it worth your while."
"I see you're still skeptical, Mr. Farrand."
"Quite skeptical," he acknowledged. "I haven't made my money playing the fool."
"Nor do I take you for one," Androki replied in a quiet voice.
"If you have that kind of pipeline, why are you fooling around with peanuts? I don't know what the catch is but I'm not used to being conned."
"I need money to get started," Androki explained. "As undoubtedly you have noted, I'm not exactly prosperous at the moment."
"I have noted that," Farrand answered stiffly. "Frankly, I'm not impressed with what I do see."
"Does that take in the predictions I have made, Mr. Farrand?"
"That puzzles me," he admitted.
"I can understand your skepticism," Androki admitted. "Suppose I suggest a way that might alleviate your suspicions?"
"I'm listening," he answered gruffly.
Androki leaned forward, his head cocked. "I'll name you the stock. When—and I say when—it goes up the exact amount of my prediction at the close of the board Monday, you give me twenty-five thousand dollars cash."
"You're coming down a bit, aren't you?"
"Frankly, yes. A thousand shares would come to considerably more than that. But when you discover I'm right, you'll be happy to pay another twenty-five thousand for a second stock, another for a third, and so on," Androki said.
His eyes suddenly were unsmiling.
"For how long?"
"Until I have enough to make my first million overnight in the market."
"You're shooting high, aren't you?"
"Do you like pikers, Mr. Farrand?"
"Frankly, no."
"Then you can understand the high reach."
"High?" Farrand stared at him. "With a million as a starter and that kind of knowledge, you could own the world in short time."
Androki smiled faintly. "And with my tips, how wealthy might you be?"
Farrand asked edgily, "What kind of pipeline is it? What kind of organization do you have?"
"No organization, Mr. Farrand." Androki's eyes grew hard and distant. "I'm a loner."
For the space of a
long minute Farrand stared at him. John Androki, shabby clothes and all, appeared a man quite certain of himself. The dark eyes, small and set quite close against the narrow bridge of the nose, returned his gaze unblinkingly; they were eyes that told nothing. Finally he asked, "Just who are you, Mr. Androki?"
"Does that matter?"
"I like to know with whom I'm doing business."
"I'm a salesman."
Farrand eyed the shabby clothes again. "You don't appear to have made many sales lately."
"I'm just getting started; I told you that."
"Then this ability to predict is new, is that it?"
Androki eyed him coldly. "Are you interested, Mr. Farrand? If not, I'll be on my way."
Farrand eyed him searchingly. "What's the name of the stock?" he asked finally.
"National Fuel."
"Why would that go up?"
Androki shrugged. "I have no idea, Mr. Farrand."
"Two and five-eighths points, you said?"
"At the close of the board Monday, Mr. Farrand."
"There will be no written agreement."
"Of course not." Androki smiled disarmingly. "Cash is king."
III
Bertram Kane descended the stairs from the second floor computer and mathematics laboratory of Los Angeles University, his mind filled with the properties of multidimensional space.
Did the mathematics of the abstract have analogous reality? That was the big question. David Cantrup of Chicago believed that space was contorted and twisted in such a way that different spaces overlapped, and that the existence of such multidimensional space could be proved mathematically. The tool was the new Bornji transformations.
Kane believed Cantrup to be right. So did Freyhoff of Germany, Vosin of Russia, Bernardi of Italy, Tanaki of Japan; to the world's leading topological mathematicians, space was an unfolding mystery. The universe was a magic box which man had not yet opened.
Kane projected the belief a step further. If such a contorted space was provable, then it appeared logical that it had a physical analogy; i.e., the universe was far more than the three dimensions perceived by man. That he believed, and hoped to prove.
Entering the faculty lounge, he drew a cup of coffee and went over to join his friend, Gordon Maxon. A brilliant, often unorthodox professor of psychology, Maxon was noted for his investigations of the psychic phenomena: telepathy, psychokinesis, clairvoyance, prophecy and other subjects that one sour colleague had described as "the hokum sciences."
Maxon pushed aside the morning paper and glanced up at him. Wispy, fiftyish and graying, his faded blue eyes twinkled merrily. "Sit down, Bert. Join the human race."
Kane smiled as he took a seat across from him. "What is reality?"
"Reality is that this coffee stinks."
"That's low-level reality."
"The realm of most human endeavor," Maxon replied airily.
"We can't all penetrate the higher dimensions of the mind, Gordie."
"Are you referring to your work or to my own humble efforts?" Maxon's eyes were mocking.
"The mind is your province."
"Empty vistas, Bert."
Kane laughed. He liked Maxon immensely. Far from the quack some of his lesser colleagues believed him to be, Kane knew him to be deadly serious about his work. To Maxon, the unpenetrated worlds of the mind were the great glories that still awaited man.
Maxon raised his eyes thoughtfully. "What do you think of this bird Androki?"
"Androki?" Kane ran the name through his mind. "The financier?"
"Merely one of the wealthiest men in the world," Maxon retorted blandly. "Don't you ever read anything but the comics?"
"Not usually. What's he in, oil?"
"Oil, electronics, machine tools, farm equipment—you name it and he's in it, right up to his neck. And everything he touches he controls."
"Why the sudden interest?"
"Not sudden. I've been following his activities for quite a few months."
"So?"
"He came from nowhere in less than a year, Bert."
Kane smiled. "This is the land of opportunity; I've heard you say that a dozen times."
"A billionaire in less than a year?" Maxon regarded him steadily.
"What's on your mind?"
"I believe he's the man I've been looking for," Maxon replied. "I believe he's psychic. If what they say is true, every stock he touches shoots up, and somehow he always manages to sell before it drops again."
"Perhaps he's just a smart operator."
Maxon shook his head. "They don't come that smart. According to the financial writers, he's an absolute wizard. He has to handle his transactions through anonymous agents because everything he expresses a personal interest in becomes a bandwagon for every speculator in the nation. It's more than a magic touch."
"Are you trying to say he's clairvoyant?"
"It's more than that," Maxon insisted. "Clairvoyancy is defined as the ability to perceive things beyond the range of normal perception; but this bird looks at tomorrow. He actually does. He sees things that haven't yet happened. I believe he's a downthrough."
"I'd still hew to the belief that it's financial acumen," Kane answered wryly. "It seems more logical."
"I think in terms of probability," Maxon countered. "When I see a man operating at umpteen sigmas beyond the mean —although, I'll have to admit, this is the first time I've encountered the phenomenon to that extent—I know it isn't chance. It's certainty, or at least the certainty of half a dozen or so sigmas."
"That's a tantamount to certainty," Kane agreed, "but I have to rub my jaw a bit at the downthrough explanation."
"Because tomorrow is still tomorrow, is that what you're saying?" Maxon's eyes glowed. "I thought your special brand of topology wrinkled time as well as space?"
"I haven't attempted to apply it specifically to time," he rebutted, "but the expression that 'time is the fourth dimension' has no basis in fact. Time in that sense is merely used as an artifact to aid in the measurement of known space."
"Couldn't time have its own dimensions?"
"Past, present and future, certainly."
"I'm referring strictly to what we call the present."
"I couldn't claim objectivity if I denied it," Kane admitted, "but have you looked for an easier explanation? Perhaps he's manipulating the market."
"On that scale? Impossible!"
"Nothing is impossible," Kane murmured.
"I've been gathering every clipping I can find on that bird, Bert. In case you didn't know, he's of prime interest to the SEC and several other interested government agencies. Senator Blaire's all set to haul him in for a congressional shakedown. But the point is, no one can prove connivance. I'm positive it can be ruled out."
"So you have a downthrough. You should be happy, Gordie."
"Do I detect a bit of sarcasm?"
"Call it skepticism. It sits lighter."
"I'm deadly serious, Bert. I believe he's a downthrough. I've considered every other possible explanation and have ruled them all out. He sees tomorrow. Fantastic, yes, but fantastic only in the light of what we know." Maxon eyed him soberly. "The hell of it is, what can I do about it?"
"Have you ever thought of asking him?"
Maxon grinned. "I can see a poor underpaid prof walking up to a billionaire and asking, 'Would you tell me your trade secrets?* Or asking if he were a downthrough. Can you imagine the unholy panic it would cause if it were true and got out? He could own the world in a dozen years."
"A billion in his first year?" Kane mused. "The gain would be geometrical. Four or five years would be closer to it."
"All this is not the reason I mentioned the subject," Maxon said.
"Oh?" Kane watched him.
"He appears to be extremely knowledgeable in your field."
"Multidimensional space?" He was startled. "You're kidding."
"Be it as it may, Eikron was talking with Cantrup in Chicago last week. Androki had b
een there for some wing-ding or other—he had given the school five million bucks— and Cantrup had quite a talk with him. Androki, for some reason, is drawn to mathematicians and physicists—the theoretical types. Cantrup was quite startled, I must say." Maxon held Kane's gaze. "He told Eikron that Androki's thinking in the field is extremely advanced."
"Verbally, perhaps."
"Not so." Maxon shook his head. "Cantrup said he spoke knowledgeably of the Bornji transformations. He told Eikron they had quite a discussion on the mathematical. philosophy involved. He gave Eikron the impression that Androki was extremely well-informed on the subject, at a technical as well as verbal level."
"If Cantrup said that, then it's true." Kane sensed a stirring of wonder. "It's difficult to conceive."
"Unless he was reading Cantrup's mind, feeding him back his own ideas," Maxon observed dryly.
"Telepathy?"
"I've been toying with the idea," the psychologist admitted. "Can we draw a line between telepathy and prophecy? I don't know. It's quite possible that all psychic powers stem from a single sense, with the several psi capabilities developed differentially. Who is to say that the psycho-kinetic can't also be clairvoyant, though perhaps to a far lesser degree, or that the telepath doesn't contain the seeds of the downthrough?"
"The latter two are not in the same time continuum," Kane stated in a firm voice. "You're introducing another variable."
"Am I? I'm not so certain."
"Aside from that, if Androki weren't knowledgeable in the field, I very much doubt that he could read Cantrup's mind and draw anything meaningful from it."
"Are you birds that twisted?"
Kane smiled. "What could a layman get from glancing at a page of high-level math? That's what he'd be seeing in Cantrup's mind—not sentences but single words linking together complex formulas and equations. It would be like me looking at a page in Sanskrit."
"So what is the answer?" Maxon demanded.
"I can't say."
"Telepathy exists," Maxon declared. "I'm convinced of that. It has been proved experimentally any number of times. I'm convinced that other psychic states also exist, but I can't say that telepathy is related to prophecy; I have no data on that score."
