By then Hazard had made amazing progress. He enjoyed being number one. No one else was even a close second. An analysis of all tests and exercises showed, however, that he was a much better sender than receiver. As a matter of fact he was comparatively poor at reception. It would have been ideal had he been equally proficient at both sending and receiving, and perhaps the latter could be developed over the long run. But for efficiency, Kersh decided to place total emphasis on expanding Hazard’s strength as a sender.
That left Kersh looking for a receiver of equivalent ability. He found and tested several candidates, a few of whom showed potential. But they all lacked the required consistency. He even tested Julie, whose talents didn’t approach her enthusiasm for the subject. It was a crucial problem for Kersh. To take his research to a higher level it was imperative that he have a sender-receiver team.
When he tested Keven he didn’t have any high hopes. Mostly he did it only to accommodate her. But when he tallied up her scores and saw how consistently she hit high above the probability-of-chance level, he realized that it was Keven who was accommodating him. She was a natural. Kersh wondered, unscientifically, if such inclinations had been passed down by her superstitious Irish ancestors.
Did she mind enlisting in the DIA?
She didn’t know what it was.
Kersh explained.
She told him she hated uniforms. As long as she didn’t have to wear a uniform, okay. What she didn’t tell him was that it saved her from having to look for another awful, steady job.
So Kersh now had his telepathy team. And a new problem: To make the team work and hold it together.
Much of his success or failure with that problem would be clear at the end of this present demonstration for the DIA men, Richland and Whitley. Ignoring Richland, Kersh again pressed the square button on the laboratory console, signaling to Lowery out on the ketch.
The exercise continued.
Lowery activated the box containing the images. The spindle rotated, moved up another card at random. Hazard took it and began peeling off its adhesive covering.
At that moment Keven felt a little itch in the center of her back. Unreachable. It was most distracting, could ruin everything, she thought. She tried willing it away and then resorted to flexing and rubbing against the cushion behind her. But the itch was in that difficult-to-reach concave spot right between her shoulder blades. Damn! She was about to call in to Kersh to have him come give her a scratch when luckily the itch subsided on its own.
Reminded by this how delicate the line was between the success and failure of what was expected of her, she quickly brought her attention to the soft, black, felt-covered wall before her. She thought about what she was thinking and remembered something she’d once heard Kersh say—that the most amazing thing about the human brain was its ability to reflect on itself, and that was why man felt special enough to have what he called a soul. But it also brought on a lot of suffering, from a punishing conscience to neurosis to total insanity.
Keven tried to feel herself thinking and it seemed she could, although it was a neutral, nondescript, continuous sensation.
Clear your mind, she told herself, and again used the soft black confronting her to try to direct her mind into believing it was receptive.
Suddenly a profusion of images came to her, one after another, just bits and pieces not apparently related, as though her mind’s eye were sighting through a rapidly rotating kaleidoscope. She wasn’t aware that she was no longer aware of the soft black wall. Nor was she aware that those bits and pieces were increasing steadily in number, that she was presenting them to herself more and more rapidly, too rapidly for premeditation. It was actually a pleasant sort of confusion; so much for her mind’s eye to see. Delightful! More and more. There didn’t seem to be any limit, and then …
Change.
It was as though a vertical seam inside her abruptly parted and folded neatly back to reveal an emptiness inside. A void. Not black, but a white, substantial nothingness, clean and still as new milk.
A dormant region.
There on the white, as though projected, all of it, all at once, isolated in unmistakable contrast, was a picture of words. It remained only long enough to register before disappearing. Leaving a void as undisturbed as before. Then, as though reversing experience, a layer of impressions unfolded to envelop and join, replacing the nothing with enjoyable, entertaining, rapid-fire confusion.
Gradually that diminished.
To the point where Keven again thought about what she was thinking and again realized her eyes were open on the soft, black, felt-covered wall.
After a moment she extended her right hand to the electronic keyboard. She had to resist her present thoughts, keep them from distracting her. It was difficult. Her mind seemed to resent her concentration. It protested by offering various impressions, some divertingly erotic.
She nearly giggled, wasn’t sure that she hadn’t.
Her first finger pecked at the keyboard.
On the corresponding monitor in the laboratory appeared:
BIG BIRD DETAIL 715 SECTION 2 VERIFIED LRAM
Keven had no idea what that meant, didn’t know BIG BIRD was the SR-71, the Air Force’s new 2,000-mph, high-altitude surveillance plane, DETAIL 715 the code number of certain photographs taken by that plane during a particular flight, SECTION 2 an area in China one hundred fifty miles north of Peking, and VERIFIED LRBM that the plane’s cameras had caught a long-range ballistic missile.
Out on the Sound aboard the ketch, Lowery was about to record the card that Hazard had just handed over. He read the message that was printed on it and shook his head. The box had selected a toughie, he thought, and doubted they’d scored a hit on that one. On his exercise report sheet he noted the exact times of transmission and then in the allotted space he wrote:
BIG BIRD DETAIL 715 SECTION 2 VERIFIED LRBM
The exercise called for a run of eight images. The fifth image chosen at random was one designed to test incidental accuracy. A drawing of an oddly spotted, one-eared, three-legged dog.
When Hazard finished sending that one they were through for the day. Also, Whitley was belly down on the deck, head over the side, retching up Old Granddad and sandwiches. To multiply the displeasure, he was doing it against the wind.
Hazard, feeling no pity, observed Whitley’s anguish for a while and then went below to get out of range.
Less than an hour later they were all gathered again in Kersh’s office to review the results. Lowery’s record of images sent by Hazard was compared with what the computers had registered via Keven. Out of the run of five they’d scored three perfect hits, a partial hit and an apparent miss.
Kersh congratulated his team.
Keven beamed like a superstar. At that moment she was so high on herself that Hazard couldn’t resist bringing her down. He blamed her for the miss.
“It wasn’t my fault,” she said, above reproach.
“Had to be.”
“You didn’t send it strong enough.”
“Hell I didn’t. Anybody could have gotten that one.”
“Not true.”
“You choked on it.”
Actually the missed image was graphically the simplest of all they’d attempted that day. An inverted arrow without a tail. What Keven had gotten was a shape that resembled the flame of a candle.
“That’s exactly what came to me,” she said.
A scoff from Hazard.
“No doubt you had something else on your mind.”
He thought she meant her. “Like what?”
“Yourself. You hardly ever get past that.”
Hazard had intended only a little chaffing, harmless enough, but it was getting out of proportion.
“Admit it was your fault,” she said.
He almost did just to get it over with, but stayed on top by nonchalantly pouring himself a cup of leftover coffee. It was cold and bitter, nevertheless he gulped it down and to the empty cup said,
“Slows down the sex drive.” Her words that morning.
Her Irish went up a few more degrees. “That’s for sure,” she promised, and left the room, walking as though she were going a long way.
Kersh had an idea about what possibly had caused the miss. Hazard had sent the inverted arrow; Keven had received it. But at the moment it came to her, Keven’s unconscious had interfered, changed the impression to another it considered more acceptable. This wasn’t the first time her unconscious had resorted to such guile. But why this time? Kersh felt there was a connection between the two images. Vertical arrow could suggest penetration, aggression. Keven’s unconscious had perhaps associated it with masculine dominance and defiantly opposed it, vetoed it, replaced it with an image that was more feminine. Kersh would have suggested all this to Keven if Richland and Whitley hadn’t been there.
Richland was half drunk and Whitley was only half recovered. Richland kept saying, “Impressive, very impressive.” And Whitley mumbled on about what a hell of a good sailor he’d always been, claiming something he’d eaten hadn’t agreed with him.
They were anxious to leave. Kersh accompanied them out to their car. Handshakes and good-byes.
From behind the steering wheel Richland told Kersh, “Goddamn impressive.” The motor was already running but he turned the ignition key again to cause a painful, grinding screech.
The Chrysler pulled away. Whitley lighted up a Havana and took two puffs before his stomach made him throw it out. “What a day,” he moaned. “You didn’t fall for all that crap, did you?”
“Hell no.”
“It was rigged; they had it rigged.”
“Yeah,” Richland said.
“Some kind of hook-up from that guy what’s his name.”
“Hubbard.”
“From him to the girl. A radio or something.”
“That’s what I figure.”
“Bunch of real phonies.”
A questioning glance from Richland.
Whitley got it. “Don’t worry your ass, Fred. As far as I’m concerned, the project’s full-ahead. I’d even say it’s priority.” Besides, it’s only a spit in the bucket, he assured himself.
“You’re one decent guy, Whit.”
Whitley nodded. “Reminds me, at the last convention down in Miami I saw this guy in a nightclub. He was blindfolded and could tell you everything you had in your pockets. Now, he was something. He could guess the number on your social security card, driver’s license, everything. No shit. Damndest thing I ever saw.”
5
USUALLY KEVEN didn’t stay angry long.
Hazard thought she’d get over it, surely by bedtime.
But night came and she kept to herself in one of the upper bedrooms of the main house. Her things hadn’t been moved back down to the beach house, which Hazard didn’t find encouraging. He told himself it didn’t matter and read some Camus, Notebooks 1942–1951. For a while he forced himself to read word for word, line for line, like everyone else, but he soon reverted to taking it in an entire page at a glance.
Around eleven he got up and went down to the beach, from where he could see Keven’s lighted window. He imagined her up there munching on sunflower seeds and dried apricots, probably hating her stubbornness, and trying to think of a face-saving way out of it. He thought about giving in, going up to get her, but decided if he did that this time she’d expect it the next. He returned to Camus and finished him.
A half hour later he heard the radio tell him he’d made his bookie five hundred richer because Gibson had blanked the Mets. Feeling like a loser, Hazard went out to try to shake it off and have another look at Keven’s window. The light was out. He doubted she was sleeping but the chance that she might be riled him. He started up the slope to the main house, still ambivalent about giving her the impression he needed her that much. Hell, he didn’t need anyone. He continued on up.
When he approached the house he saw her light come on. That could mean she’d had enough of being alone. She’d probably be heading for the beach house any minute now. What if he wasn’t there? He imagined her panic, pictured her good, loving relief when, timing it perfectly, he finally showed up.
With that rewarding possibility in mind he entered the main house, went into Kersh’s office. He remembered that he hadn’t reached Carl. He dialed Carl’s number direct and got the busy signal. Maybe he’d misdialed. Another try with more care. Same thing, busy. He dialed Operator to have her try and then was put through to another operator who somehow determined the number was out of service.
Irritated, Hazard asked, “What’s that mean, he didn’t pay his bill?”
“I didn’t say the number is no longer in service. I said it was out of service.” The operator was insolent-polite, typical. “There is a difference,” she said.
“Up your public booth,” Hazard told her before she could click off.
He waited five minutes more before going out. Keven’s room was dark again. He went down to the beach house. He’d be quiet, peek in on her waiting for him.
She wasn’t there.
Hazard undressed and went to bed. Just before turning off the light he noticed it was only twenty after twelve. He lay there in the dark thinking he shouldn’t have drunk that cup of coffee seven hours back. It kept him awake until nearly four.
Next thing he knew it was eight and he was wide awake. No use trying for more. He got up and went bare out to the beach. No one but him up that early. It was an overcast day, which made the water seem colder. He swam some, feeling strong because he was pissed at everything. After the swim he didn’t shower, didn’t shave, just dried and dressed fast and went up to the Packard, which started on the first try.
Hardly any traffic. He made it to Carl’s apartment building in an hour. He parked in the yellow, got Carl’s attaché case out of the trunk and went in. He and Carl would have breakfast somewhere and talk. A big unhealthy ham and eggs, lots of toast and plenty of coffee breakfast. To hell with Granola.
The doorman told him.
The police had been there earlier.
Hurrying wasn’t going to help, but Hazard floored the Packard and went through lights all the way down to 30th Street and First Avenue.
Into the place.
Out of reality.
Down a municipal green corridor to where he had to prove who he was to a desk cop. The desk cop told him not to ask because he couldn’t answer.
Told to wait.
A cop in white like a doctor. A badge numbered 918 pinned on him. “Hazard?”
“Yes.”
“This way.”
A stairway down and around. Long-lasting metal on the edge of every step. A smell like the air was sprayed with bug killer. Cop 918 put on blue rubber gloves and unlocked a thick solid door that had “DO NOT ENTER” on it. Into a long room, cool, concrete floor painted white and slightly slanted, punctuated with a drain.
Everything clean.
A wall of stainless steel, three-by-two hinged compartments.
Second from the bottom, sixth from the left. Opened by Cop 918 and pulled out, sliding easy like an official file. But seven feet of it.
Cop 918 lifted the sheet and folded it down part way for Hazard to see another Hazard.
It’s not you. It doesn’t look enough like you.
“Being in the water does that,” Cop 918 said.
A long look at the face of Carl, seeing all the times not taken, all the care not shown, things unsaid. Oh brother, never now.
Everything too late.
Cop 918 asked, “Do you identify him?”
“Yes.”
Cop 918 started to cover with the sheet but was stopped by Hazard. “I want to see all of him.”
The sheet off then to reveal the entire position of death. Carl’s hands, with swollen fingers flexed unevenly, as though to grab anything. A tag tied onto the right big toe.
“Okay?” Cop 918 asked.
“No,” Hazard said, and walked out.
All Haz
ard could learn from a sergeant cop was that Carl had been gaffed out of the river just after dawn that morning. Near the 96th Street yacht basin. A pretty good guess based on the condition of the body was that death had occurred sometime Friday night. The medical examiner would take a look tomorrow, not on Sunday. The sergeant’s own opinion, and he’d seen a lot of them, was suicide. Before leaving, Hazard signed a city form confirming positive identification and assuming responsibility for the body. I’m responsible for you now, Carl.
Outside, he got a lot of change and found a pay phone. After the clanging of quarters came his father’s voice. Hazard told him straight out and shared the silence that followed.
His father said, “Send him home.”
“I’ll bring him.”
Hazard had thought there were others he should call but now he realized there was no one else but Catherine. Keven and Kersh; he’d call them later. Catherine was only thirty blocks away.
He seemed out of place at the Pierre. His unshaved face was skeptically noted by the desk clerk when he asked for Mrs. Catherine Hazard.
No one was registered by that name.
“How about Miss Leigh-Minter?”
She was there. Under her socially advantageous hyphenated maiden name.
Hazard resented that. All the way up in the elevator to the thirty-fifth floor.
35-A was a two bedroom suite overlooking the park for two hundred a day. A DO NOT DISTURB card was hung on the knob. Hazard knocked before noticing a bell button inset in the door frame. He rang and the door was opened by a young man.
“Yes?” the young man said. He had straight dark hair to his shoulders, was short and bony thin—an adolescent impression contradicted only by eyes on their way to being old too soon. Obviously he valued his boyish build, emphasized it by wearing a black ciré shirt and matching flared trousers cut like a shiny second skin. A tiny platinum spoon hung from a chain around his neck.
Hazard Page 8
