Outside the apartment, on the street below, the two McClain children played quietly; he heard their tense, muted voices. Going to the kitchen window he looked out and saw them, the boy Kelly, the girl Jessica, involved in some sort of knife game. Absorbed, they were oblivious to anything else, to him, to the vacant, auto-maintained city around them.
I wonder how their mother is, Pete said to himself. Patricia McClain, whose story I know …
Returning to the bedroom he got his clothes, carried them to the kitchen and silently dressed, not waking up Carol.
“I’m ready,” the tea kettle said, all at once.
He took it from the burner, started to make instant coffee, and then changed his mind. Let’s see if Mrs. McClain will fix breakfast for the Bindman, he said to himself.
Before the full-length mirror in the apartment’s bathroom he stared at himself, concluded that he looked,” while not stunning, at least adequate. And then, noiselessly, he set off, out of the apartment and down the stairs to the ground floor.
“Hi, kids,” he said to Kelly and Jessica.
“Hi, Mr. Bindman,” they murmured, absorbed.
“Where can I find your mother?” he asked them.
They both pointed.
Pete, taking a deep breath of sweet early-morning air, walked that way with fast strides, feeling hungry in several ways—deep and intricate ways.
His auto-auto, Max, landed at the curb before the apartment building in San Rafael, and Joe Schilling stiffly slid across the seat, opened the door manually and stepped out.
He rang the proper buzzer and an answering buzz unlocked the massive front door. Carefully locked to bar intruders who no longer exist, he said to himself as he climbed the carpeted stairs to the fourth floor.
The apartment door stood open but it was not Pete Garden waiting for him; it was a young woman with disorderly brown hair and a sleepy expression. “Who are you?” she said.
“A friend of Pete’s,” Joe Schilling said, “Are you Carol?”
She nodded, drew her robe around her self-consciously. “Pete’s not here. I just got up and he’s gone. I don’t know where.”
“Can I come in?” Schilling asked. “And wait?”
“If you like. I’m going to have breakfast.” She padded away from the door and Schilling followed; he found her once more, in the kitchen of the apartment, cooking bacon on the range.
The tea kettle announced, “Mr. Garden was here but he left.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Schilling asked it.
“He looked out the window and then left.” The Rushmore
Effect built into the tea kettle did not amount to much; the tea kettle was little help.
Schilling seated himself at the kitchen table. “How are you and Pete getting along?”
“Oh, we had a dreadful first evening,” Carol said. “We lost. Pete was so morose about it … he didn’t say one word all the way home here from Carmel, and even after we got here he hardly said anything to me, as if he thought it was my fault.” She turned sadly toward Joe Schilling. “I just don’t know how we’re going to go on; Pete seems almost—suicidal.”
“He’s always been that way,” Schilling said. “Don’t blame yourself.”
“Oh,” Carol said, nodding. “Well, thanks for letting me know.”
“Could I have a cup of coffee?”
“Certainly,” she said, putting the tea kettle back on. “Are you by any chance the friend he vidphoned last night after The Game?”
“Yes,” Schilling said. He felt embarrassed; he had come here to replace this woman at the Game table. How much did she know of Pete’s intentions? In many ways, Schilling thought, Pete’s a heel when it comes to women.
Carol said, “I know what you’re here for, Mr. Schilling.”
“Umm,” Schilling said, cautiously.
“I’m not going to step aside,” she said, as she spooned ground coffee into the mid-part of the aluminum pot. “Your history of playing isn’t a good one. I believe I can do better than you.”
“Hmm,” Schilling said, nodding.
After that he drank his coffee and she ate breakfast in awkward, strained silence, both of them waiting for Pete Garden to return.
Patricia McClain was dust-mopping the living room of her apartment; she glanced up, saw Pete, and then she smiled a slow, secretive smile. “The Bindman cometh,” she said, and continued dust-mopping.
“Hello,” Pete said, self-consciously.
“I can read your mind, Mr. Garden. You know quite a
bit about me, from having discussed me with Joseph Schilling. So you met Mary Anne, my oldest daughter. And you find her ‘stunningly attractive,’ as Schilling put it … as well as much like me.” Pat McClain glanced up at him; her dark eyes sparkled. “Don’t you think Mary Anne is a little young for you? You’re one hundred and forty or thereabouts and she’s eighteen.”
Pete said, “Since the Hynes Gland operations—”
“Never mind,” Patricia said. “I agree. And you’re also thinking that the real difference between me and my daughter is that I’m embittered and she’s still fresh and feminine. This, coming from a man who steadily contemplates, ruminates about, suicide.”
“I can’t help it,” Pete said. “Clinically, it’s obsessive thinking; it’s involuntary. I wish I could get rid of it. Doctor Macy told me that decades ago. I’ve taken every pill there is … it goes away for a time and then returns.” He entered the McClain apartment. “Had breakfast?”
“Yes,” Patricia said. “And you can’t eat here; it isn’t proper and I don’t care to fix it for you. I’ll tell you truthfully, Mr. Garden; I don’t wish to get involved with you emotionally. In fact the idea of it repels me.”
“Why?” he said, as evenly as possible.
“Because I don’t like you.”
“And why’s that?” he said, not retreating either physically or psychologically.
“Because you’re able to play The Game and I’m not,” Patricia said. “And because you have a wife, a new one, and yet you’re here, not there. I don’t like your treatment of her.”
“Being a telepath is quite a help,” Pete said, “when it comes to making evaluations of other people’s vices and weaknesses.”
“It is.”
“Can I help it,” Pete said, “if I’m attracted to you and not to Carol?”
“You can’t help what you feel, but you could avoid doing what you’re doing; I’m perfectly aware of your reason for being here, Mr. Garden. But don’t forget I’m married, too. And I take my marriage seriously, which you do not. But
of course you don’t; you have a new wife every few weeks or so. Every time there’s a severe set-back at The Game.” Her disgust was manifest; her lips were tightly compressed and her black eyes flashed.
He wondered what she had been like before discovery of her Psionic talent had barred her from The Game.
“Much like I am now,” Patricia said.
“I doubt that,” he said. He thought about her daughter. I wonder if she’ll be this way in time, he speculated. I suppose it depends on whether she has her mother’s telepathic talent or not, and if so—
“Mary Anne doesn’t have it,” Patricia said. “None of the children do; we’ve looked into it already.”
Then she won’t wind up like you have, he thought.
“Perhaps not,” Patricia said, soberly. All at once she said, “I won’t let you stay here, Mr. Garden, but you can drive me into San Francisco if you wish. I have shopping to do there. And we can stop at a restaurant and have breakfast, if you care to.”
He started to agree and then he remembered Joe Schilling. “I can’t. Because of business.”
“Strategy talks about The Game.”
“Yes.” Obviously, he couldn’t deny it.
“You put that first, before anything else. Even with your so-called ‘deep feelings’ toward me.”
“I asked Joe Schilling to come here. I have to be around to greet him.” That seemed self-evident to him. Apparently it did not seem so to her, however, but there was nothing he could do about that. Her cynicism was too deeply embedded for him to affect it in any way.
“Don’t judge me,” Patricia McClain said. “You may be right, but—” She moved away from him, holding her hand up to her forehead, as if physically suffering. “I still can’t stand it, Mr. Garden.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll leave, Pat.”
“I tell you what,” she said. “I’ll meet you this afternoon at one-thirty, in downtown San Francisco. At Market and Third. We can have lunch together. Do you think you can slip away from your wife and your Game-playing friend for that?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Then it’s agreed,” Patricia said. And she went on dust-mopping.
Pete said, “Tell me why you changed your mind about seeing me. What did you pick up in my mind? It must have been fairly important.”
“I’d rather not say,” Patricia answered.
“Please.”
“The telepathic faculty has one basic drawback. You may not know this. It tends to pick up too much; it’s too sensitive to marginal or merely latent thoughts in people, what the old psychologists called the ‘unconscious mind.’ There’s a relationship between the telepathic faculty and paranoia; the latter is the involuntary reception of other people’s suppressed hostile and aggressive thoughts.”