“That’s right,” Alien said, nodding. “It would defeat everything we stand for, so to speak.” He smiled at Pete. “How does it feel to have luck?”
“You ought to know,” Pete said. “You’ve got more children than any other man in California.”
“Yes,” Alien McClain agreed, “but it’s been over eighteen years since that first time, many years indeed. You really went out and tied one on last night, didn’t you? Mary Anne said you were in a trance. Absolutely blind.”
Pete said nothing, Gazing down at the ground below, he tried to make out the direction of the car’s motion. It seemed to be heading inland, toward the hot central valley-region of California and the Sierras beyond. The utterly desolated Sierras, where no one lived.
“Tell us a little more about Doctor Philipson,” Patricia said to him. “I catch some ill-formed thoughts. You called him last night after you got home?”
“Yes.”
To her husband, Patricia said, “Pete called him up and asked him if he—Doctor Philipson—was a vug.”
Grinning, Alien McClain said, “What did he say?”
“He said that he was not a vug,” Patricia said. “And then Pete called Joe Schilling and told him the news; you know, that we’re entirely surrounded by them, and Joe Schilling suggested he call Hawthorne. Which he did. And, that’s why Hawthorne came over this morning.”
“I’ll tell you who you should have called, instead of Wade Hawthorne,” McClain said to Pete. “Your attorney, Laird Sharp.”
“Too late now,” Patricia said. “But he’ll probably run into Sharp somewhere along the line anyhow. You can talk to him then, Pete. Tell him the whole story, how we’re an island of humans swamped in a sea of non-terrestrials.” She laughed, and so did her husband.
“I think we’re scaring him,” McClain said.
“No,” Patricia said. “I’m scanning him and he’s not scared, at least not like he was last night.” To Pete she said, “That was an ordeal for you, wasn’t it, that trip home with Mary Anne? I’ll bet you never get over it as long as you live.” To her husband she said, “His two frames of reference kept switching back and forth; first he’d see Mary Anne as a girl, as an attractive eighteen-year-old Terran, and then he’d peek over, out of the comer of his eye—”
“Shut up!” Pete said savagely.
Patricia continued, “And there it would be. The amorphous mass of cytoplasm, spinning its web of illusion, to mix a metaphor. Poor Peter Garden. It sort of takes the romance out of life, doesn’t it, Pete? First you couldn’t find a bar that would serve Mary Anne and then—”
“Stop it,” her husband said. “That’s really enough; he’s gone through enough already. This rivalry of yours with Mary Anne, it’s bad for both of you. You shouldn’t be competing with your own daughter.”
“Okay,” Pat said, and was silent as she lit a cigarette.
Below them, the Sierras passed slowly. Pete watched them drop behind.
“Better call him,” Patricia said to Alien,
“Right.” Her husband clicked on the radio transmitter. “This is Dark Horse Ferry,” he said into the microphone. “Calling Sea Green Lamb. Come in, Sea Green Lamb. Come in, Dave.”
A voice from the radio said, “This is Dave Mutreaux. I’m at the Dig Inn Motel in Sparks, waiting for you.”
“Okay, Dave; we’ll be right there. Another five minutes.” Alien McClain switched his transmitter off. “All set,” he said to Patricia. “I can preview it; there won’t be any gaffs.”
“Splendid,” Patricia said.
“By the way,” Alien McClain said to Pete, “Mary Anne will be there; she came direct, in her own car. And several Other people, one of whom you know. It’ll be interesting for you, I think. They’re all Psis. Mary Anne, by the way, is not a telepath, as her mother is. Despite what she told you. That was irresponsible of her. A good deal of what she told you was hogwash. For instance, when she said—”
“Enough,” Patricia said, firmly.
McClain shrugged. “He’ll know in another half hour; I can preview that.”
“It just makes me nervous, that’s all. I’d rather wait until we’re at the Dig Inn.” To Pete, she said, “By the way, you would have been better off if you had listened to her and kissed her goodnight, as she asked you to.”
“Why?” Pete said.
“Then you would have known what she was.” She added, “Anyhow how many opportunities do you get in-your lifetime to kiss stunningly-beautiful girls?” Her voice, as before, was bitter.
“You’re eating your heart out for nothing,” Alien McClain told her. “Christ, I’m sorry to see you do it, Pat.”
Pat said, “And I’m going to do it again later on with Jessica, when she’s older.”
“I know,” McClain said, nodding. “I can preview that even without my talent.” He looked morose.
On the flat sand outside the Dig Inn Motel the car landed. With the heat-needle the McClains ushered Pete Garden out and toward the, single-story Spanish style adobe building.
A long-limbed man, well-dressed, middle-aged, strode toward them from the motel, his hand extended. “Hi, McClain. Hi, Pat.” He glanced at Pete. “Mr. Garden, the one-time owner of Berkeley, California. You know, Garden, I darn near came to Carmel to play in your group. But, sorry to say, you scared me off with your EEG machine.” He chuckled. “I’m David Mutreaux, formerly on Jerome Luck-man’s staff.” He held out his hand to Pete, but Pete did not accept it. “That’s right,” Mutreaux drawled, “you don’t understand the situation. Yet I’m a little muddled about what’s happened and what’s shortly to come. Old age, I suppose.” He led the way up the flagstone path, to the open doorway of the motel office. “Mary Anne got in a few minutes ago. She’s taking a swim in the pool.”
Hands in her pockets, Pat walked over to the swimming pool and stood watching her daughter. “If you could read my mind,” she said, to no one in particular, “you’d
see envy.” She turned away from the pool. “You know, Pete, when I first met you I lost some of that. You’re one of the most innocent people I’ve ever known. You helped me purge myself of my shadow-side, as Jung—and Joe Schilling —call it. How is Joe, by the way? I enjoyed seeing him again last night. How’d he feel being awakened at five-thirty in the morning?”
“He congratulated me,” Pete said shortly, “On my luck.”
“Oh yes,” Mutreaux said in a jolly tone of voice; he slapped Pete good-naturedly on the back. “Lots of best wishes on the pregnancy.”
Pat said, “That was an awful remark your ex-wife made that to Carol about ‘hoping it was a baby.’ And that daughter of mine, she relished it; I suppose she derives that cruel streak from me. But don’t blame Mary Anne too much for what she said last night, Pete, because most of what you experienced was not Mary’s fault; it was in your mind. Hallucinated. Joe Schilling was right in what he told you; the amphetamines were responsible. You had an authentic psychoptic occlusion.”
“Did I?” Pete said.
She met his gaze. “Yes, you did.”
“I doubt it,” Pete said.
“Let’s go inside,” Alien McClain said. He cupped his hands and shouted, “Mary Anne, get out of that pool!”
Splashing, the girl approached the rim of the pool. “Go to hell.”
McClain knelt down. “We have business; get inside! You’re still my child.”
In the air above the surface of the pool a ball of shiny water formed, whipped toward him, broke over his head, splattering him; he jumped back, cursing.
“I thought you were such a great pre-cog,” Mary Anne called, laughing. “I thought you couldn’t be taken by surprise.” She caught hold of the ladder, hoisted herself lithely from the pool. The mid-morning Nevada sun sparkled from her moist, smooth body as she ran and picked up a white terry cloth bath towel. “Hello, Pete Garden,” she said, as she ran by him. “Nice to see you again when you’re not sick to your stomach; you were actually a dark green color, like
old moldy moss.” Her white teeth glinted as again she laughed.
Alien McClain, brushing drops of water from his face and hair, walked over to Pete. “It’s now eleven o’clock,” he said. “I’d like you to call Carol and say you’re all right. However, I can look ahead and see you won’t, or at least probably won’t.”
“That’s right,” Pete said. “I won’t.”
McClain shrugged. “Well, I can’t see what she’ll do; possibly she’ll call the police, possibly not. Time will tell.” They walked toward the motel building, McClain still shaking himself dry. “An interesting element about Psionic abilities is that some tend to invalidate others. For instance, my daughter’s psycho-kinesis; as she aptly demonstrated, I can’t predict it. Pauli’s synchronicity comes in, an acausal connective event that throws someone like me entirely off.”
To Dave Mutreaux, Patricia said, “Did Sid Mosk actually confess to having killed Luckman?”