His patient got one out of the five.
“We’ll leave the deck for a moment.” Malparto brought out the dice-rolling cage and set it into motion. “Observe these dice. They fall in a random pattern. I want you to concentrate on a particular showing: seven, or five, anything that can come up.”
His patient concentrated on the dice for fifteen minutes. At the end of that time Malparto compared the showing with the statistical tables. No significant change could be observed.
“Back to the cards,” Malparto said, gathering up the deck. “We’ll give you a test for precognition. In this test I’ll ask you what card I’m about to select.” He laid the deck down and waited.
“Circle,” Mr. Coates said listlessly.
Malparto handed his sister the check-sheet, and he kept the precog test going for almost an hour. At the end of that time his patient was surly and exhausted, and the results were inconclusive.
“The cards don’t lie,” Gretchen quoted, handing back the sheet.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean go on to the next test.”
“Mr. Coates,” Malparto said, “do you feel able to continue?”
His patient blearily raised his head. “Is this getting us anywhere?”
“I think it is. It’s clear that you don’t possess any of the usual extra-sensory talents. It’s my hunch that you’re a Psi-plus. Your talent is of a less common nature.”
“EEP,” Gretchen said tartly. “Extra extra-sensory perception.”
“The first of this series,” Malparto said, ignoring her, “will involve the projection of your will on another human.” He unfolded his blackboard and chalk stick. “As I stand here, you concentrate on forcing me to write certain numbers. It should be your will superimposed over mine.”
Time passed. Finally, feeling a few vague tendrils of psychic will, Malparto wrote: 3-6-9.
“Wrong,” Mr. Coates mumured. “I was thinking 7,842.”
“Now,” Malparto said, setting out a small gray stone, “I want you to duplicate this inorganic matter. Try to summon a replica immediately tangent to it.”
That test was a failure, too. Disappointed, Malparto put the stone away.
“Now levitation. Mr. Coates, I want you to close your eyes and attempt—psychically—to lift yourself from the floor.”
Mr. Coates attempted, without result.
“Next,” Malparto said, “I want you to place your open palm against the wall behind you. Push, and at the same time, concentrate on passing your hand between the molecules of the wall.”
The hand failed to pass between the molecules.
“This time,” Malparto said gamely, “we’ll attempt to measusure [sic] your ability to communicate with lower life forms.” A lizard, in a box, was brought out. “Stand with your head near the lid. See if you can tune into the lizard’s mental pattern.”
There was no result.
“Maybe the lizard has no mental pattern,” Mr. Coates said.
“Nonsense.” Malparto’s annoyance was growing wildly. He brought forth a hair resting in a dish of water. “See if you can animate the hair. Try to transform it into a worm.”
Mr. Coates failed.
“Were you really trying?” Gretchen asked.
Mr. Coates smiled. “Very hard.”
“I should think that would be easy enough,” she said. “There’s not much difference between a hair and a worm On a cloudy day—”
“Now,” Malparto broke in, “we’ll test your ability to heal.” He had noticed the scratch on Allen’s wrist. “Direct your psychic powers toward that damaged tissue. Try to restore it to health.”
The scratch remained.
“Too bad,” Gretchen said. “That would be a useful one.”
Malparto, overcome by abandon, brought out a water wand and asked his patient to divine. A bowl of water was skillfully hidden, and Mr. Coates lumbered about the office. The wand did not dip.
“Bad wood,” Gretchen said.
Depressed, Malparto examined the list of remaining tests
Ability to contact spirits of the dead
Capacity to transmute lead into gold
Ability to assume alternate forms
Ability to create rain of vermin and/or filth
Power to kill or damage at a distance
“I have a feeling,” he said finally, “that due to fatigue you’re growing subconsciously uncooperative. Therefore it’s my decision that we defer the balance of the tests to some other time.”
Gretchen asked Mr. Coates: “Can you kindle fire? Can you slay seven with one blow? Can your father lick my father?”
“I can steal,” the patient said.
“That’s not much. Anything else?”
He reflected. “Afraid that’s all.” Getting to his feet he said to Malparto: “I assume the Monday appointment is void.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Well,” he said, “there’s no point sticking around here.” He reached for the doorknob. “We haven’t got anywhere.”
“And you won’t be coming back?”
At the door he paused. “Probably not,” he decided. At the moment all he wanted to do was go home. “If I change my mind I’ll call you.” He started to pull the door shut.
That was when all the lights went out around him.
CHAPTER 13
Rumble rumble.
The bus lifted from the stop and continued across roof tops. Houses sparkled beneath, in planned patterns, separated by lawns. A swimming pool lay like a blue eye. But, he noticed, the pool far below was not perfectly round. At one end the tiles formed a patio. He saw tables, beach umbrellas. Tiny shapes were people reclining at leisure.
“Four,” the bus said metallically.
A woman rose and found the rear door. The bus lowered to the stop, the door slithered aside, the woman stepped down.
“Watch your step,” the bus said. “Exit by the rear.” It ascended, and again houses sparkled beneath.
Next to Allen the large gentleman mopped his forehead. “Warm day.”
“Yes,” Allen agreed. To himself he said: Say nothing. Do nothing. Don’t even move.
“You hold this a minute, young fellow? Like to tie my shoe.” The large gentleman passed his armload of bundles across. “Go shopping, you have to lug it home. That’s the gimmick.”
“Five,” the bus said. Nobody got up, so the bus continued. Below, a shopping section was visible: a clump of bright stores.
“They say shop near home,” the large gentleman said, “but you can save money if you go downtown. Sales, you know. They buy in quantity.” Out of a long paper bag he lifted a jacket. “Nice, eh? Real cow.” He showed Allen a can of wax. “Got to keep it moist or it cracks. Rain’s bad for it. Another gimmick. But you can’t have everything.”
“Exit by the rear,” the bus said. “No smoking. Step to the back, please.” More houses passed beneath.
“You feel all right?” the large gentleman asked. “Seems to me you look like you might have a touch of sunstroke. A lot of people, they go out in the sun on a hot day like this. Don’t know any better.” He chuckled. “Feel cold? Nauseated?”
“Yes,” Allen said.
“Probably been running around playing Quart. You a pretty good quartist?” He sized Allen up. “Good shoulders, arms. Young fellow like you probably be right-wing. Eh?”
“Not yet,” Allen said. He looked through the window of the of the bus and then down through the transparent floor at the city. Into his mind came the thought that he didn’t even know where to get off. He didn’t know where he was going or why or where he was now.
He was not in the Health Resort. That was the sole fact, and he took hold of it and made it the hub of his new universe. He made it the reference point and he began to creep cautiously from there.
This was not the Morec society, because there were no swimming pools and wide lawns and separate houses and glass-bottomed busses in the Morec society. There were no people basking in the sun in the middle of the day. There was no game called Quart. And this was not a vast historical exhibit such as the twentieth century house in the museum, because he could see the date on the magazine being read across the aisle, and it was the right month and year.
“Can I ask you something?” he said to the large gentleman.
“Surely.” The large gentleman beamed.
“What’s the name of this town?”
The large gentleman’s face changed color. “Why, this is Chicago.”
“Six,” the bus said. Two young women got up, and the bus lowered to let them off. “Exit at the rear. No smoking, please.”
Allen got up, squeezed to the aisle, and followed the women from the bus.
The air smelled fresh, full of the nearness of trees. He took a deep breath, walked a few steps, halted. The bus had let him off in a residential section; only houses were visible, set along wide, tree-lined streets. Children were playing, and, on the lawn of one house, a girl was sun-bathing. Her body was quite tan and her breasts were highly upraised. And her nipples were a pretty pastel pink.
If anything proved his separation from the Morec society it was the naked young lady stretched out on the grass. He had never seen anything like it. In spite of himself he walked that way.