The Infinite Cage

By Keith Laumer

Scanned by BW-SciFi

This book is dedicated to Betty because of her many faults Copyright (c) 1972, by Keith Laumer

All rights reserved

Published by arrangement with G. P. Putnam's Sons

All rights reserved which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address O. P. Putnam's Sons

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Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 70-186648

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BERKLEY MEDALLION BOOKS are published by Berkley Publishing Corporation 200 Madison Avenue New York, N.Y. 10016

BERKLEY MEDALLION BOOKS (r) TM 757, 375

Printed in the United States of America

Berkley Medallion Edition, July, 1974

[1]

Sergeant B. M. "Heavy" Dubell of the Jaspertown Police Department removed from his mouth the two-inch butt of a dead cigar, mashed it viciously in the chipped saucer he kept on his desk for the purpose, and shouted for Constable Kinch. There was no answer. He kicked his chair back, came around the desk, moving heavily, his broad, thick shoulders back, gut outthrust, cuffs jingling from the low-slung gun belt. A roll of acne-pitted fat overhung his curled collar; brown spots were scattered across his hairless head.

At the top of the stair leading down to the section of the jail known as the Annex he shouted again for Kinch. No answer. He thrust past the heavy steel-plate door and lumbered down the steps. At the bottom, the passage went straight ahead for a distance of fifteen feet, dead-ended at the cross-corridor. Sergeant Dubell rounded the corner and stopped dead. Twenty feet along the narrow corridor the heavy, iron-barred door of cell number 3 stood open. Dubell yanked his gun from its holster and went forward swiftly and silently.

Kinch lay with his cheek against the cell floor, snoring softly. Above his left eye a bruise which was turning from pink to purple ran up into the hairline. An overturned wooden stool lay beside him. Dubell swore and unlimbered his flashlight, shone it around the cell.

The prisoner lay on his side near the wall. He was naked, his body soiled, marked with small cuts, scratches, and bruises. His hair was long and tangled. He stared into the light with wide, unfocused eyes.

"What the hell," Dubell growled. He tried the wall switch; the bulb in the wire cage on the ceiling was burned out. Squatting beside Kinch, he checked the man's pulse; it was steady and strong. He must, Dubell surmised, have tripped over the stool. Clumsy damn fool. Now he'd have to carry him upstairs. Might even have to call Doc Fine. Cost the township money. Trouble. Have to do two men's work.

Dubell grunted, hauling the unconscious man to a sitting position, getting a shoulder under him. He didn't notice that the prisoner had moved until he saw him at the door. Dubell yelled and lunged to his feet, hampered by the weight across his back. The naked man skittered through the doorway and fell. Dubell dumped Kinch and jumped after him, to be met by the slamming of the steel door.

He hammered and shouted, but there was no response.

[2]

The prisoner lay on his back, staring at the light at the end of the passage. He was not aware that he had accidentally kicked the cell door shut; he paid no attention to the sounds coming from behind it. He had no memory of anything prior to now, but he did not wonder who he was, what he was, where he was, where he had been before he was here; nor was he aware of the absence of such memories. He was absorbed in the wealth of sensory impressions impinging on him, all of which had to be considered, classified, filed away. . . .

Gradually he became aware of a distinction between himself and his surroundings. He determined, by tentative movements, that the me comprised a hinged torso, to which were attached a head, with limited capacity for movement; jointed legs, rather more mobile; and arms, which were sharply limited in movement by a connection that held them in close juxtaposition at their terminal ends. The latter were elaborated into sets of smaller members, fingers, which, he found, moved quite freely. The names for these parts came into his mind effortlessly, unnoticed. The arms bothered him. He sensed, somehow, that they should move more freely. The link between them, he deduced after careful introspection, was not a part of the me.

He tugged against the restraint, and suddenly a clear image came into his mind: he pictured himself rubbing the metal links against an abrasive surface; specifically, the concrete corner of the doorway beside him. He worked his way awkwardly into position and tentatively rubbed the handcuffs against the masonry, eliciting a metallic scraping sound. His arms, he quickly found, abraded more swiftly than the metal. . . . Metal was hard, he determined, savoring the concept. Body-stuff was soft. More carefully, he 'went on, rubbing the steel links back and forth, back and forth, attempting with partial success to keep his skin clear of contact. The pain increased for a time, then gradually lessened. A new sensation-fatigue-appeared, burning in his arms like slow fire; but he ignored it. He did not grow bored, or impatient. He was not aware of the passage of time; but time passed. Eventually the links parted. He was delighted with the new freedom of movement, flexing his arms and hands as aimlessly as a baby playing with his toes. His eye was caught by the glossy crimson sheen of his wrists. Fluid, rich and red, was leaking from the whiteness of his wrists. There was pain there now, sharp, raw, attention-demanding. Involuntarily, he gave a low, complaining groan. This was an interesting new phenomenon. He experimented with his mouth and tongue, searching for the combination that had produced such a novel and interesting effect. He managed smacking and clicking noises, but nothing so complex as the long, satisfying groan. Presently he tired of the game. The light drew him. He wanted to be closer to it. His arms and legs made aimless swimming motions for a few moments before an instinct pattern intervened. He came to hands and knees, swaying at first, but quickly gaining control, he crawled toward the light.

Encountering the stairs, he paused for a moment, then began to ascend, fumblingly at first, then more surely. His knees hurt, and his wrists, but it did not occur to him to stop, or to attempt to relieve the pain; he was not truly aware of it, any more than he was aware of the gravitational attraction of the earth, or the pressure of the atmosphere. At the top, he paused, delighted by the change in scene. An inkling of the vastness of the world came to him. Not-me was so much greater than me. He was fascinated by the new colors and shapes: the dun and tan of the wall, the chipped green of the tile floor, the red splotch of the fire alarm. The light came from a point high above. He stopped under it and reached, and at once his chin struck the floor. He tasted blood in his mouth, and spent half a minute savoring this wholly new area of sensation. The light hung far above him, beckoning, drawing him. He rose to his knees, then to his feet. Still his fingers failed to reach the glowing bulb. He willed himself to rise into the air, but nothing happened. He moved on, passed through other rooms, came to a larger one. A pattern of bright points of glowing color at its far side attracted his attention. He went toward it.

His hands struck something invisible: the glass panel in the exterior door. He pushed against it, reaching for the tantalizing colors. It yielded, swung open. He took two steps, then fell headlong down the front steps, striking his head hard on the cracked pavement at the bottom.

[3]

Angelique Sobell had taken special pains with her toilette that evening, giving her hair a full fifty strokes before donning a black sateen blouse, a red oil-cloth skirt with a white plastic belt, white ankle socks, yellowish-white high-heeled shoes, somewhat scuffed. From a cigar box, she selected a pink coral ring, a Navahoesque bracelet with large dull-green stones, and a necklace of peeling pearls.

The reflection in the big, tarnished, bevel-edged mirror bolted to the back of the door posed provocatively, hand on hip to conceal the slight roll of flesh there, chest out and up, feet at right angles to emphasize the taper of thighs.

"Ke-rist," she muttered. "Baby's getting fat." She gave herself a final glance in the mirror, remembering to lift her chin to smooth out the throat line, and left the apartment, locking the door behind her. There were the usual odors of stale cookery, urine, and pot smoke in the stairwell; she descended slowly, one hand on the slightly gummy varnish of the handrail. Outside, a light rain was falling. She passed stores that were closed and dark, a silent gas station, a parking lot. Light shone across the walk from a door ahead. There were dark shrubs at the foot of a short flight of steps. As she passed, she saw a man's foot projecting from the shadows at the edge of the walk.

Angelique halted, staring at the foot. It was bare, bone-white. There was a bare, dirty ankle, a scabbed shin. The other foot was doubled under the knee, which was a raw wound. The man was naked, lying on the grass. There was blood on his mouth, his hands, his knees.

"Good lord," Angelique whispered. She looked up at the chipped, black-edged gilt letters spelling out Jasperton Police Department above the lighted doorway.

"The lousy bums." She skirted the obstruction and hurried on. In the next block she saw a tall, round-shouldered man emerging from an all-night liquor store.

"Henny," she called. He waited. "Them lousy cops," she gasped, coming up to him. "They gone too far this time. They thrown some poor devil out in the street buck naked. Beat up, maybe dead."

"Yeah?" The man had a deep, gruff voice. He looked along the street. It was a look that didn't want any trouble. He shifted the bottle-shaped paper bag under his arm as the woman grabbed at him.

"Right back there." Angelique hooked a thumb over her shoulder. "The guy is laying right on the pavement in front of the cop-house, right in the rain."

"It's none of my business-"

She pulled at his arm. "It won't hurt you to look, Henny!" He came along, reluctantly. She towed him along the block, crossed the street against the light, approached the police station cautiously. The man was still there, lying in the same position.

"Jeezus," Henny said.

Angelique went closer, looked down at the pale, whiskery face.

"He's breathing."

"He's got cuffs on him."

Angelique was studying the lighted door of the police station. The corridor behind it was empty, the windows beside it dark.

"Listen, Henny. Let's get him out of here."

"Nix, nix." Henny backed away.

"Get him up on your back; he ain't so big. We'll take him up to your place."

"Forget it." Henny started to turn away; Angelique took a deep breath as if to scream. Henny grabbed her arm.

"What the hell-!"

"Pick him up or I yell 'rape,' and baby, would they just love to stick it to you!"

For a moment, Henny hesitated. Then he swore, stooped, caught up the cold, limp, wet body. The arms dangled. The mouth lolled open.

"Ahhhgg," Henny snorted. "He stinks."

"Let's go."

Grunting, Henny set off at a half-trot, Angelique at his heels, looking back at the lighted door behind which there was still no sign of life.

[4]

His eyes opened; a strange face was looking down at him: pale, with garish lips, black smudges around the eyes.

"Hey-he's coming around," the face said, in a high-pitched voice. He was in pain; pain that seemed to wash over him in waves, requiring some response. His throat tensed; his mouth and tongue moved as if by their own volition:

"My knees hurt," he said suddenly, unpremeditatedly; then he started to cry. He felt the big, hot tears running down his face. It felt good to cry; it seemed to relieve some sort of pressure inside him. He wailed, enjoying the relief.

"Hey, take it easy," the woman said. She stood; he could see her blurrily through the tears. He didn't want her to go; he wanted her to stay close and watch him cry. He reached impulsively for her and she ducked back.

"Hey, for Chrissakes," she said.

His eye fell on his wrist, the one he had reached out with. There was a shiny bracelet around it, pink and brown with blood. The skin was torn, adjacent to the metal; he could see the raw flesh, and the little tatters of skin. Blood had dried in a brown crust on his arms.

"It hurts," he said, and thought about crying some more. He started to get up, but his legs felt very strange. He fell, grabbing at the bed as he went down, pulling the blanket with him.

"Oh-oh," he said. "I went to the toilet." The woman swore. A man he hadn't seen before said, "Jeezus, Anj, for Chrissakes! The guy's a dummy."

"Well, don't stand around telling me he's a dummy! Take him in the john!

The poor boob is sick, he can't help it."

"I ain't no night nurse!"

Grumbling, the man called Henny took his arm, lifted him. His legs still felt funny. He let them drag; he let his body go slack.

"Don't go cute on us, boy," the man said. "By God, I'd as soon throw ye back out in the street."

"Shut up, Henny. Come on, walk, feller. Work them legs." The woman's tone was much friendlier than the man's. He decided he liked her best. They walked him down a short hall, and the man took him through a door into a bathroom. It had brown walls and exposed pipes and a broken toilet seat, and there were scribblings on the walls.

"Don't read, do what you came for," the man said standing in the open door.

"I already did," he said. "I don't have to anymore." In the hall, the woman laughed. The man swore. Together, they hauled him back to the room, dumped him in the bed. The bed was nice, he decided. He liked the bed. But he still hurt. He had forgotten about how much he hurt while they were busy with the exciting trip down the hall, but now the pain was clamoring for attention.

"Oh, boy," he said. "It really hurts," and started to cry, silently this time. It wasn't as much fun to cry silently, but it was a sincere crying now, an expression of great pain. The pain grew and grew, it was like a fire that caught in dry grass and spread, eating up the grass, growing swiftly bigger. He wailed.

"Please make it stop," he wailed. He kicked his feet, but that made it hurt worse. Lying still on the cot, he discovered, made the pain recede. He lay quietly, staring at the ceiling. There were patterns there: an overall pattern of little squiggly lines, and larger, darker blotches of discoloration. He studied them, looking for the meaning in them. He had completely forgotten the man and the woman.

"Look at the sucker," the man said, reminding him. "Laying there now, happy as a pig in a ditch."

"Listen, feller," the woman said. "What's your name?"

"Lonzo," he said promptly. The name had popped into his mind as if it had been waiting there for that specific question. It meant nothing to him; it was an automatic response made by his mouth, not connected with the me.

"Lonzo what?"

He looked at her. She was wearing a black garment that was thin and wet, that clung to her body. He was intrigued by the bulging shapes outlined under the wet cloth, and put out a hand toward her. She jumped back. The man laughed.

"You keep your hands to yourself, Lonzo," she said sharply. "What's your last name? Where you from?"

"Sprackle," he said, hearing his own voice speak the strange word.

"That your name? Or your hometown?"

"I don't know."

"Lonzo Sprackle: that your name?"

"Fred. Freddy." He savored the new sound.

"Lonzo Fred Sprackle?"

"Horace. Seymore. Jim." There were many sounds available; his mouth seemed to know them all.

"Damn you, she asked you your name, boy!" Henny put in. "Don't get smartalecky now, or I'll throw you right back in the gutter you come from. Now what's your name?"

"Charles 'Chuck' Weinelt." He sensed other thought-forms moving behind the words, but Henny gave him no time to explore them.

"All right, Chuck; now where you from?"

"Lacoochee."

"Where's that at?"

"Florida."

"How'd you get all the way up here from Florida?"

"I ... was walking."

"That's one hell of a long walk, boy. What the cops get you for?" Lying on the cot, he looked at Henny. Henny kept asking questions, and he heard himself answering, but the answers didn't seem to come from inside him. It was interesting, waiting to hear what he'd say next.

"Vagrancy," his voice said. He wondered what vagrancy meant. But then the information was there, in his mind: The condition or quality of being vagrant: one who strolls from place to place. From the old French waucrant....

"What'd they do to you?" Henny asked.

"They tried to finesse me." This was a new voice, he sensed. It felt different, hotter, tighter. . . . "They tried to ease me out of control. Damn traitors. Men I made...."

"Huh?"

"They made me get in the car." Again the flickering sense of change.

"Then what?"

"She said there had to be some consideration. That's how she put it. Sweetly, of course. But some consideration. Damned trollop."

"Here, you, don't go talking foolish, now. I want to know what them cops done to you. They beat you up?"

Flicker. "Yeah. Pretty bad. But not too bad, you know? Just a warning, like. I got no grudge."

"Why they take your clothes?"

"Cabrones. Hijos de la puta." He spat.

"Here, you, don't go spitting around here. And don't start talking Greaser. They taken your clothes and then they worked you over and then they thrown you out, right?"

"Hell, Henny," the woman spoke up. "You ain't finding out nothing. You're feeding him lines." She shouldered the man aside and sat on the edge of the cot.

"Now listen, sugar, you can talk to Angie. You tell Angie all about it. Them coppers picked you up, you was minding your own business, right?"

"Now who's feeding him lines?"

"How about it, sugar?"

Flicker, Flicker, Flicker. A sense of pressure, danger, urgency: "Hold it together," he heard himself saying. "I don't give a damn how you do it, but don't give the bastards anything."

"What bastards was them, honey?" Angelique inquired.

"Lousy IG types. Smooth-talking little devil. Any man in my outfit gives him anything, I'll see him shot."

"What outfit you with, sugar?"

"Link, Francis X. Major, AO 2355609. That's all you get."

"That's your name, Francis X. Link?"

"I said so, didn't I?"

"Where you from, Link?"

"Duluth. Why?"

"Hell, this guy's nutty as a pecan roll," Henny said. "He's having a big horse-laugh at the both of us." He stepped past the woman and grabbed the supine man by the shoulder, shook him.

"Smarten up, boy. I ask you one last time who you are and what they got on you. You rob a store? You kill somebody?"

Flicker. "Four of 'em," he mumbled. "Maybe five. Oh, God, I was scared. They came in through the door and it went off. I didn't mean to." Henny swore and pushed the man back in disgust. "This joker's nuts," he said. "He's playing games."

Flicker. This time it was different. It was as if a door had opened, and the voice had pushed through it, taken over the stage.

"All right," Henny was saying. He broke off as the man on the bed pushed himself up suddenly on one elbow.

"I left orders I wasn't to be disturbed," he snapped. "Who are you?" His eyes flicked across the room. His expression changed, became suddenly wary. "What the devil's going on here? Where am I?" Henny and the woman had recoiled at the snap in his voice.

"Why, ah, this here's my place," Henny blurted. "You was in bad shape, mister. We wanted to help you, was all-"

"You won't get far with this," the man on the cot said. He threw back the thin blanket, swung his skinny, pale legs to the floor. "Every police officer in the country will be after you-" he paused as his eyes fell on his own naked legs. He recoiled, as if to escape from his own body. He made a hoarse, distressed sound.

"Lookit here, Chuck," Henny said quickly, "you said yourself they vagged you. They beat up on you and thrown you outside to die. Anj and me, we saved your bacon for you. You got no call-"

Flicker. "I want my mommy," the man on the cot said, and lay back on the pillow. His thumb went into his mouth. He roiled his eyes at the two people who stood over him.

"Hey," Angelique said weakly. "You're right, Hen. He's crazy as a bedbug." Henny took two quick steps and caught her arm as she reached for the door.

"You're not running out and leaving the dummy here," he said.

"Wait a minute, Henny; listen," Angelique said. "Don't go off half-cocked. We got to think. We can't just dump him. He'll talk. He'll tell the cops about us."

Henny took a step back as if he'd been hit. "What you talking about, girl?"

"If we throw him out, we got to shut him up."

"You talking about killing?"

"Don't be a damn fool. We got to keep him here a while. They'll be looking for him. Later we can take him someplace-across the state line maybe." They both turned to look at the subject of their discussion. He took his thumb from his mouth.

"I'm hungry," he said.

Henny swore. "Go get him a sandwich," he said to the woman.

"You got bread?"

"Use your own. You got me into this." Henny took out his handkerchief and wiped the back of his neck, his forehead, his chin, his upper lip. "I must of been nuts as the dummy, listening to you."

"I'll go get some sandwiches," the woman said. "You keep him quiet."

"Hurry it up," Henny said. "I don't like being alone with a nut case."

"Sure, you bet, Henny." She opened the door and glanced into the hall, then slipped through.

Henny pulled out a straight chair, sat in it, folded his arms, his eyes on the man on the bed.

"Just take it easy," he muttered. "Just don't get ideas." 2

[1]

It was two hours before Henny realized the woman wasn't coming back. He swore savagely, pacing up and down the room. He was sweating heavily; his stomach felt upset, as if he had eaten a batch of bad French fries. The man on the bed lay quietly, watching him, dozing occasionally. Henny stopped across the room and looked at him.

"I'll get some clothes on you," he said. "I'm getting you out of here." He went quickly to the curtain suspended from an angle of pipe in the corner to form an alcove, pulled out a blackish-green shirt and a pair of puckered, grease-stained khaki pants. He threw them at the man on the bed.

"Put them on!" he ordered.

The shirt had fallen across the face of the man on the bed. He plucked at it ineffectually. Henny swore and jerked it away from his face. The man laughed, pulled it back.

"Damn, you, I ain't playing pee-pie with you!" Henny said savagely. He caught the man by the still-damp brown hair, jerked him upright.

"Keep your hands off me, you, you big ape!" the man said, and kicked out; Henny jumped back, covering his groin with both hands.

"You rum-dummy, you could of ruined me!"

"I need a drink. What the hell is this place?"

"Just take it easy." Henny didn't like it when the crazy man seemed to speak rationally this way. He gave him the feeling that things were happening that were beyond his understanding; that something was being put over on him. It felt like a trap.

The man flopped back on the cot. "I hurt," he said. "I hurt all over. Get me a drink."

Henny took a flat bottle from the dresser drawer and handed it over. The man sat up, took a long pull, immediately retched, dropping the bottle, spewing liquor on the thin gray blanket. Henny swore luridly.

"I taken all I'm taking off you, you damn crum-bum. You're no better'n an animal. Get them clothes on."

The man lay on the cot with his eyes closed. "I'm sick," he whined.

"You'll be sicker 'fore I'm done with ye." Henny jerked the blanket off onto the floor. He checked at the sight of the other's emaciation. He had seen him before, but not laid out full length under the light.

"Can you stand up?" he muttered.

"No. Go away."

"Who the hell are you? No more crap, just who are you?"

"Sally Ann Seymour."

Henny made a sound that was half snort, half laugh. "You're the damnedest nut I ever seen. Get out of that bed, Sally Ann. We're going for a walk." The man on the cot opened his eyes and looked directly at Henny. "I'm dying," he said. "I got cancer of the cervix. Spread all over hell. I got maybe a week. I ain't walking noplace."

"Cancer!" Henny was halted as if by a hex sign. "God damn," he said. Then:

"Cancer of the cervix: that's some kind of female complaint!" Indignant at the trick, he grabbed the man by the arm, hauled him off onto the floor.

"Get them clothes on, boy. One more cute trick out of you and I'll work you over worse'n the cops ever thought about!"

The man wailed and scrabbled for the bed; then checked abruptly, staring down at himself. He gave a strangled squawk and fell back on the floor. His eyes had rolled up in his head. Henny dug at him with his foot, then kicked him lightly; but the man only snored, his mouth open, crescents of white eyeball showing under the lids.

Henny lifted him back onto the bed. He rubbed his hands on his thighs, mumbling to himself. Then he began pulling the oversized shirt on the slack arms.

It took him ten minutes to dress the unconscious man in the shirt and pants, pull a pair of worn sneakers onto his feet and lace them. By this time, the patient had begun to stir. His eyes opened. He looked around dully.

"Wha' happened?" he said.

"You flang a fit. Now get up."

The man rubbed a hand across his mouth. "Oh, boy," he said. "Oh boy. I don't remember a thing. What'd I do?"

"Let's go." Henny hauled at the man's arm and he stood, shakily.

"I'm not feeling too well," he said. "But I'll be OK. Just get me a cab."

"Yeah, a cab. Good idea. Sure. Come on, walk nice, now."

"I appreciate this, sir. You won't regret it. Was I much trouble?"

"Damn right, Sally Ann or whatever your name is." Henny was walking him toward the door.

"Chister. Wayne G. Chister. I'll make it right with you, Mr., er-?"

"Never mind that. Just be nice, now. You're going for a nice ride."

"Don't call my wife," Wayne G. Chister said. "Just worry her. I'll be fine, now."

"Sure, you'll be swell. Watch the steps."

Wayne G. Chister yelped as he took the first step. "My knee," he gasped.

"Oh, my knee. And my hands hurt." He pulled back the overlong cuff of the shirt and stared at his bloody wrist, clamped in the steel wristlet with the dangling links of small chain.

"Oh, for the love of God, what's happened to me?"

"Nothing. A little joke. You're OK, Mr. Chister. Come on, you're going home, right? What was that address?"

"2705 Royal Palm Crescent, but what happened to me? Why am I wearing handcuffs?"

"Look, pal, the cops had you, see? Don't you remember?"

"No, no, I don't remember anything after-" he shut up abruptly. At the street door, Henny peered cautiously out. No cars moved in the street. No pedestrians were in evidence. He looked at the man shivering against the wall.

"Look, Mr. Chinchy, you wait here, see? I'm going up to the hack stand; you just wait right here."

"I'm not feeling well, sir. Please hurry." His teeth chattered so that it interfered with his speech.

"Just don't go noplace." Henny ducked out into the drizzling rain and headed for the cab stand two blocks east.

[2]

He stood in the darkness of the hallway, listening to the voices in his head. Some of the voices were insistent, some faint. They seemed to be urging him to action; but the voices were confusing, conflicting. His legs and arms twitched in abortive response to the sense of urgency that the voices communicated to him.

A door banged loudly somewhere above, triggering something in his mind, opening a door. . . .

He flattened himself against the wall, slid away from the door into the greater darkness of the hall. Feet clacked on the steps. A fat woman came into view. She pushed out through the street door, paused to wrap her coat more closely about her, and was gone.

He leaned against the wall. His head hurt. He felt terrible. This time I'm sick, a voice said in his head. This time I'm really sick. He put a hand against his forehead. His hand felt strange, too narrow-and hot. He had fever, all right, the voice told him. He hurt all over. His body felt strange. His arms and legs felt strange.

"I'm sick," he moaned, knowing that no one could hear him. "Please, somebody help me." It was not an actual appeal for help, merely the expression of his feelings: that he was a man who was in trouble, who needed help.

"But they don't care," he whispered. "Nobody cares." He wet his lips, and noticed the foul, sour taste in his mouth. He smelled the stale reek of the clothes he was wearing.

"What's happened to me?" he muttered. "I was never this bad before. . . ." A flash of brilliant blue light lit the dark passage suddenly, winked out as swiftly, winked again. Through the glass panel in the door he saw the rotating flasher of a police car, just pulling to a stop at the curb. Terror was like a hand clamped on his heart.

"Oh, no, oh, God, no. . . ." He moved back farther, hearing car doors open, hearing feet clap on the sidewalk.

A beam of white light dazzled abruptly through the door, making stark shadows on the brown-yellow wallpaper. He shrank back into a wedge of blackness at the extreme rear of the hall. The door burst open. A large, uniformed policeman stood silhouetted there. Behind him, rain made slanting lines of twinkling brilliance in the light.

The cop turned and palmed another man into the hall ahead of him.

"OK, where is he?"

"He was right here. I swear I left him standing right here." The second man was big, round-shouldered, with a long, pale, soft face. Some part of his mind recognized him as a man called Henny.

"How come you went off and left him alone?"

"I told you, I was going for a hack-"

"Some service. Whyn't he get his own hack?"

"Like I said, he was drunk. I'm only tyrnna help. He says his name is Chisley-"

"Naw, that's you, Henny. You're mixed up."

"You got no call to badmouth me. I got rights like any citizen. I done nothing-"

"Let's take a look." The cop prodded Henny, who took a couple of aimless steps and called, "Mr. Chisley?"

"Let's go up and have a look-see at your flop," the cop said.

"There ain't nothing up there, I tell you he was right here-"

"Well, maybe he got tired waiting and went up. Let's go." The last two words with a whipcrack delivery. The two men went up the stairs. The man hiding in the hallway stood trembling, sweating, feeling weak and hollow. There would be another cop in the car. He couldn't get out that way. He looked behind him, past the two large trash cans blocking the end of the hall. There was a metal-surfaced door behind them; it swung open silently.

Soft rain pattered down on him. Light shining past a torn windowshade to the right illuminated wet bricks, dented garbage cans, an overflowing wooden box, a rusty bicycle locked to a frame made of pipe. Across the way a narrow alley led out to a street beyond. He scuttled across the courtyard, keeping as near the wall as possible, skirting the obstructions. In the alley he paused to look back. No one was following him. His heart was beating painfully. His head hurt. His stomach hurt. His knees and hands and his face hurt. He sobbed once, and hurried toward the street.

[3]

It was a dark, narrow, shuttered street lined with old, high-built houses faced with dark green shingles and purple-gray stonework, with faded

"Room for Rent" signs propped in the high arched windows. Lights shone behind a few of the windows. The rain fell steadily, making a whispering sound in the street. He shivered, feeling the cold, clammy cloth against him. In his head, voices whispered, but he paid no attention. He stood on the sidewalk, feeling the rain against his face, observing himself shivering. Down the street, three men stepped from a doorway. They paused for a moment under the streetlight at the corner, looking in his direction now. They moved closer together. A match flared, and he saw lean, pale faces, dark eyes slanted toward him.

Flicker. There was a sudden churning sensation in his stomach. His heart began to thud heavily. His mouth felt dry. He turned and walked off quickly. Feet whispered on the pavement behind him. He reached the corner, broke into a run. A dozen yards along the street a deep doorway cut back into the dark masonry. He skidded to a halt and ducked into the entry, and at once regretted it. It was a damn fool move, but too late now to change his mind. But what else could he have done? The way he felt, he couldn't outrun a one-legged panhandler. What was the matter with him? Couldn't even remember how he got here, down on Delaney Street, at like 2 a.m. for chrissakes....

Running feet approached, slowed. The three men passed the doorway, halted not ten feet away. Standing in the empty street, they looked both ways. One of them swore. Another spat. They were just boys, he saw; with long, oiled hair, soiled, bright-colored shirts and dark jeans.

"Where the hell he get to?"

"Can't be far."

One of the youths started to turn toward the doorway, and the man who was hiding there flattened himself into the corner where the shadow cast by the streetlight was densest. He heard steps come closer, turn away.

"An alley up ahead; you check right, Sal, I'll take left. Mick, you keep an eye out."

Feet retreated. He moved his head an inch, saw two of the lads moving off, fanning out. The third stood six feet away, his back to the doorway. The hiding man knew he had to act fast. He wished that he didn't feel so sick. But it was now or never. He slid out silently; the boy's head was turned the other way. He clasped hands with himself and swung his arms as if he were swinging a baseball bat The locked fists struck the boy on the side of the head, just above the ear; the boy's head bounced against the stone wall with an overripe sound; he went down on his face, slack. The man who had struck him caught his ankles, dragged him into the doorway. He knelt beside him, frisked him swiftly and efficiently, netting a five-inch switchblade, a package of cigarettes, and three crumpled dollar bills. Without a backward glance he sprinted for the corner, rounded it, hurried along to the next cross street, a major avenue with lighted storefronts, an all-night movie. A cruising cab drifted toward him; he stepped into the street and flagged it down.

"Main and Third," he told the driver. He never rode cabs, but it was a good idea to get clear of the area fast. He hadn't liked the sound of the punk's head hitting that wall.

[4]

Leaning back in the soft seat, he watched the colored lights, the movement beyond the rain-streaked glass beside him. The whick, whick, whick, of the windshield wipers caught his attention. He watched the process of water striking the glass, being struck aside, and more water falling, to be struck aside in turn. . . .

The cab swerved to the curb and braked to a stop.

"Eighty-five," the driver said over his shoulder; but his passenger, watching the windshield wipers, did not notice; he was engrossed in the complex patterns of colored light that changed each time the wipers swept past.

"Third and Main," the driver said. "That's what you ast for, right?" The passenger turned his head and looked out the side window. He saw a garishly lit window covered with oversized hand-painted posters advertising cut-rate patent medicines, in red letters on dirty-white newsprint. There was a narrow stand with magazines strung on a clothesline above the entrance. Behind the steamy window of a beanery, a fat man scraped burnt grease from a hot-plate.

"How about it, Mac?" the driver said. "This where you wanted to go?" Flicker. "No," a voice said. "Lord, no. Not here. Can you take me home?"

"Where's that at?"

"Brycewood. Tulane Street. The Tulane Apartments. Number 907."

"You ribbing me or what, Mac? There ain't no such street. Not in Jasperton, there ain't."

"Jasperton?" He heard the voice say. He waited to hear what it would say next.

"Hey, you all right, mister?" The driver was looking at him in the mirror. He threw an arm over the back of the seat and stared back at his fare.

"I'm afraid I don't feel too well," the voice said. "To tell you the truth, I don't know just where I am."

"Maybe I better get a cop."

"Yes. That's a good idea, driver. Find a policeman." The driver -grunted. "Where you from?"

"Caney. Caney, Kansas."

"What you doing in Jasperton?"

"I can't really say. I wonder ... if this could be what they call amnesia?"

"You forgot your name?"

"I'm Claude P. Mullins. No, I haven't forgotten my name. I just. . . don't know . . ." the voice trailed off.

"You get hit on the head?" The driver was looking at him. He felt his head; it was tender in several places. His wrists hurt abominably. His knees hurt. Flicker.

"The sons of bitches. They worked me over good."

"Who?" the driver asked.

"The damn cops. I done nothing. They don't give a man a chance."

"Maybe you better get out here, mister."

"Give me a break, pal. Run me out to the edge of town, OK?"

"That'll be two bucks."

He felt in his pockets, found some crumpled bills.

"Sure," he said. "I got dough. Get me out of this town. I seen enough of this town."

"Caney, Kansas, huh?" the driver said as he pulled away from the curb.

"What's that mean?" the man in the passenger's seat said suspiciously.

"That's where you said you was from."

"I never been west in my life."

"Suits me, Mr. Mullins."

"Why you call me that?"

"Ain't that your name?"

"Hell, no. I'm Stick Marazky. Why?"

"I thought you said it was Mullins."

"I'm no damn Mick."

The driver wagged his head and drove in silence for a few blocks. He turned left at a Shell station, went past dark houses, billboards, a cafe. Dark trees closed in on the road. Weeds grew rank on the shoulder, shining green in the beam of the headlights.

"This where you want out?"

The man looked out into the wet night. Flicker.

"Why are you stopping here?"

"You said take you out of town. OK. This is the city limits."

"You can't leave me here."

The driver put his elbow over the seat back and studied his passenger.

"What are you, nuts, or what? Or maybe you got a funny sense of humor. Two bucks, Mister."

He felt over his pockets, found three wadded bills. He gave two to the driver.

"Please," he said. "I'm sorry to be troublesome, young man, but I seem to be having an attack of some kind. I live at the Sunshine Motel, at Indian Beach. If you'll take me there, my wife will pay your fare. I seem to have only one more dollar with me-"

"There ain't no such beach around here, mister. Look, I better run you over to the hospital. You're in no shape to be running around loose."

"Yes, yes, I'd appreciate that, young man."

The cab did a U-turn and gunned back into Jasperton.

[5]

He leaned back in the seat, listening to the voices. Some of them seemed far away and dim, others were close, right inside his head. But then they were all inside his head. Or his head was outside all of them. The concept became fuzzy. It made his head hurt to think about it. It was easier just to listen to the voices:

". .. creep puts his hands on me again ..."

"Varför skulle de bry sig om det?"

". . . Temos tempo de fazer planos. Mas agora fale-me de si . . ."

". . . just wait till next time, that's all.. ."

"Endlist bist du wach. Du schläfst, das ist gut..."

"... I promise, I won't do it again, I swear . .."

"Get out. Go on, get out, get out now!"

". . . curioso, vero? Quei teschi non sembrano più grossi di biglie . . ."

". . . lay me down to sleep, to sleep, for God's sake. That's a laugh. I lay me down to sleep. . . ."

". . . à propos de fête, il serait temps que je rebrousse chemin . . ."

"... tomorrow, first thing tomorrow, for sure . .."

"Cual es la dificultad? Tenemos que sacudirnos el polvo de aquí . . ." The car swerved suddenly, shot up a curving drive, and braked to a stop under a wide overhang. Light shone through a rank of glass doors fronting a lighted lobby with a green tile floor. A woman in white sat behind the desk. The driver climbed out, opened the rear door.

"You just sit tight, mister. I'll be right back. What was that name again?" Flicker. "Harkinson," a voice said promptly. "J. W. Harkinson. Look here, who are you? What is this place?"

"Do me a favor, mister. Don't change your name so much, OK? Harkinson. That's a nice name. Stick with it, OK?" The driver turned and walked toward the doors. The man in the car watched him, a squat bandy-legged figure in a mackinaw and a flat leather cap. "Don't change your name so much," he had said; "Harkinson ... nice name... stick with it . . ." He sat watching the rain run down the glass. A large man in a blue slicker appeared, strolling along the walk in front of the building. He wore a uniform cap and a pistol at his hip.

Flicker. The man in the car ducked down out of sight. His heart was pounding painfully. He had to get away, fast. He didn't ask himself why; he simply knew that he had to make his escape now, at once. Raising his head cautiously, he saw the policeman standing by the hospital door. The light shone on the wet slicker. The cop yawned. The man in the car slid quickly over into the front seat, got behind the wheel. The policeman was looking away, along the drive. He started the engine, pulled gently away. The headlights shone along the cedars lining the drive. In the street, he gunned it, squeaking the tires, cursed, slowed. He didn't want to attract any attention now. He drove swiftly through the night street, heading for the edge of town. Once past the city limits sign, he opened it up, putting distance between himself and the town.

3

[1]

The cab ran out of gas fourteen miles west of Jasperton. When the engine sputtered and stopped the driver, who had been gripping the wheel, staring ahead into the rain-which was falling harder now-started as though awakened from a deep sleep.

Flicker. He clung to the wheel, not steering, merely hanging on. The vehicle, which had been traveling at forty miles per hour, coasted down a gentle grade, gradually trending left across the centerline. As the road curved off to the right, it left the pavement, bumped along the shoulder, losing speed, angling down into the drainage ditch. At a speed of five miles per hour, it struck a highway route marker, snapping it off short, and came to rest, nose down, in a weed-choked gully.

The driver let out a shuddering sigh and unclenched his hands from the wheel.

"Oh, golly," he said. "Oh, golly oh, golly . . ." He found the door handle and climbed out into ice-cold ankle-deep water. The car was sitting at a steep angle. It looked as if it might roll over at any moment. Water was gurgling in the ditch, sluicing around the front wheels, which were crimped at an angle against a twenty-four inch concrete drainage tile.

"I didn't mean it," he said. "I'm sorry." He backed away from the car and scrambled up the bank. It was a very dark night; he could faintly see the yellow centerline of the road running off for a few yards in each direction. Trees beside the road made masses of deep black against the slightly lesser blackness of the sky. In the ditch the headlights of the car were still burning, shining on wet weeds; enough light reflected from them to enable him to pick his way along for a hundred yards or so before the darkness closed in again.

He came up over a low rise and saw a light off to the right, perhaps half a mile ahead.

"Please, ma'am," he mumbled half aloud. "My scout troop got lost, and I ..." Wasn't berry season. "Ma'am, my ma is sick in the next town, and I set out to visit her, and . . ."

He didn't know the name of the next town.

Flicker. "Harkinson," he said suddenly. "Name's Harkinson." He went on, heading toward the light now, muttering the name to himself. A wire fence barred his way. He yanked at the strands, succeeded in gouging his hand painfully on a barb. Backing away, he followed the fence line to a gate which stood open.

A hand-painted sign attached to a post showed a palm with the finger spread, under the legend "Sister Louella, Spiritual Counselor." He went up along the drive, paying no attention when a dog began to bark hoarsely from somewhere off behind the house. There were lights in two windows, shining cheerfully through colorful curtains. A big, shaggy collielike dog came racing up to him, halted ten feet away, barking frantically. The man snapped his finger, advancing toward the dog.

"Here, boy," he said. "Nice old feller." He walked steadily toward the dog, which ran excitedly to and fro, wagging its tail, barking, but less stridently now. The man reached out and fondled the dog's head carelessly, scratched behind its ears. The animal sniffed at him, made a whining sound, fell in beside him, and escorted him to the porch.

A light went on-a bare light bulb against the narrow paneling of the porch ceiling. The screen door opened and a man stepped out.

"Who's that?" he called, shading his eyes under the light.

"Harkinson's the name," the visitor said promptly.

"We don't know any Harkinson," the man said; the dog bounded up onto the porch, tried to jump up on the man, who thrust him away.

"What is it?" the man on the porch said. He was staring down uncertainly, frowning. He backed away as the newcomer started up the steps, ducked inside the screen door, latching it hastily. The stranger tried to open the door.

"What do you want?" the man said through the door. "I've got a gun in here."

"I want to come inside. I'm cold and wet." The visitor hugged himself and shivered.

"Where'd you come from?"

Flicker-flicker. "Back there." He waved a hand.

"Car broke down?"

"It wasn't my fault," the visitor said quickly. His voice sounded different now, less sure of itself. "I'm a Boy Scout," he added. "Please, mister, I have to telephone my ma." He snuffed and wiped his nose with his forefinger.

"What is it, Les?" a new voice said; a woman's voice, high-pitched, slightly wheezy.

"Heard Shep barking and come out to see and here was this feller. Says he's a Scoutmaster. Car broke down."

"What's the matter with him?"

"You better move on, mister," the man behind the door said.

"Now, Les." The woman opened the door and stepped out. She was bulky, with a vague, muddy face, tight-twisted gray hair, a small, garish mouth. She flapped a hand at the dog as it muzzled her knee.

"Why, he's crying," she said. "What's the matter, mister?" The man sobbed, knuckling his eye.

"Shep likes him," the woman said. "How'd he get past Shep?"

"Damn fool dog. Better come back inside, Lou."

"Who are you, mister?" the woman asked.

Flicker-flicker-flicker. A confusion of voices. . . .

"H-harkinson," he said tearfully. "J. W. Harkinson."

"You sick or something?" the woman gasped and started as the sleeve fell away from his wrist, exposing the bloody area.

"Saints preserve us," she gasped. "Les, looky here." Les came out cautiously. He stood beside the woman, staring at the thin man in the sodden shirt and pants. His face was pale and hollow-cheeked. His mouth was cut and bruised; his dark hair was plastered against his forehead. He had stopped crying. His expression was calm now, almost unconcerned.

"Let's see that hand," the woman said. She reached, gingerly took his fingers, automatically turned the hand palm up, brushed the other hand across it.

"That's a handcuff on him," Les said sharply. "This feller's broke from the police."

"I can see that," the woman said. "What did they have you for, Mr. Harkinson?"

Flicker. "I'm terribly sorry. I seem to have suffered a breakdown. I'm not feeling at all well." He tottered, and the woman caught his arm.

"Les, get his other arm. Can't you see he's sick?"

"Wait a minute, Lou-what do we know about this fellow? For all we know-"

"He's hurt and sick. Get him inside."

They assisted him into the house, across a pseudo-Oriental rug that was worn thin, along a mustard-colored hall, into a small bedroom. Les switched on an exposed 40-watt bulb suspended from the ceiling by two strands of twisted green-covered wire. There was a single bed with a chenille spread, a rocker, a white-painted dresser, a hooked rug. A framed brown rotogravure of a painting of Christ hung against the yellowish wallpaper. They lowered him to the bed. The mattress was hard, stiff at the edges, sagging in the center. He lay back; the pillow crackled as if stuffed with straw. He closed his eyes and sighed, relaxing.

"Les, get that iron-saw and cut these manacles off this man."

"Lou, we got no call to go mixing in police business. I'll drive up to Olsen's and telephone the sheriff-"

"You'll do nothing of the kind. What have police ever done for you and me but give us trouble?"

"They'll give us more when they find out we helped a fugitive from justice."

"You just get that saw, Les."

The man grunted and left the room. The woman went out, came back with a towel. Carefully, she dried the patient's face and shoulders and chest. She took great care with his arms, clucking as she dabbed bloody water away from his hands. He watched her without curiosity.

"It's not too bad," she said. "Just the skin torn. Not deep."

"It hurts," he said.

"I know-"

"My legs hurt." He tried to sit up and she pressed him back.

"You just rest easy, now, Mr. Harkinson."

He frowned at her. He licked his lips, looking worried now.

"How did I get here?"

"Your car broke down you said; you walked to the house."

"Was I in an accident?"

"Not's I know of."

"I'm suffering a good deal of pain." He lifted his hands, stared at the bloody wrists encircled by the bright-steel cuffs with the dangling chain.

"What's the meaning of this?" he cried.

"Don't you remember?" the woman spoke sharply. He let his hands down gingerly. The woman covered his chest with the towel.

"No. Nothing. I'm sixty-seven years of age and I've never been sick or in trouble a day in my life."

Les came back in with the hacksaw. The woman rose and met him.

"He's talking pretty strange," she said. "But there's no harm in him."

"What'd he say?"

"Said he didn't remember about the trouble with the police. Told me he was sixty-seven years old."

"Why, he's not over thirty," Les said.

"Let's get those things off his wrists," the woman said. It hurt when Les began sawing. The woman held the steel band steady, making soothing sounds. It took Les half an hour to saw through the tough metal, another half hour for the other. The woman bathed his wrists in warm water, applied a salve, bandaged them.

"Let's get his britches off and get him in bed," she said when she finished. Les helped her. He exclaimed when he saw the man wore nothing under the trousers.

"Don't take on, Les, I was a practical nurse for years," she said; but she hissed at sight of his knees.

"They're scraped raw as hamburger," Les said. "Looks like he was dragged. Maybe come off a motorcycle on a gravel road."

The woman cleaned and bandaged his knees. They dressed him in a pair of Les' pajamas. The woman removed the damp bedspread and together they got him under the blanket. Throughout the process, he lay as passive as a doll, complying with instructions but otherwise paying no attention to the proceedings.

"You hungry?" the woman asked.

"No," one of his voices said.

"You go to sleep," she said. "You'll feel a lot better in the morning."

[2]

He lay in the dark, waiting for what came next. The voices in his head muttered, but he didn't want to hear them now; he wanted to think of all the new experiences, the new sounds and sights and smells and sensations. He thrust at the voices, and they were gone. He thought nothing of this, was not even aware of having done it. Now he could give his full attention to the savoring of sensory impressions. There was no light here; but there were other things: the feel of the sheet under him, the lumpy mattress beneath that; the pressure of the bandages; the dull ache of his knees and the sharper, more insistent pain in his wrists. There were odors: a stale smell of cooking, a mothball odor from the blanket. And sounds: the moaning of the wind, the rattling of the sash in its frame, the soft, insistent drum of the rain. He knew what all these things were, drawing the knowledge effortlessly from behind the voices that clustered so thickly about him.

Blue-white light stuttered beyond the windows, followed almost at once by a terrific crash of sound.

Flicker. Panic surged through him. He sprang from the bed, ran for the door, seized the knob and twisted; but it failed to yield. Lightning dazzled again; this time the thunder was almost simultaneous. He howled and pounded frantically on the door. Feet thudded; the latch rattled and the door was flung inward, knocking him sprawling.

A gigantic figure clad in a billowing white garment stood silhouetted in the doorway, its head a mass of bulging coils. He yelled in terror and squeezed his eyes shut.

"What in tarnation's got into you, Mr. Harkinson?" Sister Louella demanded.

"You having a fit, or what?"

The man on the floor moaned and covered his eyes with his hands.

"What is it?" Les called, hurrying up behind the woman.

"He's afraid of the storm," the woman said. "That's all. Nearly scared me out of my skin, the way he set to yelling and carrying on. Now you get up, Mr. Harkinson."

He opened his eyes, rolled them around the room like a horse smelling smoke.

"Ah didn't mean it, Lawd!" he cried. "I ain't nigh ready, Lawd!"

"Ready for what?" the woman inquired, amazed.

"Ready fo' glory, Lawd!"

"Mr. Harkinson, you get up off that floor and stop this foolishness in the middle of the night!"

"You got de wrong pahty, Lawd. This po' sinner's name is Fedral Relief Thompson!"

"He's talking crazy," Les said. "He's out of his head."

"Just a minute," the woman said sharply. "He's possessed, that's what he is. You-Mr. Thompson. . . ?"

"Yas'm." The man spoke more calmly now; but he was still trembling.

"Where do you live, Mr. Thompson?"

"Up past Robeson's, down nigh to de crick."

"What town?"

"Neahest town Dothan." His voice shook as he spoke; his eyes roved the room. "What place dis?" he blurted. He scrambled to his feet, looked down at himself.

"Sweet Jesus, what I doin' here?" He backed away from the man and woman. "I swear, I ain't never messed with no white lady. No, suh. Not never, no suh-"

"Now, you just calm down, Mr. Thompson," Sister Louella said firmly.

"You're among friends. Nobody's going to hurt you. I just want to talk to you. Sit down, there on the bed."

He stared from the man to the woman and back.

"Y'all must be Yankee white folks," he whispered.

"Just sit down, Mr. Thompson."

He backed uncertainly to the bed, sank down on it, huddled there, looking up worriedly. Sister Louella pulled the chair over to face him and sat in it.

"Now, you came here for a reason, didn't you, Mr. Thompson? You have a message for someone, don't you?" Her voice was pitched higher now, and trembled with excitement.

"No'm I ain't got no message."

"You may speak to me, Mr. Thompson. Just tell me what it is that's brought you here. What's troubling you?"

"Ma'am, I don't know how I come to be in this place. I swear to Jesus I don't know." His voice shook so that it was barely comprehensible.

"Now, don't you be frightened of a thing," Sister Louella said. "Of course it's confusing for you at first. But you just be calm, and think, now. There's something unfinished on this side of the veil that's bothering you. You can tell Sister Louella. Speak now."

"Just let me go," he said. "Just turn me loose, now."

"Now, you buck up, Mr. Thompson. You've come here to tell me something. Speak, now!"

"Oh, Lawd," he said. "Oh, sweet Jesus."

"Speak freely, Mr. Thompson. Let's start with yourself. How long since you passed over?"

"I ain't never goin' drink another drop o' gin," he said. "I promise, Jesus, not another drop. Not ever."

"When did you die, Mr. Thompson?" Sister Louella demanded, sharply. Flicker. The man sitting, trembling, on the edge of the bed gave a hoarse cry and recoiled against the wall, gibbering.

"Mr. Thompson! Mr. Thompson!" Sister Louella was on her feet, bending over him.

"He's having a fit," Les cried. "He's crazy as a bedbug, Lou!"

"Mr. Thompson, speak to me!"

"Lemme be," he muttered. "Damn you, Trish, lemme be!"

"Speak, spirit!" Sister Louella whispered. "Who are you?"

"Get the hell away from me, Trish."

"As soon as you tell me who you are."

"I'm Dubie, damn you! You know that!"

"Good Lord," Sister Louella breathed. "Another spirit's took possession." Then, louder: "Speak, Dubie! What did you come here to tell me?"

"I'll kill you; I swear . . ." his voice died away in a mumble.

"You have no power over me, Dubie. Speak, now. Who do you want to contact? What's your message for this side?"

"Awrrr."

"He's addled, I tell you, Lou," Les declared. "He's a crazy man. Next thing he'll take a butcher knife to us!"

"Shut up, Les. Don't you see what this is? This is a natural medium. Probably don't even know it." She shook the slack figure slumped back on the bed.

"Speak, Dubie! You can deliver your message now!"

"I'll give ye a message: get away from me and leave me be or I'll cut your heart out!"

"I'm calling the sheriff!" Les cried.

"You'll call nothing, Lester Choate! Don't be a bigger fool than God made you. Dubie! Speak up, now! What's the tidings you've come to pass across to this side?"

"Lou, just a minute now," Les said. "I've been with you a long time, but if you start talking like you're starting to believe in this spook stuff-"

"Get out of this room, Lester Choate! Get out of my house. I've got my hands on the biggest thing ever come my way, and I won't have your black thoughts driving it away! Dubie! You still there?" Flicker. "Kurrrattt!" the man on the bed grated, rolling the R ferociously.

"Come on now; come through, restless spirit. Speak!" The man on the bed stirred. His eyelids fluttered. He stared up at Sister Louella.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

Flicker. "Ferd Malone. That's my handle. Wh ... where am I at?" He twisted his head to look around the room.

"Speak, Ferd Malone!"

"I need a drink."

"After, Ferd Malone. After you speak with me. What's it like on the other side?"

"Oh, boy," the man on the bed said. "Oh, boy, oh, boy."

"Look here, Ferd Malone. You've passed over, you understand? You're across the river now. What's it like over there?"

"Hey," the man said weakly.

"Tell me about death, Ferd. How did it come to you? How did it seem to you when you crossed over?"

"Dead? I'm not dead. My God, I'm as alive as anyone. I-"

"Face up to it, Ferd. You've died, but death is just a door, just a passage to a higher state. Now, tell me what it's like; what you've seen-"

"Call my lawyer. He'll tell you."

"What year did you die, Ferd?"

"You're crazy." The man tried to sit up, was forced back by the woman's powerful hand. "What are you trying to do to me?"

"You've got to accept it, Ferd. You've died and went to your reward. Now you're back, speaking through Mr. Harkinson here-" Flicker. "Harkinson," he said in a different tone. "My name's Harkinson. J. W. Harkinson."

"Drat. We've lost Ferd." Sister Louella sat up straight. "But I see it now: Mr. Harkinson's a spirit voice, too!"

"Listen, Lou-"

"If you can't keep quiet, get out of this room, Les," Sister Louella snapped.

"Now, Mr. Harkinson, you just relax. You relax and let the contacts come through-"

"I don't feel well. I don't feel well at all," he said.

"You're fine. You're just fine. You just relax."

"I have a bladder condition. I need medication."

"Sure, I'll see to that-just as soon as we get that message through here to the loved one on earth. Who wants to speak now? Just speak, you there on the other side. It's all right."

"I'll pay. I'll see you're well paid for your trouble. Just telephone my wife, Mrs. J. W. Harkinson, at 345-2349. Call collect. Reverse the charges."

"All right, Mr. Harkinson; I'll see your wife gets the message. You go ahead now."

'Tell her-tell her I've had a seizure. I... don't remember a thing. I woke up-and here I am. Tell her bring my pills. Tell her to get Doc Ferguson. Tell her hurry."

"Now, who's your wife, Mr. Harkinson? Where can I find her?"

"Right here in St. Louie. Parkside Terrace. You phone her at 345-2349. Tell her hurry."

"All right, Mr. Harkinson. Now what else did you wish to say to her? Any messages from other loved ones on the other side?"

"That's all. Just tell her to hurry with my medicine. I've been taken bad."

"Les-you got the number. Go call Mrs. Harkinson. Tell her we got a Class A Number One contact with her departed."

"Aw, just a second here, Lou-"

"You do's I told you!"

"She'll think I'm crazy."

Sister Louella turned a triumphant look on her partner. "Not if they's a Mrs. Harkinson at that number, she won't. Don't you understand, Les? We're onto something big-so big it takes my breath away!"

"I'll make the call," Les said. "But it'll be a wrong number, you'll see."

[3]

Sister Louella sat by the bed, crooning softly to the man who lay there, eyes shut, breathing through his mouth.

"Just rest easy," she murmured. "Everything's fine. . .." He opened his eyes; for a moment he looked vaguely about the room; then his expression sharpened; his eyes became alert.

"Amazing," he said.

"What is it, Mr. Harkinson?"

"Why do you call me by that name?"

"Les is gone to make your call, Mr. Harkinson. You just linger on here awhile."

The man raised himself on one elbow.

"You take it easy, Mr. H. You just lie quiet."

"Who are you?" the man asked sharply.

"Me? Why, I'm Sister Louella. I taken you in and made you comfortable here. You were in bad shape-"

"Louella who?"

"Why, Louella Knefter." She laughed an embarrassed laugh. "Been so long since I used it I near forgot."

"Where do you live? What town? What state?"

"Just outside Springfield. Look here, Mr. Harkin-"

"My name's not Harkinson. Poldak. Arthur Poldak." He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed. He looked down at his lean thighs; he touched his knees and winced.

"Absolute verisimilitude," he said. "Amazing."

"What's amazing?"

"Sitting here having a conversation with a hypnogogic illusion," the man muttered. "Tactile, auditory, visual-everything. It's perfectly real-as real as any other experience."

"Mr. Poldak-when did you pass over?" Sister Louella asked abruptly. He looked at her critically. "Are you asking me when I died?"

"That's right. When? What year?"

"I'm as alive as you are, Mrs. Knefter." He smiled, a crooked, not altogether happy smile. "You think I'm a ghost?"

"I'm a medium, Mr. Poldak. You've passed over-I know it may be hard for you to grasp that-they say sometimes a spirit has a terrible time understanding what's happened. But it's nothing to be upset about. You've passed to the other side, but I'm here to receive your message. You must have something you wanted to say to a dear one left behind." The man on the bed laughed again, a short bark. "I'm dreaming you, and you think I'm a ghost. Remarkable."

"You can speak freely to me, Mr. Poldak. Tell me about passing over-"

"What's the date?"

"Why, August 10-"

"Well, as of midnight August 9 I was still alive and kicking. I'm in my bedroom at home in Scarsdale, Mrs. Knefter. I'm asleep-or half asleep. And I'm dreaming all this. I'm a psychologist. This is my field, you know, dream research. Guggenheim grant, Columbia. I've been trying for an experience like this, but I had no idea-" He broke off, shaking his head.

"You must have died in the night. You're a spirit, Mr. Poldak. You're speaking through my, uh, assistant. He's a very sensitive medium. I've already spoke to half a dozen spirits on the other side tonight."

"I wonder . . ." the man looked at his hands, prodded the bandages on his wrist. "I wonder if we've been missing something?" he said, talking to himself. "Is there any possibility that there's something in the idea of the Ka? The wandering spirit that leaves the body during sleep?"

"You bet your sweet life," Sister Louella said. "I'll guarantee you, Mr. Poldak, you're not here in the flesh, no siree."

"I'm inclined to agree with you." He pinched the skin of his. forearm. "But it's real flesh. Or the illusion of real flesh. How can one be sure?"

"All my life I've wanted to know what it's like-passing over, I mean," Sister Louella said in a low, urgent voice. "Tell me that much; just tell me what it's like. Does it hurt? Were you afraid?"

The man looked at her. "I suppose in your own way you're as much an earnest seeker after truth as myself. All right-as a fellow researcher, I'll tell you all I know."

"Yes?"

"I went to bed normally. Had a little trouble dropping off. Usually do, since I ordinarily test various sleep-inducing routines. A matter of preparing the mind to dream, you understand. I remember feeling the onset of stage two drowsiness-my own term. Then-I was dreaming this. That's all."

"Just like that. No pain, no suffering."

"But I'm not dead, Mrs. Knefter. Somehow, I seem to be occupying a body not my own-or dreaming that I am-"

The outer door slammed; Les's voice swore. His feet tramped heavily along the hall.

"Hope you're satisfied," Les said. He stood in the doorway, slapping his wool cap against his leg. His jacket was soaked; water dripped from the end of his nose.

"What happened?"

"I put the call through, lady answered. Said she was Mis' Harkinson-and that her husband was sound asleep in bed. I asked her to go check, and she said if he was a corpse he was snoring pretty good. Thought I was some drunk. Hung up on me."

"Well-I declare." Sister Louella turned back to the man sitting on the bed. He stared back vacantly. Saliva ran from the corner of his slack mouth.

"Mr. Poldak?" she said uncertainly. The man made a bubbling noise and sank back on the pillow. Sister Louella stood up; her eyes were bright and intent.

"Les," she said. "We got us a medium here, all right. But not the ordinary kind. It's not the dead speaking through him. It's the living!"

"Aw, come on, Lou-you're raving."

"We'll see who's raving when we get rich on this." She lifted her charge's legs onto the bed, covered him with her blanket

"Go on to bed, Les. Adam is what we'll call him. Adam Nova. In the morning we start parlaying this poor drownded rooster into a million dollars cash." 4

[1]

In the days that followed, Adam's wounds healed. He was allowed to get out of bed, to wander about the house and grounds. In the alternation of dark and light, in the rhythm of his own sensations of hunger and sleepiness he had perceived patterns. Now the search for other patterns occupied his attention. He became aware of time as the matrix against which events occurred. At length, the distinction between an event and an act dawned on him. This was a most delightful discovery. He experimented, moving his body, touching things, making sounds. As a result of Les'

cursing and blows he learned to control the bodily functions of elimination, following the prescribed rituals. And always the voices spoke, sometimes faintly, at other times so loudly that the me retreated into dimness. He disliked these times; he fought back, at first feebly, then more surely. He learned to push the voices away at will, holding the me in control. The Les and the Sister Louella, also known as the Lou, were near him most of the time. Once, he remembered vaguely, they had not been near; now they were near. It was an observed datum, like other data. He was not curious about this, or any other abstraction. His mind was fully occupied in exploring the spectrum of sensation, of immediate physical experience. The Les and the Sister Louella spoke to him frequently. He made no effort to comply with their instruction and requests. The idea of linking actions to words had not occurred to him. He spent most of his time lost in thought, poking and prodding at himself, feeling the textures of wood and cloth and glass, making noises with his mouth.

One day he said "hungry." He had felt pangs in his stomach and had ignored them, as usual. But suddenly his mouth had formed the word. Sister Louella stared at him.

"You got a possession, Adam?" she demanded. In a vague way he understood that the word "Adam" was connected with the me. He gave no answer. He was busy trying his tongue in different positions.

"Food," he said.

"Who are you? Who's speaking?"

His mouth twitched. He felt a stir of irritation arising from frustration.

"Adam," he said.

"Why-why, yes, Adam. You're hungry?"

"Ham and eggs," he said distinctly. "Toast, butter, jam, coffee, orange juice." He paused, delighted by the sound of the words Always before the voices had made such words. Now it was different: the me was making its own words.

"Veal birds. Macaroni and cheese. Spareribs. Cream of wheat. Alberjawskrty." He paused, feeling that there was something wrong with the last sound.

"De viande," he said. "Frommage; poissons, l'escargots, de la bière, des fruites."

"Les," Sister called. "Come here!"

"Matt. Kött. Ost, fisk, knäckebröd. Hamelfleisch, bröt, schnapps, schnitzel. Carne, garbanzos, cerveza. . . ."

"Les, he's talking. Some gibberish, but some of it's just as plain! He said he's hungry. Wants ham and eggs!"

"Well, what's so wonderful about that? I could use some ham and eggs myself."

"Listen, Adam," Sister Louella said earnestly. "You want to eat, you have to ask for it. You understand?"

"Eat," he said.

"Now, you tell Sister Louella; say, 'I want my breakfast.' "

"Jam. Sausage."

"Say, 'Please, Sister Louella, may I have some nice breakfast?' "

"Eat. Hungry."

"Aw, hell, Lou, you can't teach no grown man to talk," Les said. "Give the poor dummy his breakfast."

"Give me my breakfast," the man said. "Eat. Hot. Salt. Hungry." Sister Louella beamed and patted his hand and bustled away. Les stayed behind, staring shrewdly at him.

"You wouldn't be pulling somebody's laig, would you, Adam?" he said softly.

"Shut up, Les," the man said calmly. Les jerked as if he had been struck.

"Don't you go giving me your jaw," he blurted. "I'm onto you, you slick little devil."

The man called Adam wasn't listening. He was busy discovering how far back he could bend his fingers before the bad-feeling became unendurable.

[2]

"We been feeding and coddling this feller for nigh two months now," Les said. He was sitting across the kitchen table from Sister Louella, over the scraped dinner plates. "You been letting your regular work go to hell-"

"You know I don't allow that kind of language in my house, Lester Choate," the woman said sharply.

"But you let this tricky little rascal come here and upset everything, make a fool of you-"

"That's enough of that, Les. I'm tired-"

"It ain't near enough. I've been with you a long time, Lou. I can't set by and watch some dirty little confidence man trick you out of house and home. I can see which way it's going-"

"You listen to me, Les. This is my home. I run it to suit me. If you don't like it, you're free to leave, just anytime."

"Don't think I don't know what's going on," Les said sullenly.

"What's that mean?"

"I can hear. I got ears-and eyes."

Sister Louella stared at the man.

"You been drinking."

"Where would I get licker?" Les muttered.

"You been drinking, after you swore on the Book you'd never touch another drop; and you sit here and insult me, and lie to me!"

"Wait a minute, Lou; I swear I never-"

"Don't go perjuring your soul to hell. Lean over here; let me smell your breath."

"Damn if I will," Les blustered. "I taken about all I aim to take off you, Lou."

"Dirty old bitch," a voice said from the door. "You're fat, and you stink, and if it wasn't for the meals and the bed I'd of been long gone." The man and the woman at the table turned to stare.

"Good Christ," Adam said. His eyes looked vague. "The dummy's reading my mind!"

"Don't believe a word of it, Lou," Les said, his words an echo superimposed on the other's.

"Adam!" Sister Louella gasped.

"Leave the dirty house to me," Adam and Les shouted. "He can't talk about you like that!"

Sister Louella came up out of her chair, caught Les' arm, threw him half across the room. She stood gaping at Adam.

"Adam," she gasped. "Was that you saying them things?"

"Sure it was him," Adam said, echoing Les. "You seen it with your own eyes, heard it-" both voices cut off abruptly. Louella turned to stare at Les.

"He's reading your mind," she whispered. "Speaking your thoughts out loud."

"No. He's tricking you, Lou," Les and Adam said.

"Shut up, Les! Not another word!" Sister Louella whirled on Adam.

"What's he thinking? Tell me, Adam. Speak it out!"

"I'll kill him," Adam mumbled. "Filthy hobo. Dirty, rotten, sneaky . . . coming in here, ruining everything . . . the old bitch believes him. My God. He's really doing it. Everything I think . . ."

Les covered his ears and jumped to his feet. "He's a liar, a trickster!" he and Adam shouted together. Les put his head down and charged past Adam, out into the hall. They heard his feet, taking the stairs three at a time.

Sister Louella sank into a chair.

"Adam," she gasped. "You really did it. You read his dirty little mind." She broke off. "Can you ... can you read mine, Adam?" He put his hands to his head, frowned.

"Sister Louella, can I have a cookie and some licker?"

"Read my mind, Adam. You can do it. Come on, honey, try for Sister Louella."

Adam looked at her, thinking of the cookie. He reached. ...

"Sweet lord, if this works I'll make a million," Adam said. Sister Louella uttered an exclamation. "Praise God, he's really doing it," Adam cried in synchronization with the woman. "He's really reading me. But-what if-Adam! That's enough! Don't read any more, you hear?" they said together. Sister Louella stepped forward and seized him by the shoulders, shook him.

"Adam, stop that now!" they chanted in unison. "Stop it! You got no right looking in a lady's thoughts that way!"

Flicker. Adam fell silent, staring at her vaguely.

"A real, honest-to-lord mind reader," Sister Louella murmured. "Why, I can't hardly see the end to what we can do together, Adam. Brother Adam, I better call you now. A man with a gift like yours. . . ."

[3]

It was three weeks later. Adam sat on a straight chair, alone in the semidarkened room. He was dressed in an elderly tuxedo, formerly the property of the late Mr. Knefter, a handsome costume with brocaded lapels and vest and a wing collar. Sister Louella had cut it down to fit Adam's slight body, which had filled out a little on a diet of macaroni, potatoes, chicken-and-dumplings, and apfel strudel. He got on the straight chair, his hair neatly combed, his body in a position that was somehow not quite symmetrical, his hands lying on his knees, one palm up, the other down, like a pair of objects that had been dropped carelessly. He sat quietly, studying the design of the wallpaper. His scrutiny was not purposeful, not even conscious. His mind automatically scanned data, asking what, but never how, or why. He noted the discontinuity where adjoining strips had been imperfectly matched. If asked, he could have given the number of rows of amorphous shapes that made up the design, horizontally and vertically; he could have drawn the outlines of the shapes themselves. In his thoughts there was no distinction between the important and the trivial. Having exhausted the possibilities of the wallpaper, his attention wandered to the voices coming from the next room. He had learned to sense the direction and distance of a voice-source, not deliberately, but in the same way that he had learned to trace audible sounds, instinctively. There were twelve voice-sources. He did not think of them as people. It would not have surprised him if the voices had issued from stones or trees. He did not, in fact, think of the sources as entities separate from the voices. He merely listened, observing, filing, recording. . . .

". . . sakes, nice turnout, didn't expect old Mrs. Kleek..."

".. . like stale cabbage, no housekeeper . . ."

". . . doing here, damned old charlatan, Lydia's idea, keep peace in the family, can't she see . . ."

Adam's attention wandered again. He was listening to the sequence and texture of the sounds given off by the house as it accommodated to the gusty wind that pressed against it, as if testing it for weakness. A mental image of the dynamics of the house formed in his mind. He saw where the stresses were, where the first failures would occur. . . .

". . . where are you? Answer me!" a more distant voice penetrated his concentration. This voice was different from the others; more urgent, more purposeful. The words "urgent" and "purposeful" did not come into his mind, but the concepts were there. He was not alarmed, merely interested.

"I'm Arthur Poldak! Answer me! Where are you?" The voice rang with a hard purpose; it intrigued Adam. He listened closely for more, but there was nothing, only the vague muttering subcurrent that underlay the voices. Adam's interest flagged. He played a game with the nearby voices, separating one from another, teasing a voice closer until he felt his throat tense, his tongue about to begin mouthing the words; then pushing it back, holding it at a distance, hearing it without letting it push the me aside. He tired of the game and devised another: tracing the lines of memory, re-evoking the past with the vivid clarity of total recall: back past the days with Sister Louella, his wanderings in the city, the concrete-floored cell. . . . There, all memory ended. It was as though a light had gone out, leaving his mind in darkness.

But not quite total darkness, he saw, peering past the barrier. It was like a corridor leading into darkness. He took a hesitant step, felt the parameters of his awareness close in almost to nothing. But a faint thread of dim consciousness remained. He followed it. Back. Back to a beginning. Pain, and the impingement of sensations in a chaotic flood. Light, sound, pressure, heat, cold. Now, standing outside himself, he was able to put words to the phenomena that had accompanied the birth trauma. He had been small, then, he sensed now. He saw himself as the days and weeks and years passed, growing physically, at last able to stand, to walk. But not to talk. Not to feed himself. Mentally, he remained an infant. Idiot, the word came into his mind. I was born an idiot. Vaguely, through the dim, unfocused perceptions of his early unformed mind, he saw the rooms where he had lived; the cot on which he had slept, the oversized highchair where the gruel had been spooned into his unheeding mouth. He lived again the empty hours of the endless days.

... He saw himself wandering through a door accidentally left unlocked, finding a place where things with sharp smells were stored: the asylum kitchen., He ate: sugar, lard, paper-which he spat out-cold stew, chocolate. A smooth, hard thing jumped from his grip and made a loud sound, and after that there were sharp pains in his bare feet, and red fluid had stained the floor. He sat down in the puddled liquor, cutting himself again on broken glass. He made unhappy, bubbling sounds-he had been taught not to make loud noises, at the cost of hundreds of hours of patient switch-wielding by a succession of sweating attendants. He licked his hands. The taste of blood and rum nauseated him. He vomited.

. . . His clothing-a loose coverall-was sticky and clammy wet. He pulled at it; cloth ripped. He tore away the garment. . . .

... He was outside. A dim recollection of running and jumping with the others took form. He ran down across a ragged stretch of uncut weeds, into sparse woods. Soon he tired; he sat on the ground and made bubbling sounds, but no one came. He rose and wandered on. Sharp things jabbed and scratched him. He ate aimlessly: leaves, bits of rotted wood, a small, feathered object with a foul smell that came apart in his hands. He vomited again.

... It was dark. He lay, shivering, making small, mewing sounds. He fouled himself, and made gobbling noises. He slept. . . .

. . . Daylight came. The trees thinned. Instinctively, he angled his aimless course to follow the line of least resistance. At times he halted and lay down, curling around the pain in his stomach. Then, without purpose, without awareness, he would rise and wander on.

. . . Night again. Cold. Pain. Then spots of bright light, coming toward him. The lights stopped. He emerged from the brush and into the dazzle, fascinated. Sounds. Men coming forward, making sounds.

"What the hell you doing out here stark naked, boy?"

"It's one of them damned perverts. Out cruising."

"Sonabitch is tore up. What happened to you, boy? Somebody roll you, take your clothes?"

He made bubbling sounds and reached for the shiny thing at the man's hip. A swift movement, a blinding light and a flash of pain.

... He was lying on a warm floor. There was movement around him, light that glared down from above. He opened his eyes and stared at it.

"Sonabitch's coming around. Hey, you." Something dug into his side.

"What's your name?"

"Leave me work on him, Sar'nt Dubell. I'll make the sucker talk plenty."

"You get out there and clean up the mess he made in the car, Kenny, like I told you!"

The sounds the men were making with their mouths had carried no significance to him; the conception that sounds might have meaning had never occurred to him. From time to time the man kicked him, lightly at first, then harder. He mewed and tried to move away from the pain, but it followed him. He gobbled and got to his feet, and a blow sent him back to the floor.

"Take him downstairs, Kenny. Sonabitch's a dummy. Must of escaped from someplace, maybe that home up to Belleton."

"Hell, you think he could of walked fifteen mile through wild country barefoot?"

"He's faking it, Sar'nt. Leave me work him over."

"Lock him up, Kenny. Then clean up where he puked over by the door."

. . . The man Kenny hustling him along a passage, down steps, pausing at the door. Clank of metal. Door opening, a hand thrusting him inside. A blow on the head knocked him down.

"I ain't soft like Dubell. I don't buy the act. And I don't like queers. You're going to talk to me, boy."

The beating went on and on. After a time, he was no longer aware of it. ... The door opened; Sister Louella came in, massive in dark blue satin. Her doughy face was slightly flushed. Her eyes had an unusual shine.

"Come along, Brother Adam, our guests are waiting for you."

[4]

"Just remember what I told you, Adam," she whispered, walking him from the room, along the hall. "Do just like we practiced. . . ." She held the new purple velveteen hanging aside. Faces turned to stare. Adam gazed back, noticing the variety of shapes and sizes and textures and colors; of hair growth and of baldness, the evidences of decay, illness, the effects of time and gravity. . . . They were all different, but all alike. There was a subtle and powerful pattern here which he could perceive, but could not grasp in its entirety. . . .

"Ladies and gentlemen, meet Brother Adam," Sister Louella was saying.

"Brother Adam, you set here." She guided him to the big chair with the carved mahogany arms, seated him ceremoniously. He settled into a random position, his eyes fixed on the wart on the cheek of the elderly Mrs. Dunch.

"Brother Adam's tired, he's spent the day meditating and composing his thoughts for this evening's session," Sister Louella said. "He's promised to do his best for you folks this evening; I've told him how much you were counting on him, how great the need was for his gifts." Several people shifted in their chairs. Sister Louella bustled across to pull the drapes closed across the front windows.

"Brother Adam works better in a subdued light," she explained. She had noticed how dowdy the tuxedo looked in the level rays of the late sun striking across the room.

"Now, Brother Adam's gift is not like my own," Sister Louella stated. "My work with the readings you all know; you know how much we can learn of our fates from the study of the character and destiny lines. But Brother Adam works more direct. He senses his truths by direct ether transference. Now, just to start off-Adam-I'd like you to tell me the names of these lovely people. Just start anywhere and go round."

Adam blinked; he raised a hand to his eyes, caught sight of his fingers, turned them over, peering closely at them. Someone shuffled his feet; someone cleared a throat.

"Now, don't go into a meditation, Brother Adam," Sister Louella said sharply. "Give me the names, start with Mrs. Kleek. . . ." He looked around the room; the name meshed with a pattern centered on the elderly woman seated nearest the door.

"Mrs. Emma Kleek," he said. He looked at the man beside her. "Mr. Horace Levy. Mrs. Doris Dunch . . ." He proceeded, calling off the names of all the people in the room; he hesitated, then continued:

"Lester Choate; Gus Pendleton . . ;" As he paused, Sister Louella spoke up:

"That's enough, Brother Adam, you've named all present. Now-"

"Hummph," Mr. Levy said. "What's that prove? Anybody could have told him our names."

"Well!" Sister Louella gave him a bittersweet smile. "I don't suppose you meant nothing by that, Horace." She used a thumb to hitch up a slipping strap. "Brother Adam, s'pose you give Mr. Levy a further reading." She gave him a look which an observer would have called significant. He caught her voice clearly:

"Tell his full name, address, wife's name, children. Give his birthday-not the year. Got to respect his privacy. . . ."

"Hyman Nicoliavitch. Levenowski," Adam said. "248 Shadyside Drive. Sheila MacKenzie Levy. No children. October 21."

Horace Levy sat up and uttered a grunt expressive of astonishment which he quickly covered with a cough.

"Very clever," he said. "Except he got my name wrong," he added. "And he says I got no children. What about Seymour?"

"What's got into you, Adam?" Sister Louella said, mock-playfully. The smile was a grimace now. "Now, you straighten up and stop funning with Mr. Levy."

"You change your name, Horace?" Mr. Grant asked, giving the older man a shrewd glance.

"What, me? Why should I ..." Mr. Levy's voice faded off.

"Why should I lie?" Adam said. "It's something dishonorable I should change my name? For convenience, that's all. It's not like I took a name like O'Reilly. . . ."

"Hey," Mr. Levy said weakly, gaping at Adam with his mouth open.

"Adam-you stick to what I told you!" Sister Louella's silent voice came across with a snap.

"What the heck, the boy's right," Mr. Levy said in a strained voice. "I was, uh, just testing him. I was born Levenowski, it's true. What I'm wondering, how did he know? How-"

"What about Seymour?" Mr. Grant cut in.

Mr. Levy took out a large, not-too-clean handkerchief from the side of his pants and mopped at his face.

"Should I tell them the boy is adopted?" Adam said. "Shelly's boy, from before-"

"Now that's enough out of you, you low-life!" Mr. Levy roared, leaping to his feet, pointing a plump, quivering finger at Adam. "You shut your mouth, you hear me?"

Adam shut his mind to the cacophony of voices, audible and inaudible. He closed his eyes, sorting out the odors in the air: human body-odor, leather, perfume, tobacco, dust, the stew Sister Louella had cooked up last night. .

. .

"Adam-sit up, smile!" Sister Louella's thought slashed at him. He opened his eyes. Mr. Levy was on his feet, his face red, his hair rumpled.

". . . and the rest of you, you should be ashamed to sit here!" he was saying. "You'll see, it's you he'll be insulting next!"

"Horace, now don't take on that way," Sister Louella said quietly. "Brother Adam didn't mean a thing. He was just mixed up, was all. You set down and let me give you a nice cup of tea and we'll go on with the reading. Adam, you speak to Mrs. Dunch now. Doris, you just set and Adam will-"

"Not me, no thanks," Doris spoke up shrilly, holding up a brown-spotted hand sparkling with rings, heavy with bracelets. "Just leave me be. I'll just sit here and listen."

"I'll be next," Mr. Grant said into the silence. He looked at Adam through narrowed eyes. "Go ahead, Mr. Adam. Tell me the same kind of things you were telling Horace."

"Adam-you remember what I said! Name, birthday-safe things!" Adam looked at Mr. Grant. He was a small, peppery man of about fifty, with reddish hair, gray at the sides, a leathery, freckled skin, pale blue eyes under bushy brows.

"Aneas M. Grant, Box 456, RFD Route 1. December 2. . . ." Adam's voice trailed off, his attention caught by another, deeper voice; a buried voice, faint and faraway.

"Idealia," he whispered. "Dead and gone these twenty-one years, but alive in my brain and heart every day and every night. . . ."

"Adam-what's that nonsense!" Sister Louella spoke up quickly.

"Be quiet!" Mr. Grant said in a choked voice. "Go on, boy."

"That September," Adam said. "So long ago; but only yesterday. More than I deserved, more than I ever dreamed of. I told her I loved her, and she said ... I love you, too, Aneas.

"Now, Adam-" Sister Louella subsided at Grant's curt gesture.

"Did wrong; did so many things wrong. I was a fool, lost the thing I wanted more than anything on earth. But I was young. I didn't know better. Now it's too late, and I'll regret it the rest of my life. . . ."

"Mr. Adam," Grant said in a strained voice. "Do you-are you in contact with her-in the hereafter? Is that .. . can you . . . can she-" He broke off.

"Damn fool," Adam said. "Taken in by this damned fool woman and her partner. Ought to have my head examined." As he spoke, Adam's face twitched into a variety of meaningless expressions; his eyes were fixed on the rosette of brilliant purple light exploding from the belly of the decanter filled with colored water that occupied the center of the doily on the table.

"Brother Adam! Now, you get aholt of yourself!" Sister Louella said shrilly.

"He's-reading my thoughts," Mr. Grant said. He came to his feet, his hands pressed to his head. "By the living God, he's actually reading my thoughts!"

". . . reading my thoughts," Adam echoed.

"You go on to Miz Abrams now-" Sister Louella said.

"Not me!" Mrs. Abrams rose, holding out a hand like a traffic policeman forbidding entry to a one-way street. "Count me out, Louella. Palm reading, yes, OK. It's expected. But feeling around inside my head-never!" Others were rising. Mr. Grant sat staring across at Adam. Everyone was talking. Sister Louella's voice rose above the hubbub:

"I was jest going to serve my special cake," she cried.

"Brother Adam has to rest now; let's just set down, everybody, and . . ."

"I'm going," Mr. Levy stated firmly; he picked his hat from the end table and placed it squarely on his head with an air of finality.

"Coming, Mr. Grant?"

Grant's face looked gray. He got to his feet, left the room without a backward glance. The rest followed, the talk dying. Sister Louella fluttered around the departing guests like a mother bird whose nest is threatened. A spotlight sprang up from a point just beyond the gate, illuminating the throng on the porch. Car doors clacked open. A large figure in khaki jodhpurs and a blue blouse with a sheriff's department patch appeared, stalking ominously forward.

"Why, Officer Pendleton," Sister Louella said, her voice pitched abnormally high.

The deputy halted at the foot of the porch steps, looking up rather uncertainly at the group gathered above him.

"Miz Louella, I, uh, got a complaint here. Uh, I, uh, hear they's fortune-telling going on here."

"Why, the idear," Sister Louella said weakly.

"I got a paper," Deputy Pendleton went on. "Swore to and signed." He patted his pockets.

"Signed by who?"

"Lester Choate."

"Ha! That little worm!"

Mr. Levy started down the steps with the air of a man with important business elsewhere. Deputy Pendleton stepped into his path.

"Hold on, here, Mr. Levy. I ain't through-"

"What, you're arresting me?" Mr. Levy demanded. He looked around at the others crowding down the steps. "He's arresting me? What's the charge?" He looked from Sister Louella to Mr. Grant to Mrs. Dunch.

"Wait a minute, Mr. Levy. I never said I was arresting you-"

"In that case, I'm going." He started past Pendleton, who backed to keep pace with him.

"You're a witness, Mr. Levy. I got to have your statement-"

"Statement? What statement? I'm visiting my acquaintance, what more is there? You got a law against this?"

"Mr. Levy, was there fortune-telling going on in there?"

"Fortune-telling? Me? Fortune-telling? I'm a businessman, Mr. Pendleton. You think I go for fortune-telling? A social call, no more." He rounded the deputy and strode away. The others were spreading out, edging past on both sides.

"Mr, Grant-what about you? Was Sister Louella offering to tell fortunes for money?"

"Horace told you: social occasion," Grant muttered, and kept going.

"Who you got out in the car?" Sister Louella asked as the rest of the party dispersed, with Deputy Pendleton standing uncertainly in the middle of the walk as they streamed past.

"Got Les."

"You tell that dirty little sneak to stay away from me."

"He signed the complaint," Pendleton said sullenly. "I got my duty to perform."

"What'd you expect to find here?" Sister Louella demanded. "Crystal balls?

Gypsy cards?"

"Les says you got some kind of loony here, Louella. Mam with a police record."

Sister Louella gasped. Pendleton eyed her sharply.

"So I guess maybe I better see this fellow. He inside?" Sister Louella backed away. "You can't. He ain't well. I haven't had time to redd up, place's a mess. You come by tomorrow-"

"Now don't give me trouble, Lou. I got my job to do. Let's go inside." He put a hand on the butt of the pistol at his hip. Sister Louella emitted a faint squeak, went up the steps sideways. At the door she turned.

"You got a search warrant?" she asked breathlessly. Pendleton pulled a paper from his pocket and slapped it on his knuckles.

"Right here, Lou."

"Well-you might's well come in, then."

5

[1]

Adam watched them come into the room. He caught fragments of panicky thought: "Adam-just set quiet, don't do nothing, don't say nothing out of the way, just answer his questions . . ."

The man halted in the archway from the hall and looked at him. He was a big, rangy man, well past youth, Adam sensed in him the stir of an animal urge to violent action inhibited by uncertainty, now that he was inside the house:

"Paltry-looking fellow. Sick. Fool woman taken him in like a stray cat. Wasting my time. That Les made a fool of me, big arrest, nothing here. . .

."

"Who's this?" Pendleton asked.

"That's Brother Adam. He's staying here with me now. To help around the place. I needed somebody once Les left."

Pendleton looked heavily at Sister Louella. "Les said this fellow come here a month before he pulled out."

"Well, maybe that's right. But he stayed on to help, me being all alone, and all." She attempted a simper, which caused Deputy Pendleton's jaw to drop. He cleared his throat.

"Where you from, Mr. Adam?"

Adam caught Louella's hasty thought: Out west.

"Out west," he said.

"Where out west?"

"Brother Adam come here from Phoenix, ain't that right, Brother Adam," Sister Louella said quickly, and shot Adam a grim flicker of a smile.

"Let him answer," Pendelton said sharply. "You a minister of the gospel, Mr. Adam?"

Adam gazed incuriously at him.

"Well, Lordy, with all this excitement Brother Adam looks to be coming on to one of his spells."

Pendleton raised a hand to scratch at his scalp, straightened his cap instead. He turned to Sister Louella.

"This fellow not quite right?" he enquired in a carrying sotto voce.

"It comes over him sometimes," Sister Louella said quickly. "He just kind of tunes out, like. But not violent nor nothing like that. Why, Brother Adam's that sweet-narured-"

"How'd he come to be here?"

"He was overtook by night and needed a place to rest his head, and-"

"A tramp? Hoboeing, was he?" Pendleton looked speculatively at Adam, as if estimating his weight.

"His car broke down on him."

"Where's it at now?"

"Why-" Sister Louella's mouth opened and closed. "I don't rightly know."

"Didn't he have it towed in?"

"Why-I never thought about it."

"How you know he had a car?"

"Then I'd like to know how he got here," Sister Louella said with a note of indignation. "Fourteen miles from town, he never walked no fourteen miles. Not in his condition . . ." her voice trailed off.

"What condition was that?"

"Why-why, he had a cold. Sneezing and coughing something terrible. Why, he could hardly walk across the room, not to say nothing about no fourteen miles-"

"Hey," Deputy Pendleton said, and his hand went again to the pistol butt.

"A couple months back-less'n a mile from right here-a stolen car, city cab, we found it off the road in the ditch. There was a tab out on a man-" He swiveled to give Adam a swift up-down look. He jerked the pistol from its holster, levered back the hammer, aimed it from the hip in Adam's general direction.

"Five eleven, one-twenty, brown hair and eyes," he said. "You'll do, mister. Get up on your feet."

Sister Louella yelped and lunged for the policeman's arm. He half turned and the gun went off as she crashed into him; the slug smacked into the plaster wall six feet from the chair where Adam had been sitting. But Adam, rising swiftly as Louella moved, had launched himself in a perfectly coordinated tackle. He struck the deputy at knee level; Pendleton went down and back, his skull smacking the baseboard with a dull impact. Adam rolled free, scrambled to his feet.

"Crazy goddamn gun-happy cops," he snarled. Pendleton uttered a groan and rolled over on his back. Sister Louella, knocked aside by the tackle, made gobbling noises and pressed both hands to her bosom.

"Brother Adam," she wailed.

"You got a car?" Adam demanded. "Yeah, you got a car . . ." His voice faltered. "Must get the car-go away," he muttered.

"Adam, what's got into you?" Sister Louella keened. "Oh, lord, what's going to happen to me now, you striking the deputy and all-"

"Sister Louella," Adam said. His voice sounded half strangled, as if he were speaking under a severe strain. "Get the car keys. Quick." She backed away from him. "Adam-you stay away from me, now. I always been good to you, Adam, you know that-"

"Won't hurt you," Adam enunciated awkwardly.

"Do as he says."

"W-who?"

"Walt. Walter M. Kumelli. Have to ... use him. His voice knows. Now do what I told you, damn you!" The last words came in a snarl. Louella fled.

[2]

Adam/Walter stood in the center of the room. Adam was most interested in what was taking place. Some of the urgency of the Walter voice had communicated itself to him, along with the strong distress emanations from the woman. When the stranger had drawn his gun, he had felt Walter push the me aside, had watched as Walt had attacked the policeman, had dimly felt the impact, noted the agility with which Walt had bounced to his feet. Tie him up, Walt dictated. Adam heard and understood; but he recognized that Walt referred to skills and concepts he did not possess. Voluntarily, he stepped aside, let Walt take over, while he, Adam, remained present, aware, not interfering. . . .

[3]

"Where we going, Adam?" Sister Louella asked in a voice that quivered with anxiety. Hunched over the wheel, squinting along the dusk-lit road through the dusty windshield of the nine-year-old Dodge, Adam gave no answer. The trick of balancing the Walt/Me equation, using Walt's skill and knowledge while he, Adam, retained overall control, required all his attention. The twilight was fading fast. The car wandering off the road, bumping on the shoulder. Louella screeched and grabbed for the wheel. Adam cuffed her back.

"Lemme alone, dammit. Want to wreck the car?" A pause. "Sorry, Sister Louella. Please ... let me .. ." His voice trailed off.

"Oh, Adam, I don't know what's come over you. You was never like this. That is you, ain't it, Adam? Not... ?"

"It's me, Adam. Walt is helping me ... got to concentrate." His voice hardened. "Something funny . . . feels damn wrong. Can't get any more speed out of this tub. ..."

"Adam, what will we do? The police will be after us, they'll send me off to jail, I couldn't stand that, Adam, why don't we just go in and tell 'em-"

"Get across the state line," Adam cut in, ignoring her proposal. He wiped a hand across his face. "Got to get a map. Need money. Make it to Atlanta . .

."

"Right here, Adam, I got a map." Louella rummaged in the dusty glove compartment, spilling out a broken plastic windshield scraper, a beer-can opener, gnawed pencils, a tattered Shell Oil Company road map, folded out to show the northern section of the state.

"Where are we?" Adam snapped, glancing aside as she held it out.

"Right here, about twenty miles west of Springfield."

"What's the next main road we cross?"

"That's State 42; just past Oakdale."

"We'll head south there. About fifty miles to the line. You got money?"

"Money? No, Adam, just some silver, is all, I never had time-"

"Got to have money." Adam stared fiercely out at dark weed-grown fields, scrub woods, billboards, power poles. Ahead, a shabby service station squatted by the road; faded pennants strung from the dun-lit pumps fluttered half-heartedly. With a squeal of rubber, Adam cut across the highway, swerved to a halt before the pumps. He picked up Deputy Pendleton's revolver from the seat beside him, thrust it inside his coat and got out of the car.

"Adam-what you going to do!" Sister Louella called after him in a frantic whisper.

"Shut up, damn you!" he snarled. Then he added, "I'm sorry, Sister Louella," and turned toward the station. Inside, a lean, round-shouldered man in a rumpled dark-green workshirt and pants was sitting on a folding chair reading a newspaper. He laid it aside reluctantly and came out.

"Fill her up?" he muttered, not looking at Adam as he went past him, headed for the pump.

"Right," Adam grunted. He walked toward the station.

"Hey," the attendant called after him. Adam looked back from the door.

"Nobody allowed in the office," the man said, and gazed up at the moving numbers on the pump. Adam stepped inside. The cash register was on a scarred, black-stained oak desk against one wall, under a calender showing a smiling girl wearing high-heeled red shoes.

"Hey, you!" Adam ignored the man's shout. There was a pay telephone against the wall, surrounded by a halo of penciled numbers and black finger marks. Dusty oil cans were stacked on a counter. There was cracked green linoleum on the floor. The room smelled of tobacco juice and sweat. The man was in the door, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"Out!" he snapped. "Who do you think you are, mister-"

"Where's the toilet?" Adam asked in a flat tone.

"Round the side. Ask for the key, I'll give it to you-"

"Get over by the telephone," Adam said. The man's mouth opened; his expression was a complicated one reflecting the pleasure of righteous outrage mingled with incipient fear.

"Boy, you get the hell out right now. Three sixty for the gas, and-" Adam jerked the pistol from his coat.

"Do what I told you, fanner," he said in a low, deadly voice. The man made a gargly sound and his legs began to tremble violently. His face looked suddenly gray.

"My God, mister-" He broke off and lurched past Adam to the telephone, turned to face Adam, his hands raised from his sides.

"Pull the wires out," Adam commanded.

The man turned, holding his eyes on Adam as long as possible, groped the receiver from the hook, gave it a feeble pull. The armored cable held firm.

"You can do better," Adam said. The man gave a hearty heave, and the phone flew from his fingers, banged against the wall.

"Get some cutters," Adam commanded. The man sidled past, his eyes flicking from Adam's eyes to the gun in his hand. He fumbled a drawer open, eased a hand in, came out with a pair of diagonal pliers. He went back to the telephone and cut the wire.

"Open that register," Adam said.

The man groped, got the drawer open, stepped back.

"Get it out, damn you; stack it on the desk." The man did as ordered. Adam reached across and scooped up the rumpled bills, not looking at the money, watching the attendant.

"Let's go around back," Adam said. The man's knees began to shake again.

"Oh, sweet mother of Christ," he wailed in a bubbly voice. "Don't kill me-"

"Get out there!" Adam snarled. The man tottered past him, out the door, Adam behind him.

"You got the money," the man said in a broken voice, "killing me won't help-"

"Shut up!" Adam handed him the key he had lifted from the hook as he left the station, a heavy brass key wired to a section of broom handle worn smooth and black by handling.

"Open the toilet."

The man had trouble getting the key in; he fumbled and clattered, got the door open. Adam caught his mumbled voice:

". . . oh, God . . . dead on the floor . . . blood on them white tiles. Dirty, fall in the urinal. . ."

"Don't be afraid," Adam said. "He won't hurt you."

"Wha?" The man stared at him, his face loose.

"Get inside."

The man took a step, hesitated.

"You ain't going to kill me, mister?"

"Just go inside," Adam mumbled. The images from the man's mind were fascinating; he studied them, overriding Walt.

"You can't get away with this," the man said. Adam didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on a point on the wall three feet to the left of the attendant's right elbow. The attendant was looking at the gun, watching the muzzle sink lower. He shifted, swallowed.

"Boy ... you put that gun down, now," the man said, his voice breaking on the words. Adam showed no sign of having heard. The man leaned forward, his hand coming up"Get in there 'fore I blow a hole in your guts!" Adam barked, and jerked the gun up. "Got to be careful," he went on as the tall man stumbled back, half fell into the room. "Can't let Walt ... but don't know. . . . Close the door, damn it! Lock it!" He jerked the door shut, turned the key in the lock, withdrew it and tossed it into the weeds growing up through the bumper of a derelict car. He turned and walked quickly back to the Dodge. Sister Louella peered out at him.

"Adam? What-did you do to that man. . . ?"

He didn't answer. He got in the car, started up, switched on the headlights, pulled out on the highway, and gunned away to the west.

[4]

They crossed the state line into Kentucky at half past eleven. It was almost 2 a.m. when Adam pulled into the driveway of a run-down motel with a broken neon sign reading

BIDE-A-WILE TOURIST COTTAGES

Vacancy

"What's this place?" Sister Louella inquired anxiously, awakening from an uneasy doze. "Why you stopping, Adam?"

"It's ... a sleeping place, Sister Louella. There are rooms. Each has a bed, a chair, a window-"

"I know what a motel is, Adam. Not what I meant What you mean, bringing me here?"

"We have to sleep," Adam said. He was fingering the steering wheel, studying the pattern of the cracks in the perished plastic.

"Well, the idea! You just drive us right on to ... to ..." Sister Louella faded out, staring out the window at the sagging black screen enclosing the porch beside the building bearing the sign "Office." A light went on inside. An elderly woman in a chenille robe appeared at the door, shading her eyes against the glare of the headlights.

Adam switched off the engine.

"Yes?" the old woman called. She came out on the porch, descended the steps painfully.

"Folks needing a room?" she quavered. "I have a lovely double, let you have it for twelve dollars, late as it is . .."

Adam gazed up at her as she came up.

"How many would there be? Just the two? Well, I'll tell you what, why don't I just let you have it for eleven. Ten, that is. I meant to say ten, see, after midnight we cut the rates a dollar. Or two."

"I'm tired," Adam said. He seemed to be addressing the horn button.

"How far you folks come today? My, I'll just bet you're beat, on the road all day and all. I have genuine Simmons mattresses in each and every room. We don't believe in the air-conditioning, gives a body sinus, but we have a lovely breeze this time of year. Nine dollars to you. Number one, my finest room. Handmade slip covers. Make coffee right in the room. Don't have television, noisy, you know. Private bath. Commode and shower. I'll tell you what, I'll let it go for eight dollars. . . ."

"Well," Sister Louella said.

"Lovely double bed," the old woman said.

"This . . . this is my cousin," Sister Louella blurted. "Second cousin. We'd want two rooms."

"Just pull right in there to number one, sir," the old woman said quickly. "I believe I can help you just fine. I just happen to have another room open. Right next door."

Adam obediently moved the car, parked it crookedly before a slightly asymmetrical frame cottage with chalky-white siding and a warped porch with two doors. The old woman unlocked them, snapped on lights. Adam followed Louella inside. There was a dowdy rug, a square iron bedstead with a threadbare coverlet, an upholstered rocker, a massive dresser with a mirror and a Gideon Bible, an easy chair with crocheted antimacassar.

"This is just a lovely room," the old woman said. "I've had more compliments on my rooms."

"How much will it run for the two?" Sister Louella asked sharply.

"That's eight dollars each," the old woman said, but hurried on as she saw Louella's lips tighten. "But I'll let the two rooms go for twelve-"

"Ten," Louella said. "Adam, give the lady ten dollars."

"Well," the old woman said. She took the proffered money, led Adam to his room, wished him a quavery goodnight, and left.

Adam stood in the center of the rag rug listening to the faint background susurrus of voices. He was learning to tune them down, shut them out at will. But they kept him company. There were so many of them, and they spoke of so many things.

The door in the side wall opened a crack. Louella peeped through, quickly withdrew, and closed the door. Adam went to it, pulled it open.

"Adam, what . . ." Louella said, staring at him uncertainly.

"Walt is gone," Adam said. "I don't like Walt." Sister Louella gave him an uncertain look. "Brother Adam . . . sometimes I don't rightly understand. I know you hear the voices and all. But how is it when you hear 'em?"

Adam thought about it.

"I just hear them," he said.

"No, really," Sister Louella said. "Set down here, Adam. Tell me how it is. Do they just speak up? Is it like someone talking out loud to you?" Adam sank into the rocker. "The voices are always there," he said; his eyes were vague, his mind focused inward. "Millions and millions of them. If I try

... I can ... tune them in. Like a radio. Or I can .. . shut them out."

"Can you pick and choose, Adam? Can you hear anybody you like?" Adam thought it over. "I can hear you, Sister Louella-but you told me not to listen in to you. And I can hear Mrs. Moody. Then, if I ... reach out. . ."

"Can you listen in on-say-the President? Famous people?"

"I don't know what that is," Adam said.

"Lord, Adam-what a gift you got, and don't know how to use it. Listen: before-in the car, on the way here-when you was talking so rough and all. You talked about a Walt. Like he was you. Is that how it is, Adam? When you speak in tongues do you turn into the other person?"

"Walt tried to push me away," Adam said slowly. "I didn't like that. But Walt. . . knew what to do. That's why I let him in," he finished with a note of discovery in his voice.

"But you can keep him out if you want?"

"Oh, yes," Adam nodded.

"And call him when you want him?"

"Yes," Adam said hesitantly. "He's there; I can feel him. But I don't want to

... I don't like . . ."

"That's all right, Adam, I don't want you to call up Walt. Walt's a mean man, Adam, you understand me? I think he'd do bad things. You want to stay away from people like that Walt."

"Yes," Adam agreed.

"But there's others," Sister Louella went on, "who're good. Nice people, important people. You can speak with them, too, Adam-can't you?" He looked at her in his slightly unfocused way, as if he was not quite listening.

"Adam, suppose you was to go out looking for a body; some movie star, say. Some singer everybody knows-everybody except you, I mean, seeing's you don't know much. I mean you got a whole lot to learn about the world, Adam. Could you find them?"

"I don't know, Sister Louella."

"Try, Adam. Take . . . take Mr. Billy Graham, now. He's a wonderful preacher. Reverend Graham. Can you summon him?"

Adam thought about it. The name meant nothing to him. His thoughts wandered. . . .

". . . listening to me, Adam!" Sister Louella was saying sharply. "I taken you in, stood up for you. You realize I given up my home, just on account of you? Not that I begrudge it. But you owe it to me to try, Adam."

"Yes, Sister Louella." Adam said. But his attention was divided between the woman who was present and the other woman some fifty feet distant, who was laboriously dialing the telephone. He listened to the hum of her mind as she peered near-sightedly at the numbers:

". . . gun. Right on the seat of the car. Bank robbers. Seemed ordinary, but you never know . . . drat!" Adam sensed that she had made a mistake and was starting over.

"Adam! You listen, hear? What I'm saying's important!" Louella broke in.

"Yes, Sister Louella. I was just listening to Mrs. Moody."

"Who's Mrs. Moody?"

"The old woman. The one I gave the money to."

"Land sakes. What's she doing? Not that we got any right to pry. . . ."

"Operator," Adam said. "Give me the police."

"Adam, don't say things like that. It's enough to scare a body. . . ."

"Just any police," Adam said. "I don't care what police. I live alone, you see. I manage the Bide-a-Wile Motel, out on 42, north of town. . . . Bide-a-Wile. . . ."

"Adam," Sister Louella gasped. "What-you mean-is that what-?"

"Now, see here young lady, it doesn't matter whether you can spell the name of my motel," Adam said. "Point is, I want to talk to the police .. . about a murderer."

"Murder!" Louella was on her feet. "Adam, she-the lady runs the place-is she. . . ?"

Adam smiled placidly up at her, not quite looking at her. Sister Louella rushed to the door, slammed out onto the porch. Adam followed, watching with incurious attention as she waddled across to the office, jerked the door open, disappeared inside.

"... of course I'm sure," Mrs. Moody was saying. "You think I'm in the habit-what's that? No, I haven't found a dead body," Mrs. Moody's train of thought swirled suddenly into a chaos of excited thought fragments:

". . . kill me-help-too late-run-"

He withdrew, feeling distressed. He had caught the fringe of Sister Louella's thoughts; they were not like her usual bland voice. There were fear and anger there, and other, even more elemental impulses. Adam closed his mind to them, let his thoughts wander to an analysis of the pattern of a spider web in the corner of the ceiling.

Louella burst into the room. Her hair was awry, her face a strange blotchy color, her eyes wild.

"Adam, we got to go-right now!" She caught his arm, dragging him from behind the chair, out across the porch, down the steps. He got behind the wheel.

"Get started, Adam," Sister Louella gasped. "Get away from here, quick, police'll be on the way already, hurry, Adam!"

He fingered the steering wheel, smiling at the instrument faces. Louella switched on the key, making a grating sound; the car lurched.

"Adam-you ain't forgot how to drive?"

"I want to sleep, Sister Louella," he said.

"You want to hang?" Sister Louella almost screamed. "I pushed her, and she fell! If she dies, they'll say I killed her! Start this car! Get Walt to help you!"

Some of her urgency penetrated to Adam. He realized that she wished to travel in the car now. There was something about Mrs. Moody that was unclear, but he hardly noticed that. Holding control, not allowing them to swamp him, he felt through the hubbub of available voices, found one that seemed somehow right, let it slip into his brain.

His hands went to the starter and the gearshift; his feet tramped pedals. The engine sprang to life; he felt himself backing, braking, accelerating forward, cutting the wheel.

His left hand switched on the headlights; his right shifted to high. His arms manipulated the wheel, swinging the car out into the highway. Resting quietly in one corner of his brain, Adam watched with interest as his body drove the car off into the night.

6

[1]

They slept in the car, parked in the shelter of a dense grove of live oak trees, somewhere south of Paducah. It was hot in the car, and the mosquitoes were bothersome. Sister Louella huddled in the back seat, while Adam stretched out under the wheel and slept soundly. It was barely dawn when the woman woke. She sat up, pushed at her hair, rubbed her eyes, straightened her clothes.

"Adam," she said. "Wake up."

He sat up, gave her his aimless smile.

"We need to find a rest room," she said. "A Howard Johnson, maybe. Someplace nice. Lordy, I feel like I slept in a haystack." Adam started up, pulled back into the road. This time he was hardly conscious of the mechanics of driving. They passed through a small town, at Louella's command stopped at an Uncle Rube's Flapjack House. Inside, Sister Louella disappeared into the ladies' room, leaving Adam to pick a table.

"Get a nice one by the winder," she commanded him. "Just look at the menu till I get back."

Louella returned, her eyes puffy and her face blotchy with insect bites; but she had washed her face and combed her hair. She seated herself and looked at Adam critically.

"Go wash up," she said. "I'll order." Adam spent almost a quarter of an hour in the men's room, the better part of it playing in the water. The patterns the soap scum made as the water drained from the bowl were fascinating. At length he wandered back out. Louella hissed at him as he sat:

"You give me a turn! I thought you'd went off someplace and left me stranded. How much money do you ... do we have?"

He took it out and showed it to her; she took it, counted it, tucked it away in her purse.

"Seventy-one dollars," she said. "Not much, but maybe we can manage for a while. But Adam-we have to figger out what we're going to do." The waitress brought plates of flapjacks, butter, syrup. For a few minutes they ate. Over coffee Sister Louella reopened the subject.

"Adam, you got a great gift. Question is, how do we use it? Straight mind reading's no good-not unless you got plenty of money behind you. In fact, I'm thinking we need to stop thinking about any kind of show business." She stared at him with an expression of concentration.

"You don't follow the pattern," Adam said.

"What?"

"The speech pattern. When you feel excitement, you adopt an alternate pattern."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Adam. We got more important things to think about-"

"Before," Adam said, "you used the locution 'we have.' Now you say 'we got'

..." He seemed to lose interest, gazing at the scattered grains of sugar on the table. "Randomness," he muttered. "Distribution patterns . . ." Sister Louella pursed her lips. "I can speak excellent grammar when I take the time. Mr. Knefter insisted on it. But sometimes ... but you're right. I need to pay attention to the little things. They're going to be important. But, lordy, Adam, where do you get all those big words?"

"I get the words from the voices," Adam said. "Sometimes I have a thought, and I don't know the word. But I... reach out and find the ... the concept in a voice, and I see the word connected to it."

"Adam, there's money in this," Louella said reverently. "Big money. And of course, service. That's the important thing."

Adam belched. Sister Louella jerked and gave him a look of outrage.

"Well! You got... you have no more manners'n a hog, Adam! You have to learn how to behave."

He scratched the end of his nose, went on to explore the nostril.

"Adam, stop that! You're a disgrace! No telling what you'll do next!" Adam paused, considering. He nodded. "I see . . . there are so many patterns. Patterns of behavior and patterns of exception to the patterns."

"Never mind that, Adam," Sister Louella said fiercely. "I'm not going to be partners with any man that picks his nose in no ... in a public place!"

"Partners?"

"Certainly. I'm cutting you in for a full share. You don't think I'd try to take advantage of you, do you Brother Adam?"

He smiled vaguely at her.

"Only thing is," she added, "we have to figure out just how to go about it. But don't worry, Adam. I'll think of the best way. Just you let me think it over awhile. Now finish your coffee. I don't like setting here with everybody staring at us."

[2]

Sister Louella bought a pack of playing cards at the J. C. Penney store at Pineville, Tennessee. An hour later, in a motel room south of town, she dealt out a hand of poker. She looked at her cards.

"What am I holding, Adam?"

"Five pieces of paper," he said.

"Adam, sometimes I forget just how dumb you are; how uneducated, I mean. What's on the cards? What numbers and such? What suits?"

"King of hearts," Adam said, "four of spades . . ." he named all five cards.

"My God," he went on dreamily, "he can do it. He can really do it-no!"

"Adam, you stay out of there! You just look at what cards I'm thinking of, that's all!"

"I'm sorry, Sister Louella."

"You have to practice," the woman said. "I can see this ain't-this won't be easy. You've got a lot to learn. Now . .." she dealt new cards. "Try again." Adam named the cards.

The next time, he made two errors. Louella looked at him indignantly.

"You were thinking those words," Adam said mildly.

"All right, I had the ace-king-queen and maybe I was thinking of the jack and ten, but you have to be able to tell the difference. You can't make that kind of mistake, Adam."

They practiced, Louella intentionally thinking of other cards than those she held. Little by little, Adam learned to distinguish the difference between thoughts of what was real and what was imaginary. He found the latter concept so absorbing that he spent most of the next few days-when not working with Louella-in sorting through the voices, examining imaginary concepts. In many voices, he realized, the real and the unreal were blended, sometimes inextricably.

[3]

"Adam, you got a million-dollar talent," Sister Louella was telling him. "I mean you have a million-dollar talent. There's no end to the wonderful works you can perform. But before we can bring your gifts to the world, we have to have operating capital, you understand? It's not the money, lord knows-but a body has to have cash on hand in this world before she can accomplish anything."

"Yes, Sister Louella," Adam said. It was merely a sound he had learned to make which had the effect of soothing the woman.

"So that's why first you have to raise us some funds," Sister Louella said.

"Not that I hold with gambling; in fact it will serve 'em right. They want to throw money away, why, who better than us to profit? In a good cause. Turn left here."

Adam obediently turned left. They were in a street of neon lights, windows with displays of liquor, small dine-and-drink establishments with photos of topless females decorated with feathers and sequins, bright-lit "book" stores placarded with announcements of adult material available inside.

"Park anywhere here." In the next block Adam found a spot. He parked the car deftly, with a casual skill that still surprised Sister Louella.

"That's the place," she said, indicating a bar across the street with a window bright with glowing beer ads and cardboard cutouts of women holding glasses.

Inside, they took a table. Louella ordered beer. When the waiter brought it, she gave him an arch look, and said, "Go on, Adam. Ask the man." The waiter looked at him.

"I understand a fellow can play some cards hereabouts," he said, with the rehearsed intonation of an amateur actor.

"Who told you that, Jack?" the waiter growled.

"Mr. Johanssen, at our hotel," Louella spoke up. "Mr. Nova-that's my, ah, my husband here, well, he likes his cards-"

"You got a bum steer, lady."

"Looky here, you, I paid five dollars for-"

"You got swindled. No action here, lady. Maybe you better blow; you and this sport you're with."

"Well, the idea!"

"Out." The waiter jerked a thumb. "Whilst I'm still being nice about it."

[4]

On the sidewalk, Louella soothed her feelings by talking loudly of the complicated vengeance she would exact, through legal channels, just as soon as certain parties unspecified heard of the incident.

"That's not real, Sister Louella," Adam said. "Why do you say things that aren't real?" He looked at her with interest.

"Well, I never! You got your nerve, Adam, after all I done . . . did-for you."

"It's pleasant for you, satisfying," Adam said. "Yes, I see that. When you speak as if a thing were real, it becomes real. In this way you can neutralize most of the aggression, and-"

"More big words! You got too many of 'em, Adam!

Sometimes I get almighty sick of you and your fancy talk, calling me a liar-" Adam was nodding. "Yes, by directing your anger at me, you relieve the necessity for verbal retaliation-"

"You shut up, Adam! One more word and I leave you right here on this sidewalk! You can beg all you want, but I'm through-"

". . . and by uttering empty threats, you achieve a temporary sense of power; a sense of having vast forces of reward and punishment at your disposition, without of course, being called on to exercise any such powers."

"Get out," Sister Louella cried, clapping her hands over her ears. "It's not you talking; it's some professor someplace. You're just like a walking grave-robber, you dip in anyplace you like and look at what a body's thinking, nothing's private from you, you pry and sneak and ... and . .." she broke off with a sob.

"Oh, lordy, Adam, what are we going to do?"

"I'm hungry," Adam said.

"That's just it-we haven't got any more money, Adam! Except for your stake, we're flat broke! I was counting on you winning something for us; I gave that Mr. Johanssen my last five-dollar bill-and now . . ." She snuffled, probing in her handbag for a handkerchief.

"They're playing cards," Adam said. "Hit me. Eighter from Decatur. Again .. . Little Joe.... Once more, lightly but politely-goddam, bust!"

"Where?" Sister Louella gasped, clutching at his arm. "Can you tell where?" The waiter emerged from the bar. "Go on, get moving," he snarled. "Tough luck, coppers. That getup wouldn't fool a kid o' six," he spat past Louella, and went back inside.

"He must be crazy," she said. "Come on, Adam. Find that game. Blackjack, they're playing, sounds like. You remember blackjack. It's the easy one. We'll find it and you just do like I taught you, and our troubles is over. Are over."

[5]

Adam led the way across the street at a long diagonal, being saved from being struck by a cab by Sister Louella's grab at his arm. He went fifty feet along the sidewalk, past a bright-lit grocery store featuring strings of onions, olive oil, heaped fruit, and wine in straw baskets, hesitated before the mouth of an alley.

"I don't like the look of this neighborhood, Adam," Sister Louella said. "Are you sure-"

Adam started into the alley; Louella plucked at his sleeve, then followed. A light bulb burned over a door twenty feet from the street. They went toward it.

"Adam," Sister Louella hissed as he halted before the door, "this time you take a peek at what he's got on his mind; see what's the right thing to say, hear?"

Adam cocked his head. "You wait back there, Sister Louella," he said. "They don't like women."

"Don't like women? What do I care what they like? Without me-"

"They wouldn't let me in with you. No women at all." Adam was looking dreamily at the pattern of cracks in the brown paint on the door.

"Why, the nerve!"

Adam knocked on the door: two, three, two. He turned to the woman.

"You'd better go now."

"But-you can't-you don't know how-Adam! You still got your ten dollars?

Will you be all right, alone? And where'll I meet you?" The door latch rattled; Louella fled. The door opened and a small, sandy-haired man in rolled shirt sleeves frowned at Adam.

"Yeah?" He took a cigarette from behind him and fitted it between his lips.

"Pittsburgh Ace said to say hello to Harv and the boys," Adam said.

"Yeah?"

"I'm in town a day or two. Just thought I'd drop by."

"Come on in." Adam followed the man inside. There was a hallway, dark brown with a light brown stripe. A light burned in the ceiling ten feet along. Light shone from an open door.

"Where do you know the Ace from?"

"The Coast; around. You know."

The man grunted, went along to the lighted door. Steps led down. The air had a cool, damp feel as Adam reached the lower corridor. Voices came from a room at the end. The sandy-haired man motioned Adam ahead. Five men looked up from a table as he entered the room. There were cards and money and glasses on the table, stark under a brilliant light with a metal shade.

"Who the hell's this?" a large man with bluish jowls barked.

"Charlie Webb," Adam said. "From Denver and San Antone. The Ace said look you up."

"Yeah?" The man lifted a cigar from an ashtray, drew on it, blew smoke out, looking Adam over.

"You just sprung, hah?"

"Yeah," Adam said.

"Yeah, you look kind of green. How's the Ace?"

"Not good," Adam said.

"Oh?"

"He's dead."

The big man nodded, seemed to relax. "You in on that one?"

"No. I just heard."

"What was that name again? Webb?"

"Ducktail, they used to call me, up Detroit way." The big man seemed to lose interest. He picked up the deck. "Let him in, Brownie," he said to the man on his left. Chairs were shifted. Adam sat down.

"Blackjack," the big man said. "Five ante." Adam slid his ten-dollar bill onto the table. "Deal me two hands," he said. The big man dealt. Adam looked at his cards. A king-ten and a nine-three, the small cards up. The dealer had a four showing. He didn't look at his down-cards.

"How about it?" he said, squinting through cigar smoke. Adam smiled vaguely. . . .

". .. ten coming up, bust him wide open," he caught the dealer's thought.

"I'll stay," he said. The big man frowned, went on to the next man. The ten broke him. The next two men stood on their cards. The last player took two cards. The dealer looked at Adam, peeled off a card for himself. A jack. He turned over his hole-card: another jack. He grunted and paid. Adam won the next five hands, including his deal, unavoidably lost two in a row when the dealer drew twenty-one, won four more straight.

"You're hot tonight, Webb," a paunchy, bald man said. "Anybody care if I deal a hand of five-card?"

"Go ahead."

He dealt. Adam looked at his cards. He had a 2-3-5-9 of mixed suits, a 9 in the hole. He opened for five.

There were a possible straight and two low pairs showing. The pot reached forty-five dollars. He raised, was raised back by the pair of eights. Three players stayed in. He raised again and all three folded. The pair of eights smiled lazily at him. "Pretty proud of that pair of nines, aren't you, Rube? Up five."

Adam saw the five and raised ten.

"Ten more," the eights said promptly. Adam saw the bet and raised another ten-the last of his funds.

"You nuts?" the pair of eights said angrily. He stared at Adam, then cursed and folded his hand.

"Looks like your bluff didn't run worth a damn, Sol," the sandy-haired man said.

"You're too damn lucky," the bald man said. "Who is this guy, Harv?"

"Brownie dealt it," Harv said. But he was looking thoughtfully at Adam.

"How much this mug bring into the game?" the bald man asked. "He's showed one ten-spot. He's got over two hundred of the game's dough in twenty minutes flat."

"Let's see what you got on you, Webb," Harv said. Adam didn't move. The man on his left stood, kicked back his chair, grabbed Adam's upper arms and hauled him to his feet.

"Check him out," he grated. The man called Brownie frisked him efficiently.

"The sucker's clean. Not a thin dime on him. The ten was it."

"That ain't nice, Webb," Harv said. "We don't like hustlers around here." He stood, balled his fist, and drove a short, straight right to Adam's stomach; he promptly doubled over and vomited his dinner on Harv's shoes. There were several more blows after that, and much swearing. His feet were bumping up steps; a door was being opened and cool night air blew in."

"Don't come around lots, palsy," someone invited, and then a brick wall struck him in the face.

[6]

Sister Louella used the ten-dollar bill which had been neatly folded and tucked in Adam's shirt pocket to buy iodine, Band-Aids, two Cokes, and two hamburgers, and one night's use of a hot, ill-ventilated room above a Chinese laundry.

"We ought to have the law on 'em," she said for the tenth time as she applied a bandage to the cut on Adam's jaw. "Over two hundred dollars you had, won fair and square-"

"I cheated," Adam said.

"They had no call to whip you! They could have hurt you bad, throwing you out on the pavement. I don't see why you didn't see it coming, and-"

"I did. But there was nothing I could do. They were much stronger than I."

"I declare, Adam-you act like you didn't care a thing about being robbed and beat-"

"Beaten."

"How can you think about grammar when you're bleeding in half a dozen places!"

"I don't think about it, Sister Louella. It's just that... I've listened to so many voices . . . and I've absorbed the underlying usage patterns-"

"You and your dem patterns!"

"Correct grammar is merely the commonly accepted form of the language. I've noticed-"

"Adam, I don't care a thing in the world about all that," Louella cut him off sharply. "I care about how we're going to stay alive until I figure out how we're to make the most of your gift! So far all we've done is run and hide, like scared mice. Why, it's ridiculous. You could be the most powerful man in the world-with me to guide you, o' course."

"I could get a job," Adam said.

"Job! You? What can you do? That's useful, I mean. I mean that somebody would pay you for? You're helpless as a baby, Adam. And you're frail. Nobody'd hire you-"

"Man-Ball Chong would," Adam said.

"What's that supposed to mean? I bet you're not even listening-"

"He's the man who lives downstairs."

"You mean that old Chinaman? Hire you? What on earth for?"

"To operate the steam press. Sweep up. Go for food to the restaurant on Apex Street. Talk to the customers. Write bills-"

"What's all this, Adam? When'd you talk to him?"

"I was . . . listening. Just now."

Louella gasped. "Lard sakes, I keep forgetting. In a way it's like you was some kind of magic, Adam. You can really hear what that old Chinaman's thinking?"

"Hwài ér dz. bù tiñg hwà de syí fu. bù gei chyán de kè ren taì dwo. O rè. Kêshr wo men de wâu li hái you fan. You fang dz."

"Lordy," Sister Louella said. "What's that mean?"

"Nothing. Just . . . aimless thoughts. But he needs a ching saû gung rém."

"I don't know what you mean. What's that, some heathen Chinese you were talking?"

"A man to sweep," Adam said. "Yes, he needs me."

"And you'd take orders from a Chinaman? What's he willing to pay? But you're not strong, Adam-"

"Two dollars an hour. One fifty if I eat in."

"Take the two," Sister Louella said quickly. "Now, just sit still until I get you patched up, Adam. We don't want that Chinaman thinking you're some kind of roughneck."

7

[1]

Life in the Chinese laundry was placid, serene, unvarying, and exhausting. Man-Ball Chong, after his first surprise on receiving a job application from a Caucasian, albeit a sickly-looking one, had been even more astonished to discover that the applicant spoke perfect, fluent Cantonese-of the dialect moreover of his home village, from which he had departed over forty years before. He had accepted Adam's offer-even conceding a salary of two dollars an hour, since the strange little man seemed to be adamant on the point-and put him to work sweeping, operating the steam iron, writing bills, and dealing with the Caucasian customers-and, after a few days, the Chinese patrons as well. They seemed pleased to meet an American who spoke Cantonese like a native of China.

Oddly enough, for all his willingness to work, Adam had declined to empty slops, act as servant to Madame Man-Ball or to young Tina Ching, his son's impertinent wife, or to swab the toilet. These chores remained in the province of the half-witted lad, Wing Lu.

The new employee had been remarkably quick to master the intricacies of the operation of the ancient," creaking steam-press, Man-Ball noted. When the apparatus acted up, as it did frequently, he had only to glance at it, it seemed, and Adam would at once take the appropriate corrective action, just as he himself would have. A clever worker, Adam-for an American. Man-Ball, after a few days, found himself feeling quite kindly toward his new employee.

On Wednesday of Adam's second week at the laundry, a trio of sleek-haired, olive-skinned, black-eyed youths entered the shop. Busy at the steam press, Adam hardly noticed their entry. Absently, he monitored their voices:

"Cuidado .. . chino viejo, gringo enfermizo . .. caja ..."

"Oscuro aquí-nadie puede vernos de la calle . . ."

"Me gustaría saber cuánto dinero-ganancias de todo el día . . ."

"Mr. Man-Ball," Adam said. The old man glanced at him impatiently. Adam did not look up.

"They're going to rob the store," he said in Chinese.

"What's that? They're what?"

"The biggest one has a gun. The one behind him has a knife. So does the other . . ."

Mr. Man-Ball stiffened for a moment, then smiled, bowed to the youth who had swaggered forward.

"Excuse please," he said, and reached under the counter, brought out a gigantic nickel-plated .44 caliber revolver of French manufacture, armed it at the putative customer.

"You will stand quite still," he said. "Adam-call the police." The three youths halted in mid-swagger. All six eyes stared at the gun. It continued to point steadily at the third pearl button on the maroon shirt of the leader.

"No disparará," one of the lads said.

"Gritaré," the others said. "Luego atácalo, Chico."

"No lo hagan, muchachos," Adam said. He had come over to stand beside Mr. Man-Ball. "Disparará, seguro."

"Who're you?" the leader of the trio said. "You work for this Chink?"

"Mario-you don't want to get Chico killed, do you?" Adam said to the third youth, who was edging off-side. Mario stopped.

"How do you know my name?"

"Mr. Man-Ball, if they leave and promise not to try it again will you let them go?"

"Jei syè rén de hwàa bù jr chyán," the old man said.

"Will you promise never to try to rob Mr. Man-Ball again if he lets you go?" Adam asked Chico.

"Sure." Not until tonight, when the old devil's asleep. We'll wreck the joint .

. .

"No, you won't," Adam said. "I won't let you, you see. I'll be listening."

"I didn't say nothing," Chico mumbled. "I said OK, sure, that's all."

"Give me your promise, Chico. Your real promise."

"I already-" Damn you-I'll get you"This is your last chance, Chico. If you won't give up the idea, I'll have to go ahead and call the police."

"All right, I said so, didn't I?" What is this creep, the evil eye, second sight.

. . Inobtrusively, under the cover of scratching his nose, chest, and other places, Chico crossed himself.

"You others-you promise too?"

"They do what I say," Chico snarled.

"They won't come back, Mr. Man-Ball," Adam said. "You can put the gun away."

"Get out," Mr. Man-Ball said, and waved the gun. The three boys fled. Mr. Man-Ball smiled at Adam and weighted the big revolver on his palm.

"Someday I must purchase some ammunition for it," he said.

[2]

Later that week, Adam discovered mathematics. In teaching him to play cards, Louella had pointed out to him the distinction between none and one, between one and two and many. But he had thought of each number as an entity in itself. Four was not two two's, any more than water was hydrogen plus oxygen. Like the Chinese ideographs he had learned to identify on the laundry slips, each number was unique. Then, late one afternoon, while folding the towels for the Iranian restaurant in the next block, he made the discovery that two ones were two; and two two's four, and two fours eight. ...

Completely absorbed in this astonishing revelation he had stood unmoving, staring at the patch of sunshine that slanted down through the grimy window above the moving garment rack, exploring its ramifications. He jumped almost at once to the concept of multiplication, from that to squares and cubes, then on to arithmetic and geometric progressions. The concept of algebra appeared dimly, tantalizingly"Adam," Mr. Man-Ball spoke suddenly. "Are you well?"

"Yes, fine, thank you, Mr. Man-Ball." Adam felt a little dazed, as if he had been spun in a centrifuge at high speed.

"You're a strange man, Adam. Sometimes I wonder ... tell me, what did you do before you came here?"

"Nothing," Adam said. "I traveled with Sister Louella ..."

"I see. Where did you learn to speak Chinese?" Adam had been warned by Sister Louella against disclosing his ability to hear voices unheard by others. "Oh, around," he said, and smiled, slightly out of focus.

"And Spanish. You must speak it well, else the youths who came here to steal money would not have been so tractable."

"They weren't really bad," Adam said. "They wanted money to buy things ... shiny, bright-colored things. ..."

"A man best heeds advice in his own dialect," Man-Ball quoted. "And one day I heard you speak to the India man, Mr. Balani, in yet another tongue. I wonder, Adam-why do you, a scholar, toil here as a laundryman's helper?"

"I like it here," Adam said. "It's peaceful. And you pay me money, and I buy food for me and Sister Louella."

"You must have traveled widely, to have mastered so many languages. You are a man of many abilities, Adam, though in some ways you seem curiously innocent. Your talents are wasted sweeping floors. Have you no desire to better your station in life?"

"Yes. Or Sister Louella does. She wants me to make a great deal of money, so she can carry on her Work."

"You are indeed devoted to your sister, Adam. An admirable characteristic. But what of you, yourself? Have you no ambition?"

"I want to know more about numbers," Adam said; his attention was wandering back to the magically complex structures of which he had caught the merest glimpse.

"Ah, numbers. So you are a mathematician as well. Hmmm. I have a nephew who owns an import business. He is in need of a bookkeeper, one who knows both English and the old tongue. He is an exacting man, but perhaps ..."

"Yes, bookkeeping," Adam said; he caught a glimpse of Mr. Man-Ball's confused concept of arithmetic, involving an abacus and his fingers. "I'd like that, Mr. Man-Ball."

"I'll speak to him. Though it will doubtless lose me the services of my handyman. But one owes it to talent to see to its flowering." Three days later, Mr. Man-Ball notified Adam that he had made an appointment with his nephew, Mr. Lin, for an interview. He looked at Adam critically.

"I don't wish to give offense, Adam," he said, "but your present costume might give LinPiau an erroneous impression. If my memory serves me rightly, you've worn that same shirt and trousers each day since you entered my employ."

"Sister Louella washes them-"

"Indeed. But there is a certain lack of dash in your selection of garments, Adam. You have a week's wages due you; why not come along with me-we have time before the meeting with LinPiau-and select a more flattering outfit?"

"Sister Louella doesn't like me to waste any money."

"One must spend in order to earn," Mr. Man-Ball stated firmly. "Come." He took Adam along to a Hong Kong import shop operated by a tiny wafer of a man with almost-black skin, straight, blue-black hair, piercing eyes, and an ingratiating manner. His name was Mr. K. Krishna, and he was both surprised and delighted at Adam's fluent Urdu.

"Certainly, Mr. Man-Ball, I will be so happy to assist you to select an appropriate suit of clothes for Mr. Adam. And underclothes, and shut and tie as well, everything, I have it all in stock, a fine selection, the best materials, and our tailors-"

"I know about your tailors," Mr. Man-Ball said in his utility English. "Chinese workers, sit cross-legged on tables in Indian factory, cut, stitch by hand, for five Hong Kong dollars per day."

The proprietor fluttered his hands. "As to that, Mr. Man-Ball-"

"No matter, Mr. Krishna. Show Mr. Adam plenty fine clothes, for man who will take important job."

Half an hour later, clad in a handsome suit of dark-blue worsted, a light-blue shirt, and a maroon tie, Adam looked at his reflection in a mirror. An impression stirred in his mind, triggered by the sight of himself thus clad.

"Haircut," he said. "Shoes."

"Ah-a good thought," Mr. Man-Ball agreed. He paid Mr. Krishna, led Adam first to a Thorn McAn, where he purchased a pair of imitation-leather, imitation-Italian shoes, then to a barber for a trim.

"A transformation," Mr. Man-Ball said afterward. "Mr. Adam, you now present the appearance of a man of substance. My nephew will be impressed. Please do not disabuse him."

[3]

Mr. Lin was a short, stout, neatly tailored man of thirty-five, with a round face, a receding hairline, thick glasses, and a brisk manner that bordered on the impatient.

"Well, Uncle Chong, come in, have a chair, you too, Mr. Adam, sit down, sit down." He gave Adam a sharp look. "I understand you speak Chinese?" he said in that language.

Adam smiled. "Yes."

"How many dialects?"

"Oh ..." Adam tuned in on Mr. Lin's voice.... "Mandarin, Shanghai, the coastal barbarisms . . ."

"Ah! Remarkable! The very ones I encounter in my business. I understand also that you're an experienced bookkeeper."

"Not experienced, perhaps, nephew," Mr. Man-Ball spoke up, "but skilled. Test him. Ask him questions."

"You know double-entry bookkeeping?"

Adam reached out, found the information he needed -in the mind of a man named Clyde P. Springer, in Cincinnati, as it happened-and delivered a short, concise lecture on double-entry bookkeeping.

"I guess you know your stuff, all right," Mr. Lin said admiringly. "Well, maybe I could try you in the position." Brother-if I can hire this clown ... start him at thirty-five a week, work him up to say forty . . . paid that last joker sixty-five. . . .

"What kind of salary did you have in mind, Mr. Adam?"

"Start me at sixty-five," Adam said. "I'm worth it."

"Forty," Mr. Lin said flatly. A bargain even at forty-If he can do the work . . .

"I'll start at forty-five," Adam said. "At the end of a month, you'll raise me to sixty-five-if I prove I can do the work."

"Out of the question."

"You paid more to the miscreant who absconded last week, nephew," Mr. Man-Ball said mildly. "Why not accede to Mr. Adam's request?"

"Well... for your sake, Uncle," Mr. Lin said grumpily, feeling pleased.

"When can you start, Mr. Adam?"

"I have some work to finish at the laundry-"

"He'll be free to report in the morning," Mr. Man-Ball said quickly. "Come, Mr. Adam. We'll take a cup of tea together before dinner."

[4]

Sister Louella yelped when Adam entered the room. "You give me a turn," she exclaimed. "Where'd you get the suit, Adam? Coming in like that. Why, it looks real nice. You didn't . . . how much did it cost, Adam? You know I told you-"

Adam explained about the suit and the job. Sister Louella uttered a little cry of pleasure when he came to the part about the forty dollars a week.

"Lord knows we can use it," she said. "Why, I don't know how we been keeping body and soul together on the thirty you been bringing in."

"I'm glad you're pleased," Adam said, his mind on the figures he would be working with tomorrow.

"Just don't go wasting any more cash on fancy clothes. Lordy, I could use a new dress and some things myself-what I had in the suitcase is just pitiful. But I can wait until you get your raise."

"That's nice," Adam murmured, lost in the intricacies of a mathematical analysis of the linoleum pattern.

Louella went on with her running commentary on the shortcomings of her present life by contrast with the rich, full existence she had given up in order to accompany Adam on his travels, as she got out paper plates (used for several previous meals but still serviceable) and napkins, assembled sardine sandwiches, poured out a soft drink for, Adam, a beer for herself. Adam ate abstractedly, replying to Louella's conversation absently; he had developed the ability to scan the surface of her thoughts sufficiently to reply with a word at appropriate points, while occupying his mind with other matters. By the end of the meal, he had thought his way through analytical geometry and was nibbling at the conception of calculus.

[5]

His first day at Mr. Lin's establishment was a hectic one. The office where he was to work was on the second floor of what had been constructed as a warehouse some sixty-five years before. Mr. Lin had walled off, painted, carpeted, and air-conditioned the front fifty feet of the upstairs loft. The ceiling was acoustical, the lighting indirect. An exceedingly pretty Chinese girl, whom Mr. Lin introduced as Lucy Yang, his third cousin, hammered a typewriter in the corner of the office. People came and went, telephones rang, while sounds of labor came from below, and shouts, horns, and engine-rumblings rose from the street. A Muzak system played innocuous tunes, which were audible in the interstices of the din. Mr. Lin assigned Adam a desk behind a three-sided, head-high glass partition, indicated a stack of ledgers and a filing cabinet, and took himself off, after suggesting that Lucy might explain anything that was unclear. Adam sat for a while, gazing at the wall and musing over the periodicity of the calendar hanging there. This led him to consider the structure of the week, month, and year-purely as abstract patterns, not as subjective entities.

"Something bothering you?" a melodious voice asked. Lucy Yang was looking across at him, smiling slightly. She wore a tight-fitted armless dress with a small stand-up collar, in shiny blue brocade. The slit in the side showed a pleasing length of smooth thigh.

"Why do three hundred and sixty-five days make a year?" he asked, hardly aware that he was speaking aloud. It was merely the verbalization of the question puzzling him at the moment. "Three hundred and sixty days would be simpler."

"Are you kidding?"

"No."

"Well, because that's how long a year is," Lucy said reasonably. "What's that got to do with the price of rice?"

Adam searched for a connection, failed to find one. "Tell me," he said.

"Tell you what?" Lucy rose and ambled over, leaned in the entry to the cubicle. "What's this about a year?"

"It seems arbitrary. If we used three hundred and sixty days instead-"

"How can we, when everyone else uses three sixty-five? And in leap year it's three sixty-six."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Something to do with making Christmas fall on the winter solstice."

"What is that?"

"The shortest day of the year."

"Aren't all days the same.. . ?" But even as he asked the question, Adam realized they were not. He had never consciously noticed, but it was true that darkness fell at an earlier time now than it had in the beginning.

"You don't seem to be very well informed," Lucy said. "For a bookkeeper." She had had two years of college, and intended to get two more, as soon as she had saved the necessary money.

"There are many things I want to know about."

"Like why there's three hundred and sixty-five days in a year." Lucy gave a charming little lift of the shoulders. "Let's look it up in the dictionary." Adam followed her to the large volume laid out open on top of a bookcase stuffed with advertising material, catalogs, price lists, and brochures.

"Here it is ... 'the time of one apparent revolution of the sun around the ecliptic.' "

"What is the ecliptic?"

"Look, Mr., ah, Adam," Lucy said, and flipped the book shut, "this isn't an astronomy class. Mr. Lin hired you to keep the books." Adam caught from her a sense of the meaning of the word astronomy... and stood transfixed by the concepts it implied.

". . . you OK, Mr. Adam?" Her voice was alarmed. "You looked like you were going to faint. Here, sit down." She helped him back to his chair.

"You sure you feel like working? You look awfully pale. Are you eating properly?"

"The world," he said. "The sun ... patterns ..."

"You just sit here, Mr. Adam. I'll get somebody-"

"No, I'm all right. It was such a marvelous thing... the ecliptic . . ." Poor guys sick ... crazy, maybe. Harmless, but... I'd better . . .

"Please excuse me," Adam said, making an effort to conform to the behavior pattern he sensed was expected in this situation. "I haven't been eating too well. I was just thinking about . . . things . . ."

"You sure you're OK?"

"I'm fine."

"Look, you can read the dictionary on lunch break; right now I think you'd better dig into the books. I'm afraid the last fellow left them in a mess... ." She lifted down a large ledger, opened it on the table in front of him.

"This is the current transactions. The last date is two weeks ago. Here are the invoices . . . receipted bills . . . check books ..." She rattled on, indicating the scope of the task ahead.

"You'd better start with these accounts receivable," she finished. "Match them up with the deposits, here . . ."

Adam looked blankly at the stack of papers. He picked one up, turned it over, and looked at the back.

"Have you been listening, Mr. Adam?" Lucy asked with some asperity.

"Yes."

"You understand what I said?"

"Yes."

"Well-why not get started?"

Adam smiled his vague smile.

"Look, Mr. Adam-look at the name on the bill, and see if it's paid. Here's the listing... . Oh, here, I'll help you to get started. What's that first one?" Adam turned the paper around and gazed at it, inverted. Lucy stared at him.

"Mr. Adam-can't you read?"

"Ah . . ."

The girl pointed a manicured nail at the words printed across the top: "Far East Imports, Inc."

"Far East Imports," Adam took the words from her mind.

"For a minute there," Lucy said, "I wondered about you." Good night, if Harry hired an illiterate bookkeeper.

Adam had noted the relationship between written symbols and spoken words before, but he had never been called upon to make use of the system. Now, as Lucy read aloud, pointing out the text as she went along, Adam swiftly analyzed the system, noting the multiplicity of symbols, the system of organization. He took their meanings from Lucy's mind, went on to apply the pattern to the next example.

"Well, you get the idea, Mr. Adam. Now read them off to me the way I was doing, and I'll find the check record here. . . ." Adam obediently read aloud the document in his hand. Lucy started to nod, then glanced over at the paper. She gave Adam a look half exasperated, half amused.

"Pretending you couldn't read-and now you're reading Chinese!" She laughed. "I think I'm beginning to get the idea, Mr. Adam. You've been kidding me-and I fell for it." She stood, still smiling. "I asked for it, sticking my nose in. I guess I sounded pretty snooty, asking you if you knew your job. I'm sorry."

"Thank you, Lucy. You've been a great help."

"Any time, Mr. Adam," she said gaily, and went back to her desk. 8

[1]

Adam had not been surprised by his ability to master the reading of both English and Chinese in a quarter of an hour. Nothing truly surprised him, since surprise implies expectation and preconception, and Adam had no preconceptions. He accepted the existence of everything he encountered as naturally as a child accepts the miracles of daylight and rain and the lights in the sky.

Neither did he find anything extraordinary in his ability to remember perfectly any datum which came his way. He had had no experience of the usual painful learning methods: the requirement for repetition of verbal symbolisms or physical acts necessary to impress the information on the subconscious filing system known as memory. His memory was exposed, naked, to the raw data. He received them as newsprint receives inked type, in toto, in precise detail.

While sensitive to all new information, endlessly fascinated by all that impinged on him, he was devoid of curiosity in its ordinary sense. He absorbed facts, followed lines of inquiry, stored data; but lacking all sense of amazement, he was never caught up in wonderment, beset by a driving urge to seek out answers, or attracted to a particular line of inquiry as potentially fruitful of astonishing new discoveries. Thus, having mastered reading, he read what fell into his line of sight; he never went browsing in search of new intellectual stimuli. He read colorful brochures detailing the advantages of postage meters and Kwik-Freeze Noodles; Chinese newspaper accounts of the observance of obscure festivals; aging correspondence from the files: whatever passed his desk, or fell under his eye in the course of bringing order to the chaos of the accounts of the Dragon Import Company.

He was a remarkably effective accountant, after the first few days of exploration of patterns. His particular habits of mind were ideally adapted to running down and searching out discrepancies, unhindered by any sense of boredom with the routine. He quickly discovered that the relationship between the figures in the ledgers and the actual transactions of the company during the six years of its existence was so tenuous as to be negligible. Mr. Lin, a highly perceptive buyer, a shrewd bargainer, a persuasive salesman, had no grasp of economics whatever. So long as there were sufficient funds in the business account to pay the salaries and bills, he questioned nothing. If, in spite of a steadily increasing volume of trade, that account seemed never to increase markedly, he attributed this to inflation and the rising cost of living.

As the placid weeks passed, Adam delved deeper, turning up leads, following lines of inquiry through dusty heaps of records, through cartons of retired files-Mr. Lin never threw any business paper away, possibly through some faint cultural heritage of respect for the written word. Adam assembled figures. He added and subtracted. He made comparisons. He compiled data. . . .

At the end of the fourth week, Mr. Man-Ball called on his nephew to inquire after Adam's progress. Having seen Adam almost daily in his capacity as landlord, he was aware that his protégé was apparently doing well. But knowing both Adam and Mr. Lin, he felt it politic to appear at this time to remind both parties diplomatically of the projected raise in pay.

"He's doing all right, I suppose, Uncle," Mr. Lin said offhandedly. "Stirs up enough dust, dragging all the old records out of the storage closet. Seems to love to root around back there, perfectly happy digging for figures, writing 'em down, adding 'em up. Strange fellow."

"And he has found all in order?"

"I suppose so. He hasn't said otherwise."

"Surprising-in view of the somewhat informal methods you've employed in the past as regards your balance sheets, not to mention the dubious circumstances under which your previous bookkeeper departed from the firm."

"As long as I have money to pay my bills-"

"I know. You're content. But what if the check to which your former employee was apprehended in the act of forging your name was not his only peccadillo?"

Mr. Lin waved a hand. "Nonsense. It was just a sudden impulse, and he got caught-"

"An accident. Foolish of him to make the attempt here in the neighborhood, where you're known by sight. Perhaps he'd been made careless by long success."

Mr. Lin frowned. "Well-I can call Adam in and ask him." He pushed a button, asked Lucy to tell Adam he wanted to see him. Adam arrived half a minute later, his hands dusty, cobwebs in his hair. He smiled his unfocused smile.

"Well, Mr. Adam," Mr. Lin said heartily, "you've been with us for almost a month now. Books all in good shape, are they?"

"No, Mr. Lin," Adam said.

Mr. Lin frowned. "What's the matter with them?"

"All the figures were incorrect. I've been correcting them. I'm almost finished."

"Incorrect in what way?"

The question confused Adam. Automatically, he reached out to draw on the knowledge of Mr, Clyde P. Springer, his usual source of clarification when confronted by a perplexity in his work.

"Funds have been systematically drained from the company since its third week of operation," he said crisply. "The method used was a combination of false billings and figure juggling. At first an effort was made to make the transpositions appear accidental, but for the last few years false entries have been made quite openly; I presume because no one ever checked the books."

Mr. Lin, impressed by the sudden briskness of Adam's tone, checked the automatic contradiction he had been ready to utter. He got to his feet.

"Show me," he said.

Adam showed him. For an hour he delivered a nonstop lecture on the inadequacies and inaccuracies of the company's records.

"The stock will be short by at least these amounts," Adam said, handing over a lengthy list. "I haven't checked the inventory lists yet, but there may be pilferage losses, too," he concluded.

"How much?" Mr. Lin demanded, tight-lipped.

"The shortage? I don't have the final figures, but something in excess of seventy-two thousand dollars in cash over the last six years, plus stock shortages."

Mr. Lin made a choking noise. "But-how could one man. . . ?"

"There were several customers in collusion with him," Adam said. "They're listed here." He handed over another neatly typed sheet. "And he was also assisted by the stock clerk, at least two of the drivers, and a warehouseman."

"How . . . how do you know all this?"

"It was an inevitable deduction from the pattern here in the records."

"Can you name the people involved?"

"Oh, yes." He did so.

Mr. Lin stood amazed at the revelation. "Tung Loo? He's been with me for years-and so has Sally Wu-and Chin . . . and they're back there right now, robbing me blind! Look here, Adam-how long have you known this?"

"Since my third day here."

"Why didn't you tell me at once? They've probably carted off another thousand dollars' worth since then!"

Adam was suddenly uncertain. "I... I didn't..."

"He undoubtedly wanted to give you a complete picture-to be quite certain," Mr. Man-Ball put in. "Knowing your loyalty to your old employees, he wouldn't have wanted to speak up prematurely."

"Old employees," Mr. Lin muttered. "We'll get to the bottom of this right now!" He started from the room.

"A suggestion, Nephew," Mr. Man-Ball said softly. "Would it not be wise, perhaps, to telephone your legal adviser? It would be desirable to take them all in one swoop, would it not, rather than to alarm them by precipitate action, perhaps allowing some of the birds to escape the net?"

"I suppose so," Mr. Lin said. He dialed a number, spoke briefly, and left the room. Lucy, who had been listening with total absorption to Adam's revelation let out her breath in a sigh of astonishment.

"Well! You certainly play them close to your chest, Mr. Adam!" He smiled past her and returned to the task of entering the last week's figures in the ledger.

[2]

Sister Louella was delighted with the hundred-dollar bonus and the raise to sixty-five dollars per week when Adam reported it to her that evening. The subject came up quite by accident when she made a comment on the trials she had endured in recent weeks, her usual dinner table conversation.

"How come you didn't tell me right away?" she demanded when Adam produced the hundred dollars and handed it over. "And you got your raise!

Well, it's about time. If that Chinaman knew what kind of rare God-given talent he's got setting down there scratching numbers on a sheet of paper .

. ." Then she fell to musing aloud on the improvements in circumstances the new affluence would provide.

For the first few days of their residence in the Man-Ball household, they had occupied a single room, Louella sleeping, fully clothed, on the bed, while Adam made himself comfortable on the floor with a blanket and a sofa cushion. On the day that Adam had entered Mr. Lin's employ, Louella had arranged for an additional room-a tiny box-room three doors from her own, formerly a storeroom-in which a cot was placed for Adam. The chamber's single window looked out on a vista of brick wall three feet distant-a view Adam had studied with intense concentration for most of one evening, analyzing the stress patterns in the structure from the design of cracks in the masonry.

"We can fix the room up, now," Sister Louella said. "Get us some nice curtains, and maybe a television. It wouldn't be a luxury-Lord knows I need something to occupy me while I'm waiting." She gave Adam the reproachful look which he had long ceased to notice.

"Course, I'll save the most of it," she added, tucking the bills away in her bosom. She had gained weight in the last month, on a diet of canned spaghetti, bread, sweet rolls, beer, and Chinese food which Adam procured at the restaurant three doors away and brought up in paper cartons. "And out of the sixty-five, I guess I could put away twenty. Now, with the eighty I already saved, in three months . . ." She sipped her beer, contentedly projecting her financial plans.

"When we have enough," she said aloud, "we can bring your gift to the world, Adam. And we'll do it right, this time. A lovely dress for me, you in your suit, hire a nice hall, print up tickets. . . ." Adam had been sitting idly, his head cocked at a slight angle not indicative of attention, merely a random placement. He had not been listening to Sister Louella's comments, having grown accustomed to the general tenor of her store of conversation, which contained nothing to engage his interest. For her part, she no longer expected answers from him. She was quite content to talk to herself, uninterrupted.

As usual when not otherwise occupied, Adam was listening absently to the voices that always murmured in the background. He had grown quite adept at sorting out one from another, amplifying one, tuning another out at will. He had gathered a great deal of data in this way-data that were of no more practical use to him than the fund of information in an encyclopedia is useful to the volume itself, and for the same basic reason: the impulse to make useful connections and act on the basis thereof was lacking. Now and then, Adam would recognize a familiar voice, as in a crowded city one occasionally sees the face of a stranger one has seen before. He had encountered a Mr. Wayne C. Chister, sensed in his thoughts a lingering fear of insanity dating back to a curious hallucination of a few months earlier. He had lightly brushed the thoughts of a Mr. Harkinson, and had hesitated for a moment, confused as to whether his name was Harkinson. . . . There you are-don't go away! I'm Poldak. Where are you?

Adam listened interestedly to the excited voices. He found it curious that the voice seemed to be addressing him directly, but the idea of replying to it did not occur to him.

I have to get in touch with you. Call me-collect. Area code 920, 496-9009. You must! I've been trying to contact you-looking for the woman-Louella Knefter . . .

"I don't think you should do that," Adam said aloud.

"What?" Louella said. "Do what? Plan for the future? Lord knows if I don't, who will?"

"I didn't mean that..." Adam's thoughts drifted on....

. . . like it, can't forget it, hit over the head and my gun took, by that damn little shrimp. . . .

"Adam! You listening to me?"

"No."

Sister Louella snorted. "Don't know why I waste my time, Adam. I think sometimes you don't appreciate a thing I've done for you, running off like I did, living here in such conditions. . . ."

[3]

There was tension in the air at the Dragon Import Company. Mr. Lin had fired five men and a woman; two of the men were now in the hands of the police department, lodged in jail. Mr. Lin had taken to patrolling the warehouse, the packing rooms, the shipping dock, staring suspiciously at his employees. His manner with his customers had also suffered; two firms whose proprietors he had long been in the habit of entertaining at long luncheons at Kwan Luck had been among those apparently-but not quite probably-implicated in the embezzlement. He had refused to see these former associates when they called, and had given instructions that no further orders were to be accepted from-them. Even Lucy Yang seemed subdued in her manner. Adam noticed none of this; or, more accurately, he noted the change, but attached no more significance to it than a schoolboy might to a change in the style of women's hats.

At the end of the workday, a week after retribution had descended on the thieves-who were doubly indignant at being caught out by a total stranger, and an American at that, after so many years of routine success-Lucy spoke to Adam:

"It's not your fault-you just uncovered it. And I guess we all knew there was a little hanky-panky going on, but of course we didn't know it was so big-I mean, I guess we just had the idea Mr. Lin could afford a little here and there-but what I mean is-everything's so different now. And they blame you, Mr. Adam."