Psychlone (17 page)

“Sure.” Archie ran off.

“If you were a grownup, I'd beat the shit out of you for what you just said to me,” the old man told Tim. “If I were your dad, I'd take a cane to you and raise welts all over."

Tim, deep inside, thought, This man is as nuts as the rest of them. Make them angry and they turn into animals.

The old man shook him by the arm until his joints popped. Tim screamed and the man let him down. Then his foot had opportunity to connect. The old man clutched his knee and groaned, going over backward. Tim picked himself off the ground, where he had fallen from the force of his kick, and ran.

He would find the bus, he would go to the bus station. He had to get to Lorobu. He was sick. He'd hurt somebody if he didn't.

Prohaska and Fowler toasted each other with cups of coffee in the restaurant booth. Fowler took a napkin from the dispenser and a felt pen from his pocket and began a list of priorities.

One, he wrote. Dorothy's bugged. Mollify her.

“We survived, at least,” Prohaska said.

“I'm not so sure I did,” Fowler said. “I left quite a few shattered personas in that cabin. How can I go back to designing and marketing computers after that? It would be anticlimactic."

“There's a story in it somewhere, but I'm damned if I can find the angle."

“You mean, who's going to believe us."

“Exactly. My station doesn't go for this sort of thing at all. I could sell a half dozen stories to the grocery store tabloids, but what good would it do? That kind of exposure only makes acceptance more difficult."

“So?"

Prohaska shrugged. “I still can't back away from it. There's something here that cries out to be investigated. You have a scientific bent—doesn't it interest you?"

“Yes, but I've fulfilled my obligation. I've shown that Jordan didn't kill Henry—that he was forced."

“And who will believe that? Just you? Were you out to vindicate their memory just to yourself?"

Fowler looked down at the table. “I don't know."

“Seems to me your job won't be complete until you convince the public at large there's something in the valley."

“How do I do that?"

“Not alone, that's for sure. Together, we might be able to make a dent."

“And what's your stake?"

Prohaska pointed to his bruised face. “Two stakes. One, well—let me ask you a question first. What's the prime requirement in a scientific experiment?"

“How do you mean?"

“Repeatability. Someone else has to be able to replicate the lab results, or witness the phenomenon. I'm almost certain the thing in the valley is willing to repeat its act over and over again. Like clockwork. Just add people. So I'm sitting on the biggest story of our time. First affirmed, studied demon. My second stake is revenge."

“Very well, then, how do we go about it?"

“First, we stay here in Bishop."

“Forfeit our jobs?"

“It comes down to that, doesn't it?"

“To follow up some.... “Fowler stopped, disgusted, and x'd out the list he had made on the napkin. He turned the paper over to start again. “Dorothy'll hate me. If we can bring the scientists and our beasts together on common ground, then we have something."

“Then we can sacrifice our private lives for a good cause.” Prohaska rubbed his eyes gingerly. “How much are you willing to sacrifice?"

“Willing isn't the word. You've brought up that old devil Duty again."

“So to speak.” The reporter grinned.

“Dorothy was pretty shook by what happened. I'm not sure she'll take to the idea of staying—especially if I forfeit my job."

“Where is she now?"

“Napping in the room. She doesn't talk about it."

“I don't blame her. How is Howard going to explain a beat-up car to his superiors? He's probably already making up a story."

“Demons don't pass in this society,” Fowler said.

“So we should abandon it, let that thing run amok after the creek freezes over, maybe kill more people? That's another reason we can't let it lie. We can call up Duke University."

“The hell with that. They're interested in ESP, not demons. And they don't know much more about it than anybody else. But...” He tapped his fingers on the formica. “I have a friend at UCLA, a physicist. Maybe we could show it to him, and he could bring another friend and show it to him, and we'd be on our way."

“What about the military?"

“What about them?” Fowler asked, frowning.

“They might be interested."

“How?"

“When I called my station, I talked to a friend, a broadcaster, and he said the nix is out on stories about Lorobu. The government has wrapped tape around anything having to do with the town. No one can get near it. We can report all we want, but we don't write stories unless we have information."

“So how does this connect with Lorobu?"

“Maybe your monster moonlights."

“Hell,” Fowler said, “it's purely a local phenomenon. It's trapped now, and besides, it never left the valley."

“Positive?"

Fowler held up his hands. “No, but I'd stake a few bucks that this thing and Lorobu have no connection."

“Maybe not directly. But you know the story about Lorobu, don't you? Everybody went berserk, started killing each other. Three people survived. In a hospital several days later, one of the survivors killed another and committed suicide by jumping out a third-floor window. Now doesn't that sound similar to what happened with the Taggarts?"

“Yes, but Sam, eight hundred people died in Lorobu."

“All the more frightening, isn't it? If there's no direct connection, maybe there's a generic relationship. Maybe they come from the same family. Big brother, little brother."

“That's crazy."

Prohaska laughed. “Then it has a ring of familiarity, doesn't it?"

“I think the thing in the valley is a natural phenomenon. What happened in Lorobu—” He stopped, frowning. “You know, Jordan Taggart said something to me ... about ants and sticks and things. He said something was going on, that he could almost feel it, and that we were ants being stirred up. And that this thing in the valley was another kind of bug, also being stirred up. Like a common stimulus—a giant, invisible stick.” He shook his head slowly. “I'm not sure that makes any sense, though."

“But shouldn't we tell the authorities anyway, have them check it out?"

“If we do that, we lose all claim to it,” Fowler said. “They'll slap a security rating on it just for the sake of practice. We'll lose everything."

“Even movie rights? Larry, we're not talking about a story property, we're talking about news and how to spread it around. That's a duty, not a privilege."

Fowler finished his cup and let the waitress pour him another. “I've got six thousand dollars in savings, enough to keep my life-style going for about three months, five if I let my beach apartment in Malibu go, and sell my Z for payments. Sell, hell, what Z? Well, if I turn in the insurance claim and get it passed, I can keep the money—if any—left over after completing payments. So five months tops. Then I'm broke, out of a job."

“So go back to LA and keep your job. Come up here on weekends and help me."

“And what about you?"

“I've got a novel payment coming in by the middle of February. I can muddle through until then. Larry, I think we're both honorable men. We can't let this pass."

“This is a theoretical question, but—why not?"

“Because it could blow the lid off our entire century. Consider—a living thing without a material form. This could provide a basis for ghosts, demons, even UFOs ... maybe even life after death."

Fowler looked out the window, squinting in the bright late-morning sunlight. “I have never thought of myself as a noble, sacrificing man. You know what this world of ours does to crackpots?"

“I have a fair idea."

Fowler nodded. “Okay, then, who do we show it to first? My friend at UCLA, or some military type?"

“Let's go the civilian route first."

Jacobs said his farewells to Trumbauer and Miss Unamuno, then followed Silvera across Main Street to an olive-green trailer parked on a dirt lot. A woman in a laboratory smock was standing near metal steps under a closed steel door, smoking a cigarette.

“Good morning, Colonel,” she said.

“Mrs. Beckett. This is Franklin Jacobs, a writer—"

“Yes, I've read one or two of your books, Mr. Jacobs. Pleased to meet you."

She was about thirty-five, with close-cropped red hair and a utilitarian appearance which almost belied a striking facial structure. Jacobs smiled his most charming smile and bowed slightly. “I enjoy meeting my readers."

“Until a few weeks ago, I thought you were full of the most intriguing garbage,” Beckett said, dropping her cigarette into the dirt. “Now I'm keeping an open mind. What does the Colonel have planned for you?"

“Mr. Jacobs is going to be an advisor,” Silvera said. “I'd like to show him the trailer."

“Certainly. Have you brought a specimen of ectoplasm with you?” Her smile reduced the sarcasm somewhat. Jacobs took a liking to her instantly. She had energy and conviction—if she were to oppose him, the fight would be an entertaining one.

“You'd be disappointed by genuine ectoplasm,” Jacobs said as she reached up to open the door. A red light came on above the entrance. “It's mostly water and dead skin."

She cocked her eyebrows. “This way, Franklin. My first name, by the way, is Judith. Not Judy."

“Of course.” The trailer was filled with electronic equipment, all of it used-looking, all carrying that overpainted, spotlessly clean stamp of military hardware. At the rear, through a door just light enough to escape armored status, were banks of quiet computers and memory consoles. These were less identifiably Army and looked like fresh installations.

“Mr. Jacobs has a B clearance for this project, Mrs. Beckett."

“That means I can tell you most of what I know,” the woman said, pulling a computer terminal out of concealment. “Do you know anything about computers, Franklin?"

“Next to nothing."

“This trailer is the coordinator and memory for all the research teams around Lorobu. We have microprocessors and small computers elsewhere, but by the end of the day everything has to be put through the unit in the back. On this side of the door is communications equipment, auxiliary terminals, and a hotplate for coffee. None brewing at the moment."

“Has any of it helped you discover what happened in Lorobu?” Jacobs asked.

“No. But we have all kinds of information. Would you like to see some of it?"

“Yes."

“What in particular?"

“What do you have on bacterial growth rates?"

She led him to a CRT and typed instructions into the keyboard. As he watched, growth curves and comparable norms of several major bacteria were quickly sketched. She punched a continuation button and three more appeared, and then again.

“We have a biology lab analyzing samples from around the town. This one here is particularly virulent—ever heard of post-mortem sepsis?"

“Yes,” Jacobs said.

“I'm surprised. It's not common any more. But if anyone conducting autopsies on the dead citizens of Lorobu pricked his finger on a piece of bone or a scalpel, and couldn't get antibiotics treatment, he'd probably die in great pain. They were all filled with streptococcal bacteria. Much more than would be expected, in fact. Their bodies decayed very rapidly—within twenty-four hours, before adequate morgue facilities could be set up by the police and National Guard. That morgue has been burned to the ground. We now conduct our biologicals in a special trailer parked near the elementary school."

“What about plant diseases?"

Silvera interrupted and said he had to attend to work in his office. “Mrs. Beckett, if you can spare the time, could you finish Mr. Jacobs’ tour?"

She frowned, then nodded. Silvera smiled and shut the door behind him.

“I'm not even a civil servant,” Beckett said. “The government called me away from a conference on genetic engineering."

“But the disaster wasn't caused by bacteria,” Jacobs said.

“No, that's already been eliminated. The increased growth rate happened after they died. Now the plants—you asked about them.” She requested more graphs and figures. “All the diseases are endemic to Lorobu, but their populations are greatly exaggerated. The plants died partly because of that—and partly for unknown reasons. Except for algae in the sumps and some hardy varieties of cactus and wild grass, all plant life is dead here."

“I think I know why there are so many little live things now,” Jacobs said. “Though of course my idea is from an unpopular viewpoint."

“Why, then?"

“For thousands of years, spirits have been blamed for plagues. Vampires were supposed to bring plague in Medieval times. Fairies could make people fall sick. Gods have been known to bring pestilence down on the unfaithful."

“And?"

“Whatever killed the plants and made the bacteria prosper, whether on purpose or inadvertently—the latter, I'd say, considering the undirected nature of the growth—was of a spiritual nature.” He paused and took a deep breath. “If a scientist will excuse the sacrilege."

“Not at all,” Beckett said, looking at him quizzically. “Silvera is putting you on as an advisor? They're getting ... desperate, pardon the expression."

“You haven't found anything you can blame on the Russians,” he said by way of defense.

“Not a damned thing. Shall we take a look at the other labs?"

Walking around the trailer and across the lot to a cluster of modular buildings, Beckett offered Jacobs a cigarette and smiled when he refused. “Are you into health foods and stuff like that?"

“No. I grow many of my vegetables, but I'm not averse to modern conveniences."

“I think your books were more upsetting to me than the Bermuda-triangle garbage. Probably because you tickled my metaphysical bone, and it hadn't been touched for years. All scientists have one, you know, except maybe B.F. Skinner. Even him; I'd be interested to be around when he's on his deathbed."