* * * * *
As I was passing the desk on the way up to my room, the clerk called,
"Mr. Langston, Mr. Langston. Long distance call for you, sir. I was just
ringing your room. You can take it in a booth there, if you wish, sir."
I nodded and walked to the row of vp booths. Closing the door, I sat
down in front of the screen and picked up the mike. The visiphone screen
lighted and the speaker crackled. The chubby face and shoulders of
Carson Newell took form and floated on the plate.
"Wanted to be sure you got the latest dope on Grogan before you see
him," Newell said. "Just now got the report."
"Go ahead," I said.
"Well, then--" The boss looked up from his note pad. "About how long had
the telenosis been on you? How many days?"
"H'm. Don't know. It's hard to tell, if it's handled right. Weird
nightmares, daydreams, absent-mindedness, sudden impulses, optical
illusions--it can be telenosis, and it can be just you. I'd say three or
four days, but--"
"Wouldn't necessarily prove anything, anyway," Newell broke in. "Here's
the report on Grogan. Been out of Corrective for a little more than a
month now. Went directly to Memphis. Cleared up business affairs there,
then went to Palm Beach for vacation. Arrived late Tuesday
afternoon--four days ago. Took a suite in Space Verge hotel with four
quote secretaries unquote, and has refused to see anyone. No unusually
large baggage. No unusual activities reported. So much for that."
He turned a page of the note pad and went on: "Corrective Institute
record: responded favorably to treatment. Occupational training in
administrative accounting. Special courses in business and political
ethics. Now get this--it's the one thing that gives your hunch any
credibility at all. Three months intermittent telenosis therapy for
slight paranoiac tendencies. Response favorable. Dismissed from C.I.
after five years, three weeks and six days. Classification: Apparent
cure, but possibility of relapse."
We were both quiet for a while, looking at each other.
Then I said, "Well, I'll see him tomorrow. Remember, it's nothing but a
hunch--not even that."
"Be careful, dammit," Newell cautioned.
... I woke up sometime in the early morning, before it was light, with a
clicking noise in my ears. I lay there in bed, gazing into the darkness,
wondering, yet knowing, what would happen if the defense mech should
break down--if a tube should give out, or if some little coil should
prove defective.
The clicking stopped after a while, but it was a long time before I got
back to sleep.
* * * * *
I had no trouble getting an interview with Grogan. I'd known I wouldn't.
It was a simple matter of calling his suite and telling the
loose-mouthed, scar-cheeked "secretary" who answered that Earl Langston
would like to make an appointment with Isaac Grogan for, say, 10:30.
"Grogan ain't seein' nobody," the secretary growled.
"Ask him," I said.
The face vanished and reappeared on the screen a few moments later.
"Okay. Come up anytime you're ready."
"Fifteen minutes," I said, and replaced the mike.
I turned up the volume of the defense mech as high as it would go, and
left it in my room when I left.
The same hideous secretary, with the loose jowels and the deep, livid
scar on his right cheek, met me at the door of Grogan's suite.
"Th' boss'll see you in th' library," the bodyguard rumbled, and led me
to the room. The door closed, but did not click behind me.
Isaac Grogan was slouched on a sofa, hands in his pockets, looking at
the floor.