Martin Black passed a very bad night. Maintaining a mental block when
asleep is a major feat, especially when one has semantic instability
and a dream can so often be so realistic as to bring one's
consciousness awake and mentally screaming miles from the physical
being it has involuntarily left.
He dreamed with incredible regularity, waking five times out of
nightmares, five times strangely on the hour as though he had tied
some part of his mental being to the irresistibly moving, luminescent
minute hand of his electric clock. _Time is of the essence_, he had
told himself during the psi-visiphone contact with Joyce.
_Association!_
Two A.M. He had dreamt of Joyce, dreamt that Joyce had somehow
revealed the proposed transaction to BEB, putting Dodson on his trail.
Wide awake now, he forced himself to think of the options which must
be picked up the following night, options drawn so that not only the
landowners must sign them but both the realty outfit and he, as
Lawrence's attorney-in-fact, as well. Could he sign for Lawrence if
Joyce had spilled?... No, it was only a dream. Joyce was so _very_
stable!
Three A.M. He had dreamt of Standskill, tall, lean Standskill striding
through the lovely early morning along the Champs Elysees, moving
purposefully. He had even dreamt he had for a moment invaded
Standskill's mind and caught the lawyer's pounding thought, "Lawrence!
_Buy_, Lawrence!" Oh, but that would never do. The service psis would
catch Standskill, would test the ethics of it now that Joyce had
spilled, would cause Standskill to be disbarred. But Standskill didn't
know! A dream. _A lunatic dream._
Four A.M. The coincidence of the timing of his wakings struck him
then. For a moment the latest dream eluded him and then the sense of
airless cold, a bleak, cratered landscape, stark stars staring in a
lunar night swept coldly across his mind. He shivered, drew the
blanket over him, thought: _How many shares? Six thousand? I can do
it. I'll contact the broker in the morning. Six thousand at two
hundred per. One million two hundred thousand dollars._
But that would raise the price, the attempt to buy so many shares. You
can't buy a million plus in one stock without driving the price
up--_unless you manage to buy all the shares at once_! If only he
could persuade--psionically persuade--but he couldn't! It wasn't
ethical.
His mind drifted.... I'll call the broker in the morning. Perhaps he
can start picking up some of the independent shares when the market
opens. If only he could snag the four thousand that--what was that
name in Lawrence's mind?--yes, Redgrave! The four thousand that
Redgrave has! That would be a start!
Redgrave had always fought Lawrence tooth and nail. Lawrence would
derive vast personal satisfaction from seeing Redgrave an
_ex_-stockholder. Thankless cad! Investment in the corporation had
helped make Redgrave a very wealthy man. Lawrence stock was only part
of his vast holdings. Redgrave was definitely out of the red!
Black chuckled, then told himself that this was a grave and not a
laughing matter. Sleep was coming again.... _Out of the red. Grave.
Redgrave!_
Five A.M. He awoke in a cold sweat.... This time the dream came back
slowly, drenching him with fear as it came. It was sheer madness, this
dream! To have even considered investing in Lawrence Applied Atomics!
The Government would never condone the deal Lawrence was
contemplating--the Applied Atomics Corporation was nearly insolvent,
the BEB psis were investigating it....
Black tossed fitfully on the bed, seeking sleep desperately, seeking
to escape the black night pressing in, to evade the imagined--or was
it real?--probing minds of service psis.
Six A.M. He almost forgot the fears that had assailed him an hour
before. He realized then that in the last few minutes or seconds or
however long the latest transient phantasm had been in his mind he had
dreamt of his broker pacing a dimly-lighted chamber, muttering, "The
man's out of his mind. Economic instability, that's certain. Thinking
of selling good stock to invest in Lawrence Applied Atomics! Not that
Lawrence stock isn't fairly good, but he'll never make enough out of
the corporation's piles; the returns are not that great!"
8 A.M. Black stretched, felt strangely relaxed. He realized then that
as he had slept and, despite the fitfulness of his sleeping, his mind
had apparently gone on analyzing the possible reactions to the big
deal.
He arose, took a shower, shaved, ate breakfast. Then he went to the
visiphone and buttoned Charles Wythe, his broker, at his office.
"Charlie," Black said to the cadaverous looking man who answered.
"Where's the boss?"
"Went to see a psychiatrist."
"Why?"
"I don't know. What's on your mind?"
"I want you to do some selling and buying for me. Sell whatever you
like, but buy Lawrence Applied Atomics."
"Look, Marty, let's not go off half-cocked. Last year you had a sudden
brainstorm and remember what happened. Lawrence may be a good stock,
but it won't help you to build up to that thirty percent you need. Not
in the time you have to do it in. It's bad enough for you to take a
big licking once. Let's not be stupid again."
"Now, Charlie, don't be nasty. I want you to buy Lawrence as quietly
as you can. I want six thousand shares at the current price. Get them
for me."
"Are you shaken loose from your psyche or id or whatever?" Wythe
cried. "Do it quietly, the man says, do it quietly! You can do it
about as quietly as they launched the space station. Where do you
think I can get six thousand shares of Lawrence?"
"Why, you buy them!" Black answered innocently. "Isn't that what you
do down at the Stock Exchange?"
The broker groaned. "Sure, that's all I do. Buy, that is. But not
Lawrence. Look, Marty, see this chart? Yesterday was a big day for
Lawrence Applied Atomics. It was unusually active. Three hundred
shares changed hands. The day before it was one hundred. Once in my
memory Lawrence had a four thousand share day. That must have been
when Redgrave bought in. Now you tell me how I'm going to get you six
thousand shares, get them quietly, and get them at the current price!"
"Start buying," Black said, "because I've got a hunch you'll find
them. My mother had hunches, didn't she? Did she ever tell you or the
boss to buy the wrong stocks? Did she--"
"That was your mother, Marty. What about that hunch you had last year,
the one that cost you a couple of hundred thou--"
"That was last year!"
"So, what's changed?" asked Wythe.
"Maybe _I've_ changed, Charlie. Do it; that's all I ask."
"Okay, Marty. But I think you're out of your mind, especially with
what was on the morning news."
"And what was that?"
"Lawrence is in bad shape. He's not likely to pull through. They
operated last night, in case you didn't know."
"But that should drive the stock down!"
"Why? It won't affect the profits from the corporation's piles."
"No. I agree. But that's not the only thing that keeps the price up.
What about Lawrence's reputation?"
"Well, there's also a rumor about a government investigation of the
corporation," Wythe admitted. "That might have some downward effect."
"Buy, Charlie, buy! I'll ring you later."
Black rang off. He felt an overwhelming confidence. He had only one
small doubt in his mind--during or following one of those disturbing
dreams had he been sufficiently overwrought to have relaxed his mental
block, thereby letting in a fleeting probe from a service psi who
would then have gleaned, in a moment, knowledge of the proposed
transaction?
The unease waned. The exuberant confidence was in him again. The
prescience of Martha Black?
He went out and caught a heli-cab to the law offices. He'd be a good
trainee to the eyes and minds of anyone who might check. If the
service psis were on his trail, he'd show them how good a trainee he
was. He could check with Charlie Wythe later.
V
At ten A.M., Standskill's partner, G. D. Rich left the office to
attend court.
At ten-thirty A.M., a contact call came whispering to Black's mind. He
thought it at first a probe and blocked part of his mind; then
relaxed as it realized it was a psi asking with overbearing politeness
for him to connect the visiphone circuit. The mental touch seemed
somehow familiar, but it wasn't Joyce. He knew it wasn't Joyce; there
was something unsure and tentative about the whisper of thought.
Black psionically cut in the outer office visiphone connection. The
bell rang almost immediately. He switched on the inner office
instrument and a familiar face came in sync on the screen--that of
Peter Dodson, the principal administrative officer of the BEB psis.
Dodson's blondly handsome face showed concern. He said, "I wanted
visiphone contact, Black, because of an unfavorable report I've
received on you. I'll get to that in a minute. First, I'd like to
explain the background. As you may have learned from the news this
morning, we're investigating Lawrence Applied Atomics because of a tip
we'd received from Los Angeles that Lawrence is engaged in a venture
which will eventually affect corporation funds without proper advance
authorization.
"Finding that Lawrence had some dealings with Standskill in the past,
we thought that Standskill might be able to shed some light on the new
venture. When we were unable to contact Standskill, we sought to
contact you psionically last night, but found that your mind was a
completely unreadable jumble of nightmares, filled with phobias and
instabilities. We stopped probing then, realizing that you might be
seriously ill."
Apparently visual examination had convinced Dodson that Black wasn't
as ill as had been thought. Black felt the feather touch of a probe
coming now and he blocked, his thin face expressionless.
"I did have a rather bad night," Black said. "Association. Semantic
instability." He felt the tentacle of thought that was sweeping across
his mind.
"Well," Dodson said, his eyes probing from the screen, "it's obvious
_you_ know nothing of the Lawrence deal. Strange, though, since
there's a record of a call placed to that office by Lawrence
yesterday, and as far as we have been able to determine only you were
there and only you could have answered. How do you explain that?"
Easy now! The block is most difficult to maintain when you're lying.
Easy....
"There was a call," Black admitted, "from someone I don't know, a
fellow who wanted Standskill. Wouldn't say why or give his name. The
moment I told him Standskill was in Paris he said with some reluctance
that he would have to contact another law firm. The caller was
probably Lawrence. If you could describe him--"
"So Standskill's in Paris! The answering service didn't know that.
Well, that rules him out. Thank you, Black. Are you sure you're all
right?"
"Rather tired," Black said. "Overwork, I expect. The training is
rather strenuous, and I do wish you wouldn't probe. As you found in
psi school, my powers have a very delicate balance."
The probe withdrew hastily.
"Sorry, Black. Very sorry. Perhaps you need a rest. I'll be only too
glad to send through an order--"
"Oh, thank you, sir," Black said, trying to make it sound fervent and
properly subservient. He sent a thought of thankfulness after his
words, a weak one. He must not appear too strong.
Dodson rang off.
The coast was clear! They would not probe again soon!
Black immediately called Charles Wythe, found his broker's cadaverous
face puzzled.
"Marty, the market's crazy! I managed to pick up four thousand shares
within ten minutes after the market opened. One purchase. The broker
from whom I obtained them represented Dan Redgrave--"
"Redgrave!" Black almost shouted.
"Yes, Redgrave. He said Redgrave is plain cuckoo. Ordered him to sell
at one hundred fifty. Said he'd bought them at that and would sell
them at that. No profit wanted. Glad to get out in time to recoup his
original investment. What's cuckoo about it is that, except for the
momentary flurry when we picked up the Redgrave shares, the stock has
been rising all morning. It's up to two twenty-five as of this moment.
"Lawrence must have someone else buying regardless of the price. Three
concerns are still trying to buy at the present price. Ethics forbids
me to ask who their clients are. Not that they'd tell me anyway! Now,
look, Marty, do you want me to buy at that price, if I can, that is?"
"Well, I must have six thousand, unless Lawrence is buying and I'm
quite sure he isn't. See if you can find out who the buyer is, won't
you?"
"Everybody's crazy today," the broker said. "I'll call you back."
Wythe did, a few minutes later.
"I'm afraid it's no use, Marty. There's not another share to be had.
There's been news from the hospital. Lawrence has rallied. Although
he's still in a coma, his chances are good for recovery. Not only
that, but the Business Ethics Bureau has issued a statement to the
effect that the tip they'd received about Lawrence and a deal has not
been proved to have a foundation in fact. Those things have put the
stock way up. Everybody wants to buy Lawrence but nobody wants to
sell--except me! Let's sell, Marty!"
"Not on your life," Black said decisively. "And, look, we _must_ get
two thousand more shares! Get them, Charlie!"
He clicked off again.
So Dan Redgrave had sold at a ridiculously low price! Had his
consciousness wandered in those dreams? Had he psionically persuaded
Redgrave to sell? That wouldn't be ethical. But do ethics apply to
_involuntary_ acts?
His mind was in turmoil. He dared not exercise his psi powers again
just now. He feared above all the wrath of Dodson and the other
service psis. If they came to suspect that he had persuaded
Redgrave--that he had, according to Ethics, misused his powers ... he
knew only too well that there are ways of banishing psi powers,
insulin shock and other treatments.
And for all his present aloneness he was beginning to realize his
latent powers--powers which, when fully developed, would doubtlessly
bring him into contact with others like himself, with someone who
could share the fierce ecstasy of probing with the consciousness to
the moon, or even farther, at the speed of light at which thought
moved. No, perhaps he need not always be alone....
He went out to lunch, returned, called his broker. Wythe told him
there was no activity in Lawrence. The afternoon wore. A few minutes
before the exchange closed the broker called.
"It's hopeless, Marty," said Wythe. "Let's sell. The price is still
two twenty-five and nothing for sale. How about it? Three hundred
thousand profit in one day."
It sounded attractive. Black hesitated, then thought of Lawrence,
good, old would-be humanitarian and philanthropist D. V. Lawrence
lying in coma. Lawrence, whose dreams were in his hands now. He had
come to like Lawrence, the trail-blazer where there were so few trails
to be blazed. He had to help him. If worse came to worse he would cast
Ethics to the winds. He'd have to! His conscience couldn't permit him
to do anything else. He would psionically persuade at least one of the
other stockholders to vote Lawrence's way.
Well, at least his mind was made up. Lawrence would have his options.
And with forty-nine percent of the stock between them they could
gamble on getting a favorable vote.
"What about it, Marty?" the broker asked impatiently.
"Sorry," Black said. "The answer is no, Charlie! I want that stock."
He rang off.
Moments later his consciousness was on its way to keep the rendezvous
with Joyce high in the evening sky over Oklahoma, up where the blue of
the atmosphere turned to the black of infinity.
And moments later lights blazed over a table in a realty office in Los
Angeles where no one sat. But pens lifted and wrote....
"_D. V. Lawrence by Martin J. Black, his attorney-in-fact._"
"_J. F. Cadigan Realty Corporation by Richard Joyce, Vice-President._"
Another pen lifted with the invisible but delicate twist of a feminine
psi-touch.
"_Before me this ninth day of September in the year Nineteen Hundred
and Seventy-six Anno Domini psionically appeared...._"
The options were psigned, come what may!