Eye to Eye Read online

  I said, "Let me get this straight. You are suggesting the possibility that I have already experienced some mutation as a result of a casual perception—or interaction, as you will—with the jinn."

  "You have it straight, Ashton."

  I had it "straight," yeah. And I would be straight out of my mind to go along with these people on this thing. Even if I knew who they were or what they were. But I did not know that, even.

  But, what the hell, I wasn't here for win or lose. I was here to play the game. And I'd probably found the most exciting game in town.

  Chapter Twenty: The Goal

  I was not entirely satisfied with my little visit with Laura Summerfield, but she was a very busy lady and I was obviously in the way. In fact, she made it quite clear that I was a distraction, so I got out of there and left her to her work. As I was crossing the yard, I noticed that the Maserati was in the clear. There was a brief debate with my inner self over whether I should or should not seize the moment and get the hell out of there. I lost that one, then lost another regarding the Walther PPK which, I presumed, still nestled in the floorboard compartment.

  So I went on to the big house, wondering if I was totally crazy—or totally mutated already and under the control of these people. Hey—if it happens in the movies it can happen anywhere to anybody. I believe the old maxim that anything conceivable is also possible, no matter how far out it may seem at conception. All science fiction, I believe, should be regarded as science future, because once the concept is there, the reality is not far behind. So don't grin at my state of mind on that Monday afternoon as I was strolling across Summerfield's lawn and forlornly eyeing my Maserati. I wanted out of there, make no mistake about it. With the same mind, though, I knew I had to stay and see it through.

  So I lit a cigarette and paused to palaver with a couple of Pala braves. Except that it was sort of a one-way palaver—a monologue, actually. Damn it, I knew these guys could speak English, but they concealed that ability very well.

  "Hi, guys."

  I was not even there.

  "Nice day for a slide on the ass down the mountain, eh?"

  I was standing where they wanted to work so they just worked around me.

  "Running Bear was really a squaw who decided to fuck housework. Or tepee work. Put on this bearskin, see, and proclaimed squaw lib. That's why you guys are out here with the brooms right now."

  I could not get a rise out of these guys, although one of them sort of, almost, maybe halfway smiled at his broom. I went on inside, visited the basement and received almost the same treatment down there. That whole team was really pumping adrenaline, now. Godzilla could have walked among them as unnoticed as I.

  I kept hoping for a peek, at least, at Isaac Donaldson, but could not even find a clue to his whereabouts. Esau was nowhere in that lab, either—nor was Jennifer. So I went back upstairs and just casually nosed about. It was a hell of a big house. I counted eight bedrooms besides the master suite apparently shared by Holden and Laura, that latter sporting two queen-size beds and two separate baths but rather Spartan in the decor—masculine, I suppose, if you want to gender it—nothing at all like the master suite at Isaac's place in Glendale.

  There was also a small maid's apartment and a couple of bunkhouse-looking rooms, a large but entirely functional kitchen—businesslike, no "gourmet" fripperies —a dining hall, and I do mean 'hall,' Holden's study and another, smaller, room next to it which served, I suppose, as the official library. I browsed those bookshelves and was moderately surprised by the range of interests displayed there—everything from the black arts to black holes.

  I found the man of the house in the bubble room—or what he called "the club"—idly playing, it seemed, with a small electronic calculator by the window. I helped myself to coffee from a silver service beside him, sat on the floor with my back to the window, tasted the coffee—all without greeting or conversation. He seemed elsewhere.

  After a moment, though, he musingly told me, "Make your career in science, Ashton. I made mine in technology. Oh, sure. Very profitable. Indeed. But..." He raised those great eyebrows for a quick scan of the surroundings. "Can't take any of this with me, can I. It's one of the verities, Ashton. We take with us only what we have given away."

  "One of the paradoxes, too," I agreed.

  Holden was in a mood. He lay down the calculator, took a sip of coffee, hunched forward on the edge of the big leather chair, said, "What's it all about, Ashton?"

  I replied, "Damned if I know, Holden. But we're here. Can't argue that."

  "Not arguing it. But, damn, I would love to understand why."

  I told him, "There was a saying at the academy: ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die. Or something like that."

  "Cannon fodder," he said.

  "Well..."

  "Certainly. Those who do without reason and the without reason are the unconscious sacrificial victims of those who do not. They are Vachel Lindsay's dumb, blind sheep. And they are led to the slaughter without even knowing that the slaughterhouse was built with them in mind."

  In a mood, yeah.

  "Have you read Lindsay, Ashton?"

  I admitted that I had not.

  "American poet. Died in...thirty-one, I believe. Poet with a social conscience. Can't say that I was with him all the way but—well, you know, Ashton... right thing can be said for the wrong reason, or in the wrong cause. And vice versa, I suppose. Lindsay was a socialist, I guess." The eyebrows wiggled. "Dirty word, what? He voted that way, on at least one occasion. And he wrote a poem to explain why. Called it, in fact, 'Why I Voted the Socialist Ticket.'"

  I tried to get a word in. "Well, politics are—"

  "See if I can get it right. These few lines alone justify the man's existence, pay his ticket for taking up room here. Let's see, it goes:

  I am unjust, but I can strive for justice.

  My life's unkind, but I can vote for kindness.

  I, the unloving, say life should be lovely.

  I, that am blind, cry out against my blindness.

  "Ho, what about that ticket to immortality?"

  I said, quietly, "Bully."

  "Bully, yes, damned right it's bully."

  I asked him, "What is your life theory, Holden?"

  "Life theory? Ten words or less, I suppose. Ho. Well, let me see. Can't take it with you?"

  I said, "Seriously. And take as many words as you need."

  "Ho, yes, I was serious. Serious in reverse, you see. Because you do take it with you. You take all of it with you, Ashton."

  "You mean..."

  "Not this, no, good lord no, not this," he said, with a sweep of the arm. "This worthless collection of atoms and molecules, frozen energy—these are merely the toys with which we placate our restlessness, Ashton. Good lord, who would want to take this trash with him? We do not take the things we build, Ashton. We take the things that build us!"

  I said, "Bully."

  "All of them!"

  "Yes?"

  "Oh, to be sure! Tear this man apart, Ashton. This man, me. Describe me without making reference to atoms and molecules."

  I replied, very quietly, "Smart. Wise. Beautiful. Good. Generous. Sympathetic. Curious. Kind."

  His eyes were watering. He said, "Thank you, but you needn't stick to the virtues. You might also add fearful, doubtful, resentful, self-indulgent, judgmental—oh, the list can go on and on. These are the things that build us, Ashton. Other than atoms and molecules, it is what we are made of. And it is what we take with us."

  "Where do we take it, Holden?"

  "To the next crucible, I suppose."

  "And where is that?"

  "Ho! Where is that, yes. There's the rub. Where is that! I have been peering through telescopes all my life. And let me assure you, my friend, I haven't the foggiest notion where is that."

  I had a random thought, so voiced it. "This whole universe that is perceptible through your telescopes, Holden..."

  "Yes, A
shton?"

  "Could be a single culture dish on a very unremarkable shelf in some gigantic but otherwise unremarkable lab, somewhere."

  He laughed quietly and replied, "I fear that this is true, in one variation or another, one magnitude or another. But it really does not answer the question, does it."

  I said, "Which question is that, Holden?"

  "What's it all about?"

  I reminded him, "There are very learned people who say it is about nothing at all."

  "Claptrap."

  "Very learned people."

  "We learn what we are prepared to learn, Ashton. Or conditioned to learn. Go looking for an accident, and you'll find one. Search for beauty and you will find that, too."

  "What are you searching for, Holden?"

  He looked at his hands. "I suppose that I am searching for myself, Ashton."

  "Good luck," I said quietly.

  "Good luck to you, too, my friend. You must help them, you know, Ashton, you must."

  I sighed and said, "Yeah. I'm going to do that, Holden, if I can."

  "You can, and you must."

  "Why?"

  "Don't get you, Ashton."

  "Why must I help them?"

  He turned those great eyes upon me as he told me, "Because if you do not, they shall never find the most cherished goal."

  "Themselves," I decided.

  He sighed, and squeezed my arm affectionately. "Exactly, Ashton, exactly."

  Chapter Twenty-One: The Test

  It was a very "interesting" experiment, yes.

  Before I tell you about that, though, let me get something into the record, here. I have never been one of that variety of "psychics" who dabble in so-called "spiritualism"—communication with the "dead"—mediumship. I have attended a few séances, out of simple curiosity, and I have known people who claim a close relationship with "spirit guides" who are ever ready to counsel and instruct them. However, since I have also never known anyone whose life situation seemed significantly enhanced through such "contacts," I just really never had a lot of interest in any of it. I mean, I'd never met a "medium" with a Nobel prize or any such measurable recognition for superior knowledge. Most of them I've met, in fact, seem to be singularly unimpressive in any area of knowledge, an observation which has not been deterred by the usual self-serving double-talk and smug mystery with which they would cloak themselves. I figure, hey, you'll know them by their fruits, not by their postures, and I've never seen much of a harvest from those trees.

  But, then, what do I know? All of life may be no more

  than a posture of one kind or another—and whoever said, in this modern age, that being "fruitful" is what it's all about? Oh sure, "God" said it to "them," back there "in the beginning,"—first chapter of Genesis, predating the later and obviously allegorical account of Adam and Eve and the garden in Eden—"be fruitful and multiply." Never could understand, then, how fruitfulness and multiplication (in the only way possible) became transmuted into the original sin in the Eden account—but then, we humans have never been particularly bothered by religious inconsistencies. In fact, there seems to be a human predilection for inconsistencies, which perhaps explains why some folk take their troubles to "the dead" instead of to certified, living problem-solvers.

  But what do I know?

  Damned little, as I was about to find out.

  I had presumed they were going to set up this thing down in the lab. You know, hook me up, instrument me in some manner or other—do brain waves and all that good stuff while bombarding me with jinn energy.

  They did not do that.

  They had Palas on the glass roof of the bubble room, cleaning and polishing it—inside, as well, and Esau was up there with them on a makeshift catwalk inside the dome, arm waving the placement of plastic sheets of some kind, about four feet square, in precise patterns. It began to dawn on me, then, that the room was being converted into a massive collection chamber of some sort—literally—a double-convex lens covering the entire room. In a sense, they were building a refracting telescope!

  While all that was going on, above, Laura and Jennifer fussed with calculations involving the angle and axis of refraction, plane of refraction and other esoterica, while the rest of the team scrambled about setting up focal lengths, or something, shifting the furniture about, moving stuff in, moving stuff out, trying circles, ellipses, triangles—much ado.

  During a pause in the activities, Laura came over to the bar where I'd been trying to remain clear of all that, and asked me, "What do you think?"

  I told her, "Best damn furniture movers I ever saw."

  "Seriously, Ashton."

  "Seriously," I replied, "I feel like you are about to place me in a culture dish."

  She laughed throatily, told me, “I’d never do that to you. How could I... ?”

  "How could you what?"

  She slid onto the stool next to mine and leaned close in a conspiratorial huddle. "Do you think," she whispered soberly, "it is possible to love one person and want sex with another?"

  I whispered back, "Possible, maybe. Or else..."

  "Else what?"

  "There are a lot of loveless marriages."

  "Oh. Okay. Well do you think it is possible to love one person yet find yourself falling in love with another person at the same time?"

  I stared at her for a moment then told her, "First, I guess, we must define love."

  "Oh that's too damn complicated," she said, frowning at me.

  "Let's try something simpler, then," I suggested in my normal voice. "Why do you suppose the jinn shine only on Palomar Mountain and the other place in Russia."

  "That is much simpler," she said, hoisting herself upright, then leaning against the bar and fixing me with a disappointed gaze. "They are both very obviously observatory areas."

  I said, "So?"

  "So what if you were out there somewhere, Ashton, looking down at earth through a very powerful telescope and—"

  "How far out there?'

  "Not so far that you could not pick out detail with your very powerful telescope. And—"

  I suggested, "Make that a microscope."

  "For heaven's sake why?"

  I said, "Pretend we are in a culture dish. Some gigantic entity is peering down at us through a powerful microscope."

  She wet those provocative lips with her tongue and thoughtfully replied, "Okaaay, yes, that's even better. Did you already know what I was going to say, Ashton?"

  I said, "Not exactly. I'm still waiting for it."

  She smiled and said, "Okay, there's this gigantic entity who—"

  I said, "Me, I'm the gigantic entity, and I'm at the microscope."

  She was enjoying it. "And as you are examining your culture, you see something that really stands your hairs up. You—"

  "I have hair, then."

  "Oh, beautiful hair. You see evidence of a strange, unexpected metabolism occurring in your dish. Well, by Jove, there appears to be something alive down there."

  "And I'm not eating that crap."

  "No way are you eating it. Something very interesting is happening down there. So you increase the magnification and go in for a closer look. Oh, yes, by Jove, look at all that activity—my God, I believe it's intelligent activity because just look at all that waste it's throwing up. Isn't this exciting?"

  "The joy of discovery," I said, smiling. "So then what do I do? Write a paper on it?"

  "Oh, dozens and dozens of papers. And oodles of experiments. And you begin to wonder if you might—just might—be able to communicate with your culture. You know, let it know that you're there."

  I said, "Yeah, I might try that."

  "Sure. And you try everything. But nothing works. It just goes on its independent way, showing you no attention at all."

  "Demoralizing," I said.

  "Oh absolutely. So you keep devising new and better ways to get its attention—I mean, you know, without upsetting the dish or—you don't want to actually interfere, you j
ust want to establish intelligent contact of some sort. So you finally devise a better microscope, and this baby will resolve infinitely and—"

  "Better than an electron microscope, even."

  "Sure. After all, Ashton, you are big. So you resolve infinitely and you begin searching for some positive, unmistakable sign of intelligent activity. Then one day, lo and behold, right there in your cross-hairs is something absolutely astounding."

  "Astounding?"

  "Yes. As you are looking down, into this tiny world, you get the very uncomfortable feeling that something is looking back at you. Eye to eye, so to speak."

  "Eye to eye, eh?"

  "Yes. So you resolve the focus a final time and what do you see?"

  I said, "Dan Rather."

  She punched my arm and squealed, "No, idiot! You see an astronomical observatory. Just like Palomar!"

  I said, "And I'm going to stain that sucker."

  "You bet you are. You're going to mark it and go on looking for other signs. So maybe you only find two that seem significant enough to mark. But, at least, you've got those two."

  I said, suddenly very sober, "Is that what we've got here, Laura?"

  She was just as sober as she replied, "How the hell can anyone know what we've got here, Ashton?"

  "Is that what you expect me to find out?"

  "No, of course not."

  "What, then?"

  "We're shooting in the dark."

  "Really?"

  "Well...in the twilight, anyway. We do have...certain expectations. But I can't tell you what those are. That would compromise the experiment."

  "You want me to go in dumb and come out smart."

  "You could put it that way."

  "What if I go in dumb and come out dumber? An idiot, say?"

  She showed me a tender smile, said, "Well, Ashton, at least you would be a lovable idiot."

  I said, "Lovable or not, I somehow get the feeling that I'll be going in an idiot. Do you people really know what you're doing?"

  "Not exactly, no. But we have refined our calculations to the closest possible...we think we know...look here, Ashton, we believe that we have ninety-eight chances out of a hundred to find absolutely no effect whatever."