Eye to Eye: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (18 page)

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, Ashton?"

"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
just want to establish intelligent contact of some sort. So you
finally devise a better microscope, and this baby will resolve
infinitely and—"