INTERVENTION (85 page)

One of the primitive steam locomotives was toiling up-slope from the vicinity of the White Mountain Hotel, pushing its coach. The trails crisscrossing the summit had the same yellow-paint blazes. The grass-like sedges were desiccated, but here and there tufts of alpine herbiage grew green and indomitable, speckled with tiny flowers.

...The shivering boy standing at my side, pointing, his mind detecting the first empowered mind not of our own family.

...Hikers ascending in a line from behind the cog track, and little Denis's farsight lending me a glimpse of the second miracle: Elaine.

It had all begun right here. It would be an appropriate place for the farewell.

The wind was stiff that day, blasting in from the west, and my eyes misted over. I felt again the strange aetheric vibrations and an eerie sense of looming presence. The mountain that was sacred. The mountain that had killed so many. The mountain that had heard foolish dreamers crying out to the uncomprehending stars, and nurtured wild tales of frost-demons and Great Carbuncles and flying saucers...

Bonjour Rogi!

I started violently. "Est-ce toi?!"

Arrange for the Metapsychic Congress to have its last supper on the mountain.

"Hah! And should I tell them who decreed the final squandering of their treasury?"

You will be able to convince Denis that the site is suitable. Your coercion is more effective than you think. After he has agreed and all the arrangements are in train ... yes, you may tell him about me.

"Grand dieu—you can't mean it!"

Be subtle. Choose your time well. Perhaps you can tell him that you have long since accepted me as a minor delusion—a harmless unconscious projection of hope. Of
reasonable
hope, not one forlorn on the face of it.

"You haven't been around here for a long time, mon fantôme. We Earthlings have made a botch of it!"

Perhaps ... Tell him anyhow. Tell him that he is right in clinging to the ethic of nonviolence and service. Tell him he is wrong about wanting to retreat to a low profile. The Mind of Earth must not fragment but coadúnate—grow and flow together in a sublime metaconcert of goodwill, a renunciation of selfishness that coerces the Intervention of the Galactic Milieu at long last!

"Now?" I cried. "When it's all fallen apart? You've got a weird sense of humor."

The Ghost said: Your nephew Denis can scan your mind and apperceive the reality ... if you yourself believe it to be true.

"Go away," I whispered, looking out over the western valley. "Leave me in peace. I'm only an old fool and no one listens to me, and there isn't a hope in hell that Denis or anyone else would take such a fairy tale seriously. Extraterrestrial redeemers are an old-fashioned aberration to psychiatrists like Denis. Jung even wrote a book about it! It's the perennial human desire for a fairy godmother or a deus ex machina to save us from our mortal folly—and I
don't
believe in it. So there!"

The invisible thing seemed to sigh in exasperation. It said: I hoped it would not be this way. Obviously it
must
be. Le bon dieu, il aime a plaisanter! Always the humorist ... So! Tell me Rogi: Do you still have the Great Carbuncle?

"The key ring?" I blurted. Digging in my hip pocket, I pulled out the silvery chain that held my shop and apartment keys. The little red-glass ball of the fob winked in the powerful sunlight. "This thing?"

That thing ... At the Congress, when the moment seems appropriate, you will once again urge Denis to unite his colleagues—and the Mind of Earth—in prayerful metaconcert. As a token of your serious intent, invite him to scrutinize the Carbuncle with his deep-sight.

"Just like that!" I laughed bitterly. "And how will I know this magic moment?"

The Ghost said, rather ominously: It will be self-evident. Do it without fail. And now, au revoir, cher Rogi. We may meet again soon!

A deathly chill smote me. I gasped, and my breath exhaled in a white cloud, and I realized that the temperature of the air had fallen precipitously. Stumbling, I turned to the sliding glass door behind me and hauled it open, flinging myself inside as if the frost-demons themselves were on my tail.

The manager of the chalet was there, and he said, "Oh, there you are, Mr. Remillard. When you didn't stop in again at my office, I thought you might have left—"

"We'll have our banquet here," I said. "I've made up my mind. Let's go to your office and draw up the contract."

"Wonderful!" he said. "You'll be glad you made this decision!"

"Somebody will be," I growled, and followed him back upstairs.

***

The following week I drove to Concord, where I had made an appointment with a consulting gemologist. He was understanding when I said that I'd like an appraisal of the Carbuncle while I waited—and watched. But as it happened, I was out of luck. He rather quickly ascertained that the chain wasn't silver, but a platinum-iridium alloy; it was also easy to determine that the flawless, transparent ball was not glass, but some other substance with a hardness of ten on Moh's scale.

"Now, ordinarily, that would suggest that we have a diamond," the gemologist said. "But a blood-red diamond would be fabulously valuable, and no person in his right mind would polish one into a spherical shape rather than facet it. So this may be some very unusual synthetic with a similar thermal conductivity."

My mind had gone numb. "Yes. That's probably just what it is. An old friend of mine gave me this. A chemist. Dared me to find out what it was. I think this is his idea of a practical joke."

The gemologist said, "To tell what this stone is, we'd have to do a crystallographic analysis with special equipment. That would run into money and take a while."

"No, no," I protested. "Why don't you just put down on your appraisal the bare facts you've told me. No monetary value of the stone, of course."

"Well, if that's what you want. You know, if this really were a diamond, it'd weigh upward of twenty-five carats. Because of the rare color, it'd likely be worth a couple million."

I forced a laugh. "Well, the joke's on me, isn't it?...Now how much do I owe you?"

The fee was fifty dollars. I paid it gladly, and tucked the appraisal paper into my wallet and the Great Carbuncle into my pants pocket. Then I went back to Hanover to wait for the third week in September, when the last Metapsychic Congress was scheduled to begin.

I didn't say anything to Denis about the Family Ghost, not even when the Carbuncle seemed to burn a hole in my pocket. The Ghost was welcome to make a fool of me if it could; but I was damned if I would make a fool of myself.

BRETTON WOODS, NEW HAMPSHIRE, EARTH

21
SEPTEMBER
2013

S
WIFTLY, BEFORE ANY
early risers who shared Ilya and Katie's apprehensions could spot him and detain him, old Pyotr Sakhvadze slipped outside the grand hotel into dawn silence. He hurried across the dry lawn, noting that the absence of dew probably signified that rain was on the way. The sky was bright with a high overcast. It would be too bad if lowering clouds spoiled the view from the Summit Chalet during the banquet that evening, but a bit of thunder and lightning might actually liven things up.

Here and there among the beds of chrysanthemums and the formal evergreen plantations lay incongruous masses of litter—broken placards, torn banners, scattered leaflets, some beer and pop cans and snack-food wrappers—mementos of the crowd of antioperant pickets that had invaded the resort grounds last night. All throughout the week-long Metapsychic Congress there had been small groups of Sons of Earth demonstrators parading outside the main entrance of the complex; but several hundred had shown up on Friday evening, and the hotel security force had finally had to call in the State Police to clear them out. Pyotr's grandson Ilya had been quite alarmed at the sluggish response of the local authorities. He had warned Pyotr not to go outside alone on the final day of the Congress, when even more serious confrontations might be expected. However, the old man had no intention of forgoing his morning constitutional. The antioperants, he reasoned, would hardly be up and about at six in the morning. They would be sleeping off the Friday-night fracas and doubtless renewing their energies for a more climactic face-off tonight...

Abandoned placards blocked the pathway and Pyotr flicked them aside with his walking stick,
tsking
disapproval of the impudent sentiments.
WE ARE HUMAN—ARE
YOU? one sign inquired. Pyotr chuckled at another that proclaimed
SUPERBRAINS INVADE YOUR INNER SPACE
! By far the majority of the professionally printed placards echoed the Sons of Earth chant, "Off With the Heads"—which was often abbreviated in a sinister fashion to "Off the Heads!" The meaning of one slogan,
WHERE IS KRYPTONITE NOW THAT WE REALLY NEED IT
?, eluded Pyotr completely. He was relieved when he came to the turnoff at the X-wing pad and was able to head into the thick woods along the little Ammonoosuc River, which threaded the resort grounds.

Down by the brawling stream there were no traces of the demonstration. Sugar maple trees were just beginning to turn color in that amazing North American fashion that was—typically!—so much more spectacular than any Europe or Asia had to offer. But Pyotr was really hoping to rediscover another tree that he had taken note of ten years earlier, during his first visit to the White Mountain Hotel. On and on he walked, without catching sight of it, and he began to fear that it had perished, perhaps toppling into the river during a spring freshet. But no ... there it was. A solitary mountain ash laden with marvelous great bunches of scarlet berries, the very image of the beloved ryabina trees of Pyotr's native Caucasus.

He paused and contemplated the scene with a full heart. The rushing stream, the magic tree, the mighty mountain looming darkly to the east—all so reminiscent of his old home that it made him want to weep with the loss.

No, he told himself, and forged on. What a fool you are, Pyotr Sergeyevich! You have lived ninety-nine years and you are still vigorous and in control of most of your mental faculties—meager though they be—and you have a safe home with your loving grandson Ilya in Oxford, and a wealth of memories and experiences to share with your great-granddaughters. You are as fortunate as the patriarch Seliac Eshba—even though not so tranquil, or so wise.

The path turned south, away from the river, and passed along the boundary of the resort's beautiful golf course, through an open area where the long rampart of the Presidential Range still hid the sun. The air was utterly calm. No birds sang and no civilized noises intruded upon the immense quiet. It seemed almost as if the entire New Hampshire countryside were holding its breath in anticipation.

Pyotr paused with his eyes lifted. The disasters had been many, but they had come and gone as surely as the seasons turned. In the future lay fresh perils, especially for his dear Tamara and the other operants now engaged in the struggle for power in Moscow. What would the simple Seliac think of such matters? Would he offer another homely metaphor from the abiding Earth as a symbol of hope? And why must it always be hope, rather than fruition? Must the small-souled and the evil always appear to triumph while the peace-lovers were left with only their dreams?

He walked on, brooding, toward a small pavilion where he thought he would sit and rest for a time; but the peculiar air of psychic tension was growing, together with a small but persistent pang just behind his forehead. He stopped again, rubbing his eyes, and when he looked back toward the mountain he stiffened and uttered a gasp of shock.

The rocks on the vast slope shimmered in green and violet, and the crest of Mount Washington seemed crowned with a golden tellurian aura.

Pyotr thought: It can't be! These land-forms are ancient and stable. Surely they don't have earthquakes in New England!

He waited, frozen in place, expecting the tremor; but no seismic movement occurred. Instead, it was his mind that seemed to tremble on the brink of some stupendous discovery. What was it? He strained toward the insight that the mountain seemed to hold out to him, his eyes fixed on the brightening skyline—

And then the first dazzling limb of the sun topped the range, and he was momentarily blinded. He cried aloud, and when he could see once again the hallucination of colored light had vanished, along with the mysterious pregnant tension that had enthralled his brain.

"Usrat'sya mozhno!" he cried. His knees threatened to buckle and he barely caught himself from falling. Leaning heavily upon his walking stick, he hobbled toward the little summerhouse. In his frustration and vertigo, he did not notice that the place already had an occupant.

"Dr. Sakhvadze—is something wrong?"

A tall man who had been sitting in the deep shadows started up and took him by the arm, guiding him to a bench. Pyotr peered at him and recognized Denis Remillard's uncle, an enigmatic personage who acted as the Congress liaison with the hotel, but otherwise had little to do with operant affairs.

Pyotr sat down heavily, pulled out his pocket handkerchief, and mopped his face. "A little bad spell. Nothing physical. I am sensitive, you see ... to certain psychodynamic currents in the geosphere."

"Ah," said Remillard, uncomprehending. "You're sure you'll be all right?" He displayed a miniature telephone unit that he had taken from inside his jacket. "I can call the hotel and have a golf cart brought out. No trouble at all."

"No," said Pyotr sharply. "You needn't treat me like an invalid! It was only a passing metapsychic event, I tell you. It shook me up. I'll be all right again in a moment."

"Just as you say," Remillard murmured, tucking the portaphone away. "You're abroad rather early, Doctor."

"And so are you," Pyotr retorted. Then, regretting his brusqueness, he added, "I felt particularly in need of a ramble today, to set my juices flowing and sharpen my wits. There are a number of important papers and talks being delivered that I am anxious to take in—most particularly Jamie MacGregor's demonstration of the prototype bioenergetic-field detector. Auras of all types are of great interest to me. And of course, there is tonight's banquet to look forward to—"