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'But,' snapped Nashirah, 'if he did exist - think of it, Heston, a mind that
could manipulate the world! We could get more than a billion. Why, we could
practically reorganise humanity.'
'He'd have to be put to death,' Davis said, nodding his head emphatically. He
waved at the bartender, then pointed at his empty glass. 'Stuppagen . . .
stood up against a wall,' he said carefully, 'n'shot.'
'Hardly. Why kill a human treasure?'
'It's disgusting. A man who can do. . . things other men can't. He could end
up controlling us all.'
'We are all controlled already,' responded Nashirah. 'Most of us live and work
in a network Qf influences we can't escape. The best we can do is try to have
a little fun once in a while. All the rest is control.'
'You, you're, urn, equivocating,' Davis said, pleased to have got the word out
without slurring. 'Kivating. Not like that 'tall. You, me, we, we.. . masters
of our fate, captains soul, Rastabi.' He averted his eyes from the mockery he
could see in Nashirah's face, 'But this. . . a man who could know anything he
wanted? We'd all be, urn, unmasked.'
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'So, it's really your deep, dark, dirty little secrets that make you afraid of
him?'
'Garbage!'
'You're right, of course, that your superpsychic's abilities have their
inconvenient side. My trade depends on secrets, and I would be hampered if
there were none. But I would learn, my dear Heston, to live with that
situation, and turn it to my advantage - my masks are put on and taken off to
suit my needs, but yours, Senator, has grown in place, and you would bleed if
it were ripped off. And I think,' Nashirah went on, savouring the humiliated
anger of the man facing him, 'that he has already drawn some of your blood,
Senator. When you saw that human wreckage at Omaha - saw it and smelled it -
did you accept fully that it was the result of your effort to gain some
standing in your Congress by promoting a project you knew nothing of?'
'You bastard !' Davis said drunkenly.
'Of course. But I don't deceive myself. I am fully aware of what the weapons I
trade in do to people; I have seen their fullest effects, and know very well
what it is I sell and do not let it trouble me. I am an Arab gutter rat, as
you say - walls do have ears, Heston - but because I know myself, an'd what I
want, I can claim an unassailable position in world affairs. That position I
have, and that position I intend to keep.'
'Ha!' laughed Davis. 'Your superpsychic, if he exists, might have something to
say about that. He's apparently disarming the whole fucking world!' Anger and
shame had burned some of the alcohol fumes out of his brain, and he felt
sharper than he had since receiving that ominous assignment to inspect the
ruins of Omaha.
'Disarming?' asked Nashirah, a slight quiver appearing in his voice. ~
'Ha!' Davis pushed his empty glass aside and leaned towards Nashirah. 'Haven't
you figured that out? Your empire is a little shaky, isn't it, Rastabi? It's
all illegal arms deals, and he's destroying the balance of terror - all the
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reasons for anyone to buy your goodies~ If he really exists, you know, this
superpsychic's going to get, after you - that is, after he gets done enforcing
the removal of all orbiting weapons.'
'All?' Nashirah was appalled.
'All,' confirmed Davis. 'Everything. . ;' His voice faded into silence as he
looked maliciously at the Arab.
Nashirah thought quickly, then finished his drink in one gulp and rose from
the bar. 'Perhaps you are right, Heston, perhaps so. I've got to set about
finding this person. . . and try to reason with him.'
'He doesn't seem very reasonable, Rastabi, does he?' Davis guffawed.
Rastahan al Nashirah did not answer, but quickly left the restaurant and
hailed a passing taxi in the early afternoon Washington heat.
THE PENTAGON
2.00 P.M.
Guilda Stern, morning fresh despite the cloying weather, entered Chester B.
Walters's office immediately on the departure of the group of intelligence
officers who, had been in conference three hours with the Secretary. Walters,
a glum cast on his pink face, sat quietly behind his desk. The room was
occupied by a tobacco stench not yet sucked out by the air-conditioning
systems; it lay like white smog in the cold air.
'Guilda,' began Walters, 'I suppose it would be a difficult thing for you to
draw up an outline memo on parapsychology for me?'
'I couldn't do it very quickly, Chester,' she replied, sitting in a chair by
the large desk.
'God, what a disadvantage I'm at! It seems like almost everyone has some
background in psychic affairs. Those intelligence officers I just talked with,
they all had some
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idea of what was going on, and I flat-out didn't. It really floors me that
members of our secret services know their way around this crazy stuff. And, by
God, some of them even told me - why didn't somebody let me know before?
- that certain offices have invested, invested, Guilda, real taxpayers' money
in psychic research projects. They hid the expenditures under such titles as
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