know by which telepathy can be made sure. I shall now pass among you, and I shall ask you to show me a number of objects, such as jewels, theater tickets, anything you wish.”
He turned back to the reclining girl. “Miss Cahill, I shall touch a number of objects in this room. As I touch them you are to describe them. Is that clear?”
Dreamily she nodded. Her voice was a whisper. “Yes. Objects. Describe…”
Stan crossed the room and the old judge held out a gold fountain pen. Stan took it, focused his attention on it, his eyes widening. His back was to Molly and her head was turned toward the back of the sofa. She could see nothing. But her voice came as from a distance, just clear enough for them to hear if they listened hard. “A pen. A fountain pen. Gold. And something’s… engraved.
There was a ripple of applause, which Stan stopped with a lifted hand.
The hostess pointed to the spray of little brown orchids she wore as a corsage. Molly’s voice went on, far away. “Flowers… beautiful flowers… they’re… they’re… or… orchids, I think.”
The crowd sucked in its breath.
The debutante with the scarlet lips and the low-cut dress beckoned to Stan. When he drew near she reached into the pocket of the young man beside her and took out a gold mesh vanity case. Throwing open the cover, she held it so that only Stan could see what it contained. He frowned and she giggled up at him. “Go on, Mister Mindreader. Read my mind.”
Stan stood motionless. He took a deep breath and by straining it against his throat forced the color to rise in his face.
“Look. He blushes too,” said the girl.
The Great Stanton never moved but Molly’s voice went on. “Something… something… do I have to tell what it is?”
Over his shoulder Stan said softly, “No, never mind it.”
The girl snapped the bag shut and replaced it in the man’s pocket. “You win, brother. You win.” She gulped down the rest of her drink.
The Great Stanton bowed. “Lest I be accused of using trickery and signaling Miss Cahill, I should like a committee to follow me from the room for a few moments. Five or six persons will do nicely. And I shall ask someone here to take a slip of paper and record what Miss Cahill says while I am out of the room.”
The hostess volunteered, and three couples followed Stan across the hall and into the library. When they were inside he closed the door. Something touched his hand; it was cold and made him jump. The guests laughed. Beside him stood a harlequin Great Dane, gazing up with eyes that held mastery in their steadiness and an odd loneliness too. The dog nudged Stan’s leg with his paw and the mentalist began to scratch him idly behind the ears while he spoke to the others.
“I should like one of you now to choose some card in a pack of fifty-two.”
“Deuce of clubs.”
“Fine. Remember it. Now will someone select a color?”
“Chartreuse.”
“That’s a little difficult to visualize, but we’ll try. Now will one of the ladies think of a state-any state in the union.”
“That’s easy,” the girl spoke with a drawl. “There’s only one state worth thinking about-Alabama.”
“Alabama. Excellent. But would you care to change your mind?”
“No, indeedy. It’s Alabama for sure.”
Stanton bowed. “Shall we join the others?”
He held the door for them and they filed out. Stan knelt and laid his cheek against that of the Great Dane. “Hello, beautiful. Bet you wish you were my dog, don’t you?”
The Dane whined softly.
“Don’t let ’em get you down, boy. Bite ’em in their fat asses.”
He rose, brushed his lapel, and strolled back to the lights and the voices.
Molly still lay on the couch, looking like a sleeping princess waiting for the kiss of a deliverer. The room was in a hubbub.
“The deuce of clubs! And the color-they picked chartreuse and she couldn’t decide whether it was yellow or green! Isn’t it amazing! And Alabama!”
“How would you like to have him for a husband, darling? Someone I know would have to scoot back to Cannes.”
“Miraculous. Nothing short of miraculous.”
Stan sat beside Molly, took one of her hands in his and said, “Wake up! Come now, wake up!”
She sat up, passing the back of her hand over her eyes. “Why -what’s happened? Oh! Was I all right?”
“You were splendid,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Every test was perfect.”
“Oh, I’m so glad.”
Still holding her hand, he drew her to her feet. They walked to the door, turned and bowed slightly and passed through it, applause clattering behind them.
“Stan, don’t we stay for the party? I mean, the rest of it?”
“Shut up!”
“But-Stan-”
“I said shut up! I’ll tell you later. Beat it upstairs. I’ll be up in a little while and we’ll get to hell out of here.”
Obediently she went, pressing her lips together, fighting back an impulse to cry. This was nothing more than any other show; she had hoped there would be a party afterwards and dancing and more champagne.
Stan crossed over to the library, and the dog met him, jumping up. Heedless of his starched shirt bosom, Stan let him. “You know a pal, don’t you, boy.”
“Mr. Stanton-”
It was the old man who looked like a judge.
“I couldn’t let you go without telling you how miraculous your work is.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it, my boy. I’m afraid you don’t realize what you’ve stumbled onto here. This goes deeper than you realize.”
“I have no explanation for it,” Stan said abruptly, still scratching the dog behind the ears.
“But I think I know your secret.”
Silence. Stan could feel the blood surging up over his face. Good Christ, another amateur magician, he thought, raging. I’ve got to ditch him. But I’ve got to get him on my side, first. At last he said, smiling, “Perhaps you have the solution. A few persons of unusual intelligence and scientific knowledge might be able to guess at the main principle.”
The old man nodded sagely. “I’ve guessed it, my boy. I’ve guessed it. This is no code act.”
Stan’s smile was intimate and his eyes danced with fellowship. God, here it comes. But I’ll handle him somehow.
“Yes, my boy. I know. And I don’t blame you for keeping your secret. It’s the young lady.”
“Yes?”
The judge lowered his voice. “I know it isn’t telepathy. You have
Stan felt like shouting. Instead he closed his eyes, the shadow of a smile passing over his mouth.
“They don’t understand, my boy. I know why you have to present it as second sight. They’re not ready to receive the glorious truth of survival. But our day will come, my boy. It will come. Develop your gift-the young lady’s mediumship. Cherish it, for it is a fragile blossom. But what a soul-stirring thing it is! Oh, to think of it-this precious gift of mediumship, this golden bridge between us and those who have joined the ranks of the liberated, there to dwell on ever-ascending planes of spiritual life-”
The door opened and both men turned. It was Molly. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were busy. Say, Stan-”
“Miss Cahill, I should like you to meet Judge Kimball. It
