Washburn made four mistakes in the next set, two in the following set, and none in the five further tests which Raphael put him through before switching off the recording equipment. Both Jean and Washburn had to examine the print-out for themselves before they accepted that the whole affair had not been a trick devised by Raphael to introduce a new experimental factor. When the truth had sunk in they stared at each other with cautious, wondering eyes.
“I think it’d be a good idea if we had some coffee now, Jean,” Raphael said. “This needs some thinking about.”
While Jean was fixing coffee, Joe Washburn wandered around the laboratory grinning, shaking his head and driving his fist into the palm of his left hand. Raphael lit another cigar and put it out almost immediately, realizing he would have to tell somebody about what had happened. He went to the phone and was on the point of lifting it when it rang.
“A long-distance call for you, Dr. Raphael,” the university operator said. “It’s Professor Morrison calling from Cleveland.”
“Thank you,” Raphael said dully, shocked at the coincidence. He had been going to call Morrison, who was his closest friend among the handful of men still working in the unfashionable field of extrasensory perception. Somehow, he had a prescient awareness of why Morrison was calling, and the feeling was confirmed when he heard the other man’s excited tones.
“Hello, Fergus? Thank God I got hold of you — I had to get this off my chest to somebody before I exploded. You’ll never guess what’s been happening here.”
“I will,” Raphael said.
“Try it then.”
“You’ve begun getting hundred percent successes in telepathy experiments.”
Morrison’s gasp of surprise was clearly audible. “That’s right. How did you know?”
“Perhaps,” Raphael said somberly, “I’m telepathic too.”
VIII
A full day had passed before Jack Breton’s consternation over the fragment of poetry began to abate.
He had questioned Kate about it as closely as he dared and, when he learned how it had been written, pretended a sympathetic interest in automatic writing. Kate had seemed pleased and flattered at his support, and had explained in detail everything she knew about Miriam Pa]frey’s powers.
Becoming more and more uneasy, Breton had examined hundreds of samples of the automatic writing and learned that the piece of verse was the only thing of its kind Miriam had ever produced. Furthermore, she had done it within hours of his arrival in the Time B world — which would hardly be a coincidence. The only answer his mind could produce, no matter how he juggled the facts, was telepathy — and the last thing he wanted was somebody reading his mind.
On the following morning his guess, wild as it had seemed, was confirmed in an unexpected manner. The apparent breakdown in John Breton’s relationship with Kate had accelerated visibly since Jack’s arrival. He had become more withdrawn, more caustic when he did speak of her, obviously in the throes of assessing his whole life. And, as if to assert his claim to an independent existence in his own universe, he constantly patrolled the house with a radio tucked in the crook of his arm, turning it to full volume at every news broadcast.
The newscasts he overheard told one part of Jack Breton’s mind that some very unusual events were taking place, but he was too deeply involved in working out his own personal destiny to pay much attention to stories of scientific curiosities. Had he not been weighing up his plans in the light of the fact that Miriam Palfrey appeared to have snatched something right out of his mind, he would not have absorbed the news that telepathy experiments in several universities had suddenly begun to yield dramatic results. The information served to demote Miriam from the status of an inexplicable menace to that of the other background phenomena.
Strangely, Jack Breton found no deterioration in his relationship with his other self. The big house was filled with almost-tangible currents of emotion as John and Kate maneuvered endlessly, each waiting for the other to break the stasis which had descended on them. But at odd moments Jack discovered himself in a calm backwater in which he and John could talk like twin brothers who had not met in a long time. He also discovered, and was mildly surprised, that John’s memory of their common boyhood was much more detailed and complete than his own. Several times he argued with John about the authenticity of some detail until the relevant compartment of his mind seemed to open suddenly, admitting the varicolored stains of memory, and he realized John had been right.
A tentative explanation reached by Jack was that memories were reinforced by repetition of the act of recall — and, at some time during the past nine years, John Breton had begun to live in the past. Some dissatisfaction with the shape of his life in the Time B world had led him to draw on the stored comforts of a bygone era.
Even in the short time he had been in the house Jack had noticed John’s obsessive interest in old movies, the way in which he invariably compared people to the old-time actors and actresses. Photographs of Thirties-style cars with their tiny vertical windshields were hung around the basement workshop. (“I’d love to drive one of those myopic old things,” John had said. “Can’t you
Jack Breton received the up-to-date details of the business gratefully — he was going to need all available information when the time came for him to take over. It also gave him the opportunity to establish one fact which was vital to his plan…
“Gravimetric surveying has become impossible, of course,” John was saying after lunch. “The Bureau of Standards came right out and said it this morning — the force of gravity is decreasing. It always did fluctuate, and I’m willing to bet we’re simply on the downward slope of a more massive variation than usual, but all the same, it’s funny the news broadcasts don’t make more of it. I mean, there’s nothing more basic than gravity. Perhaps there’s been a clamp-down of some kind.”
“I doubt it,” Jack said absently, thinking of Kate upstairs in the same house, perhaps in the bedroom adjusting her plumage.
“At least my gravimeters are all right. Carl and I were worried. Did you have him in your setup? Carl Tougher?”
“Yes. Hetty and he took over the business.” Kate might be moving naked through the guilty afternoon twilight of closed blinds.
“It wouldn’t have mattered too much about the gravimeters, luckily. There was a time when a gravimeter, a theodolite and a couple of ex-Army Dumpy levels were just about all the capital equipment I had. That was before I started accepting bore-hole contracts and some large-bore work.”
Jack’s interest was suddenly aroused. “How about these new non-physical drills? The matter disrupter gadgets? Do you use those?”
“Got three of them,” John replied warmly. “We use them for all the large-bore drilling. Carl doesn’t like them because they don’t have a coring facility, but they’re fast and clean. You can sink a two-foot hole through any kind of strata, and it all comes up as micro-dust.”
“I’ve never seen one in action,” Jack said with deliberate wistfulness. “Are there any sites close to town?”
“The nearest is about twenty miles north of here on the main route to Silverstream.” John sounded doubtful. “I don’t see how you could get out there, though. People are going to start wondering if they see two of us walking around.”
“But that situation’s going to be corrected soon.”
“Is it?” John Breton was instantly suspicious, and Jack wondered if he had any inkling of the fate planned for him.
“Of course,” he said quickly. “You and Kate are bound to reach a decision any time now. In fact, I don’t see what’s taking you so long. Why don’t you admit that you’re sick to death of each other, and get it over with?”
“Has Kate said anything to you?”
“No,” Jack replied cautiously, not wanting to precipitate a crisis before he was completely ready to handle
