"Of course" I said, thinking of how I dreadgoing through airport security twice in one day.
"Thank you Phil," Said Dore as she shook Phil'shand, "I have confidence that we have made the right choice inasking your firm to represent us. Mr. Willard, the travelarrangements are all set."
"Thank you for selecting Bracken and Stevens torepresent you in this matter," added Phil.
"I'll get my briefcase," I said.
I waved at Zaza on the way out. "I am going toPalo Alto–be back tomorrow."
Zaza couldn’t resist: "She is a hot one-I sawher when she came in. What is Flopsy going to think?"
"I'll see you tomorrow," I replied, playing itstraight as always.
Dore was in the lobby texting. We took theelevator to the ground floor and got into a black chauffeured TowneCar, which was waiting at the building entrance.
"Excuse me I have to check in," Dore said, andbegan texting on her Blackberry.
I followed suit.
I was surprised when the driver turned north onthe 405 instead of south to LAX. I didn't say anything.
In a while, we were at the Van Nuys airport,and the driver drove to a hanger in front of which was parked aLear jet. A lean uniformed pilot, surfer-length blond hair stickingout below his navy–blue pilot's cap, was standing by the steps intothe airplane. He took the small suitcase of Dore's that the driverbrought as we boarded the plane. I looked into the cockpit as weentered and saw a young blond lady, also in uniform with pilot'scap, apparently going through the preflight checklist.
The jet had six brown leather seats, two in theback and two pairs facing each other separated by the aisle. Theairplane smelled like leather with a slight hint of jet fumes fromoutside.
Dore motioned to one of the two brown leatherseats that faced each other with a small table betweenthem.
"Thanks, Ms. Hamilton," I said.
I sat down, and we both fastened our seat beltsas the jet began to taxi.
She smiled and said, "Make it Dore. I think weare going to spending a lot of time together."
"Dave," I replied with a nod.
We both looked out the window as the jet pausedbefore entering the runway and began the takeoff roll.
"My parents gave me the name Doré, with theaccent on the 'é' but I dropped it for everyone's convenience," shecontinued. "Dave, you have quite a spring tan for a person withyour light completion. Are you a golfer?"
"No," I replied, "I spend a lot of time on thedesert. I have a sailplane."
"One of those things where they tow you up inthe air and then you glide down?" she asked.
"Yes, but sometimes we stay up for hours andfly cross-country. It is quite a sport." I added.
Dore stared at me for a second and then added,"I get that there is something competitive about that."
"Not really, it is something you do alone," Ireplied.
Dore stared at me again and then continued,"When you were in college there was something competitive. You arefive–feet, seven–inches, and weighed something like one hundredsixty when you were in college. It was not football of any otherteam sport. Something competitive there...tennis. That is why youhandle your briefcase the way you do."
I was shocked and answered, "Right! I was aVarsity tennis player.
"You will have to tell me about it sometime,"she said without any indication of interest. "Please excuse mydelving into your past. The energy was strong, hard toresist."
"Your tan looks like someone who has just beenskiing." I observed.
"Right, very observant," she replied. "Mypartner and I were in Aspen for a week not long ago."
'My partner,' I thought, 'She might begay.'
"Her company has a condo there so it is veryconvenient," she replied.
I felt a sense of relief that she was settingsome ground rules for our relationship, taking gender out of theequation.
"Have you had any personal experience withpsychic phenomena?" she asked.
"My experiences are only from movies, TV, andEdgar Allen Poe reading assignments in school." Iadmitted.
"Good!" She replied, "A good clean slate towork with. Here is a book, a good starting point, written by SteveManteo who is the psychic who was ignored by the Sheriff in ourcase. We will get to the scientific case later after you understandthe phenomenon involved." She produced a hardbound book with abright red cover, and the title "The Psychic Spy Who Never Had ToLeave His Office."
'What have I gotten into?' I thought as I tookthe book. 'Good way to kill the flight time to PaloAlto.'
The uniformed pilot with the blond hair pokingunder his cap appeared from the cockpit, served us coffee, and asandwich, and returned to the cockpit.
"The pilots are a couple," confided Dore, "Theyare also writers who do screenplays in their spare time waiting forus and on layovers. I like the arrangement because I know they arenot late hour partying when we overnight somewhere and are alwaysfresh for our flights. I suspect that I am a character in some oftheir stories, but they have never have admitted it." Dore openedher laptop.
I was incredulous as I scanned the book. SteveManteo had been an undergraduate at Stanford taking a lowerdivision psychology course. One of their lab sections had an ESPtest to see who could perceive large printed numbers taped to theentrances of different buildings on campus while their labinstructor viewed them. For example, at the start of the labsession the instructor, without announcing his destination, wouldwalk to the location of one of the numbers such as at the campuspost office. Students are asked to meditate and perceive the numberthat the instructor viewed. Although few in the lab section had anysuccess in perceiving the numbers, Steve perceived nearly all ofthem.
The class did not know that the professor wasdoing both legitimate academic research and searching forcandidates for a classified government sponsored research programat SRI, the Stanford Research Institute. Soon, Steve wasinterviewed by a researcher at SRI and asked whether he would likea part-time job. Since Steve was working his way through school, heaccepted the offer. He filled out an employment form that hethought required an unusual amount of detail on his personalhistory and family background. A few weeks later
