“Maybe we should go back to asking straight yes or no questions,” Maggie said. “If he needs to spell something out, he'll make that scratching noise again.”
Once again Maggie's pragmatic common sense was accepted without comment. They went around the table, asking a question each. And once again they were met with silence.
“He's gone,” Drew repeated. This time it was a statement of fact.
They all sat back, taking their hands from the table as though acknowledging the truth of what she'd said.
“I guess that's a wrap for today-no pun intended,” Sam said. Then he glanced at his watch. “Though we've still got some time if anybody wants to try anything.”
No one seemed in any hurry to get away. But neither did they have any ideas. Barry wandered over to get some coffee. Maggie followed him. Pete got up and stretched luxuriously. Roger turned in his chair and began talking to Joanna.
“You know what they did in Toronto with the ‘Philip’ experiment?” Pete said, taking the coffeepot from Maggie and pouring himself a cup. “Sometimes they used to sing to it and tell jokes. Hey, Adam, how about that? Would you like us to sing to you?”
The rap that came from the table took them all by surprise, not just because of its strength, but because nobody was anywhere near it. They all stopped what they were doing and turned to look first at the table, then at one another, as though seeking confirmation of what had just happened.
“He's back now,” Joanna said, “and with a vengeance.” She turned to look at Pete. “Okay, Pete, it's your idea. You'd better decide what you're going to sing.”
“Hey, I can't even carry a tune,” he protested. “You're all gonna have to give me some help here.” Nobody spoke. “Oh, come on, now,” he appealed to them, “we're all in this together!”
Once again they all exchanged looks, this time in a general attitude of, well, what the hell, why not?
“So what do we want to sing?” Sam asked. “Show tunes? A Gregorian chant or two? Elvis? The Beatles? Greensleeves?”
Since they had no sheet music, it had to be something they all knew the words to by heart, which significantly limited their choice. They finally settled on “Ten Bottles of Beer,” reducing it to “Eight” since there were only eight of them around the table.
Ward said he thought he could recall how it went, but he still had to be reminded of the tune by a quick solo from Barry.
Pete started, and they all joined in the chorus at the end of his verse. Then Maggie took over, surprising them with a powerful and attractive soprano. Sam sang with great energy, but slightly off key. Next came Ward, revealing a singing voice considerably richer and more resonant than his speaking voice. It was during the chorus following Ward's solo that the table started to beat time.
Once again it was obvious to everyone there that no one was touching the table with hand or foot. At first they faltered, but the table thumped on with such emphatic rhythm that they picked up the tempo and sang more loudly. When they'd finished their eight verses, the steady drumbeat they'd been hearing became a series of pitter- patterings that seemed to roll around the tabletop, creating a sound that was uncannily like applause.
They were all so taken by this unexpected and somehow touching development that they broke into delighted laughter, like children.
“He likes us! Guess you want another one-right, Adam?” Pete said, and there were no protests when the table, still untouched by any of them, delivered a reverberating rap in the affirmative.
It took them only moments to determine that they could all manage at least a few lines of “Tom Brown's Body,” but the tune was so strong that it didn't seem to matter if they sang nonsense lyrics when they forgot the real ones. Certainly it didn't bother Adam, who thumped along as enthusiastically as before, and delivered an even louder round of applause at the end.
“Okay, what now?” Pete asked, looking around the group.
The table gave several more thumps of encouragement, obviously not wanting the fun to stop yet.
“Pete, for heaven's sake,” Drew protested, laughing, “if you keep on asking, he's going to keep on saying yes.”
“Only if we want him to! As long as he wants more, it means we're enjoying ourselves. Anybody got an idea for a song?”
“Anything you like,” Sam said, “as long as it's not ‘My Way.’”
They managed a robust verse or two of “America the Beautiful,” then Barry suggested the “Marseillaise,” the words of which were in one of the books they had in the room. However, their combined French accents being nothing to boast about, they dispensed with the words altogether and merely bellowed the tune at the tops of their voices. They wound up with a ragged and hoarse “Hello, Dolly!” Then, with much laughter and clearing of throats and some coughing, and accompanied by Adam's vigorous applause, they got up to pour themselves coffee or to get cold drinks from the fridge.
“My goodness, will you look at the time!” The exclamation from Maggie caused them all to glance at their watches. To their surprise, they had overrun their usual two hours by almost forty minutes. “I have to meet my daughter. I'll be late if I don't hurry.”
She bustled around, picking up her purse and coat. As she did so, a curious rumble started in the center of the room, causing everyone to turn.
The table was moving of its own accord, vibrating and bumping across the concrete floor, picking up speed as it went. It traveled in a dead straight line, finally slamming with the force of a hammer blow across the door through which Maggie was intending to depart, blocking it completely.
Nobody spoke. It was as though they couldn't believe the literal truth of what they'd just seen and were waiting for someone to confirm it for them.
Finally it was Sam who said quietly, “He doesn't want her to go. Is that right, Adam?”
A firm thump, deep and resonant, came from the table, which stayed where it was.
Maggie made a little gasping sound, and the hand that went to her mouth was trembling.
“It's all right,” Sam said, watching her. “He likes you, that's all. Which isn't surprising, because we all do.” He started forward. “Give me a hand, will you, Barry?” he asked casually.
There was no resistance as, one at each side, they picked the table up and carried it back to the center of the room and put it down where it had been. It stayed there, as though whatever force had been in it had been neutralized by their touch.
“Sorry if we've made you late, Maggie,” Sam said. “Our apologies to your daughter-and we'll see you next week.”
“Yes. Good night.” The words were barely a whisper as she hurried across the room, through the door, and disappeared up the stairs.
Those who remained were strangely subdued, not wanting to talk about the incident and using the lateness of the hour to leave quickly. In the end only Joanna and Sam remained, along with Pete, who was busy with the cameras and recording equipment at one side.
“Got it!” he exclaimed triumphantly, after playing back a fragment on a small monitor screen. “It's fantastic, Sam. We've got the whole damn thing in perfect living color!”
20
Two things got Joanna off the hook with her editor. The first was a video of the table slamming around the room of its own accord. The second was Roger Fullerton's offer to let his name be used in her article.
“One of the world's leading physicists endorsing a spook hunt? That's historic! I won't ask how you did it, but congratulations.”
He winked. She wished he hadn't. Taylor Freestone did not have the gift of casual intimacy, though he liked to believe it was one of his many social graces.
“Forget the UN. I'll put somebody else on the Kennedys. You're back on this full time.”
She walked to the restaurant where she was meeting Sam and Roger for lunch. Roger's offer to let his name
