there, rotating slowly about its longer axis and processing lazily. This went on for a few moments; then, abruptly, the glass fell to the rail, toppled over without breaking, and rolled. Dalton quickly reached out and saved it from falling over the far edge.
“Damn. Lost it there. I can usually hold it for about a minute before my concentration breaks.” He set the glass upright and turned to Jacoby.
“Still, very impressive,” Jacoby said. “You use a mnemonic phrase?”
“Yes. It seems to help focus the forces … whatever.”
“I see. Very good. Very good indeed. And now me.”
Dalton’s body suddenly went rigid, his expression turning first to one of puzzlement, then to alarm. “What …? What is it?”
“Me,” Jacoby said.
“I —” His next words were choked off. With jerky, marionettelike movements, he started edging toward the rail. His face drained and his eyes grew round with fear. His right leg spasmed, rose, lowered, then rose again until his foot was even with the rail of the balustrade. He slid forward until he straddled the rail, knocking his empty wineglass over the side in the process.
Jacoby, meanwhile, was standing ramrod straight, the pupils of his eyes shining like tiny polished black stones. His jaw muscles clenched and relaxed spasmodically, making his jowls shake. The loose, bloated sac of his chin quivered.
Resisting fiercely every inch of the way, Dalton lowered himself over the rail. The process was agonizingly slow.
“You see,” Jacoby said when Dalton was hanging by both hands. “My powers, are to be reckoned with even at this early stage.”
“Yes … you —”
“There is total freedom here. One only needs the will to do what one desires, without fear of retribution.”
“Let me up.”
“I could let you drop.”
Dalton started to raise himself.
“I could, you know. I doubt if any of the other Guests would bat an eye.”
Dalton’s body shook and grew rigid again. “Pl-please!” he managed to say in a strangled gasp. His left hand withdrew from the rail.
“There you dangle, eighty stories up,” Jacoby said. “Subject to my will.”
Dalton emitted a muffled scream.
“I could let you drop.” Jacoby’s body relaxed, his jowls going loose once again. “But not today.”
Dalton’s left arm shot up to hook over the rail. With some effort he hauled himself upward until he was able to throw one leg over. Struggling, he inched upward until he was straddling the rail again, then slid off and fell to the flagstone floor of the balcony. After a long moment he got up on all fours, then lurched to his feet. His face was bloodless, tinted with ghastly shades of green.
Jacoby looked at his glass. “I need a drink,” he said, and walked inside.
It was some time before Dalton followed.
Elsewhere
“Mr. Ferraro?”
“Here.”
A tall, curly-headed, dark-haired man, about thirty, rose from among the Waiting Dead. Apex Employment Agency was busy that day. At least three dozen people occupied chairs in the reception area. Most had been sitting, slumped and hopeless, for hours. Gene Ferraro was lucky, having had only a forty-minute wait.
“Hi. Jerry Lesko.”
Gene took the kid’s hand — Lesko was no more than twenty-five, probably a good deal younger. “A pleasure.”
“Come on back.”
“Sure.”
Gene picked up his attache case and followed Lesko through a maze of desks and partitioned offices until they came to a cluttered cubicle, which they entered. Lesko took a seat behind a gray steel desk and motioned for Gene to sit in the small hard-backed chair next to it.
“First we gotta get you to sign this,” Lesko said, placing in front of Gene a large yellow filing card densely inked with small lettering. “Read it and sign if you want to.”
Glancing over it, Gene recognized it as the usual agreement to fork over a certain percentage — in this case a healthy fifteen percent — of the signee’s yearly salary, payable immediately and in full should the signee accept any job offer resulting from the agency’s referral. Fine. You pay to work. Dandy.
Gene signed it, slid it across the desk to Lesko.
“Good. Now fill this out.”
“What is it?”
“Credit check.”
“Why?”
“Company policy. You may have to borrow to pay the fee. Fifteen percent of your salary, you know. Just put down your bank account, and list any major credit cards.”
“I don’t have a bank account, at least not a checking account. No credit cards either.”
“Oh. Did you ever have a student loan? Says here you have a degree … couple degrees, in fact.”
“Never did. Scholarships, fellowships, teaching assistantships, that sort of thing. My parents covered whatever shortfalls there were.”
“You’re lucky. Must be pretty smart. Well … have a savings account?”
“Yes.”
“Put that down.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have the passbook with me, and I don’t remember the account number.”
“Well, just put down the name of the bank.”
“Sure.” Gene did so and handed the form back to Lesko.
“You live with your parents? Hard to get along without —”
“Yeah, temporarily, until I find work.”
“Good idea. Can’t hurt.”
“Yeah.”
Lesko passed his eyes over Gene’s resume. Gene got the impression it was the first time he’d seen it.
“You have a master’s degree. What in?”
“Says right there. Philosophy.”
Lesko found it. “Oh, yeah. Really? I have a cousin who majored in psychology. She had a hard time finding —”
“Philosophy.”
“Huh?”
“Philosophy, not psychology.”
“Oh. It’s different?”
“Very.”
“Uh-huh. Gee, you’ve had a lot of schooling.”
“Unfortunately, when you put it all together, it comes up short of a marketable skill.”
“That’s too bad. Economy’s in real bad shape too. It’s going to be hard to place you.”
“I know. In fact, I more or less just said that … unless I’m badly mistaken.”
Lesko frowned and averted his eyes. “What … uh, what were you studying for? To be a … philosopher?”
