Doctor Orient Read online

  He stepped out of the box and called for the pine tar rag. He looked over for a new sign while he rubbed the handle down. The bunt was still on. He took a deep breath and tried to settle down.

  The next pitch was high and outside. The runner was on his way to second. Hap reached up and flicked it just past the rearing catcher behind him. Strike two.

  The sign came to swing away. He rubbed his palm on the seat of his uniform and rocked his weight on his heels. And there was a surge running through him as he stared at the pitcher. He knew he would hit the next pitch out of the ball park.

  The ball came in high and fast. His hands were wood and he felt the contact right to the muscles under his arms. He almost tipped his cap trotting past first base.

  After the game the man was waiting for Hap outside the stadium.

  “Do I know you, mister?” Hap said aggressively. He didn’t like people bugging him, especially while he was playing. And this guy didn’t look right. He was tall and thin, really thin, with hollowed-out cheeks that stressed his high, jutting cheekbones. An inch-wide streak of silver slashed straight back through his long black hair.

  The slight slant of his green eyes gave his sun-darkened face a Mongolian cast. His wide mouth turned up at the corners so that he seemed to be constantly smiling over some amusing, unspoken observation.

  And he had the strangest hands Hap had ever seen. They were slender and long, dangling loosely from the ends of his wrists like the hands of a basketball player. But the palms were cracked and wrinkled, crisscrossed with a network of short, deep lines like those of a very old man. Yet from his face, which was unlined and smooth, he looked to be about thirty.

  Hap didn’t like him. He didn’t like his long hair, he didn’t like his smirk and he didn’t like his damned white suit.

  “I’m Doctor Owen Orient,” the man said. His voice was calm and low.

  “Medical doctor?” Hap asked automatically. Most states he played in abounded with doctors of every persuasion.

  “A.M.A., but out of practice. Right now I’m involved in private research and I want you to help.”

  Hap started moving away. “I don’t have much time, Doc,” he shook his head. “I’m a ballplayer and it’s baseball season.”

  “Do you ever know before you hit a home run that you’re going to hit it?”

  The question stopped him. He looked around. They were standing in an empty parking lot outside the stadium. The rest of the team had gone ahead to the hotel. Now he was alone here talking to a stranger about something he didn’t understand.

  He scowled. “What’s your business with me, mister?” he said sharply.

  “You’re a telepath.”

  “A what?” Hap yelled.

  “A telepath,” the man repeated evenly.

  Hap started walking away.

  “Do you remember the ball stopping before it hit me?” the man asked.

  Hap stopped. “Yes,” he said his back to the man.

  “I can prove I did that.”

  It was a flat challenge. Hap accepted.

  Later, he watched Doctor Orient move a bottle of beer across a table, in a small, sluggish bar, and he was convinced. It was the seventh time he had made the bottle go where Hap had pointed.

  “And you can read minds, too.”

  Hap examined the bottle, still considering the possibilities of trickery.

  “You’re thinking that there’s always the possibility of a trick,” Orient said.

  He looked at Orient’s flat green eyes. “Any con man would know enough to say that,” he said.

  Orient got up. “All I want to con you out of is some time to train yourself to use your own powers.”

  “Okay, okay, now, sit down a minute.” Hap was confused.

  “I’ll only confuse you further if I talk to you now,” Orient said genially. He took a card from his wallet as he paid the bill. “Here’s my New York number.” He put it down at the edge of the table.

  Hap watched the card slide across the table and stop just short of his fingers.

  “Just pressing my point.” Orient smiled. “Thanks for your time. And remember, with your help we can eventually teach everyone to use their telepathic power.”

  “What good would that do?” Hap put the card in his pocket.

  “You decide that,” Orient said.

  It took Hap a few weeks before he finally got around to talking to Orient again.

  Now he wished he had burned the card to ashes.

  “I can enter her trance field,” Orient said presently, still leafing through the book. “But if it’s an occupied trance it will be somewhat dangerous.”

  “Occupied trance?”

  “Yes, there’re some aspects of Malta’s reaction that resemble cases of possession.”

  “What do you mean, possession?”

  “No sense in going into it until I’m sure.” He snapped the book shut and went over to the crammed bookshelves across the room. He returned, holding another book even larger than the first. He studied the volume in silence for some time.

  Hap was just settling down with a second brandy when Orient looked up.

  “I’m going to need your help tonight, Hap,” Orient said. “Do you feel up to it, or shall we try it in the morning?”

  “What do you need?” Hap sighed and put the glass down.

  “I want to enter Malta’s trance. The entry will be simple enough, as you recall the space of a trance is what scientists refer to as hyper-space.”

  Hap nodded, remembering the many hours of instruction Orient had given him in parapsychology.

  Orient went on, “You know that hyper-space is merely the reverse of our space, so that to enter Malta’s field I’ll go to a positive pole and let whatever has her draw me in also.”

  “What do I do?”

  “I want you to lock contact with me and just feed energy. Don’t project yourself. I can use the energy you send through as a guideline.”

  Hap thought it over. “Okay, let’s try it now. I don’t want to leave her there overnight.”

  “Are you sure you’re strong enough to keep sending energy enough?”

  “I think I can handle it.”

  “I hope so.” Orient went over to the elevator and pressed the button. He nodded for Hap to join him.

  Neither of them spoke as they rode up to the next floor and walked the long corridor to the meditation room.

  Malta was inside, still on the stretcher.

  Sordi had placed her by the side of the running pool at the far end of the room. Orient checked her pulse rate.

  Hap sat down on the floor and took a long breath. This was the one section in the house to which he responded. Everything in the room had been keyed to provide harmonies that would lull its occupants into a gentle, hovering awareness; the light, the shade, the huge rock placed on the thick brown carpet, the slash of emptiness through the length of the room, the running water alive with the darting colors of small fish.

  Hap knew the room well. He had spent hours here alone learning how to communicate with himself. The grind of sleeplessness eased as he automatically relaxed.

  Doctor Orient sat across the pool, his breathing already as imperceptible as that of the girl on the stretcher next to him.

  Hap relaxed further, digging inward for the source point. He controlled his breathing and focused on the bright blue light of a distant sun deep in the universe of his being.

  Like a climber testing his ropes, Orient made sure that the psychic gears had beveled and contact between Hap and himself was clear. Then he went in.

  He entered slowly, using a technique he had learned in Rome. He reined the thrust of his projection as it leaped into the junction of strongest negative polarity. Electricity sparkling from maximum electrons to minimum electrons, water rushing to fill an empty river bed, the eternal hunt to feed hunger—the movement is always toward the unnourished, the implication. The universe fills its gaps.

  He was in trouble as soon as h
e pierced the dimension. A great wind constantly threatened to sweep him from contact with the thin stream of energy that was his only control as he spun through the bottomless vapors of some infinite vertigo. Then he sensed it. Something waiting at the center of the wind, something familiar in the midst of the chaos. He felt the pull and he knew that he was being drawn by an enormous predatory presence. He veered and increased his speed.

  The maneuver enabled him to avoid disaster. His speed took him past the presence and around it, sending him back toward his junction of entry.

  As he hurtled past the negative core he sensed the sluggish maw of it, the thick vortex of raw need vibrating with expectancy, waiting to engulf him.

  He fought to keep contact with his line of energy.

  He was between his entry point and the attraction of the still-yearning presence. His speed was decreasing dangerously, but sensing direction gave him a spasm of strength. He made it back, straining like some spectral salmon to wriggle out of the net home.

  It was a long time before they could move.

  Orient regained consciousness first.

  He felt a grab of anxiety when he saw the still-sleeping girl. He knew that she was prey for a hundred hunters.

  Hap groaned.

  Orient managed a smile. The path that Hap had generated had never once wavered and had given him enough leverage” to avoid being trapped.

  “I could feel it from my end,” Hap said, his eyes still closed, “it was a bitch to hold.”

  Orient picked a hand-wrapped cigarette from his case. “It’s awesome.” He struck a match. “It’s a huge presence picking up anything in its path. Malta wandered into the hyena’s mouth, all right. It just swallows anything that comes along, getting bigger and stronger.” He inhaled. “Hap, I think it’s a generator.”

  Hap opened his eyes. “A generator?”

  “Yes, a source of power for someone practicing magic.” Orient shook his head, smoke streaming from his nostrils. “There’s someone in this vicinity building up a negative field.”

  “Let me get it straight, Doc—are you telling me that a magician has cast a spell on Malta?”

  “Not quite. What I believe has happened is that someone in the city is practicing black magic. Whoever it is, is building up a tremendous amount of negative power in hyper-space. The energy used to feed black magic is negative energy. When Malta went into trance here she wasn’t prepared and she was assimilated by the negative presence of the field.”

  “What happens to her now? Can’t we get her out?”

  “There’s a chance.”

  “Tonight?”

  “I’ll need more help. Tomorrow, I think.”

  “But, Doc, will she be all right like this? Maybe if we moved her out of the area… ”

  “It’s too late for that. We have to pry her away from there now.”

  “I still don’t understand about this magic gaff, Doc.”

  “Not many people do. I’m not even sure I’m right about this. I’m basing my diagnosis on certain experiments I’ve made in the past. And the fact that your meeting with Malta wasn’t a chance factor physically, but a psychic imperative.”

  Orient declined to go into any further discussion of his study of the occult. It wouldn’t have made any sense to an unbeliever, and he was too tired to clarify. “I’m going to send an emergency message to the others,” he said, closing his eyes. “Why don’t you give me a boost. Claude isn’t far away but Argyle is in Europe and I don’t know if I can get a clear contact alone.”

  The message went and Hap went with it, riding the wave of energy emanating from Orient, the weight of his presence speeding not only the ride but the wave itself. He felt each contact as it was completed, lifting him higher and faster until the wave suddenly broke, one level after another, leaving him in a blissful glide from which he carefully slid—carefully…

  She was young and pretty and not very brave, consequently she was skittish in the dentist chair.

  “Don’t worry now,” Levi assured her gruffly, “you’ll feel better when you get out of that chair.”

  She didn’t answer. She ran some water into a paper cup and rinsed out her mouth. Then she sat back in the chair and closed her eyes.

  She could hear Doctor Claude Levi working, shambling about the room like a graceless bear, his shaggy bulk incongruous against the sophisticated chromium machinery that webbed his office.

  He would be a very attractive man if he shaved off that horrible beard, she mused through her apprehension. As it was, his powerful intensity made him extremely magnetic.

  She heard the soft sliding sound of metal fitting into metal.

  “Don’t panic now,” he rumbled.

  She opened her eyes.

  Above her was a large glass and metal concentric circle. The glass was lit from behind so that there was no glare. The metal gleamed darkly in contrast.

  “Just watch the birdie,” Levi said, pressing the switch that started the circle turning.

  He let her watch the illusion for a while before he spoke again. When he did, his voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “Relax, Emma, relax now. Put every thought out of your mind. Just follow the spiral deep into the center. Follow the spiral.”

  She felt her jaw and throat go slack. She began to breathe more fully, with less effort. Her hands relaxed their grip on the armrests and hung loosely from her wrists.

  “You are going into a soft doze now, Emma,” he droned deeply. “Your eyes are heavy, they can’t stay open.”

  Her eyes closed and her breath became shallow and regular.

  “You’re sleeping now but you can still hear me,” he continued. “Is that right?”

  “Yes… ” Her voice was muffled.

  “Now you feel better than you ever have before. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You feel stronger, quicker, faster, more alive than you ever have before. Isn’t that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have no cares, no problems, and above all you feel no pain. No pain whatsoever. If I were to jab you with a needle it wouldn’t hurt at all, would it?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good, that’s just the way you should feel, Emma,” Levi said as he drew his instrument table and his drill closer to the chair.

  “And one more thing,” he said as he bent closer to her mouth. “When I wake you up you’re going to feel terrific, even better than you do now. Except that you’ll feel some pain now and then. But it won’t bother you. That’s just to let you know if something is wrong. Just to warn your body. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Levi worked quickly. His blunt, hairy fingers were amazingly efficient. He was just packing in the final layer of a wide filling when the probe found the base of his brain.

  New York. Traffic.

  The picture repeated, then withdrew.

  Claude Levi leaned against the chair for a moment before completing the filling. When he was finished he put away his instruments and awakened his patient.

  He chased her out of his office before she could finish telling him how wonderful she felt. He told his nurse to cancel his appointments for a few days, and get him a seat on the next plane for New York. Then he went across the yard to the main house and packed a bag.

  The man circled warily around the girl.

  She dropped to her hands and knees and spit the word at him. “Empty.”

  He backed away and leaned against the wall.

  “Empty,” she whispered slyly.

  The man threw up his hands and laughed. Then the laugh broke off in his throat, and he stood flat-footed in front of her.

  “Full,” he insisted.

  Her guffaw turned into a cough as she got to her feet and pointed at him. “Empty. Empty. Empty.” The cough rose into a shriek.

  “Full,” he said quietly.

  “Empty.” She put her hair back in place and straightened her dress. Then she
put a hand on his arm. “Empty,” she repeated patiently.

  He turned. His head flew back, the muscles in his throat shifting like ropes under his skin. “FULL,” he roared.

  She began beating at his back with her fists, the heavy blows punctuating the methodical repetition of her words. “Empty, Empty. Empty.” She was crying.

  For a long time he didn’t move. Then he closed his eyes, and thrust his clenched fists high above his head. “Full,” he whispered.

  She stopped hitting him. Her hand lingered, then dropped. She backed away.

  “Full,” he repeated, opening his eyes.

  “Empty,” she whimpered.

  “Okay, A.S.,” another voice cut in, “we’re ready on two.”

  Argyle Simpson stood impatiently while the make-up man dabbed at his face and the hairdresser sprayed his thick black Afro. He was bored. Balancing lights and lining up angles had very little to do with his kind of acting. He was an explorer, a platonic samurai who enjoyed engaging life head on. He liked to spend his nights getting next to some laughs. These days, what passed for laughs was rehearsal with his leading lady—the producer’s daughter, Italian style. He had to threaten to quit the film before she would even consent to rehearse. Now she was telling the paparazzi that she was the only Italian star who used the Method.

  He walked over to the set and lifted his arms so that the wardrobe man could cinch his belt and sword. He adjusted the angle of his scabbard and drew himself up, strutting under the lights like the regal warrior he portrayed in the film.

  He squinted, looking for the director.

  Gregorio was explaining something to the leading lady in rapid Italian. Argyle could only catch a word here and there, but he knew that Amanda Rizzotta wanted her part padded.

  He lit a cigarette and paced. He waved the make-up man away and sat down in a chair stenciled with his name. He was finished with his second cigarette by the time they were ready to work.