Eye to Eye: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (10 page)

Jennifer steered me around
the room and casually introduced me, first names only, no tags,
while Laura moved along in our wake from clump to clump in an
apparent follow-up, because I glanced along the backtrack a couple
of times to find myself the center of discussion.

The host pumped my hand for about twenty
seconds—even he was infected with an almost uncontainable
exuberance—while welcoming me to "the gathering" and waggling
eyebrows at Jennifer in obvious approval of my presence there. He
made me feel like a guest of honor, or something; maybe because I
was the only one there, besides himself, not clad in denim.

I don't mind telling you that I was
beginning to run out of steam. Starting off with a seven o'clock
reveille and progressing through a couple of corpses, a romantic
interlude with a creation physicist, two hostile engagements, a
brush with the Eye of the Universe, surely several hundred miles
behind the wheel of a car, a weird encounter with some form of
"psychic static" and an overexposure to Greg Souza's Wacky World of
Wonders—it had, all in all, been a hell of a day already and I was
starting to fade. I give this, anyway, as an alibi for not tumbling
to these people right up front.

About the only parallel
that presented itself to me, through that weariness, was a group I
once encountered on a hilltop in Brazil. It was the site of some
recent UFO encounters, and these folk were gathered there in the
joint expectation of another encounter. Those were mostly
“peasants,” back-country nonsophisticates sprawled upon the hill
like so many midnight picnickers, but they had the same look as
these obvious sophisticates at this cocktail "gathering" atop
Palomar Mountain—a sort of reverent tingling, evidenced mostly in
the eyes but also by some strange physical tension that masqueraded
as relaxation yet was anything but that. Or maybe I was just hung
up on the flying saucer idea. I had always wanted to see one of the
damned things, had interviewed hundreds of people who claimed to
have seen them, even a couple who claimed to have been aboard one.
Maybe I was secretly hoping that I was finally going to see one—or
maybe I was simply too damned weary to see what was right there in
front of me. At any rate, aside from a fleeting comparison with a
UFO-watch, my chief impression of this very attractive group was
that they shared some beautiful secret and were just bubbling over
with the need to talk about it but didn't quite know how to do
so.

Like, maybe, at a college sorority house in
which each of the residents had lost her virginity the night
before, in a most pleasing way, and was dying to talk about it but
afraid to do so. I have never been through that, of course, but I
can imagine it and so could you, if you tried. So think of my
"gathering" atop Palomar Mountain as a sorority where each of the
coeds just had a fling with her own version of Burt Reynolds or Sly
Stallone and you will get some idea of the mental atmosphere.

But I was too tired to
dope it. I stood at the glass wall with Jennifer and asked,
quietly, "Can we see Hawaii on a clear day?"

She laughed softly. "I guess you can see
whatever you'd like to see."

"Don't I wish," I muttered.

"You're intimidated
again," she scolded playfully.

"Who are these people?"

"Friends."

"Scientific-type friends?"

"Mostly, yes."

I was thinking that the median age for
scientists must be shrinking like crazy. And no wonder. They'd been
cradle-robbing "exceptional" students for years, now, slapping them
into university programs almost before they were old enough to stay
out alone after dark. The only person in that whole crowd with any
seasoned maturity was Laura's husband—and I didn't have his
pedigree, yet.

And, yes, that turned out negative.
"Summerfield?" I inquired, continuing the dialogue.

"One, yes; the other, no. Laura is a
microbiologist. Holden is just Holden, quite wealthy—but he does
have an avocational interest in astronomy."

"Is that a radio telescope I saw out
there?"

"Yes. Quite sensitive."

I tried a shot. "But, of course, nowhere in
the same league as the VLA at Socorro."

She stared at me for a moment, then: "You
are a constant amazement to me, Ashton. No, not in the same league.
But it does have an excellent cryogenics unit and he has been doing
some very interesting private research."

I asked, "Into what?"

"Microwave radiation background," she
replied tersely.

"Meaning," I pursued, "the big-bang
residual."

"I do believe," she said, rather tartly,
"you are trying to impress me, Ashton. Really, it is not necessary.
Please do not be intimidated by—"

"I believe," I interrupted, "that you are
patronizing me. Really, I feel no need to impress you or anyone. I
am trying to get a feel of my environment. Who are these people?
What are they secretly gloating about? What is a twenty-five-foot
dish with a cryogenics unit doing here in this man's backyard and
why is he privately researching an area that has been thoroughly
covered by the best minds in science? Where the hell is Isaac and
what does this midnight gathering here at the edge of the earth
have to do with his disappearance?"

Her eyes were wide and glistening as I
concluded my little speech. "Oh, my," she commented humorously, "we
do take our job seriously. Really, Ashton..."

I was getting steamed, and I still don't
know why. "Don't do that, Jen," I growled. "There's no 'job'
involved here and you know it. Get it through your head, damn it,
that we are in a highly dangerous situation. You have been attacked
directly twice this day and there is evidence that spooks of every
stripe are swarming all over us. So—"

"What exactly do you mean
by
spooks
?”

"Spies, agents,
operatives—by whatever name,
spooks.
Souza has found reason to
wonder if his own mysterious retainer is Russian and—"

"But that's ridiculous! Isn't it?"

"Maybe not. I told you I'd
found a corpse at my place in Malibu. Before that became a corpse
it was lately believed to be a professional murderer and maybe
taking orders from the CIA. The thing is, he was waiting there for
me with a silenced pistol when someone else took him out of the
game. If this guy
was
CIA, and if Souza's entry into the case was via the KGB or
whoever, then that particular incident makes some kind of crazy
sense—and I can't make any other sense out of it. So this game,
whatever it is, is being played in blood and you can bet that great
ass of yours that none of these guys gives a particular damn about
whose blood it is. So don't talk
job
to me. All the money in the
world couldn't interest me in a game like this one. What is holding
me here, Jen, is
not
a job."

"What is, then? My great ass?"

I smiled faintly and said,
"Sorry."

"You're just upset again."

"Something like that, yeah.
Point is, kiddo, you're playing tea-party with me while the sky is
falling. If I'm in, then I have to be
clear
in. So let's get me cleared,
damn it, with whoever's in charge of this game."

She was wavering and I could see it.

But then the beauteous Laura came over to
join us, towing another junior scientist—a rather commanding
looking guy to whom I had not yet been introduced.

"Ashton, you haven't met
Esau yet, have you. Esau, Ashton."

He gave me a warm, tight grip and a nice
smile. I said,

"That's an interesting name. Don't believe
I've ever encountered it, outside the bible."

"Oh, you read the bible," he murmured.

"Now and then," I admitted.

He said, "Laura tells me you're a noted
psychic detective."

Something about the way
this guy formed his words or chose his words, or something in the
speech, put me off just a bit. It wasn't exactly stilted.
Just...odd. I told him, "That is either a kindly exaggeration or a
nasty libel, depending upon the point of view. What's
yours?"

He was all smiles. "I love it. Always wanted
to meet a psychic."

"Me, too," Laura bubbled. "I was positively
fascinated a few years ago by an article on this man—what's his
name, the famous European psychic who works with the police to
solve murders and all that. Is that what you do?"

I said, "Not exactly. And
I'm not exactly a detective. More like a consultant, really. I
don't know how much of what I do is psychism and how much is lucky
blundering. I don't read other people's minds, if that's what
you're wondering."

"I'll bet you do," she replied with a
mischievous twinkle.

I don't know why I
suddenly felt so candid, but I told her, "Well at least you're
safe, here on this mountain. The whole area seems bathed in some
strange energy that cannot be psychically penetrated."

You would have thought I'd cussed Einstein,
or something, from the reaction I got to that. The twinkle and the
smile and everything animated faded from that pert face, something
that almost groaned moved deep within the dark eyes, and she asked
me, very soberly, "How does that affect you?"

I replied, just as soberly, "Not at all,
unless I open to it. Then it nearly knocks me off my feet. Know
what could be doing that?"

She stared at me for a
very long moment, consulted Esau with eyes only, then turned to Jen
and quietly advised her, "Better tell him." She gave me a final
sober, sorrowing sweep of the eyes as she walked away.

Esau said, in that strangely ponderous
speech, "Yes, Jennifer, I'm afraid you must tell him." He showed me
a sympathetic look, placed an untouched glass of wine in my hand,
and hurried after Laura.

I said to Jennifer, 'Tell him, then."

She was all torn up inside. "I—I really—I
need to know more about you, Ashton. This is—oh damn!—can I really
trust you?"

I told her, "I believe you have to."

"Give me a cigarette," she commanded
irritably.

I did so, and one to
myself, lit them both, gently urged, '"tell him, Jen."

She took a deep pull at
the cigarette, exhaled the smoke in a burst toward the tinted glass
dome, eyed me up and down—said, very quietly, "It's a previously
unknown form of radiant energy."

"What is?"

"What do you mean,
what
is. The thing you
mentioned, the strange energy. It is a previously unknown form of
radiant energy."

I tasted Esau's wine and asked her,
"Previous to what?"

She replied, almost angrily, "Previous to
its discovery, here, on this mountain, a few months ago."

"How was it discovered?"

She just glared at me.

"Isaac," I guessed, though it was a fairly
well-educated guess.

She nodded the troubled head.

I asked her, "Is it something in the earth
around here or... ?" I lifted my gaze to the dome.

She replied, "No, it's nothing in the earth.
The source is extraterrestrial."

I said, "That does not
exactly pinpoint anything, does it."

She raised her shoulders
and dropped them, turned away from me, took another pull at the
cigarette.

I took another pull at the wine and said,
"Well, damn it, make up your mind. Am I nice, or not."

Those shoulders began to
quiver. She turned back to me with a suppressed giggle, said,
"You
do
give
great foot."

I said, "Thanks."

"And I guess you really are very nice."

"Thanks again. So tell the nice man, Jen.
What the hell is going on, here? And why is it suddenly so
important that I be told about it?"

She sobered abruptly, said, "I suppose Laura
thinks it could be dangerous for you."

"Laura is exactly right,"
I said. "And it is getting more dangerous by the second. I am in
imminent danger of exploding all over you. What the hell are we
talking about?"

"Ashton...this is terribly important. And
terribly delicate. We have to be very careful...well, you've
already seen the results of the official reaction. We simply cannot
let global politics take this over. That is why Isaac went into
hiding." She raised both arms in a sweep of the room. "All of these
people are in hiding, too. They are friends of Isaac. And they are
all working with Isaac in an attempt to understand this ..what is
happening here."

I asked, softly, "What is happening here,
Jen?"

She replied, "Palomar Mountain is being
irradiated from a point in space and..."

I said, "A
point
in
space?"

"Yes. Not deep space, either. Local
space."

"From within the solar system," I
suggested.

"Yes. It is being experienced as a beam.
Well, as two beams. One appears to be targeted here, on Palomar.
The other target is in Russia."

I decided I already knew where, in Russia.
"Caucasus Mountains," I ventured.

"At Zelunchukskaya, yes, their version of
Palomar."

I said, "The obvious significance of that,
then..."

She said, "Yes. The beams are obviously
intelligently directed."

I asked, "Why? By whom?"

"That is what we are hoping to determine,"
she replied quietly.

"And how do you go about doing that?" I
wondered aloud.

"The answer," she said, "may be in the beams
themselves."

But it was not in the cards for me to get
any closer to that answer, myself, right away.