INTERVENTION (76 page)

The worms crawl in! The worms crawl out!
The worms play pinochle in your mouth!
Your body turns a mossy green,
And pus runs out like thick ice cream!

The three juvenile devils, shepherding their obscene cohort, came bounding in, squealing and laughing.

Trick or treat Uncle Rogi!

The books danced a fandango. The drawer of my antique cash register flew open with a jangling crash and the bills and loose change fountained up, then rained down into the midst of the wriggling maggoty mass on the floor.

"Call them off!" I bellowed.

Promise to teach us dirty French!

"Jamais!"

The worms crawl in the worms crawl out...

"That does it," I intoned ominously. "There's only one way to deal with this situation." I reached into my trouser pocket. "Beware! Beware, all you alien invaders! Beware the power of the
Great Carbuncle!
"

I held up my key chain, with its dangling fob of a red-glass marble caught in a little metal cage. Using an old trick of creativity that had long delighted the children, I made the thing glow. At the same time, I smote the three young minds with my adult coercion, freezing them in the midst of their capers and cutting off the PK motive-power of the lolloping larvae.

The boys screamed. Their tongues protruded and their eyes bugged out of their grotesquely painted faces, and one after another they fell to the floor—at a safe distance from the now motionless mélange of icky lucre and nameless white things.

I waved the Great Carbuncle over the lot of them in a coup de grâce, then laughed and canceled the coercion. The boys jumped up shrieking with mirth and I told them to wait while I loaded my still-video camera with a fresh floppy disk. They posed, grimacing, while I took their zapshot.

"Let's see it! Let's see it!" they shouted, and would have raced into the back room of the shop where the computer and video-printer were if I hadn't once again stopped them in their tracks.

"Who," I demanded sternly, "is going to clean up this disgusting mess?"

Little Severin grinned up at me winsomely. "It's only cut-up spaghetti, Uncle Rogi. Didn't it make
great
worms?"

"Great," I sighed, wondering how many of my fellow merchants on Main Street had been similarly victimized.

"Let's print the picture!" Philip said.

"Do it quick, Uncle Rogi," Maury added. "Mom'11 kill us if we don't get home by twenty-two."

I took a plastic sack and three pieces of cardboard out of my wrapping supplies. "First you take these, and scoop up the worms and the money. When you get home tonight I expect you to sort the money out, wash it, and bring every nickel of it back to me tomorrow after school."

The telephone rang. Admonishing the imps to get cracking, I answered. It was Denis, not wanting to trust my telepathy.

"We've had some bad news." Immediately he added, "Not any of the family. But I want you to come over to the house. This new development makes the damn Coercer Flap look like a practical joke."

"The kids are here. I'll bring them." I hung up. "Leave that! Bas les pattes, kids, we're going home."

Their minds caught my serious intent instantly and they changed from devils into obedient operant children. I turned off the shop lights and we hustled out and around the corner and down South Street a block and a half to the family home. There were only a few costumed children still abroad. We hurried past the library, where the collection of pumpkins carved by Hanover youngsters and displayed in the forecourt was a predictable shambles. I was surprised to see five cars parked in front of Denis and Lucille's place. As we tramped up the front steps the door opened and the nanny, Ayeesha Al-Joaly, who was strongly suboperant, shooed the children upstairs and indicated to me mentally that I should join the others in the living room.

Most of the Coterie was there. Glenn and his wife Colette, Sally and Tater McAllister, and big Eric Boutin, who had taken over as Denis's chief PR person with the defection of Gerry Tremblay, were gathered around a bound atlas open on the coffee table, talking in low voices. Denis, Tukwila Barnes, and Mitch Losier were seated on dining-room chairs, side by side, with Lucille hovering behind them. All three were in a state of EE trance. The TV set on the wall had its audio turned off and the picture showed a murky aerial view of some city on a plain with a considerable mountain range in the background. Many of the city buildings were in flames and others, broken and devastated, poured out clouds of black smoke.

"My God, what's happened?" I cried.

Lucille hurried to me, her finger to her lips, mentally indicating the excorporeals who were obviously in the process of farsensing the disaster. She said:

Alma-Ata. And other places as well. It looks as though full-scale civil war has broken out in Soviet Central Asia, abetted by outsiders. They targeted Alma-Ata especially because of the operant educational facility at the university.

Tamara—?

Safe! After the Congress in Montréal she and the three children and Pyotr stopped off on the way home to stay for a time with Jamie in Edinburgh... You knew that Tamara's middle son Ilya and Katie MacGregor announced their engagement last week?

No.

Well they did. And the pair made a trip to Islay to see Jamie's old grandmother who's 96 and they took their time because you know how grim things have been in Alma-Ata this year with the fighting so close by. They were to leave for home two days from now it's some kind of miracle that they escaped but the
others
the best of the Soviet academic operants the cream of the researchers oh Rogi the PEACEMAKERS so many of them concentrated there the top minds God the university area is a fire-storm Tucker is scanning the situation but we're afraid we're so afraid...

What time is it in Alma-Ata?

Early morning. Everyone was on the commute in the streets students and teachers and all the university people the planes came from Peshawar in Pakistan over the high ranges Stealthed of course and Soviet Muslim sympathizers sabotaged phased-array radars in Pamirs and a key detector-satellite relay of course Moscow scrambled their interceptors but it was too late suicidal Muslim pilots screaming Din! Din! Din! certain they were on their way to Paradise—

Tukwila Barnes, the Native American who was probably the most talented EE adept in the Coterie, opened his eyes and made a small moaning sound. Lucille turned away from me and rushed to help him. He was ashen and trembling and his black eyes spilled tears. He began to twitch and flail his arms involuntarily then, as though he were falling into some kind of epileptic fit. I strode over and helped Lucille hold him while Colette Roy gave him a shot of something. When the medication hit him he crumpled, but he was a lightweight and I caught him easily and carried him to one of the couches. Somebody brought an afghan to cover him and Colette propped his head with cushions. We all stood there waiting for him to pull out of it. When he did, there was no need for him to speak. From his shocked mind poured images of holocaust, broadcast at an awful psychic amplification. From elsewhere in the house I heard the little Remillard boys shriek out loud and the baby, two-year-old Anne, begin a panicky wailing.

"Shit," whispered Glenn Dalembert. He knelt beside Tucker and placed a hand on his forehead. He was the most powerful coercer in the group aside from Denis, and as he took hold of the EE adept's mind the cataract of nightmare sensations chopped off.

He said, "Got him. Colette, you and Lucille see to the kids."

Slowly, Barnes responded to the sedative. His eyes calmed and when he finally said, "Okay," Glenn turned him loose. Sally Doyle proffered a glass of water. Tucker shook his head. "Not now... might barf... God, I don't see how any of them could have escaped."

"Did they drop nukes?" Eric Boutin asked.

Barnes shook his head. "Conventional high explosives—but top-of-the-line. Alma's not
that
big a city. Eleven planes got through and it was enough. The university is just gone."

Nobody said anything. Nobody even seemed to be thinking anything.

Finally, Glenn said to Tucker, "Just lie there. We're still waiting for Denis and Mitch to get back. Denis is overviewing and Mitch went to check out the Kremlin. Soviet news says that the whole goddam Central Asian region erupted in simultaneous armed revolt. They claim to be on top of things—but about twenty minutes ago CNN reported that there had been a big Iranian attack on the Soviet oil fields and refineries around Baku on the Caspian Sea."

"Supported by a ground insurrection," said Denis.

Everybody turned around.

He had risen from his chair, and although his face was pinched and pale and his eyes seemed to peer from deep inside his skull, he was in full control of both body and mind. He went to the fireplace, where a blaze had been kindled in honor of the holiday, and warmed his hands. Colorful gourds, pumpkins, and corn dollies were displayed on the mantel.

"First I did a broad scan, roughly below the forty-fifth parallel," Denis said. He watched the leaping flames. "I tried to farsense massive stress emanations from among the normal populace. There seemed to be a dozen or more distinct foci between the Tien Shan and the Caspian: Alma-Ata, Frunze, Tashkent, Dushanbe... Let me see that atlas." He went to the coffee table and bent over the map, stabbing with his finger. "Here, here, here—all these cities east of Tashkent where the Uzbek revolt was concentrated. Up for grabs again." He turned to another page showing the Caspian region. "I did a closer scan in here, around Baku and up the west coast of the sea. This is the Azerbaidzhán Republic, a tough bunch of Turks with a history of resistance to Moscow rule. What evidently happened was that a flight of B-iDs from Tehran came in at near water-level and bombed hell out of Baku itself, its two big pipelines and the railroad and highway links to the west, and the other pipeline and refinery complex up the coast at Makhachkala. The local insurgents simultaneously set off blasts in just about every refinery, pumping station, and airfield from Makhachkala south to the Iranian border."

"Christ," said Tater McAllister. "Coupled with the oil losses from the Uzbek fields, this new strike really puts the Soviets in deep shit."

Denis said, "The Azerbaidzhán region will be very hard for Moscow to pacify using ground forces. They've already sent in paratroops and gunboats from the naval base at Astrakhan on the Volga, but the Uzbek revolt left the Red Army short of reliable infantry and armor units. This new flare-up may be more than Kumylzhensky can handle without heavy air-strikes against the insurgent cities—or even the tactical use of neutron bombs..."

I said, "The damn country's falling apart!"

"Not quite," Denis said. "It can cut its losses by abandoning the Central Asian republics and concentrating on regaining the really critical Azerbaidzhán region... It's only a matter of time, I'm afraid, before Moscow declares war on Iran and Pakistan." He glanced at Mitch Losier, who was still sitting in his straight chair, lost in the EE aether. "When Mitch gets back, he may have some information about that."

Lucille and Colette returned from dealing with the children, and Denis flashed them a detailed recap of his discoveries. We all found places to sit down. (I was on the floor in a corner, keeping my mouth and mind shut now as became one who was only an honorary member of the Coterie.) Eric Boutin deftly served coffee and tea from the Krupps unit built into the low table. The conversation fragmented.

Lucille told Denis that the children had been calmed and a redactive wipe-job performed upon their trauma, which was fortunately shallow. Ayeesha had taken a tranquilizer and was saying her worry beads. Tukwila Barnes declared that he was famished and brought in the basket of candy treats that had been left in the front hallway to serve the neighborhood urchins. Tater, Glenn, and Colette discussed the latest developments in the Coercer Flap, starring the black sheep of the Coterie, Gerard Tremblay. The Congressman from Massachusetts now stood charged with the crime of aggravated assault upon the President of the United States and interfering with a federal official in the performance of his official duties. Justice Department lawyers were wrangling over what other charges might apply in the case. Gerry had done the dirty deed on Monday. This was Wednesday. One might wonder what other surprises the week had in store ...

And one would not have long to wait before finding out.

Mitch Losier coughed, opened his eyes, and sighed. He was the most solid and comfortable-looking of the Coterie, which ran to ectomorphic cerebral types. His tonsure of graying hair gave him the air of a kindly pastor or a country doctor. With the attention of the group now riveted on him—for he had excursed to Moscow—he stood up, stretched, and went to the table to accept a cup of tea from Eric. He added sugar and then made his contribution to the roster of catastrophe.

"Moscow has declared war against each and every Islamic nation of the world. While reserving the right to retaliate in response to today's attacks, it will forbear force of arms temporarily and attempt to resolve the conflict through peaceful means, in consultation with the heads of state of Iran, Pakistan, Turkey, and the Kashmiri Republic."

"Thank God!" Lucille cried.

"That's the good news." Mitch stirred his tea and sipped. "The bad news is, that motherfucker Kumylzhensky has arrested every metapsychic operant in the Soviet Union. In the light of today's surprise strike, he feels their loyalty to the nation is deeply suspect. They are to be interrogated and held in custody until the state of internal emergency has passed, and then put on trial for treason."

***

In those dark days, when even persons of goodwill were soul-burdened with the malign aetheric resonances of hatred, fear, and suffering, there were many people in the United States who watched the disintegration of the Soviet Union with righteous triumphalism: the godless Commies had finally got what was coming to them. For the Sons of Earth movement, however, the Soviet misfortune had an ironic twist. To the Sons—who had very nearly become respectable among the American underclass by that time—all operants, including most especially the Soviets, were involved in a conspiracy to destroy religion, freedom, and the sovereign rights of individuals. Yet here was the Red military dictator himself denouncing the superminds as "the greatest menace the Communist Revolution has ever faced." As Kumylzhensky thundered on about the alleged misdeeds of the Twentieth Directorate, it became evident to world observers that the KGB as a whole had been acting to bring about the downfall of Party and military right-wingers, and restore the impetus toward an open society in the Soviet Union that had been so tragically reversed following the death of Kumylzhensky's predecessor. Excorporeal excursions by outsiders into the cells of the purged operants revealed their motivation to the world. The EE adepts of dozens of nations became witnesses for the defense—at least in the forum of public opinion. Even the most naive and fearful normals eventually came to believe that the imprisoned Soviet operants had been a force for good, not evil.