“I haven’t given a class yet, Mr. Devereaux. I’m starting my first group this evening at seven, about an hour from now. And another group at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Neither group is filled as yet; as it happens I have five reservations for each, so you may have your choice.”
“In that case, the sooner the better,” Luke said. “So put me down for this evening, please. Are you having these classes at your home?”
“No, I’ve taken a small office for the purpose. Room six-fourteen in the Draeger Building on Pine Avenue just north of Ocean Boulevard. But just a moment; before you hang up, may I explain something to you and ask a few questions?”
“Go ahead, Doctor.”
“Thank you. Before I enroll you I hope you’ll forgive my asking a few questions about your background. You see, Mr. Devereaux, this is not a—ah—racket. While I hope to make money from it, naturally, I’m also interested in helping people, and a great many people are going to need a great deal of help. More people than I can hope to advise individually. That is why I have chosen this method, working through others.”
“I see,” Luke said. “You’re looking for disciples to make into apostles.”
The psychologist laughed. “Cleverly put. But let’s not carry the analogy any farther—I assure you that I do not consider myself a messiah. But I do have enough humble faith in my ability to help others to make me want to choose my pupils carefully. Especially since I’m keeping my classes so small, I want to be sure to confine my efforts to people who—ah—”
“I understand perfectly,” Luke cut in. “Go ahead with the questions.”
“Do you have a college education, or equivalent?”
“I went to college two years, but I think I can claim to have the equivalent of a college education—an unspecialized one, that is. I’ve been an omnivorous reader all my life.”
“And how long, may I ask, has that been?”
“Thirty-seven years. Wait, I mean that I’m thirty-seven years old. I haven’t been reading quite that long, by a few years anyway.”
“Have you read much in the field of psychology?”
“Nothing technical. Quite a few of the popular books, the ones written for laymen.”
“And what, may I ask, has been your principal occupation?”
“Fiction writing.”
“Indeed. Science fiction? Are you by any chance Luke Devereaux?”
Luke felt the warm glow a writer always feels when his name is recognized. “Yes,” he said. “Don’t tell me you read science fiction.”
“But I do, and love it. At least I did until two weeks ago. I don’t imagine anyone is in the mood to read about extraterrestrials right now. Come to think of it, there must be quite a sharp break in the science-fiction market. Is that why you’re looking for a new—ah—profession?”
“I’m afraid that even before the Martians came I was in the worst slump of my writing career, so I can’t blame it all on them. Not that they’ve helped, of course. And you can say what you said about the science-fiction market again and a lot more strongly. There just isn’t any such market any more, and there may not be one for years after the Martians leave—if they ever leave.”
“I see. Well, Mr. Devereaux, I’m sorry you’ve run into bad luck with your writing; needless to say, though, I’ll be more than glad to have you in one of my classes. If you’d happened to mention your first name as well as your last when you identified yourself a moment ago, I assure you my questions would have been needless. I’ll see you at seven this evening, then?”
“Right,” Luke said.
Maybe the psychologist’s questions had been needless, but Luke was glad he’d asked them. He was sure now that this was not a racket, that the man was everything he claimed to be.
And that the five dollars he was about to spend might be the best investment he’d ever made. He felt certain now that he was going to have a new profession, and an important one. He felt sure that he was going to follow through and take as many lessons as Forbes would decide he needed, even if it was more than the two or three that Forbes’ advertisement had said might be enough. If his money ran out first, no doubt Forbes—already knowing him by name and admiring him as a writer—would be willing to let him have the last few lessons on credit and let him pay for them after he was making money helping others.
And between lessons he’d spend his time at the public library or reading books taken home from it, not just reading but actually studying every book on psychology he could lay his hands on. He was a fast reader and had a retentive memory, and if he was going in for this thing he might as well do it whole hog and make himself into as near to a real psychologist as it was possible to become without the accolade of a degree. Even that, maybe, someday. Why not? If he was really through as a writer it would be better for him really to shoot, no matter how tough the shooting might be at first, for a foothold in another legitimate profession. He was still young enough, damn it.
He took a quick shower and shaved. Nicking himself slightly when a sudden Bronx cheer sounded right in his ear as be was in the middle of a stroke; there hadn’t been a Martian around a second before. It wasn’t a deep cut, though, and his styptic pencil stopped the bleeding easily. Could even a psychologist, he wondered, ever become sufficiently conditioned to things like that to avoid the reaction that had made him cut himself? Well, Forbes would know the answer to that. And if there wasn’t a better answer, an electric razor would solve the problem. He’d get himself one as soon as he was solvent again.
He wanted his appearance to back up the impression his name had made, so he put on his best suit—the tan gabardine—a clean white shirt, hesitated over the choice between his Countess Mara tie and a more conservative blue one, and chose the blue.
He left, whistling. Walked jauntily, feeling that this was a turning point in his life, the start of a new and better era.
The elevators in the Draeger Buiding weren’t running, but it didn’t discourage him to have to walk up to the sixth floor; it exhilarated him instead.
As he opened the door of six-fourteen, a tall slender man in Oxford gray, with thick shell-rimmed glasses, rose and came around from behind a desk to shake hands with him. “Luke Devereaux?” he asked.
“Right, Doctor Forbes. But how did you know me?” Forbes smiled. “Partly by elimination—everyone who’s signed up was already here except yourself and one other. And partly because I’ve seen your picture on a book jacket.”
Luke turned and saw that there were four others already in the office, seated in comfortable chairs. Two men and two women. They were all well-dressed and looked intelligent and likable. And there was one Martian, seated cross-legged on a corner of Forbes’ desk, doing nothing but looking bored at the moment. Forbes introduced Luke around—except to the Martian. The men were named Kendall and Brent; the women were a Miss Kowalski and a Mrs. Johnston.
“And I’d introduce you to our Martian friend if he had a name,” said Forbes cheerfully. “But they tell us they do not use names.”
“-- you, Mack,” said the Martian.
Luke chose one of the unoccupied chairs and Forbes went back to his swivel chair behind the desk. He glanced at his wrist watch. “Seven exactly,” he said. “But I think we should allow a few minutes for our final member to arrive. Do you all agree?”
All of them nodded and Miss Kowalski asked, “Do you want to collect from us now, while we’re waiting?”
Five five-dollar bills, including Luke’s, were passed up to the desk. Forbes left them lying there, in sight. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll leave them there. If any of you is not satisfied when the lesson is over, he may take his money back. Ah, here is our final member. Mr. Gresham?”