He looked pained as he reached back and tugged at the thong on his hair. "Nobody scores a hundred percent. Maybe men did ten thousand years ago-there's reason to suspect that early man may have been telepathic. Or maybe someone will a few thousand years from now. But not today. A score of thirty percent is considered statistically significant. About a year ago we had a young girl who scored fifty-five-but she never got above thirty after that. Fifty- five percent is the record. We're trying to develop training programs."
"How does it work?" I asked.
"The training programs?"
"Telepathy."
He chuckled amiably. "If we knew that, we'd be home free. Actually, it's all quite a mystery. You see the effects, but not the cause. We've found that most people tested do best on their first try, assuming they have the ability to begin with. They don't know how they do it. A thought- a picture of one of those symbols-comes into their minds and they report it. A great deal seems to depend on their mood."
"You mean that on a given day one of these people might be able to read my mind?"
"Well, yes and no. 'Reading your mind' is putting it a bit too melodramatically. They might pick up a mood-or sometimes a word, or a strand of thought-better than other people."
"It all sounds pretty imprecise."
"Oh, it is," James said. "Strictly hit-and-miss when you get beyond the technique we use here."
"But you must have some theory about the mental processes involved."
"You see," James said carefully, staring at the wall behind me, "the 'mind,' as we call it, is much more than just a mere biochemical function of the brain. The brain gives off electrical impulses-much like a radio or television transmitter, to use an overworked analogy. There is energy emanated, and we can measure that energy with an electroencephalograph. Now, as far as telepathy is concerned, it seems that some people have a 'talent,' if you will, for picking up and decoding this energy. The astonishing thing is that a few of these people can pick up these 'signals' from great distances, almost instantaneously. So thoughts are not completely analogous to radio waves."
I decided it was time to break into his lengthy explanation and threw a curve. "Dr. James, have you ever heard of Victor Rafferty?"
He tugged at his hair band again. "Rafferty… Rafferty … Architect?" "Right."
"Died a few years back in an automobile accident. No, he survived that. He finally died in a laboratory accident, something like that. Why do you ask?"
"Was Rafferty ever tested here?"
"No. Not that I know of-and I'd know. Why?"
"Can you think of any reason why somebody might be killed because he was connected with E.S.P.?"
James's face broke into a broad grin. "Sure. I'm threatened all the time-mostly by clergymen and physicists."
I thought of Abu and couldn't even work up a smile. "I'm talking about power. Could a man do something with E.S.P. that could cause others to want to kill him?"
"That's a heavy question. Are you putting me on?"
"No, Dr. James. I'm serious."
"I can see that," he said soberly. "No, I can't think of anything like that. In fact, I almost wish the people in this country would take it that seriously. The Russians are far ahead of us in the field."
I leaned forward. "They are?"
"Yes. Of course, their government puts tremendous amounts of money into research. They're reported to have a woman with telekinetic ability."
The second subject that Arthur Morton had apparently been interested in. "What can you tell me about that?"
"Telekinesis is the ability to move objects through the power of thought." I must have looked skeptical. James cleared his throat and rapped his knuckles on the desk. "I've seen films of a Russian woman who seems able to move objects by willing it. Of course, films can be faked, but I don't think these were. First, the Russians don't really have a motive. Second, if they were going to fake something like that, they might as well have her move a suitcase or something big, not pins and matchsticks. She moves the objects by concentrating and passing her hands over them."
"To what purpose?"
He shrugged. "No purpose; except that if it's true, I think it's pretty fantastic. Don't you? Mind over matter. Imagine man's potential if it can be shown that he can move objects simply by focusing mental energy."
"I think we have more pressing problems."
"No argument there. Would you like to see our facilities?"
"Yes, I'd like that very much."
James came around from behind his desk and held the door open for me; he was a proud father about to show off his baby. I followed him around the complex and tried to look interested and nod at the right times. But my mind wandered as I tried to connect what I'd seen and heard to my knowledge of Victor Rafferty and the dead men around him.
I was going to need a break; there weren't many more places to visit or people to talk to.
It was a few minutes after five when I landed at LaGuardia, just in time for the evening rush-hour traffic. I sat in the back seat of a cab and stewed. I was tired; ready for a stiff drink or three, dinner, and bed.
It was six fifteen by the time I arrived in Manhattan. My mood had abruptly changed: I was suddenly cold and panicky, pent in by the traffic, the noise, and the realization that there was a maniac in the city who would kill me if he found out I was alive. The apartment now seemed too much like a prison or a trap, and I no longer wanted to go home.
I instructed the cab driver to take me downtown to the medical building where Arthur Morton had had offices. I didn't have hopes of finding anyone still there, but checking the building directory for Mary Llewellyn's name would give me something to do. Hers was the last name I had: the last link in a chain that seemed to be made out of air.
The medical building looked deserted, except for a single guard at the doors who was absorbed in the Final Edition of the New York Post. He looked up as I entered, then stuck his nose back into his paper. I walked to the directory at the opposite end of the lobby.
Dr. Mary Llewellyn, Clinical Psychologist, was listed. Fifth floor. I decided to see if she was working late. I took the self-service elevator to the fifth floor, made my way around a cleaning lady, and found Mary Llewellyn's office at the end of the corridor. The light was on inside the office. I knocked, then pushed on the translucent glass door.
A woman in her late thirties looked up from a paper- strewn desk. Mary Llewellyn was attractive in a prissy way. Her blond hair was drawn back in a severe bun. Her eyes were a cold sea-green and seemed to form a barrier between herself and the rest of the world. She looked like a career woman who had lost herself in her work and had no desire to find her way back again.
"Dr. Llewellyn?"
"Yes?" Her tone was frosty.
"Bob Frederickson."
She ignored the hand I offered. "I believe I've heard of you. What can I do for you, Mr. Frederickson?"
"I'm a private investigator. I've been hired by a private party to investigate the murder of one of your colleagues."
A tapered, well-manicured hand shot to her mouth. "Someone I know has been murdered?"
"This murder took place five years ago."
The hand slowly dropped into her lap. "You're talking about Arthur," she whispered.
"That's right, ma'am. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
"I'm glad someone's finally getting around to looking into it," she said in a voice that seemed burdened with a weight from the past. "It's disgraceful the way nothing was ever done."
"It's hard to catch a murderer when you can't find the motive," I said, watching her hands as they reached out and seized the edge of the desk. "Maybe he surprised a couple of burglars."