Paul Bleeker broke in. "You say a professional man writes for a variety of reasons, John. Name one. Why do you write?"
Fast's dark eyes turned on Paul Bleeker. "You have heard it said, a man owes a debt to his profession. This may be true. But no professional man pays his debt by writing for the profession. If he is an independent, say a consulting engineer, or a partner in a law firm, or a history professor in a big university, he publishes because it's part of his job to advertise himself and his establishment. There's very little money in it per se. If he's a rising young man in a corporate research or corporate law department, he writes for the reputation. It helps him move up. If his own company doesn't recognise him, their competitors will. But if he's already at the top of his department in his company, he has none of these incentives. But he doesn't need them. If such a man writes, he has behind him the strongest force known to the human mind."
"And what might that be?"
"Guilt," said Fast quietly. "He writes to hide from the things he has done in the name of his profession. It gives him a protective cocoon to burrow into. A smoke screen to hide behind."
"In the name of the patent system," said Patrick firmly, "I've committed every crime known to man. And still I can't get started."
"You've done very little, really," said Fast in his nearly inaudible monotone. "But when you really have done something, you'll know it. You won't have to wonder or conjecture. Then, you'll begin to write. It'll come instantly. No floundering. No lost motion. You'll leap to it. The words, pages, and chapters will pour out in a torrent. It will be your salvation, your sure escape."
They stared at him. Cord laughed nervously. "So why do you write, John? What is your unspeakable crime?"
Fast turned his great black eyes on the other, almost unseeing. "I cannot tell you, my friend. And you wouldn't believe me if I did tell you. Anyhow, it can never happen to you." He looked away to Patrick. "But to you, Con, it could happen. And it could happen soon. Tonight. In this place."
Patrick laughed shakily. "Well, now, John. You know how careful I am. Nothing is going to happen to me. It's spare time I need to start writing, not penitence."
Fast looked at him gravely. "You do not weep. You smile. Before the Nazarene called Lazarus up, He wept." His toneless eyes seemed almost sad. "How can I explain this to you. Then let it be done. I have placed the Shane Manual at the five angles of the pentagram. I think they are waiting."
"They?" stammered Patrick. "Oh yes, of course. The fellows. Perhaps we should begin."
"What's that smell?" called Sullivan.
"It's a terpineol," said Fast, sniffing a moment. "Like 'Shane'. Maybe a mixture of alpha and gamma terpineols." He snapped his fingers. "Of course!"
"Of course ... what?" said Patrick. His voice was under control, but he felt his armpits sweating copiously.
"The mixture ... very correctly balanced, I'd say. Just right for synthetic oil of lilac"
Patrick was struck dumb.
"That's very odd," said Sullivan. "Con's lilacs are not open yet."
"The odour must be coming from somewhere."
"Maybe we're all tired," said Cord. "Breeds hallucinations, you know."
Patrick looked at him in wonder.
"It's hard to convince anybody that odour can have a supra-chemical source," said Fast.
Cord laughed incredulously. "You mean there's something out there that is synthesising oil of lilac ... or Shane ... or whatever it is?"
"We are so accustomed to thinking of the impact of odours on people that we don't think too much about the creation of odours by people. Actually, of course, everyone has his characteristic scent, and it's generally not unpleasant, at least under conditions of reasonable cleanliness. In this, man is not really basically different from the other animals. But man — or rather, a certain few extraordinary people — seem to have the ability, quite possibly involuntary, of evoking odours that could not possibly have come from the human sweat gland."
"Evoking?" said Sullivan.
"No other word seems to describe the phenomenon. Chemically speaking, in the sense of detectable air-borne molecules dissolving in the olfactory mucosa, the presence of odour is indeed arguable. On the other hand, in the strictly neuro-psychic sense, that an 'odour' response has been received in the cerebrum, there can be no real doubt. The phenomenon has been reported and corroborated by entire groups. The 'odour of sanctity' of certain saints and mystics seems to fall in this category. Thomas Aquinas radiated the scent of male frankincense. Saint John of the Cross had a strong odour of lilies. When the tomb of Saint Theresa of Avila — the 'great' Theresa — was opened in 1583, the scent of violets gushed out. And more recently, the odour of roses has been associated with Saint Theresa of Lisieux — the 'little' Theresa." He looked at Patrick. "I think — everyone is ready."
Patrick wiped his face with his handkerchief. "Go ahead," he said hoarsely.
Ma chandelle est morte ...
— French Nursery Rhyme
Paul Bleeker was seated in the iron chair at the stone table. John Fast faced him, from one side. The others stood behind Paul.
"You are in a long dark tunnel," said John Fast quietly. "Just now everything is pitch black. But your eyes are beginning to adjust."
There was absolute silence. Then Fast's voice droned on. "In a little while, far ahead of you, you will be able to see the tunnel opening. It will be a tiny disk of light. When you see this little light, I want you to nod your head gently."
From far down stream drifted the plaintive call of a whip-poor-will.
Paul Bleeker's eyes were heavy, glazed. His stony slump in the iron chair was broken only by his slow rhythmic breathing.
"You now see the little light — the mouth of the tunnel," monotoned Fast. "Nod your head."
"Candle," whispered Paul.
Patrick started, then recovered himself instantly.
Fast picked it up smoothly. "Watch the candle," he said. "Soon it will start to move toward you. It is beginning to move."
"Closer," murmured Paul.
In a flash of feverish ingenuity Patrick stepped forward, seized the wine bottle and its stub of candle from the stone table, struck his lighter, then lit the candle. He replaced the bottle on the table front. The flame wavered a moment, then flickered up. Patrick stole a glance at Paul's face. It was frozen, impassive.
Fast continued gravely: "Soon you will have enough light to see that you are sitting at your desk in the library. In a moment you will see the piles of books on the tables near by. There are several books on your desk. There's a big book just in front of you. Now the candle is close enough."
"Close," murmured Paul.
The hair on Patrick's scalp was rising. The odour of lilacs was stifling. And he then noticed that the lilacs were opening, all around him. He somehow realised that lilacs do not bloom in minutes. It was a botanical impossibility. He could almost hear the tender calyxes folding back.
Fast continued. "You are opening the front cover. You are looking at the title page. It is typewritten. It is a thesis. You are able to read everything. You can see the name clearly. The name of the student is — "
Patrick heard gasps behind him, and his eyes suddenly came into focus. Beyond Paul, on the far edge of the stone table, beyond the candle, he saw the two figures. They were wavering, silent, indistinct, but they were there. The larger one would just about reach his chin. The eyes of the small one came barely to the table edge.
He wanted to scream, but nothing would come out of his throat.