and, depressing an intercom switch, Peter tells Teddie to commence.
In less than ten seconds, Teddie’s voice is heard. “Well, let’s
go,”
he gripes. “I haven’t got all day.”
“You’ve already done the first one?” Peter inquires.
“Would I say let’s go if I
hadn’t
?” Teddie counters.
Peter shakes his head and, once more, sticks the file card into the dictionary.
Later; ten tests completed. They compare the sets of drawings and discover, to their astonishment, that nine out of ten are so close to the original that Teddie might have, also, sketched them from the dictionary.
“Which is exactly what I
did,”
he says as though the point is obvious. “You think I’m going to waste my time trying to read peoples’ minds? And that picture of a horse is
lousy
, it looks like a damn hippocampus.”
He’s right.
“You never had a psychic experience before that night in the club?” asks Peter.
“It’s what I said,” snaps Teddie. “You want an affidavit from some damn notary public?”
Another test—a steely-eyed Stafford on the lookout for fraud. (“Tell that blockhead I’m here to be tested, not to burglarize the furniture,” Teddie complains to Peter.) A box is fastened to the ceiling of the test room, a set of numbers printed inside, randomly selected that morning. They push a switch to turn on a bulb inside the box and Teddie blows out cigar smoke, gazing up at the box.
Nothing.
They wait. Has he come to the end of his gift already?
Suddenly, he glares at them. “The bulb isn’t working, damn it, how am I supposed to see the numbers?”
They stare at him, then lower the box and check.
He’s right again. The bulb has burned out.
“You’ve
never
shown any signs of ESP before?” Cathy asks, incredulous.
Teddie gives her a look. “
Darling
—” he grates.
“All right, I believe you,” she interrupts.
His smile is feral. “I’m
suffused
with gratitude,” he tells her.
Time for a distance perception test. Cathy and Robert, following the instructions on envelope number 78, go to the campus of Columbia University. This time Robert makes no effort to transmit visual signals.
It doesn’t matter. When they return to ESPA, it is to discover that Teddie might have been standing beside them. Sitting in the reclining chair, blowing smoke at Stafford to aggravate him while the Professor tried to operate his equipment, Teddie has described into the cassette recorder everything they looked at.
They are all delighted, Stafford non-committal.
Teddie is morose. Why do testers have to stay in the room with him? he demands. How does he know they aren’t giving him clues of some kind?
They try to reassure him but he isn’t buying. “Listen,” he says, “I could be getting it through body language for all I know. Hell, through some subliminal audio from a loudspeaker in the next room. You think I
trust
you people?”
He will not continue, he tells them, unless they leave him alone in the testing room.
Stafford is against it; “That would vitiate all minimal precautions,” he declares.
Peter outvotes him. “Just this once,” he says. “To reassure him.”
They leave Teddie alone in the room, a “guard” placed outside to make sure Teddie doesn’t leave. Robert and Cathy take to “the field” again, this time with envelope number 110 which leads them to Wall Street.
When they return, they all enter the testing room.
Teddie has vanished!
“Good God, the man has de-materialized,” says Peter, only half in jest.
“Don’t be a fool,” Teddie’s sepulchral voice comes drifting from behind a sofa. He crawls out, scowling. He’s been lying back there, eyes shut, hands over his ears, to make certain no one could give him a clue.
Nonetheless, his taped remarks (he took the microphone with him behind the sofa) are again incredible; he could be describing the Wall Street location from a travel guide: He does everything short of giving names.
“Well, I’ll be
In less than ten seconds, Teddie’s voice is heard. “Well, let’s
go,”
he gripes. “I haven’t got all day.”
“You’ve already done the first one?” Peter inquires.
“Would I say let’s go if I
hadn’t
?” Teddie counters.
Peter shakes his head and, once more, sticks the file card into the dictionary.
Later; ten tests completed. They compare the sets of drawings and discover, to their astonishment, that nine out of ten are so close to the original that Teddie might have, also, sketched them from the dictionary.
“Which is exactly what I
did,”
he says as though the point is obvious. “You think I’m going to waste my time trying to read peoples’ minds? And that picture of a horse is
lousy
, it looks like a damn hippocampus.”
He’s right.
“You never had a psychic experience before that night in the club?” asks Peter.
“It’s what I said,” snaps Teddie. “You want an affidavit from some damn notary public?”
Another test—a steely-eyed Stafford on the lookout for fraud. (“Tell that blockhead I’m here to be tested, not to burglarize the furniture,” Teddie complains to Peter.) A box is fastened to the ceiling of the test room, a set of numbers printed inside, randomly selected that morning. They push a switch to turn on a bulb inside the box and Teddie blows out cigar smoke, gazing up at the box.
Nothing.
They wait. Has he come to the end of his gift already?
Suddenly, he glares at them. “The bulb isn’t working, damn it, how am I supposed to see the numbers?”
They stare at him, then lower the box and check.
He’s right again. The bulb has burned out.
“You’ve
never
shown any signs of ESP before?” Cathy asks, incredulous.
Teddie gives her a look. “
Darling
—” he grates.
“All right, I believe you,” she interrupts.
His smile is feral. “I’m
suffused
with gratitude,” he tells her.
Time for a distance perception test. Cathy and Robert, following the instructions on envelope number 78, go to the campus of Columbia University. This time Robert makes no effort to transmit visual signals.
It doesn’t matter. When they return to ESPA, it is to discover that Teddie might have been standing beside them. Sitting in the reclining chair, blowing smoke at Stafford to aggravate him while the Professor tried to operate his equipment, Teddie has described into the cassette recorder everything they looked at.
They are all delighted, Stafford non-committal.
Teddie is morose. Why do testers have to stay in the room with him? he demands. How does he know they aren’t giving him clues of some kind?
They try to reassure him but he isn’t buying. “Listen,” he says, “I could be getting it through body language for all I know. Hell, through some subliminal audio from a loudspeaker in the next room. You think I
trust
you people?”
He will not continue, he tells them, unless they leave him alone in the testing room.
Stafford is against it; “That would vitiate all minimal precautions,” he declares.
Peter outvotes him. “Just this once,” he says. “To reassure him.”
They leave Teddie alone in the room, a “guard” placed outside to make sure Teddie doesn’t leave. Robert and Cathy take to “the field” again, this time with envelope number 110 which leads them to Wall Street.
When they return, they all enter the testing room.
Teddie has vanished!
“Good God, the man has de-materialized,” says Peter, only half in jest.
“Don’t be a fool,” Teddie’s sepulchral voice comes drifting from behind a sofa. He crawls out, scowling. He’s been lying back there, eyes shut, hands over his ears, to make certain no one could give him a clue.
Nonetheless, his taped remarks (he took the microphone with him behind the sofa) are again incredible; he could be describing the Wall Street location from a travel guide: He does everything short of giving names.
“Well, I’ll be
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