Thirst No. 4 by Christopher Pike Page A

to get messages from beyond the grave. They gather people around a table and try to get the table’s legs to tap once for yes and twice for no. Or else they sit with Ouija boards and channel all kinds of bizarre information. Freddy was drawn to that sort of thing. It impressed me that he was able to adapt our arrays so the power of a large group could contribute to what was being channeled. But, once again, the quality of the information was usually poor.”
    “Give us an example of the type of information you received.”
    “It was no different from the junk you can find in a hundred channeled books at the store. A spirit would arrive with some high-sounding name and profess to have the secrets of the universe. He or she would dictate pages of information on reincarnation or higher dimensions, none of which could be tested. I’m telling you, it was a waste of time.”
    “Professor Sharp, do you believe in God?” I ask.
    My question catches him off guard. “Why do you ask?”
    “With all your experiments, it sounds like you were trying to tap into a kind of collective unconsciousness—if you want to use Carl Jung’s label—or a universal consciousness. Would you say that’s fair?”
    “We were trying to tap into a power that had no name. Some people might have called it God. I’m not sure I would have been one of them.”
    “Why not?” I ask.
    He shakes his head. “How can I answer that question? As a scientist, I could only work with what I could prove.”
    I lean forward and take his shriveled hand in mine. “Are you afraid to answer because you think Cindy used the arrays for evil purposes? To give you a stroke?”
    “No.”
    “When we first arrived, you gave that impression.”
    He shakes free of my hand. He acts trapped, restless. “You don’t understand,” he says.
    “Then help us understand.”
    “The arrays were designed to solicit information. To prove we had hidden senses beyond the five obvious ones. I didn’t create them to hurt people. The idea is preposterous.”
    “That’s not true,” I say.
    “It is true!” he shouts back.
    “But you’ve admitted how dangerous the IIC is. You said it was more dangerous than we could imagine.”
    Sharp struggles to answer and I fear I might have pressed him too hard. He’s old and frail. His voice cracks as he answers and I worry he’s going to have another stroke.
    “That company is dangerous but not because of the big Array Cindy eventually created. That’s not what stung you and that’s not what put me in bed for a year and destroyed my health.”
    “If it wasn’t the Array, then what was it?” I ask.
    Sharp hesitates. “The Cradle.”
    “What’s that?” I demand.
    The man lowers his head and trembles as he speaks. “I can’t talk about it, it’s too dangerous. Find Freddy, talk to him. I’ll put you two in touch. He knows more about it than I do.”
    I feel frustrated. I have finally managed to steer him to the secret of secrets and now he refuses to tell us what it is. I try pushing him harder but finally have to accept his fear is genuine. It’s not like he is refusing to talk about what happened next, it’s like he can’t .
    However, when we’re about to leave, I ask, “At least tell us why it’s called the Cradle?”
    He stares at me closely, as if seeing me for the first time, and his face darkens. “You know,” he says. “It touched you. It’s just begun to grow.”
    It’s my turn to clam up. I don’t ask what it is. I already know it’s that horrible thing that attacked me in that crummy motel in London.

EIGHT
     
    I t’s not difficult for us to find Fredrick Wild. True to his word, Professor Sharp gives us his address and phone number. It appears the two are still on speaking terms. Freddy lives with his girlfriend, Mary, in Santa Cruz, an hour’s drive from San Mateo. We climb in our car and head for the coast. Seymour drives while I sit in the back with Shanti. She keeps giving me uneasy