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seeing is a corporeal vision, can you measure it? Beatrice asked of Zoltan Szabo, Professor Emeritus of
Psychology from the Edgar Cayce Institute for Neuro-kinetic Studies in Bucharest.
Professor Szabo had been reading while Boru was talking. He took off his pince-nez when he heard
Beatrice address him, set down his copy of the Delaware State News and rose.  Rather than consider this
phenomenon as a vision, we researchers in extraordinary reality prefer to look at it from the point of
view of natural physical laws. The tall, thin, almost frail, white-haired academic s Rumanian accent and
Eastern European manner gave him an air of cultured respectability. He was the epitome of old world
charm.
 We have developed a theory that when an event like this takes place, a measurable amount of psi
energy is released. His pale skin and alabaster hair and beard were in complete contrast with his black
bow tie, vest, and Edwardian suit coat and trousers. He wore a starched white shirt with a high collar and
onyx shirt studs and cufflinks.
 What is psi energy? Is this something scientifically legitimate? Beatrice asked pointedly, concerned
that she may have wasted her money on this angle.
The professor s coal-black eyes flashed as he responded,  In my opinion, psi energy is as scientifically
legitimate as the neutrino. Annoyed at the question, Professor Szabo continued,  All that is required for
its proof is empirical data. It s simply a matter of capturing it on film, as it were. To that end we have
employed the eminent psychometrician, Dr. Laszlo Yaeger, to build us a device to measure it.
 Dr. Yaeger, would you please explain just how such a device operates? Zoltan asked his colleague.
Laszlo Yaeger was a short, emaciated electrical engineer, whose eyes looked like saucers behind his
thick glasses. His lab coat fit like it was draped on a scarecrow and he had hair like a fright wig. The
eminent psychometrician s little bird arms flapped in agitation when everyone s attention turned towards
him. Instead of answering immediately, Laszlo left the group, flitted to the back of his van and retrieved
something from inside. He returned quickly, rolling a large device that looked like a Weber Grill with a
control panel attached to it into the midst of the group.
 It might be easiest if you think of a psychomophometer as a psi energy trap, Laszlo explained with a
nervous waiver in his voice.  We use it to measure psychic activity. When Clay Stool is having his vision,
this instrument s sensors will precisely quantify any psi energy he s discharging.
 And if he is not discharging? Beatrice thought she already knew the answer.
 Then he is what we call a phony.
 You ve hired a ghost buster, Ms. Howe! Brendan derisively looked at Laszlo,  In search of
ectoplasm.
 You will not ridicule any of your peers, Beatrice ordered. She didn t want her hired hands fighting
amongst themselves and ruining her plans. Brendan had a look upon his face that seemed to say, These are
not my peers, but he kept his mouth shut.
The meeting was running longer than she d expected, and Beatrice didn t want to cut short the time
her experts had to prepare for the afternoon s activities. There were cameras and microphones to place,
sound levels to check, and the psychomophometer to set up. The Hour of Forgiveness started at three and
she wanted all her people and their equipment in place and tested an hour before the show started.
Having laid out the battle plan for the day, she shouted,  Okay, enough of this gabfest. It s time to
climb down from your ivory towers and get to work. She was confident that once her forces were
arrayed she would have the opportunity for journalistic immortality in her grasp. I ll be up there with
Woodward and Bernstein, she thought, imagining herself on the Mount Rushmore of journalism.
And with that, Beatrice stood up dramatically and struck the pose she imagined would be on the
cover of Time Magazine when she won the Pulitzer Prize.  Let s hit it. Everyone to their appointed places.
* * * *
Kafard had taken the scenic route to town that day. While LaFarge was hosting the Hour of
Forgiveness and virtually all the pilgrims had gathered to watch the chosen one crawl to his rendezvous,
he had made his exit. After sneaking onto the Pardoe farm, he hid in a series of outbuildings as he watched
for signs of pursuit. When the coast appeared clear, he set off across the still barren soybean fields towards
Harriston. The inconvenience offered by occasional geographic barriers and the many barbed wire fences
were less a hindrance to Kafard than the possibility of being seen upon the road. Besides, he thought
pragmatically, it is the shorter distance. Good field-craft required that he expose himself to the fewest
possible eyes if he wished to increase the odds of his errand remaining a secret.
As he neared town he stopped and pulled a knapsack out of a desolate clump of weeds. In an instant,
he d donned a worn flannel shirt and a pair of discolored corduroy bib overalls. He completed his disguise
by placing a battered, wide-brimmed floppy hat over his smooth shaved cranium. With his dusky
complexion, Kafard looked like any of the multitude of migrant workers, who were an integral part of the
local economy. And they were for all practical purposes invisible treated as part of the background, like
a tractor or a silo, by the native Delawareans.
Safe in his anonymity, Kafard slipped onto the main road into Harriston. With his head hunched down [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]




 

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