Part 9 (2/2)
The acc.u.mulation of offers finally sold her and she agreed to arrange a leave of absence. She'd meet me in the morning of the day-after-tomorrow, at Central Airport in Chicago.
I videographed the check and then took off again, confident that I'd be able to sell her on the idea of being the telepath half of my amateur investigation team.
Then because I needed some direct information, I turned West and crossed the line into Indiana, heading toward Marion. So far I had a lot of well-placed suspicions, but until I was certain, I could do no more than postulate ideas. I had to know definitely how to identify Mekstrom's Disease, or at least the infected flesh. I have a fairly good recall; all I needed now was to have someone point to a Case and say flatly that this was a case of Mekstrom's Disease. Then I'd know whether what I'd seen in Ohio was actually one hundred percent Mekstrom.
VI
I walked into the front office with a lot of self-a.s.surance. The Medical Center was a big, rambling place with a lot of spread-out one- and two-story buildings that looked so much like ”Hospital” that no one in the world would have mistaken them for anything else. The main building was by the road, the rest spread out behind as far as I could see; beyond my esper range even though the whole business was set in one of the clearest psi areas that I'd even been in.
I was only mildly worried about telepaths. In the first place, the only thing I had to hide was my conviction about a secret organization and how part of it functioned. In the second place, the chances were good that few, if any, telepaths were working there, if the case of Dr.
Thornd.y.k.e carried any weight. That there were some telepaths, I did not doubt, but these would not be among the high-powered help.
So I sailed in and faced the receptionist, who was a good-looking chemical-type blonde with a pale skin, lovely complexion and figure to match. She greeted me with a glacial calm and asked my business.
Brazenly I lied. ”I'm a freelance writer and I'm looking for material.”
”Have you an a.s.signment?” she asked without a trace of interest in the answer.
”Not this time. I'm strictly freelance. I like it better this way because I can write whatever I like.”
Her glacial air melted a bit at the inference that my writing had not been in vain. ”Where have you been published?” she asked.
I made a fast stab in the dark, aiming in a direction that looked safe.
”Last article was one on the latest archeological findings in a.s.syria.
Got my source material direct from the Oriental Inst.i.tute in Chicago.”
”Too bad I missed it,” she said, looking regretful. I had to grin, I'd carefully avoided giving the name of the publication and the supposed date. She went on, ”I suppose you would not be happy with the usual press release?”
”Handouts contain material, all right, but they're so confounded trite and impersonal. People prefer to read anecdotes about the people rather than a listing of facts and figures.”
She nodded at that. ”Just a moment,” she said. Then she addressed her telephone in a voice that I couldn't hear. When she finished, she smiled in a warmish-type manner as if to indicate that she'd gone all out in my behalf and that I'd be a heel to forget it. I nodded back and tried to match the tooth-paste-ad smile. Then the door opened and a man came in briskly.
He was a tall man, as straight as a ramrod, with a firm jaw and a close-clipped moustache. He had an air like a thin-man's Captain Bligh.
When he spoke, his voice was as clipped and precise as his moustache; in fact it was so precise that it seemed almost mechanical.
”I am Dr. Lyon Sprague,” he clipped. ”What may I do for you?”
”I'm Steve Cornell,” I said. ”I'm here after source material for a magazine article about Mekstrom's Disease. I'd prefer not to take my material from a handout.”
”Do you hope to get more?” he demanded.
”I usually do. I've seen your handouts; I could get as much by taking last year's medical encyclopedia. Far too dry, too uninteresting, too impersonal.”
”Just exactly what do you have in mind?”
<script>