NIGHT CHILLS
 
 
 
 
DEAN KOONTZ
 
 
 
Authors Introduction
BY THE TIME they have finished this book, many readers will be uneasy, 
frightened, perhaps even horrified. Once entertained, however, they will be 
tempted to dismiss Night Chills as quickly as they might a novel about demonic 
possession or reincarnation. Although this story is intended primarily to be a 
good read, I cannot stress strongly enough that the basic subject matter is 
more than merely a fantasy of mine; it is a reality and already a major 
influence on all our lives.
Subliminal and subaudial advertising, carefully planned manipulation of our 
subconscious minds, became a serious threat to individual privacy and freedom at 
least as long ago as 1957. In that year Mr. James Vicary gave a public 
demonstration of the tachistoscope, a machine for flashing messages on a motion 
picture screen so fast that they can be read only by the subconscious mind. As 
discussed in chapter two of this book, the tachistoscope has been replaced, for 
the most part, by more sophisticatedand shockingdevices and processes. The 
science of behavior modification, as achieved through the use of subliminal 
advertising, is coming into a Golden Age of technological breakthroughs and 
advancements in theory.
Particularly sensitive readers will be dismayed to learn that even such details 
as the infinity transmitter (chapter ten) are not figments of the authors 
imagination. Robert Farr, the noted electronic security expert, discusses 
wiretapping with infinity transmitters in his The Electronic Criminals, as noted 
in the reference list at the end of this novel.
The drug that plays a central role in Night Chills is a novelist's device. It 
does not exist. It is the only piece of the scientific background that I have 
allowed myself to create from whole cloth. Countless behavioral researchers have 
conceived of it. Therefore, when I say that it does not exist, perhaps I should 
add one cautionary wordyet.
Those who are studying and shaping the future of subliminal advertising will say 
that they have no intention of creating a society of obedient robots, that such 
a goal would be in violation of their personal moral codes. However, as have 
thousands of other scientists in this century of change, they will surely learn 
that their concepts of right and wrong will not restrict the ways in which more 
ruthless men will use their discoveries.
D. R. K.
 
 
 
THE BEGINNING
 
 
Saturday, August 6, 1977
THE DIRT TRAIL was narrow. Drooping boughs of tamarack, spruce, and pine scraped 
the roof and brushed the side windows of the Land Rover.
Stop here, Rossner said tensely.
Holbrook was driving. He was a big, stem-faced man in his early thirties. He 
gripped the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were bloodless. He braked, pulled 
the Rover to the right, and coasted in among the trees. He switched off the 
headlamps and turned on a dash light.
Check your gun, Rossner said.
Each man wore a shoulder holster and carried a SIC-Petter, the finest automatic 
pistol in the world. They pulled the magazines, checked for a full complement of 
bullets, slammed the magazines back into the butts, and holstered the guns. 
Their movements seemed to be choreographed, as if they had practiced this a 
thousand times.
They got out and walked to the back of the car.
At three oclock in the morning, the Maine woods were ominously dark and still.
Holbrook lowered the tailgate. A light winked on inside the Rover. He threw 
aside a tarpaulin, revealing two pairs of rubber hip boots, two flashlights, and 
other equipment.
Rossner was shorter, slimmer, and quicker than Holbrook.
He got his boots on first. Then he dragged the last two pieces of their gear 
from the car.
The main component of each device was a pressurized tank much like an aqualung 
cylinder, complete with shoulder straps and chest belt. A hose led from the tank 
to a stainless-steel, pinspray nozzle.
They helped each other into the straps, made certain their shoulder holsters 
were accessible, and paced a bit to get accustomed to the weight on their backs.
At 3:10 Rossner took a compass from his pocket, studied it in his flashlight 
beam, put it away, and moved off into the forest.
Holbrook followed, surprisingly quiet for such a large man. The land rose rather 
steeply. They had to stop twice in the next half hour to rest.
At 3:40 they came within sight of the Big Union sawmill. Three hundred yards to 
their right, a complex of two- and three-story clapboard and cinder-block 
buildings rose out of the frees. Lights glowed at all the windows, and arc lamps 
bathed the fenced storage yard in fuzzy purplish-white light. Within the huge 
main building, giant saws stuttered and whined continuously. Logs and cut planks 
toppled from conveyor belts and boomed when they landed in metal bins.
Rossner and Holbrook circled around the mill to avoid being seen. They reached 
the top of the ridge at four oclock.
They had no difficulty locating the man-made lake. One end of it shimmered in 
the wan moonlight, and the other end was shadowed by a higher ridge that rose 
behind it. It was a neat oval, three hundred yards long and two hundred yards 
wide, fed by a gushing spring. It served as the reservoir for both the Big Union 
mill and the small town of Black River that lay three miles away in the valley.
They followed the six-foot-high fence until they came to the main gate. The 
fence was there to keep out animals, and the gate was not even locked. They went 
inside.
At the shadowed end of the reservoir, Rossner entered the water and walked out 
ten feet before it rose nearly to the tops
of his hip boots. The walls of the lake slanted sharply, and the depth at the 
center was sixty feet.
He unraveled the hose from a storage reel on the side of the tank, grasped the 
steel tube at the end of it, and thumbed a button. A colorless, odorless 
chemical exploded from the nozzle. He thrust the end of the tube underwater and 
moved it back and forth, fanning the fluid as widely as possible.
In twenty minutes his tank was empty. He wound the hose around the reel and 
looked toward the far end of the lake. Holbrook had finished emptying his tank 
and was climbing out onto the concrete apron.
They met at the gate. Okay? Rossner asked.
Perfect.
By 5:10 they were back at the Land Rover. They got shovels from the back of the 
car and dug two shallow holes in the rich black earth. They buried the empty 
tanks, boots, holsters, and guns.
For two hours Holbrook drove along a series of rugged dirt trails, crossed St. 
John River on a timber bridge, picked up a graveled lane, and finally connected 
with a paved road at half past eight.
From there Rossner took the wheel. They didnt say more than a dozen words to 
each other.
At twelve thirty Holbrook got out at the Starlite Motel on Route 15 where he had 
a room. He closed the car door without saying good-by, went inside, locked the 
motel door, and sat by the telephone.
Rossner had the Rovers tank filled at a Sunoco station and picked up Interstate 
95 south to Waterville and past Augusta. From there he took the Maine Turnpike 
to Portland, where he stopped at a service area and parked near a row of 
telephone booths.
The afternoon sun made mirrors of the restaurant windows and flashed off the 
parked cars. Shimmering waves of hot air rose from the pavement.
He looked at his watch. 3:35.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. He appeared to be nap
ping, but every five minutes he glanced at his watch. At 3:55 he got out of the 
car and went to the last booth in the row.
At four oclock the phone rang.
Rossner.
The voice at the other end of the line was cold and sharp:
I am the key, Mr. Rossner.
I am the lock, Rossner said dully.
How did it go?
As scheduled.
You missed the three-thirty call.
Only by five minutes.
The man at the other end hesitated. Then: Leave the turnpike at the next exit 
Turn right on the state route. Put the Rover up to at least one hundred miles an 
hour. Two miles along, the road takes a sudden turn, hard to the right; its 
banked by a fieldstone wall. Do not apply your brakes when you reach the curve. 
Do not turn with the road. Drive straight into that wall at a hundred miles an 
hour.
Rossner stared through the glass wall of the booth. A young woman was crossing 
from the restaurant toward a little red sports car. She was wearing fight white 
shorts with dark stitching. She had nice legs.
Glenn?
Yes, sir.
Do you understand me?
Repeat what Ive said.
Rossner went through it, almost word for word.
Very good, Glenn. Now go do it.
Yes, sir.
Rossner returned to the Land Rover and drove back onto the busy turnpike.
Holbrook sat quietly, patiently in the unlighted motel room. He switched on the 
television set, but he didnt watch it. He got up once to use the bathroom and 
to get a drink of water, but that was the only break in his vigil.
At 4:10 the telephone rang.
He picked it up. Holbrook.
I am the key, Mr. Holbrook.
I am the lock.
The man on the other end of the line spoke for half a minute. Now repeat what 
Ive said.
Holbrook repeated it.
Excellent. Now do it.
He hung up, went into the bathroom, and began to draw a tub full of warm water.
When he turned right onto the state route, Glenn Rossner pressed the accelerator 
all the way to the floor. The engine roared. The cars frame began to shimmy. 
Trees and houses and other cars flashed past, mere blurs of color. The steering 
wheel jumped and vibrated in his hands.
For the first mile and a half, he didnt look away from the road for even a 
second. When he saw the curve ahead, he glanced at the speedometer and saw that 
he was doing slightly better than a hundred miles per hour.
He whimpered, but he didnt hear himself. The only things he could hear were the 
tortured noises produced by the car. At the last moment he gritted his teeth and 
shuddered.
The Land Rover hit the four-foot-high stone wall so hard that the engine was 
jammed back into Rossners lap. The car plowed part of the way through the wall. 
Stones shot up and rained back down. The Rover tipped onto its crushed front 
end, rolled over on its roof, slid across the ruined wall, and burst into 
flames.
Holbrook undressed and climbed into the tub. He settled down in the water and 
picked up the single-edge razor blade that lay on the porcelain rim. He held the 
blade by the blunt end, firmly between the thumb and first finger of his right 
hand, then slashed open the veins in his left wrist.
He tried to cut his right wrist. His left hand could not hold the blade. It 
slipped from his fingers.
He plucked it out of the darkening water, held it in his right hand once more, 
and cut across the bridge of his left foot.
Then he leaned back and closed his eyes.
Slowly, he drifted down a lightless tunnel of the mind, into ever deepening 
darkness, getting dizzy and weak, feeling surprisingly little pain. In thirty 
minutes he was comatose. In forty minutes he was dead.
 
 
 
Sunday, August 7, 1977
AFTER WORKING ALL WEEK on the midnight shift, Buddy Pellineri was unable to 
change his sleeping habits for the weekend. At four oclock Sunday morning, he 
was in the kitchen of his tiny, two-room apartment. The radio, his most prized 
possession, was turned down low: music from an all-night Canadian station. He 
was sitting at the table, next to the window, staring fixedly at the shadows on 
the far side of the street. He had seen a cat running along the walk over there, 
and the hairs had stood up on the back of his neck.
There were two things that Buddy Pellineri hated and feared more than all else 
in life: cats and ridicule.
For twenty-five years he had lived with his mother, and for twenty years she had 
kept a cat in the house, first Caesar and then Caesar the Second. She had never 
realized that the cats were quicker and far more cunning than her son and, 
therefore, a bane to him. Caesarfirst or second; it made no difference liked 
to lie quietly atop bookshelves and cupboards and high-boys, until Buddy walked 
past. Then he leaped on Buddys back. The cat never scratched him badly; for the 
most part it was concerned with getting a good grip on his shirt so that he 
could not shake it loose. Every time, as if following a script, Buddy would 
panic and run in circles or dart from room to room in search of his mother, with 
Caesar spitting in his ear. He never suffered much pain from the game; it was 
the sudden-
ness of the attack, the surprise of it that terrified him. His mother said 
Caesar was only being playful. At times he confronted the cat to prove he was 
unafraid. He approached it as it sunned on a window sill and tried to stare it 
down. But he was always the first to look away. He couldnt understand people 
all that well, and the alien gaze of the cat made him feel especially stupid and 
inferior.
He was able to deal with ridicule more easily than he could deal with cats, if 
only because it never came as a surprise. When he was a boy, other children had 
teased him mercilessly. He had learned to be prepared for it, learned how to 
endure it. Buddy was bright enough to know that he was different from others. If 
his intelligence quotient had been several points lower, he wouldnt have known 
enough to be ashamed of himself, which was what people expected of him. If his 
I.Q. had been a few points higher, he would have been able to cope, at least to 
some extent, with both cats and cruel people. Because he fell in between, his 
life was lived as an apology for his stunted intellect a curse he bore as a 
result of a malfunctioning hospital incubator where he had been placed after 
being born five weeks prematurely.
His father had died in a mill accident when Buddy was five, and the first Caesar 
had entered the house two weeks later. If his father hadnt died, perhaps there 
would have been no cats. And Buddy liked to think that, with his father alive, 
no one would dare ridicule him.
Ever since his mother had succumbed to cancer ten years ago, when he was 
twenty-five, Buddy had worked as an assistant night watchman at the Big Union 
Supply Company mill. If he suspected that certain people at Big Union felt 
responsible for him and that his job was make-work, he had never admitted it, 
not even to himself. He was on duty from midnight to eight, five nights a week, 
patrolling the storage yards, looking for smoke, sparks, and flames. He was 
proud of his position. In the last ten years he had come to enjoy a measure of 
self-respect that would have been inconceivable before he had been hired.
Yet theme were times when he felt like a child again, humiliated by other 
children, the brunt of a joke he could not understand. His boss at the mill, Ed 
McGrady, the chief watchman on the graveyard shift, was a pleasant man. He was 
incapable of hurting anyone. However, he smiled when others did the teasing. Ed 
always told them to stop, always rescued his friend Buddybut always got a laugh 
from it.
That was why Buddy hadnt told anyone what he had seen Saturday morning, nearly 
twenty-four hours ago. He didnt want them to laugh.
Around that time he left the storage yard and walked well off into the trees to 
relieve himself. He avoided the lavatory whenever he could because it was there 
the other men teased him the most and showed the least mercy. At a quarter to 
five, he was standing by a big pine tree, shrouded in darkness, taking a pee, 
when he saw two men coming down from the reservoir. They carried hooded 
flashlights that cast narrow yellow beams. In the backwash of the lights, as the 
men passed within five yards of him, Buddy saw they were wearing rubber hip 
boots, as if they had been fishing. They couldnt fish in the reservoir, could 
they? There were no fish up there. Another thing .
each man wore a tank on his back, like skin divers wore on television. And they 
were carrying guns in shoulder holsters. They looked so out of place in the 
woods, so strange.
They frightened him. He sensed they were killers. Like on the television. If 
they knew they had been seen, they would kill him and bury him out here. He was 
sure of it. But then Buddy always expected the worst; life had taught him to 
think that way.
He stood perfectly still, watched them until they were out of sight, and ran 
back to the storage yard. But he quickly realized he couldnt tell anyone what 
he had seen. They wouldnt believe him. And by God, if he was going to be 
ridiculed for telling what was only the truth, then he would keep it secret!
Just the same he wished he could tell someone, if not the watchmen at the mill. 
He thought and thought about it but still could not make sense of those skin 
divers or whatever they were. -In fact, the more he thought about it, the more 
bizarre it
seemed. He was frightened by what he could not understand. He was certain that 
if he told someone, it could be explained to him. Then he wouldnt be afraid. 
But if they laughed .
Well, he didnt understand their laughter either, and that was even more 
frightening than the mystery men in the woods.
On the far side of Main Street, the cat scampered from the heavy purple shadows 
and ran east toward Edisons General Store, startling Buddy out of his reverie. 
He pressed against the windowpane and watched the cat until it turned the 
corner. Afraid that it would try to sneak back and climb up to his third floor 
rooms, he kept a watch on the place where it had vanished. For the moment he had 
forgotten the men in the woods because his fear of cats was far greater than his 
fear of guns and strangers.
 
PART ONE:
Conspiracy
 
1
Saturday, August 13, 1977
WHEN HE DROVE AROUND THE CURVE, into the small valley, Paul Annendale felt a 
change come over him. After five hours behind the wheel yesterday and five more 
today, he was weary and tensebut suddenly his neck stopped aching and his 
shoulders unknotted. He felt at peace, as if nothing could go wrong in this 
place, as if he were Hugh Conway in Lost Horizon and had just entered 
Shangri-La.
Of course, Black River was not Shangri-La, not by any stretch of the 
imagination. It existed and maintained its population of four hundred solely as 
an adjunct of the mill. For a company town it was quite clean and attractive. 
The main street was lined with tall oak and birch trees. The houses were New 
England colonials, white frame and brick saltboxes. Paul supposed he responded 
to it so positively because he had no bad memories to associate with it, only 
good ones; and that could not be said of many places in a mans life.
Theres Edisons store! Theres Edisons! Mark Annendale leaned over from the 
back seat, pointing through the windshield.
Smiling, Paul said, Thank you, Coonskin Pete, scout of the north.
Rya was as excited as her brother, for Sam Edison was like a grandfather to 
them. But she was more dignified than Mark.
At eleven she yearned for the womanhood that was still years ahead of her. She 
sat up straight in her safety harness beside Paul on the front seat. She said, 
Mark, sometimes I think youre five years old instead of nine.
Oh, yeah? Well, sometimes I think youre sixty instead of eleven!
Touch, Paul said.
Mark grinned. Usually, he was no match for his sister. This sort of quick 
response was not his style.
Paul glanced sideways at Rya and saw that she was blushing. He winked to let her 
know that he wasnt laughing at her.
Smiling, sure of herself again, she settled back in her seat. She could have 
topped Marks line with a better one and left him mumbling. But she was capable 
of generosity, not a particularly common quality in children her age.
The instant the station wagon stopped at the curb, Mark was out on the pavement 
He bounded up the three concrete steps, raced across the wide roofed veranda, 
and disappeared into the store. The screen door slammed shut behind him just as 
Paul switched off the, engine.
Rya was determined not to make a spectacle of herself, as Mark had done. She 
took her time getting out of the car, stretched and yawned, smoothed the knees 
of her jeans, straightened the collar of her dark blue blouse, patted her long 
brown hair, closed the car door, and went up the steps. By the time she reached 
the porch, however, she too had begun to run.
Edisons General Store was an entire shopping center in three thousand square 
feet. There was one room, a hundred feet long and thirty feet wide, with an 
ancient pegged pine floor. The east end of the store was a grocery. The west end 
held dry goods and sundries as well as a gleaming, modem drug counter.
As his father had been before him, Sam Edison was the towns only licensed 
pharmacist.
In the center of the room, three tables and twelve oak chairs were grouped in 
front of a wood-burning country stove. Ordinarily, you could find elderly men 
playing cards at one of
those tables, but at the moment the chairs were empty. Edison's store was not 
just a grocery and pharmacy; it was also Black Rivers community center.
Paul opened the heavy lid on the soda cooler and plucked a bottle of Pepsi from 
the icy water. He sat down at one of the tables.
Rya and Mark were standing at an old-fashioned glass-fronted candy counter, 
giggling at one of Sams jokes. He gave them sweets and sent them to the 
paperback and comic book racks to choose presents for themselves; then he came 
over and sat with his back to the cold stove.
They shook hands across the table.
At a glance, Paul thought, Sam looked hard and mean. He was very solidly built, 
five eight, one hundred sixty pounds, broad in the chest and shoulders. His 
short-sleeved shirt revealed powerful forearms and biceps. His face was tanned 
and creased, and his eyes were like chips of gray slate. Even with his thick 
white hair and beard, he looked more dangerous than grandfatherly, and he could 
have passed as a decade younger than his fifty-five years.
But that forbidding exterior was misleading. He was a warm and gentle man, a 
push-over for children. Most likely, he gave away more candy than he sold. Paul 
had never seen him angry, had never heard him raise his voice.
When did you get in town?
This is our first stop.
You didnt say in your letter how long youd be staying this year. Four weeks?
Six, I think.
Wonderful! His gray eyes glittered merrily; but in that very craggy face, the 
expression might have appeared to be malice to anyone who didnt know him well. 
Youre staying the night with us, as planned? You arent going up into the 
mountains today?
Paul shook his head: no. Tomorrow will be soon enough. Weve been on the road 
since nine this morning. I dont have strength to pitch camp this afternoon.
Youre looking good, though.
Im feeling good now that Im in Black River.
Needed this vacation, did you?
God, yes. Paul drank some of the Pepsi. Im sick to death of hypertense 
poodles and Siamese cats with ringworms.
Sam smiled. Ive told you a hundred times. Havent I? You cant expect to be an 
honest veterinarian when you set up shop in the suburbs of Boston. Down there 
youre a nursemaid for neurotic house petsand their neurotic owners. Get out 
into the country, Paul.
You mean I ought to involve myself with cows calving and mares foaling?
Exactly.
Paul sighed. Maybe I will one day.
You should get those kids out of the suburbs, out where the air is clean and 
the water drinkable.
Maybe I will. He looked toward the rear of the store, toward a curtained 
doorway. Is Jenny here?
I spent all morning filling prescriptions, and now shes out delivering them. I 
think Ive sold more drugs in the past four days than I usually sell in four 
weeks.
Epidemic?
Yeah. Flu, grippe, whatever you want to call it.
What does Doe Troutman call it?
Sam shrugged. Hes not really sure. Some new breed of flu, he thinks.
W/hats he prescribing?
A general purpose antibiotic. Tetracycline.
Thats not particularly strong.
Yes, but this flu isnt all that devastating.
Is the tetracycline helping?
Its too soon to tell.
Paul glanced at Rya and Mark.
Theyre safer here than anywhere else in town, Sam said. Jenny and I are 
about the only people in Black River who havent come down with it.
If I get up there in the mountains and find Ive got two sick kids on my hands, 
what should I expect? Nausea? Fever?
None of that. Just night chills.
Paul tilted his head quizzically.
Damned scary, as I understand it. Sams eyebrows drew together in one bushy 
white bar. You wake up in the middle of the night, as if youve just had a 
terrible dream. You shake so hard you cant hold on to anything. You can barely 
walk. Your heart is racing. Youre pouring sweatand I mean sweating pintslike 
youve got awfully high blood pressure. It lasts as much as an hour, then it 
goes away as if it never was. Leaves you weak most of the next day.
Frowning, Paul said, Doesnt sound like flu.
Doesnt sound like much of anything. But it scares hell out of people. Some of 
them got sick Tuesday night, and most of the others joined in on Wednesday. 
Every night they wake up shaking, and every day theyre weak, a bit tired. 
Damned few people around here have had a good nights sleep this week.
Has Doe Troutman gotten a second opinion on any of these cases?
Nearest other doctor is sixty miles away, Sam said. He did call the State 
Health Authority yesterday afternoon, asked for one of their field men to come 
up and have a look. But they cant send anyone until Monday. I guess they cant 
get very excited about an epidemic of night chills.
The chills could be the tip of an iceberg.
Could be. But you know bureaucrats. When he saw Paul glance at Rya and Mark 
again, Sam said, Look, dont worry about it. Well keep the kids away from 
everyone whos sick.
I was supposed to take Jenny up the street to Ultmans Cafe. We were going to 
have a nice quiet dinner together.
If you catch the flu from a waitress or another customer, youll pass it on to 
the kids. Skip the cafe. Have dinner here. You know Im the best cook in Black 
River.
Paul hesitated.
Laughing softly, stroking his beard with one hand, Sam said, Well have an 
early dinner. Six oclock. Thatll give you and Jenny plenty of time together. 
You can go for a ride later. Or
Ill keep myself and the kids out of the den if youd rather just stay home.
Paul smiled. Whats on the menu?
Manicotti.
Who needs Ultmans Cafe?
Sam nodded agreement. Only the Ultmans.
Rya and Mark hurried over to get Sams approval of the gifts they had chosen for 
themselves. Mark had two dollars worth of comic books, and Rya had two 
paperbacks. Each of them had small bags of candy.
Ryas blue eyes seemed especially bright to Paul, as if there were lights behind 
them. She grinned and said, Daddy, this is going to be the best vacation weve 
ever had!
2
Thirty-one Months Earlier:
Friday, January 10, 1975
OGDEN SALSBURY ARRIVED ten minutes early for his three oclock appointment. That 
was characteristic of him.
H. Leonard Dawson, president and principal stockholder of Futurex International, 
did not at once welcome Salsbury into his office. In fact Dawson kept him 
waiting until three fifteen. That was characteristic of him. He never allowed 
his associates to forget that his time was inestimably more valuable than 
theirs.
When Dawsons secretary finally ushered Salsbury into the great mans chambers, 
it was as if she were showing him to the altar in a hushed cathedral. Her 
attitude was reverent. The outer office had Muzak, but the inner office had pure 
silence. The room was sparsely furnished: a deep blue carpet, two somber oil 
paintings on the white walls, two chairs on this side of the desk, one chair on 
the other side of it, a coffee table, rich blue velvet drapes drawn back from 
seven hundred square feet of lightly tinted glass that overlooked midtown 
Manhattan. The secretary bowed out almost like an altar boy retreating from the 
sanctuary.
How are you, Ogden? He reached out to shake hands.
Fine. Just fineLeonard.
Dawsons hand was hard and dry; Salsburys was damp.
Hows Miriam? He noticed Salsburys hesitation. Not ill?
We were divorced, Salsbury said.
Im sorry to hear that.
Was there a trace of disapproval in Dawsons voice? Salsbury wondered. And why 
the hell should I care if there is?
When did you split up? Dawson asked.
Twenty-five years agoLeonard. Salsbury felt as if he ought to use the other 
mans last name rather than his first, but he was determined not to be 
intimidated by Dawson as he had been when they were both young men.
It has been a long time since weve talked, Dawson said. Thats a shame. We 
had so many great times together.
They had been fraternity brothers at Harvard and casual friends for a few years 
after they left the university. Salsbury could not remember a single great 
time they might have shared. Indeed, he had always thought of the name H. 
Leonard Dawson as a synonym for both prudery and boredom.
Have you remarried? Dawson asked.
Dawson frowned. Marriage is essential to an ordered life. It gives a man 
stability.
Youre right, Salsbury said, although he didnt believe it. Ive been the 
worse for bachelorhood.
Dawson had always made him uneasy. Today was no exception.
He felt ill at ease partly because they were so different from each other. 
Dawson was six feet two, broad in the shoulders, narrow at the hips, athletic. 
Salsbury was five feet nine, slope-shouldered, and twenty pounds overweight. 
Dawson had thick graying hair, a deep tan, clear black eyes, and matinee-idol 
features; whereas Salsbury was pale with receding hair and myopic brown eyes 
that required thick glasses. They were both fifty-four. Of the two, Dawson had 
weathered the years far better.
Then again, Salsbury thought, he began with better looks than I did. With better 
looks, more advantages, more money...
If Dawson radiated authority, Salsbury radiated servility. In
the laboratory on his own familiar turf, Ogden was as impressive as Dawson. They 
were not in the laboratory now, however, and he felt out of place, out of his 
class, inferior.
How is Mrs. Dawson?
The other man smiled broadly. Wonderful! Just wonderful. Ive made thousands of 
good decisions in my life, Ogden. But she was the best of them. His voice grew 
deeper and more solemn; it was almost theatrical in effect. Shes a good, 
God-fearing, church-loving woman.
Youre still a Bible thumper, Salsbury thought. He suspected that this might 
help him achieve what he had come here to do.
They stared at each other, unable to think of any more small talk.
Sit down, Dawson said. He went behind the desk while Salsbury settled in front 
of it. The four feet of polished oak between them further established Dawsons 
dominance.
Sitting stiffly, briefcase on his knees, Salsbury looked like the corporate 
equivalent of a lap dog. He knew he should relax, that it was dangerous to let 
Dawson see how easily he could be intimidated. Nevertheless, knowing this, he 
could only pretend relaxation by folding his hands atop his briefcase.
This letter. - . Dawson looked at the paper on his blotter.
Salsbury had written the letter, and he knew it by heart.
Dear Leonard:
Since we left Harvard, youve made more money than I have. However, I havent 
wasted my life. After decades of study and experimentation, I have nearly 
perfected a process that is priceless. The proceeds in a single year could 
exceed your accumulated wealth. I am entirely serious.
Could I have an appointment at your convenience? You wont regret having given 
it to me.
Make the appointment for Robert Stanley, a subterfuge to keep my name out of 
your date book. As you can see from the letterhead on this stationery, I direct 
operations at the main biochem research laboratory for Creative Development 
Associates, a subsidiary of Futurex International. If you know the nature of 
CDAs business, you will understand the need for circumspection.
As ever, Ogden Salsbury
He had expected to get a quick response with that letter, and his expectations 
had been met. At Harvard, Leonard had been guided by two shining principles: 
money and God. Salsbury had supposed, and rightly, that Dawson hadnt changed. 
The letter was mailed on Tuesday. Late Wednesday Dawsons secretary called to 
make the appointment.
I dont ordinarily sign for registered letters, Dawson said sternly. I 
accepted it only because your name was on it. After I read it I very nearly 
threw it in the trash.
Salsbury winced.
Had it been from anyone else, I would have thrown it away. But at Harvard you 
were no braggart. Have you overstated your case?
Youve discovered something you think is worth millions?
Yes. And more. His mouth was dry.
Dawson took a manila folder from the center desk drawer. Creative Development 
Associates. We bought that company seven years ago. You were with it when we 
made the acquisition.
Yes, sir. Leonard.
As if he had not noticed Salsburys slip of the tongue, Dawson said, CDA 
produces computer programs for universities and government bureaus involved in 
sociological and psychological studies. He didnt bother to page through the 
report. He seemed to have memorized it. CDA also does research for government 
and industry. It operates seven laboratories that are examining the biological, 
chemical, and biochemical causes of certain sociological and psychological 
phenomena. Youre in charge of the Brockert Institute in Connecticut. He 
frowned. The entire Connecticut facility is devoted to top secret work for the 
Defense Department. His black eyes were exception-
ally sharp and clear. So secret, in fact, that even I couldnt find out what 
youre doing up there. Just that its in the general field of behavior 
modification.
Clearing his throat nervously, Salsbury wondered if Dawson was broadminded 
enough to grasp the value of what he was about to be told. Are you familiar 
with the term subliminal perception?
It has to do with the subconscious mind.
Thats rightas far as it goes. Im afraid Im going to sound rather pedantic, 
but a lecture is in order.
Dawson leaned back as Salsbury leaned forward. By all means.
Extracting two eight-by-ten photographs from the briefcase, Salsbury said, Do 
you see any difference between photo A and photo B?
Dawson examined them closely. They were black and white studies of Salsburys 
face. Theyre identical.
On the surface, yes. Theyre prints of the same photograph.
Whats the point?
Ill explain later. Hold on to them for now.
Dawson stared suspiciously at the pictures. Was this some sort of game? He 
didnt like games. They were a waste of time. While you were playing a game, you 
could just as easily be earning money.
The human mind, Salsbury said, has two primary monitors for data input: the 
conscious and the subconscious.
My church recognizes the subconscious, Dawson said affably. Not all churches 
will admit it exists.
Unable to see the point of that, Salsbury ignored it. These monitors observe 
and store two different sets of data. In a manner of speaking, the conscious 
mind is aware only of what happens in its direct line of sight, while the 
subconscious has peripheral vision. These two halves of the mind operate 
independently of each other, and often in opposition to each other-
Only in the abnormal mind, Dawson said.
No, no. In everyones mind. Yours and mine included.
Disturbed that anyone should think his mind performed in any state other than 
perfect harmony with itself, Dawson started to speak.
For example, Salsbury said quickly, a man is sitting at a bar. A beautiful 
woman takes the stool next to his. With conscious intent he tries to seduce her. 
At the same time, however, without being consciously aware of it, he may be 
terrified of sexual involvement. He may be afraid of rejection, failure, or 
impotency. With his conscious mind he performs as society expects him to perform 
in the company of a sexy woman. But his subconscious works effectively against 
his conscious. Therefore, he alienates the woman. He talks too loudly and 
brashly. Although hes ordinarily an interesting fellow, he bores her with stock 
market reports. He spills his drink on her. That behavior is the product of his 
subconscious fear. His outer mind says Go even as his inner mind shouts 
Stop.
Dawsons expression was sour. He didnt appreciate the nature of the example. 
Nevertheless, he said, Go on.
The subconscious is the dominant mind. The conscious sleeps, but the 
subconscious never does. The conscious has no access to the data in the 
subconscious, but the subconscious knows everything that transpires in the 
conscious mind. The conscious is essentially nothing more than a computer, while 
the subconscious is the computer programmer.
The data stored in the different halves of the mind are collected in the same 
way: through the five known senses. But the subconscious sees, hears, smells, 
tastes, and feels far more than does the outer mind. It apprehends everything 
that passes too quickly or too subtly to impress the conscious mind. For our 
purposes, in fact, that is the definition of subliminal: anything that happens 
too quickly or too subtly to make an impression on the conscious mind. More than 
ninety percent of the stimuli that we observe through our five senses is 
subliminal input.
Ninety percent? Dawson said. You mean I see, feel, smell, taste, and hear ten 
times more than I think I do? An example?
Salsbury had one ready. The human eye fixates on objects
at least one hundred thousand times a day. A fixation lasts from a fraction of a 
second to a third of a minute. However, if you tried to list the hundred 
thousand things you had looked at today, you wouldnt be able to recall more 
than a few hundred of them. The rest of those stimuli were observed by and 
stored in the subconsciousas were the additional two million stimuli reported 
to the brain by the other four senses.
Closing his eyes as if to block out all of those sights he wasnt aware of 
seeing, Dawson said, Youve made three points. He ticked them off on his 
manicured fingers. One, the subconscious is the dominant half of the mind. Two, 
we dont know what our subconscious minds have observed and remembered. We cant 
recall that data at will. Three, subliminal perception is nothing strange or 
occult; it is an integral part of our lives.
Perhaps the major part of our lives.
And youve discovered a commercial use for subliminal perception.
Salsburys hands were shaking. He was close to the core of his proposition, and 
he didnt know whether Dawson would be fascinated or outraged by it. For two 
decades, advertisers of consumer products have been able to reach the 
subconscious minds of potential customers by the use of subliminal perception. 
The ad agencies refer to these techniques by several other names. Subliminal 
reception. Threshold regulation. Unconscious perception. Subception. Are you 
aware of this? Have you heard of it?
Still enviably relaxed, Dawson said, There were several experiments conducted 
in movie theatersfifteenmaybe twenty years ago. I remember reading about them 
in the newspapers.
Salsbury nodded rapidly. Yes. The first was in 1957.
During an ordinary showing of some film, a special message was superimposed on 
the screen. You are thirsty, or something of that sort. It was flashed off and 
on so fast that no one realized it was there. After it had been flashedwhat, a 
thousand times? nearly everyone in the theater went to the lobby and bought soft 
drinks.
In those first crude experiments, which were carefully regulated by motivation 
researchers, subliminal messages had been delivered to the audience with a 
tachistoscope, a machine patented by a New Orleans company, Precon Process and 
Equipment Corporation, in October of 1962. The tachistoscope was a standard film 
projector with a high-speed shutter. It could flash a message twelve times a 
minute at of a second. The image appeared on the screen for too short a time to 
be perceived by the conscious mind, but the subconscious was fully aware of it. 
During a six-week test of the tachistoscope, forty-five thousand theater-goers 
were subjected to two messages:
Drink Coca-Cola and Hungry? Eat Popcorn. The results of these experiments 
left no doubt about the effectiveness of subliminal advertisement. Popcorn sales 
rose sixty percent, and Coco-Cola sales rose nearly twenty percent.
The subliminals apparently had influenced people to buy these products even 
though they were not hungry or thirsty.
You see, Salsbury said, the subconscious mind believes everything it is told. 
Even though it constructs behavioral sets based on the information it receives, 
and although those sets guide the conscious mindit cant distinguish between 
truth and falsehood! The behavior that it programs into the conscious mind is 
often based on misconceptions.
But if that were correct, wed all behave irrationally.
And we all do, Salsbury said, in one way or another. Dont forget, the 
subconscious doesnt always construct programs based on wrong-headed ideas. Just 
sometimes. This explains why intelligent men, paragons of reason in most things, 
harbor at least a few irrational attitudes. Like your religious fanaticism, he 
thought. He said: Racial and religious bigotry, for instance. Xenophobia, 
claustrophobia, acrophobia . . . If a man can be made to analyze one of these 
fears on a conscious level, hell reject it. But the conscious resists analysis. 
Meanwhile, the inner half of the mind continues to misguide the outer half.
These messages on the movie screenthe conscious mind wasnt aware of them; 
therefore, it couldnt reject them.
Salsbury sighed. Yes. Thats the essence of it. The subconscious saw the 
messages and caused the outer mind to act on them.
Dawson was growing more interested by the minute. But why did the subliminals 
sell more popcorn than soda?
The first messageDrink Coca-Colawas a declarative sentence, Salsbury said, 
a direct order. Sometimes the subconscious obeys an order thats delivered 
subliminallyand sometimes it doesnt.
Why is that?
Salsbury shrugged. We dont know. But you see, the second subliminal was not 
entirely a direct order. It was more sophisticated. It began with a question: 
Hungry? The question was designed to cause anxiety in the subconscious. It 
helped to generate a need. It established a motivational equation. The need, 
the anxiety, is on the left side of the equals sign. To fill the right side, to 
balance the equation, the subconscious programs the conscious to buy the 
popcorn. One side cancels out the other. The buying of the popcorn cancels out 
the anxiety.
The method is similar to posthypnotic suggestion. But Ive. heard that a man 
cant be hypnotized and made to do something he finds morally unacceptable. In 
other words, if he isnt a killer by nature, he cant be made to kill while 
under hypnosis.
Thats not true, Salsbury said. Anyone can be made to do anything under 
hypnosis. The inner mind can be manipulated so easily. . . For example, if I 
hypnotized you and told you to kill your wife, you wouldnt obey me.
Of course I wouldnt! Dawson said indignantly.
You love your wife.
I certainly do!
You have no reason to kill her.
None whatsoever.
Judging by Dawsons emphatic denials, Salsbury thought the mans subconscious 
must be brimming with repressed hostility toward his God-fearing, church-loving 
wife. He didnt dare say as much. Dawson would have denied itand might have 
tossed him out of the office. However, if I hypnotized you and told
you that your wife was having an affair with your best friend and that she was 
plotting to kill you in order to inherit your estate, you would believe me and
I would not. Julia would be incapable of such a thing.
Salsbury nodded patiently. Your conscious mind would reject my story. It can 
reason. But after Id hypnotized you, Id be speaking to your subconsciouswhich 
cant distinguish between lies and truth.
Ah. I see.
Your subconscious wont act on a direct order to kill because a direct order 
doesnt establish a motivational equation. But it will believe my warning that 
she intends to kill you. And so believing, it will construct a new behavioral 
set based on the liesand it will program your conscious mind for murder. 
Picture the equation, Leonard. On the left of the equals sign there is anxiety 
generated by the knowledge that your wife intends to do away with you. On the 
right side, to balance the equation, to banish the anxiety, you need the death 
of your wife. If your subconscious was convinced that she was going to kill you 
in your sleep tonight, it would cause you to murder her before you ever went to 
bed.
Why wouldnt I just go to the police?
Smiling, more sure of himself than he had been when he entered the office, 
Salsbury said, The hypnotist could guard against that by telling your 
subconscious that your wife would make it look like an accident, that she was so 
clever the police would never prove anything against her.
Raising one hand, Dawson waved at the air as if he were shooing away flies. 
This is all very interesting, he said in a slightly bored tone of voice. But 
it seems academic to me.
Ogdens self-confidence was fragile. He began to tremble again. Academic?
Subliminal advertising has been outlawed. There was quite a to-do at the time.
Oh, yes, Salsbury said, relieved. There were hundreds of newspaper and 
magazine editorials. Newsday called it the most alarming invention since the 
atomic bomb. The Saturday Re-
view said that the subconscious mind was the most delicate apparatus in the 
universe and that it must never be sullied or twisted to boost the sales of 
popcorn or anything else.
In the late 1950s, when the experiments with the tachistoscope were publicized, 
nearly everyone agreed that subliminal advertising was an invasion of privacy. 
Congressman James Wright of Texas sponsored a bill to outlaw any device, film, 
photograph, or recording designed to advertise a product or indoctrinate the 
public by means of making an impression on the subconscious mind. Other 
congressmen and senators drafted legislation to deal with the menace, but none 
of the bills got out of committee. No law was passed restricting or forbidding 
subliminal advertising.
Dawson raised his eyebrows. Do politicians use it?
Most of them dont understand the potential. And the advertising agencies would 
just as soon keep them ignorant. Every major agency in the U.S. has a staff of 
media and behavioral scientists to develop subliminals for magazine and 
television ads. Virtually every consumer item produced by Futurex and its 
subsidiaries is sold with subliminal advertising.
I dont believe it, Dawson said. I would know about it.
Not unless you wanted to know and made an effort to learn. Thirty years ago, 
when you were starting out, this sort of thing didnt exist. By the time it came 
into use, you were no longer closely tied to the sales end of your businesses. 
You were more concerned with stock issues, mergerswheeling and dealing. In a 
conglomerate of this size, the president cant possibly pass approval on every 
ad for every product of every subsidiary.
Leaning forward in his chair, a look of distaste on his handsome face, Dawson 
said, But I find it ratherrepulsive.
If you accept the fact that a mans mind can be programmed without his 
knowledge, youre rejecting the notion that every man is at all times captain of 
his fate. It scares hell out of people.
For two decades Americans have refused to face the unpleasant truth about 
subliminal advertising. Opinion polls indicate that, of those who have heard of 
subliminal advertising,
ninety percent are certain it has been outlawed. They have no facts to support 
this opinion, but they dont want to believe anything else. Furthermore, between 
fifty and seventy percent of those polled say they dont believe subliminals 
work. They are so revolted by the thought of being controlled and manipulated 
that they reject the possibility out of hand. Rather than educate themselves 
about the actuality of subliminal advertising, rather than rise up and rage 
against it, they dismiss it as a fantasy, as science fiction.
Dawson shifted uneasily in his chair. Finally, he got up, went to the huge 
windows and stared out at Manhattan.
Snow had begun to fall. There was very little light in the sky. Wind, like the 
voice of the city, moaned on the far side of the glass.
Turning back to Salsbury, Dawson said, One of our subsidiaries is an ad agency. 
Woolring and Messner. You mean every time they make a television commercial, 
they build into it a series of subliminally flashed messages with a 
tachistoscope?
The advertiser has to request subliminals, Salsbury said. The service costs 
extra. But to answer your questionno, the tachistoscope is out of date.
The science of subliminal behavior modification developed so rapidly that the 
tachistoscope was obsolete soon after it was patented. By the mid-1960s, most 
subliminals in television commercials were implanted with rheostatic 
photography. Everyone has seen a rheostatic control for a lamp or overhead 
light: by turning it, one can make the light dimmer or brighter. The same 
principle can be used in motion picture photography. First, the commercial is 
shot and edited to sixty seconds in the conventional manner. This is the half of 
the advertisement that registers with the conscious mind. Another minute of 
film, containing the subliminal message, is shot with minimal light intensity, 
with the rheostat turned all the way down. The resultant image is too dim to 
register with the conscious mind. When it is projected on a screen, the screen 
appears to be blank. However, the subconscious sees and absorbs it. These
two films are projected simultaneously and printed on a third length of film. It 
is this composite version that is used on television. While the audience watches 
the commercial, the subconscious mind watchesand obeys, to one degree or 
another
the subliminal directive.
And thats only the basic technique, Salsbury said. The refinements are even 
more clever.
Dawson paced. He wasnt nervous. He was justexcited.
Hes beginning to see the value, Salsbury thought happily.
I see how subliminals could be hidden in a piece of film thats full of motion, 
light and shadow, Dawson said. But magazine ads? Thats a static medium. One 
image, no movement. How could a subliminal be concealed on one page?
Pointing to the photographs he had given Dawson earlier, Salsbury said, For 
that picture I kept my face expressionless. Two copies were made from the same 
negative. Copy A was printed over a vague image of the word anger. And B was 
printed over the word joy.
Comparing the photos, Dawson said, I dont see either word.
Id be displeased if you did. They arent meant to be seen.
What was the purpose?
One hundred students at Columbia were given photo A and asked to identify the 
emotion expressed by the face. Ten students had no opinion. Eight said 
displeasure and eighty-two said anger. A different group studied photo B. 
Eight expressed no opinion. Twenty-one said happiness and seventy-one said 
joy.
I see, Dawson said thoughtfully.
Salsbury said, But thats as crude as the tachistoscope. Let me show you some 
sophisticated subliminal ads. He plucked a sheet of paper from his briefcase. 
It was a page from Time magazine. He put the page on Dawsons blotter.
Its an ad for Gilbeys Gin, Dawson said.
At a glance it was a simple liquor advertisement. A five-word headline stood at 
the top of the page: BREAK OUT THE FROSTY BOTTLE. The only other copy was toward 
the lower right-hand
corner: AND KEEP YOUR TONICS DRY! The accompanying illustration held three 
items. The most prominent of these was a bottle of gin which glistened with 
water droplets and frost. The cap of the bottle lay at the bottom of the page. 
Beside the bottle was a tall glass filled with ice cubes, a lime slice, a 
swizzle stick and, presumably, gin. The background was green, cool, pleasant.
The message intended for the conscious mind was clear:
This gin is refreshing and offers an escape from everyday cares.
What the page had to say to the subconscious mind was far more interesting. 
Salsbury explained that most of the subliminal content was buried beneath the 
threshold of conscious recognition, but that some of it could be seen and 
analyzed, although only with an open mind and perseverance. The subliminal that 
the conscious could most easily comprehend was hidden in the ice cubes. There 
were four ice cubes stacked one atop the other. The second cube from the top and 
the lime slice formed a vague letter S which the conscious mind could see when 
prompted. The third cube held a very evident letter E in the area of light and 
shadow that comprised the cube itself. The fourth chunk of ice contained the 
subtle but unmistakable outline of the letter X: S-E-X.
Salsbury had come around behind Dawsons desk and had carefully traced these 
three letters with his forefinger. Do you see it?
Scowling, Dawson said, I saw the E immediately and the other two without much 
trouble. But Im finding it hard to believe they were put there on purpose. It 
could be an accident of shading.
Ice cubes usually dont photograph well, Salsbury said. When you see them in 
an advertisement, theyve nearly always been drawn by an artist. In fact, this 
entire ad has been painted over a photograph. But theres more than the word in 
the ice.
Squinting at the page, Dawson said, What else?
The bottle and glass are on a reflective surface. Salsbury circled that area 
of the reflection that dealt with the bottle
and the cap. Without stretching your imagination too far, can you see that the 
reflection of the bottle is divided in two, forming what might be taken to be a 
pair of legs? Do you see, also, that the reflected bottle cap resembles a penis 
thrusting out from between those legs?
Dawson bristled. I can see it, he said coldly.
Too interested in his own lecture to notice Dawsons uneasiness, Salsbury said, 
Of course, the melting ice on the bottle cap could be semen. That image was 
never meant to be entirely subliminal. The conscious mind might recognize the 
intent here. But it would not recognize the reflection in that table unless it 
was guided to the recognition. He pointed to another spot on the page. Would 
it be going too far to say these shadows between the reflections of the bottle 
and the glass form vaginal lips? And that this drop of water on the table is 
positioned on the shadows precisely where the clitoris would be on a vagina?
When he perceived the subliminal sex organ, its lips parted, Dawson blushed. I 
see it. Or I think I do.
Salsbury reached in his briefcase. Ive got other examples. One of them was a 
two-page subscription solicitation that had appeared shortly before Christmas 
several years before, in Playboy. On the right-hand page, Playmate Liv 
Lindeland, a busty blonde, knelt on a white carpet. On the left-hand page stood 
an enormous walnut wreath. She was tying a red bow to the top of the wreath.
In one test, Salsbury explained, a hundred subjects spent an hour studying two 
hundred advertisements, including this one. When the hour ended they were asked 
to list the first ten of those items that they could remember. Eighty-five 
percent listed the Playboy ad. In describing it, all but two subjects mentioned 
the wreath. Only five of them mentioned the girl. When questioned further, they 
had trouble recalling if she was a blonde, brunette, or redhead. They remembered 
that her breasts were uncovered, but they couldnt say for sure whether she was 
wearing a hat or was clothed from the waist down. (She had no hat and was nude.) 
None of them had trouble describing the
wreath, for it was there that the subconscious had been riveted.
Do you see why? Salsbury asked. Theres not a walnut in that walnut wreath. 
Its composed of objects that resemble the heads of penises and vaginal slits.
Unable to speak, Dawson leafed through the other advertisements without asking 
Salsbury to explain them. Finally he said, Camel cigarettes, Seagrams, Sprite, 
Bacardi Rum Some of the most prominent companies in the country are using 
subliminals to sell their products.
Why shouldnt they? Its legal. If the competition uses them, what choice does 
even the most morally uplifted company really have? Everyone has to stay 
competitive. In short, there are no individual villains. The whole system is the 
villain.
Dawson returned to his executive chair, his face a book of his thoughts. One 
could read there that he disliked any talk against the system and that he was 
nonetheless shocked by what he had been shown. He was also trying to see how he 
could make a profit from it. He operated with the conviction that God wanted him 
to sit in an executive chair at the pinnacle of a billion-dollar corporation; 
and he was certain that the Lord would help him to see that, although subliminal 
advertising had a cheap and possibly immoral side to it, there was also an 
aspect of it that could aid him in his divine mission. As he saw it, his mission 
was to pile up profits for the Lord; when he and Julia were dead, the Dawson 
holdings would belong to the church.
Salsbury returned to his seat in front of the desk. The litter of magazine pages 
on the blotter and bare oak seemed like a collection of pornography. He felt as 
if he had been trying to titillate Dawson. Irrationally, he was embarrassed.
Youve shown me that a great deal of creative effort and money goes into 
subliminal commercials and ads, Dawson said. Evidently, theres a generally 
held theory that subconscious sexual stimulation sells goods. But does it? 
Enough to be worth the expense?
Unquestionably! Psychological studies have proved that most Americans react to 
sexual stimuli with subconscious anxiety and tension. So if the subliminal half 
of a television commercial for
XYZ soda shows a couple having intercourse, the viewers subconscious starts 
bubbling with anxietyand that establishes a motivational equation. On the left 
side of the equals sign, theres anxiety and tension. To complete the equation 
and cancel out these bad feelings, the viewer buys the product, a bottle or a 
case of XYZ. The equation is finished, the blackboard wiped clean.
Dawson was surprised. Then he doesnt buy the product because he believes it 
will give him a better sex life?
Just the opposite, Salsbury said. He buys it to escape from sex. The ad fills 
him with desire on a subconscious level, and by buying that product he is able 
to satisfy the desire without risking rejection, impotence, humiliation, or some 
other unsatisfactory experience with a woman. Or if the viewer is a woman, she 
buys the product to satisfy desire and thus avoids an unhappy affair with a man. 
For both men and women, the desire is well relieved if the product has an oral 
aspect. Like food or soda.
Or cigarettes, Dawson said. Could that explain why so many people have 
trouble giving up cigarettes?
Nicotine is addictive, Salsbury said. But theres no question that 
subliminals in cigarette ads reinforce the habit in most people.
Scratching his square chin, Dawson said, If these are so effective, why dont I 
smoke? Ive seen the ads before.
The science hasnt been perfected yet, Salsbury said. If you think smoking is 
a disgusting habit, if youve decided never to smoke, subliminals cant change 
your mind. On the other hand, if youre young, just entering the cigarette 
market, and have no real opinions about the habit, subliminals can influence you 
to pick it up. Or if you were once a heavy smoker but kicked the habit, 
subliminals can persuade you to resume smoking. Subliminals also affect people 
who have no strong brand preferences. For example, if you dont drink gin or 
dont like to drink at all, subliminals in the Gilbeys ad wont make you run 
out to the liquor store. If you do drink, and if you do like gin, and if you 
dont care which brand of gin you drink, these ads could establish a brand 
preference for you. They work,
Leonard. Subliminals sell hundreds of millions of dollars worth of goods every 
year, a substantial percentage of which the public might never buy if it were 
not subliminally manipulated.
Dawson said, Youve been working on subliminal perception up there in 
Connecticut for the last ten years?
Yes.
Perfecting the science?
Thats correct.
The Pentagon sees a weapon in it?
Definitely. Dont you see it?
Quietly, reverently, Dawson said, If youve perfected the science . . . youre 
talking about total mind control. Not just behavior modification, but absolute, 
ironlike control.
For a moment neither of them could speak. Whatever youve discovered, Dawson 
said, you apparently want to keep it from the Defense Department. They might 
call that treason.
I dont care what they call it, Salsbury said sharply. With your money and my 
knowledge, we dont need the Defense Departmentor anyone else. Were more 
powerful than all the worlds governments combined.
Dawson couldnt conceal his excitement. What is it? What have you got?
Salsbury went to the windows and watched the snow spiraling down on the city. He 
felt as if he had taken hold of a live wire. A current buzzed through him. 
Shaking with it, almost able to imagine that the snowflakes were sparks 
exploding from him, feeling himself to be at the vortex of a God-like power, he 
told Dawson what he had found and what role Dawson could play in his scenario of 
conquest.
Half an hour later, when Ogden finished, Dawsonwho had never before been humble 
anywhere but in churchsaid, Dear God. He stared at Salsbury as a devout 
Catholic might have gazed upon the vision at Fatima. Ogden, the two of us are 
going toinherit the earth? His face was suddenly split by an utterly humorless 
smile.
3
Saturday, August 13, 1977
IN ONE OF THE THIRD-FLOOR GUEST BEDROOMS of the Edison house, Paul Annendale 
arranged his shaving gear on top of the dresser. From left to right: a can of 
foam, a mug containing a lather brush, a straight razor in a plastic safety 
case, a dispenser full of razor blades, a styptic pencil, a bottle of skin 
conditioner, and a bottle of after-shave lotion. Those seven items had been 
arranged in such an orderly fashion that they looked as if they belonged in one 
of those animated cartoons in which everyday items come to life and march around 
like soldiers.
He turned from the dresser and went to one of the two large windows. In the 
distance the mountains rose above the valley walls, majestic and green, mottled 
by purple shadows from a few passing clouds. The nearer ridgesdecorated with 
stands of pines, scattered elms, and meadowssloped gently toward the town. On 
the far side of Main Street, birch trees rustled in the breeze. Men in 
short-sleeved shirts and women in crisp summer dresses strolled along the 
sidewalk. The veranda roof and the sign for Edisons store were directly below 
the window.
As his gaze moved back and back from the distant mountains, Paul became aware of 
his own reflection in the window glass. At five ten and one hundred fifty 
pounds, he was neither tall nor short, heavy nor thin. In some ways he looked 
older than thirty-eight, and in other ways he looked younger. His Crinkly, 
almost frizzy light brown hair was worn full on the
sides but not long. It was a hair style more suited to a younger man, but it 
looked good on him. His eyes were so blue that they might have been chips of 
mirrors reflecting the sky above. The expression of pain and loss lying beneath 
the surface brightness of those eyes belonged to a much older man. His features 
were narrow, somewhat aristocratic; but a deep tan softened the sharp angles of 
his face and saved him from a haughty look. He appeared to be a man who would 
feel at ease both in an elegant drawing room and in a waterfront bar.
He was wearing a blue workshirt, blue jeans, and black square-toed boots; 
however, he did not seem to be casually dressed. Indeed, in spite of the jeans, 
there was an air of formality about his outfit. He wore those clothes better 
than most men wore tuxedos. The sleeves of his shirt had been carefully pressed 
and creased. His opened collar stood up straight and stiff, as if it had been 
starched. The silvery buckle on his belt had been carefully polished. Like his 
shirt, his jeans seemed to have been tailored. His low-heeled boots shone almost 
like patent leather.
He had always been compulsively neat. He couldnt remember a time when his 
friends hadnt kidded him about it. As a child he had kept his toy box in better 
order than his mother had kept the china closet.
Three and a half years ago, after Annie died and left him with the children, his 
need for order and neatness had become almost neurotic. On a Wednesday 
afternoon, ten months after the funeral, when he caught himself rearranging the 
contents of a cabinet in his veterinary clinic for the seventh time in two 
hours, he realized that his compulsion for neatness could become a refuge from 
life and especially from grief. Alone in the clinic, standing before an array of 
instrumentsforceps, syringes, scalpelshe cried for the first time since he 
learned Annie was dead. Under the misguided belief that he had to hide his grief 
from the children in order to provide them with an example of strength, he had 
never given vent to the powerful emotions that the loss of his wife had 
engendered. Now he cried, shook, and raged at the cruelty of it. He rarely used 
foul language, but now he strung together all the vile words and phrases
that he knew, cursing God and the universe and lifeand himself. After that, his 
compulsive neatness ceased to be a neurosis and became, again, just another 
facet of his character, which frustrated some people and charmed others.
Someone knocked on the bedroom door.
He turned away from the window. Come in.
Rya opened the door. Its seven oclock, Daddy. Suppertime.
In faded red jeans and a short-sleeved white sweater, with her dark hair falling 
past her shoulders, she looked startlingly like her mother. She tilted her head 
to one side, just as Annie use to do, as if trying to guess what he was 
thinking.
Is Mark ready?
Oh, she said, he was ready an hour ago. Hes in the kitchen, getting in Sams 
way.
Then wed better get down there. Knowing Marks appetite, Id say he has half 
the food eaten already.
As he came toward her, she stepped back a pace. You look absolutely marvelous, 
Daddy.
He smiled at her and lightly pinched her cheek. If she had been complimenting 
Mark, she would have said that he looked super, but she wanted him to know 
that she was judging him by grown-up standards, and she had used grown-up 
language.
You really think so? he asked.
Jenny wont be able to resist you, she said.
He made a face at her.
Its true, Rya said.
What makes you think I care whether or not Jenny can resist me?
Her expression said he should stop treating her as a child. When Jenny came 
down to Boston in March, you were altogether different.
Different from what?
Different from the way you usually are. For two whole weeks, she said, when 
you came home from the clinic, you didnt once grump about sick poodles and 
Siamese cats.
Well, thats because the only patients I had for those two weeks were elephants 
and giraffes.
Oh, daddy.
And a pregnant kangaroo.
Rya sat on the bed. Are you going to ask her to marry you?
The kangaroo?
She grinned, partly at the joke and partly at the way he was trying to evade the 
question. Im not sure Id like a kangaroo for a mother, she said. But if the 
baby is yours, youre going to have to marry her if you want to do the right 
thing.
I swear its not mine, he said. Im not romantically inclined toward 
kangaroos.
Toward Jenny? she asked.
Whether or nor Im attracted to her, the important question is whether Jenny 
likes me.
You dont know? Rya asked. Well . . . Ill find out for you.
Teasing her, he said, How will you do that?
Ask her.
And make me look like Miles Standish?
Oh, no, she said. Ill be subtle about it. She got up from the bed and went 
to the door. Mark must have eaten three-fourths of the food by now.
Rya?
She looked back at him.
Do you like Jenny?
She grinned. Oh, very much.
For seven years, since Mark was two and Rya four, the Annendales had been taking 
their summer vacation in the mountains above Black River. Paul wanted to 
communicate to his children his own love of wild places and wild things. During 
these four- and six-week vacations, he educated them in the ways of nature so 
that they might know the satisfaction of being in harmony with it. This was a 
joyous education, and they looked forward to each outing.
The year that Annie died, he almost canceled the trip. At
first it had seemed to him that going without her would only make their loss 
more evident. Rya had convinced him otherwise. Its like Mommy is still in this 
house, Rya had said. When I go from one room to another, I expect to find her 
there, all pale and drawn like she was near the end. If we go camping up beyond 
Black River, I guess maybe Ill expect to see her in the woods too, but at least 
I wont expect to see her pale and drawn. When we went to Black River, she was 
so pretty and healthy. And she was always so happy when we were out in the 
forest. Because of Rya, they took their vacation as usual that year, and it 
proved to be the best thing they could have done.
The first year that he and Annie took the children to Black River, they bought 
their dry goods and supplies at Edisons General Store. Mark and Rya had fallen 
in love with Sam Edison the day they met him. Annie and Paul came under his 
spell nearly as quickly. By the end of their four-week vacation, they had come 
down from the mountain twice to have dinner at Edisons, and when they left for 
home they had promised to keep in touch with an occasional letter. The following 
year, Sam told them that they were not to go up into the mountains to set up 
camp after the long tiring drive from Boston. Instead, he insisted they spend 
the night at his place and get a fresh start in the morning. That first-night 
stop-over had become their yearly routine. By now Sam was like a grandfather to 
Rya and Mark. For the past two years, Paul had brought the children north to 
spend Christmas week at Edisons.
Paul had met Jenny Edison just last year. Of course, Sam fiad mentioned his 
daughter many times. She had gone to Columbia and majored in music. In her 
senior year she married a musician and moved to California where he was playing 
in a band. But after more than seven years, the marriage had turned sour, and 
she had come home to get her wits about her and to decide what she wanted to do 
next. As proud a father as he had been, Sam had never shown pictures of her. 
That was not his style. On his first day in Black River last year, walking into 
Edisons where she was waiting on children at the candy
counterand catching sight of herPaul had for a moment been unable to get his 
breath.
It happened that quickly between them. Not love at first sight. Something more 
fundamental than love. Something more basic that had to come first, before love 
could develop. Instinctively, intuitively, even though he had been certain there 
could be no one after Annie, he had known that she was right for him. Jenny felt 
the attraction too, powerfully, immediately
but almost unwillingly.
If he had told all of this to Rya, she would have said, So why arent you 
married? If life were only that simple .
After dinner, while Sam and the children washed the dishes, Paul and Jenny 
retired to the den. They propped their feet up on an antique woodcarvers bench, 
and he put his arm around her shoulder. Their conversation had been free and 
easy at the table, but now it was stilted. She was hard and angular under his 
arm, tense. Twice, he leaned over and kissed her gently on the corner of the 
mouth, but she remained stiff and cool. He decided that she was inhibited by the 
possibility that Rya or Mark or her father might walk into the room at any 
moment, and he suggested they take a drive.
I dont know . .
He stood up. Come on. Some fresh night air will be good for you.
Outside, the night was chilly. As they got in the car, she said, We almost need 
the heater.
Not at all, he said. Just snuggle up and share body heat. He grinned at her. 
Where to?
I know a nice quiet little bar in Bexford.
I thought we were staying out of public places?
They dont have the flu in Bexford," she said.
They dont? Its only thirty miles down the road.
She shrugged. Thats just one of the curiosities of this plague.
He put the car in gear and drove out into the street. So be it. A quiet little 
bar in Bexford.
She found an all-night Canadian radio station playing American swing music from 
the 1940s. No more talk for a while, she said. She sat close to him with her 
head against his shoulder.
The drive from Black River to Bexford was a pleasant one. The narrow black-top 
road rose and fell and twisted gracefully through the lightless, leafy 
countryside. For miles at a time, trees arched across the roadway, forming a 
tunnel of cool night air. After a while, in spite of the Benny Goodman music, 
Paul felt that they were the only two people in the worldand that was a 
surprisingly agreeable thought.
She was even lovelier than the mountain night, and as mysterious in her silence 
as some of the deep, unsettled northern hollows through which they passed. For 
such a slender woman, she had great presence. She took up very little space on 
the seat, and yet she seemed to dominate the car and overwhelm him. Her eyes, so 
large and dark, were closed, yet he felt as if she were watching him. Her 
facetoo beautiful to appear in Vogue: she would have made the other models in 
the magazine look like horseswas in repose. Her full lips were slightly parted 
as she sang softly with the music; and this bit of animation, this parting of 
the lips had more sensual impact than a heavy-eyed, full-faced leer from 
Elizabeth Taylor. As she leaned against him, her dark hair fanned across his 
shoulder, and her scentclean and soapyrose to him.
In Bexford, he parked across the street from the tavern.
She switched off the radio and kissed him once, quickly, as a sister might. 
Youre a nice man.
What did I do?
I didnt want to talk, and you didnt make me.
It wasnt any hardship, he said. You and me. . . we communicate with silence 
as well as with words. Hadnt you noticed?
She smiled. Ive noticed.
But maybe you dont put enough value on that. Not as much as you should.
I put a great deal of value on it, she said.
Jenny, what we have is
She put one hand on his lips. I didnt mean for the conversation to take such a 
serious turn, she said.
But I think we should talk seriously. Were long overdue for that.
No, she said. I dont want to talk about us, not seriously. And because 
youre such a nice man, youre going to do what I want. She kissed him again, 
opened her door, and got out of the car.
The tavern was a warm, cozy place. There was a rustic bar along the left-hand 
wall, about fifteen tables in the center of the room, and a row of maroon 
leatherette booths along the right wall. The shelves behind the bar were lit 
with soft blue bulbs. Each of the tables in the center of the room held a tall 
candle in a red glass lantern, and an imitation stained-glass Tiffany lamp hung 
over each of the booths. The jukebox was playing a soulful country ballad by 
Charlie Rich. The bartender, a heavyset man with a walrus mustache, joked 
continuously with the customers. Without trying for it, without being aware of 
it, he sounded like W. C. Fields. There were four men at the bar, half a dozen 
couples at the tables, and other couples in the booths. The last booth was open, 
and they took it.
When they had ordered and received their drinks from a perky red-headed 
waitressScotch for him and a dry vodka martini for herPaul said, Why dont 
you come up and spend a few days with us at camp? We have an extra sleeping 
bag.
Id like that, she said.
When?
Maybe next week.
Ill tell the kids. Once theyre expecting you, you wont be able to back out 
of it.
She laughed. Those two are something else, she said.
How true.
Do you know what Rya said to me when she was helping me pour the coffee after 
dinner? Jenny took a sip of her drink. She asked if I had divorced my first 
husband because he was a lousy lover.
Oh, no! She didnt really.
Oh, yes, she did.
I know that girls only eleven. But sometimes I wonder..
Reincarnation? Jenny asked.
Maybe thats it. Shes only eleven years old in this life, but maybe she lived 
to be seventy in another life. What did you say to her when she asked?
Jenny shook her head as if she were amazed at her gullibility. Her black hair 
swung away from her face. Well, when she saw that I was about to tell her it 
was none of her business whether or not my first husband was a lousy lover, she 
told me I mustnt be cross with her. She said she wasnt just being nosy. She 
said she was just a growing girl, a bit mature for her age, who had a perfectly 
understandable curiosity about adults, love and marriage. Then she really began 
to con me.
Paul grimaced. I can tell you the line she used: Poor little orphan girl. 
Confused by her own pubescence. Bewildered by a new set of emotions and body 
chemistry.
So shes used it on you.
Many times.
And you fell for it?
Everyone falls for it.
I sure did. I felt so sorry for her. She had a hundred questions
All of them intimate, Paul said.
and I answered all of them. And then I found out the whole conversation was 
meant to lead up to one line. After she had learned more about my husband than 
she could ever want to know, she told me that she and her mother had had long 
talks a year or so before Annie died, and that her mother told her you were just 
a fantastic lover.
Paul groaned.
I said to her, Rya, I believe youre trying to sell your father to me. She 
got indignant and said that was a terrible thing to think. I said, Well, I 
cant believe that your mother ever said anything of the sort to you. How old 
would you have been then? Six? And she said, Six, thats right. But even when 
I was six, I was very mature for my age.
\Vhen he was done laughing, Paul said, Well, you cant
blame her. Shes only playing the matchmaker because she likes you. So does 
Mark. He leaned toward her and lowered his voice slightly. So do I.
She looked down at her drink. Read any good books lately? He stirred his 
Scotch and sighed. Since Im such a nice man, Im supposed to let you change 
the subject that easily.
Thats right.
Jenny Leigh Edison distrusted romance and feared marriage. Her ex-husband, whose 
name she had gladly surrendered, was one of those men who despise education, 
work, and sacrifice, but who nonetheless think they deserve fame and fortune. 
Because, year after year, he achieved neither goal, he needed some excuse for 
failure. She made a good one. He said he hadnt been able to put together a 
successful band because of her. He hadnt been able to get a recording contract 
with a major company because of her. She was holding him back, he said. She was 
getting in his way, he said. After seven years of supporting him by playing 
cocktail-bar piano, she suggested that they would both be happier if the 
marriage were dissolved. At first, he accused her of deserting him, and then he 
threatened to kill her if she left. She divorced him. Love and romance arent 
enough to make a marriage work, she had once told Paul. You need something 
else. Maybe its respect. Until I do know what it is, Im in no hurry to get 
back to the altar.
Like the nice man that he was, he had changed the subject at her request. They 
were talking about music when Bob and Emma Thorp came over to the booth and said 
hello.
Bob Thorp was chief of the four-man police force in Black River. Ordinarily, a 
town so small would have boasted no more than a single constable. But in Black 
River, more than a constable was needed to maintain order when the logging camp 
men came into town for some relaxation; therefore, Big Union Supply Company paid 
for the four-man force. Bob was a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound ex-MP with 
martial arts training. With his square face, deep-set eyes, and low forehead, he 
looked both dangerous and dim-witted. He could be dangerous, but he was not 
stupid. He wrote an amusing column for Black Rivers weekly newspaper, and the 
quality of thought and language in those pieces would have been a credit to any 
big city newspaper's editorial page. This combination of brute strength and 
unexpected intelligence made Bob a match even for lumbermen much bigger than he 
was.
At thirty-five Emma Thorp was still the prettiest woman in Black River. She was 
a green-eyed blonde with a spectacular figure, a combination of beauty and sex 
appeal that had gotten her into the finals of the Miss U.S.A. Contest ten years 
ago. That achievement made her Black Rivers only genuine celebrity. Her son, 
Jeremy, was the same age as Mark. Jeremy stayed at the Annendale camp for a few 
days every year. Mark valued him as a playmatebut valued him more because his 
mother was Emma. Mark was deeply in puppy love with Emma and mooned around her 
every chance he got.
Are you here on vacation? Bob asked.
Just got in this afternoon.
Jenny said, Wed ask you to sit down, but Pauls trying to keep an arms length 
from everyone who has the flu. If he picked it up, hed just pass it on to the 
kids.
Its nothing serious, Bob said. Not the flu, really. Just night chills.
Maybe you can live with them, Emma said. But I think theyre pretty serious. 
I havent had a good sleep all week. They arent just night chills. I tried to 
take a nap this afternoon, and I woke up shaking and sweating.
Paul said, You both look very good.
I tell you, Bob said, its nothing serious. Night chills. My grandmother used 
to complain of them.
Your grandmother complained of everything, Emma said. Night chills, 
rheumatiz, the ague, hot flashes . .
Paul hesitated, smiled, and said, Oh hell, sit down. Let me buy you a drink.
Glancing at his watch, Bob said, Thanks, but we really cant. They have a poker 
game in the back room here every Saturday night. Emma and I usually play. 
Theyre expecting us.
You play, Emma? Jenny asked.
Better than Bob does, Emma said. Last time, he lost fifteen dollars, and I 
won thirty-two.
Bob grinned at his wife and said, Tell the truth now. Its not so much skill. 
Its just that when youre playing, most of the men dont spend enough time 
looking at their cards.
Emma touched the low-cut neckline of her sweater. Well, bluffing is an 
important part of good poker playing. If the damn fools can be bluffed by some 
cleavage, then they just dont play as well as I do.
On the way home, ten miles out of Bexford, Paul started to turn off the blacktop 
road onto a scenic overlook that was a favorite lovers lane.
Please, dont stop, Jenny said.
Why not?
I want you.
He put the car in park, half on the road, half off. And thats a reason not to 
stop?
She avoided looking at him. I want you, but you arent the kind of man that can 
be satisfied with just the sex. You want something more from me. Its got to be 
a deeper commitment with youlove, emotion, caring. Im not up to that part of 
it.
Cupping her chin in his hand, he gently turned her face to him. When you were 
down to Boston in March, you were very changeable. One moment you thought we 
could make it together, and the next moment you thought we couldnt. But then, 
the last few days, just before you went home, you seemed to have made up your 
mind. You said that we were right for each other, that you just needed a little 
more time. He had proposed to her last Christmas. Ever since, in bed and out, 
he had been trying to convince her that they were two halves of an organism, 
that neither of them could be whole without the other. In March, he thought he 
had made some headway. Now, he said, youve changed your mind again.
She took his hand from her chin, and kissed the palm. Ive got to be sure.
Im not like your husband, he said.
I know youre not. Youre a
Very nice man? he asked.
I need more time.
How much more?
I dont know.
He studied her for a moment, then put the car in gear and drove back onto the 
blacktop. He switched on the radio.
A few minutes later she said, Are you angry?
No. Just disappointed.
Youre too positive about us, she said. You should be more careful. You 
should have some doubts like I do.
I have no doubts, he said. Were right for each other.
But you should have doubts, she said. For instance, doesnt it seem odd to 
you that Im such a physical match for your first wife, for Annie? She was the 
same build as I am, the same size. She had the same color hair, the same eyes. 
Ive seen those photographs of her.
He was a little upset by that. Do you think Ive fallen for you only because 
you remind me of her?
You loved her a great deal.
That has nothing to do with us. I just like sexy, dark women. He smiled, 
trying to make a joke of itboth to convince her and to stop himself from 
wondering if she was at least partly right.
She said, Maybe.
Dammit, theres no maybe about it. I love you because youre you, not because 
youre like anyone else.
They rode in silence.
The eyes of several deer glittered in the brush at the side of the road. When 
the car passed, the herd moved. Paul caught a glimpse of them in the rearview 
mirrorgraceful, ghostly figuresas they crossed the pavement.
At last Jenny said, Youre so sure were meant for each other. Maybe we 
areunder the right circumstances. But Paul, all Weve ever shared is good 
times. Weve never known adversity together. Weve never shared a painful 
experience. Marriage is
full of big and little crises. My husband and I were fairly good together too, 
until the crises came. Then we were at each others throats. I just cant . . . 
I wont gamble my future on a relationship that has never been tested with hard 
times.
Should I start praying for sickness, financial ruin, and bad luck?
She sighed and leaned against him. You make me sound foolish.
I dont mean to.
I know.
Back in Black River, they shared one kiss and went to separate rooms to lie 
awake most of the night.
4
Twenty-eight Months Earlier:
Saturday, April 12, 1975
 
THE HELICOPTERA PLUSH, luxuriously appointed Bell JetRanger TIchopped up the 
dry Nevada air and flung it down at the Las Vegas Strip. The pilot gingerly 
approached the landing pad on the roof of the Fortunata Hotel, hovered over the 
red target circle for a moment, then put down with consummate skill.
As the rotors stopped churning overhead, Ogden Salsbury slid open his door and 
stepped out onto the hotel roof. For a few seconds he was disoriented. The cabin 
of the JetRanger had been air-conditioned. Out here, the air was like a parching 
gust from a furnace. A Frank Sinatra album was playing on a stereo, blasting 
forth from speakers mounted on six-foot-high poles. Sunlight reflected from the 
rippling water in the roof-top pool, and Salsbury was partially blinded in spite 
of his sunglasses. Somehow, he had expected the roof to bobble and sway under 
him as the helicopter had done; and when it did not, he staggered slightly.
The swimming pool and the glass-walled recreation room beside it were adjuncts 
of the enormous thirtieth-floor presidential suite of the Fortunata Hotel. This 
afternoon there were only two people using it: a pair of voluptuous young women 
in skimpy white string bikinis. They were sitting on the edge of the pool, near 
the deep end, dangling their legs in the water.
A squat, powerfully built man in gray slacks and a short-sleeved white silk 
shirt: was hunkered down beside them, talking to them. All three had the perfect 
nonchalance that, Ogden thought, came only with power or money. They appeared 
not even to have noticed the arrival of the helicopter.
Salsbury crossed the roof to them. General Klinger?
The squat man looked up at him.
The girls didnt seem to know that he existed. The blonde had begun to lather 
the brunette with tanning lotion. Her hands lingered on the other girls calves 
and knees, then inched lovingly along her taut brown thighs. Obviously, they 
were more than just good friends.
My names Salsbury.
Klinger stood up. He didnt offer to shake hands. Ive got one suitcase. Be 
with you in a minute. He walked back toward the glass-walled recreation room.
Salsbury stared at the girls. They had the longest, loveliest legs he had ever 
seen. He cleared his throat and said, Ill bet youre in show business.
Neither of them looked at him. The blonde squeezed lotion into her left hand and 
massaged the swelling tops of the brunette's large breasts. Her fingers trailed 
under the bikini bra, flicked across the hidden nipples.
Salsbury felt like a foolas he always had around beautiful women. He was 
certain that they were making fun of him. You stinking bitches! he thought 
viciously. Some day Ill have any of you I want. Some day Ill tell you what I 
want, and youll do it, and youll love it because Ill tell you to love it.
Klinger returned, carrying one large suitcase. He had put on a 
two-hundred-dollar, blue-and-gray-plaid sport coat.
Looks like a gorilla dressed up for a circus act, Salsbury thought.
In the passengers compartment of the helicopter, as they lifted away from the 
roof, Klinger pressed his face to the window and watched the girls dwindle into 
sexless specks. Then he sighed and sat back and said, Your boss knows how to 
arrange a mans vacation.
Salsbury blinked in confusion. My boss?
Glancing at him, Klinger said, Dawson. He took a packet of cheroots from an 
inside coat pocket. He fished one out and lit it for himself without offering 
one to Salsbury. What did you think of Crystal and Daisy?
Salsbury took off his sunglasses. What?
Crystal and Daisy. The girls at the pool.
Nice. Very nice.
Pausing for a long drag of his cheroot, Klinger blew out smoke and said, You 
wouldnt believe what those girls can do.
I thought they were dancers, Salsbury said.
Klinger looked at him disbelievingly, and then threw back his head and laughed. 
Oh, they are! They dance their little asses off every night in the Fortunatas 
main showroom. But theyve also been performing in the penthouse suite. And let 
me tell you, dancing is the least of their talents.
Salsbury was perspiring even though the cabin of the Jet-Ranger was cool. Women 
. . . He feared themand wanted them desperately. To Dawson, mind control meant 
unlimited wealth, a financial stranglehold on the entire world. To Klinger it 
might mean unrestricted power, the satisfaction of unquestioned command. But to 
Salsbury, it meant having sex as often as he wanted it, in as many ways as he 
wanted it, with any woman he desired.
Blowing smoke at the cabin ceiling, Klinger said, Ill bet youd like having 
those two in your bed, shoving it in them, one after the other. Would you like 
that?
Who wouldnt?
Theyre hard on a man, Klinger said, chuckling. Takes a man with real stamina 
to keep them happy. You think you could handle both Crystal and Daisy?
I could give it a good try.
Klinger laughed loudly.
Salsbury hated him for that.
This crude bastard was nothing more than an influence peddler, Ogden thought. He 
could be boughtand his price was cheap. In one way or another, he helped 
Futurex International
in its competitive bidding for Pentagon contracts. In return, he took free 
vacations in Las Vegas, and some sort of stipend was paid into a Swiss bank 
account. There was only one element of this arrangement that Salsbury was unable 
to reconcile with Leonard Dawsons personal philosophy. He said to Klinger:
Does Leonard pay for the girls too?
Well, I dont. Ive never had to pay for it. He stared hard at Salsbury, until 
he was convinced that the scientist believed him. The hotel picks up the tab. 
Thats one of Futurexs subsidiaries. But both Leonard and I pretend he doesnt 
know about the girls. Whenever he asks me how I enjoyed a vacation, he acts as 
if all Ive done is sit around the pool, by myself, reading the latest books. 
He was amused. He sucked on his cheroot. Leonard is a Puritan, but he knows 
better than to let his personal feelings interfere with business. He shook his 
head. Your boss is some man.
Hes not my boss, Salsbury said.
Klinger didnt seem to have heard him.
Leonard and I are partners, Salsbury said. Klinger looked him up and down. 
Partners. Thats right.
Their eyes met.
Reluctantly, after a few seconds, Salsbury looked away.
Partners, Klinger said. He didnt believe it.
We are partners, Salsbury thought. Dawson may own this helicopter, the Fortunata 
Hotel, Crystal, Daisy, and you. But he doesnt own me, and he never will. Never.
At the Las Vegas airport, the helicopter put down thirty yards from a dazzling, 
white Grumman Gulf Stream jet. Red letters on the fuselage spelled FUTUREX 
INTERNATIONAL.
Fifteen minutes later they were airborne, on their way to an exclusive landing 
strip near Lake Tahoe.
Klinger unbuckled his seat belt and said, I understand youre to give me a 
briefing.
Thats right. Weve got two hours for it. He put his briefcase on his lap. 
Have you ever heard of subliminal
Before we get going, Id like a Scotch on the rocks.
I believe theres a bar aboard. Fine. Just fine.
Its back there. Salsbury gestured over his shoulder.
Klinger said, Make mine four ounces of Scotch and four ice cubes in an 
eight-ounce glass.
At first Salsbury gazed at him uncomprehendingly. Then he got it: generals 
didnt mix their own drinks. Dont let him intimidate you, he thought. Against 
his will, however, he found himself getting up and moving toward the back of the 
plane. It was as if he were not in control of his body. When he returned with 
the drink, Klinger didnt even thank him.
You say youre one of Leonards partners?
Salsbury realized that, by acting more like a waiter than like a host, he had 
only reinforced the generals conviction that the word partner did not fit 
him. The bastard had been testing him.
He began to wonder if Dawson and Klinger were too much for him. Was he a bantam 
in a ring with heavyweights? He might be setting himself up for a knockout 
punch.
He quickly dismissed that thought. Without Dawson and the general, he could not 
keep his discoveries from the government, which had financed them and owned them 
and would be jealous of them if it knew that they existed. He had no choice but 
to associate with these people; and he knew he would have to be cautious, 
suspicious, and watchful. But a man could safely make his bed with the devil so 
long as he slept with a loaded gun under his pillow.
Couldnt he?
Pine House, the twenty-five-room Dawson mansion that overlooked Lake Tahoe, 
Nevada, had won two design awards for its architect and been featured in House 
Beautiful. It stood at the waters edge on a five-acre estate, with a backdrop 
of more than one hundred towering pine trees; and it seemed to rise naturally 
from the landscape rather than intrude upon it, even though its lines were quite 
modern. The first level was large, circular, of stone and without windows. The 
second storya
circle the same size as but not concentric to the first level was a step up 
from the ground floor. Lakeside, at the back of the house, the second story 
overhung the first, sheltering a small boat dock; and here there was a 
twelve-foot-long window that provided a magnificent view of the water and the 
distant pine-covered slopes. The dome-shaped, black slate roof was crowned with 
a slender, needlelike eight-foot spire.
When he first saw the place, Salsbury thought that it was a cousin to those 
futuristic churches that had been rising in wealthy and progressive parishes 
over the last ten or fifteen years. Without a thought for tact, he had said as 
muchand Leonard had taken the comment as a compliment. Having been 
refamiliarized with his hosts eccentricities during their weekly meetings over 
the past three months, Ogden was fairly certain that the house was supposed to 
resemble a church, that Dawson meant for it to be a temple, a holy monument to 
wealth and power.
Pine House had cost nearly as much as a church: one and a half million dollars, 
including the price of the land. Nevertheless, it was only one of five houses 
and three large apartments that Dawson and his wife maintained in the United 
States, Jamaica, England, and Europe.
After dinner the three men reclined in easy chairs in the living room, a few 
feet from the picture window. Tahoe, one of the highest and deepest lakes in the 
world, shimmered with light and shadow as the last rays of the sun, already gone 
behind the mountains, drained from the sky. In the morning the water had a 
clear, greenish cast. By afternoon it was a pure, crystalline blue. Now, soon to 
be as black as a vast spill of oil, it was like purple velvet folded softly 
against the shoreline. For five or ten minutes they enjoyed the view, speaking 
only to remark on the meal they had just finished and on the brandy they were 
sipping.
At last Dawson turned to the general and said, Ernst, what do you think of 
subliminal advertising?
The general had anticipated this abrupt shift from relaxation to business. 
Fascinating stuff.
You have no doubts?
That it exists? None whatsoever. Your man here has the
proof. But he didnt explain what subliminal advertising has to do with me.
Sipping brandy, savoring it, Dawson nodded toward Salsbury. Putting down his own 
drink, angry with Klinger for referring to him as Dawsons man and angry with 
Dawson for not correcting the general, reminding himself not to address Klinger 
by his military title, Ogden said, Ernst, we never met until this morning. Ive 
never told you where I workbut Im sure you know.
The Brockert Institute, Klinger said without hesitation.
General Ernst Klinger supervised a division of the Pentagons vitally important 
Department of Security for Weapons Research. His authority within the department 
extended to the states of Ohio, West Virginia, Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, 
Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, 
Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine. It was his responsibility to choose, oversee 
the installation of, and regularly inspect the traditional and electronic 
systems that protected all laboratories, factories, and test sites where weapons 
research was conducted within those fourteen states. Several laboratories 
belonging to Creative Development Associates, including the Brockert facility in 
Connecticut, came under his jurisdiction; and Salsbury would have been surprised 
if the general had not known the name of the scientist in charge of the work at 
Brockert.
Do you know what sort of research were conducting up there? Salsbury asked.
Im responsible for the security, not the research, Klinger said. I only know 
what I need to know. Like the backgrounds of the people who work there, the 
layout of the buildings, and the nature of the surrounding countryside. I dont 
need to know about your work.
It has to do with subliminals.
Stiffening as if he had sensed stealthy movement behind him, Some of the 
brandy-inspired color seeping from his face, Klinger said, I believe youve 
signed a secrecy pledge like everyone else at Brockert.
Yes, I have.
You just now violated it.
I am aware of that.
Are you aware of the penalty? Yes. But Ill never suffer it.
Youre sure of yourself, arent you?
Damned sure, Salsbury said.
It makes no difference, you know, that Im a general in the United States Army 
or that Leonard is a loyal and trusted citizen. Youve still broken the pledge. 
Maybe they cant put you away for treason when youve only talked to the likes 
of us but they can at least give you eighteen months for declassifying 
information without the authority to do so.
Salsbury glanced at Dawson.
Leaning forward in his chair, Dawson patted the generals knee. Let Ogden 
finish.
Klinger said, This could be a setup.
A what?
A setup. A trap.
To get you? Dawson asked.
Could be.
Why would I want to set you up? Dawson asked. He seemed genuinely hurt by the 
suggestion.
In spite of the fact, Salsbury thought, that he has probably set up and 
destroyed hundreds of men over the last thirty years.
Klinger seemed to be thinking the same thing, although he shrugged and pretended 
that he had no answer to Dawsons question.
Thats not the way I operate, Dawson said, either unable or unwilling to 
conceal his bruised pride. You know me better than that. My whole career, my 
whole life, is based on Christian principles.
I dont know anyone well enough to risk a charge of treason, the general said 
gruffly.
Feigning exasperationit was a bit too obvious to be real Dawson said, Old 
friend, weve made a great deal of money together. But all of it amounts to 
pocket change when compared to the money we can make if we cooperate with Ogden.
There is literally unlimited wealth herefor all of us. He watched the general 
for a moment, and when he could get no reaction he said, Ernst, I have never 
misled you. Never. Not once.
Unconvinced, Klinger said, All you ever did before was pay me for advice
For your influence.
For my advice, Klinger insisted. And even if I did sell my influencewhich I 
didntthats a long way from treason.
They stared at each other.
Salsbury felt as if he were not in the room with them, as if he were watching 
them from the eyepiece of a mile-long telescope.
With less of an edge to his voice than there had been a minute ago, Klinger 
finally said, Leonard, I suppose you realize that I could be setting you up.
Of course.
I could agree to hear your man out, listen to everything he has to sayonly to 
get evidence against you and him.
String us along.
Give you enough rope to hang yourselves, Klinger said. I only warn you 
because youre a friend. I like you. I dont want to see you in trouble.
Dawson settled back in his chair. Well, Ive an offer to make you, and I need 
your cooperation. So Ill just have to take that risk, wont I?
Thats your choice.
Smiling, apparently pleased with the general, Dawson raised his brandy glass and 
silently proposed a toast.
Grinning broadly, Klinger raised his own glass.
What in the hell is going on here? Salsbury wondered.
When he had sniffed and sipped his brandy, Dawson looked at Salsbury for the 
first time in several minutes and said, You may proceed, Ogden.
Suddenly, Salsbury grasped the underlying purpose of the conversation to which 
he had just listened. In the unlikely event that Dawson actually was setting a 
trap for an old friend,
on the off chance that the meeting was being taped, Klinger had deftly provided 
himself with at least some protection against successful prosecution. He was now 
on record as having warned Dawson about the consequences of his actions. In 
court or before a military review board, the general could argue that he had 
only been playing along with them in order to collect evidence against them; and 
even if no one believed him, he more than likely would manage to retain both his 
freedom and his rank.
Ogden got up, leaving his brandy glass behind him, went to the window and stood 
with his back to the darkening lake. He was too nervous to sit still while he 
talked. Indeed, for a few seconds he was too nervous to speak at all.
Like a pair of lizards perched half in warm sunlight and half in chilly shadows, 
waiting for the light balance to change enough to warrant movement, Dawson and 
Klinger watched him. They were sitting in identical high-backed black leather 
easy chairs with burnished silvery buttons and studs. A small round cocktail 
table with a dark oak top stood between them. The only light in the richly 
furnished room came from two floor lamps that flanked the fireplace, twenty feet 
away. The right side of each mans face was softened and somewhat concealed by 
shadows, while the left side was starkly detailed by amber light; and their eyes 
blinked with saurian patience.
Whether or not the scheme was a success, Salsbury thought, both Dawson and 
Klinger would come through it unscathed. They both wore effective armor: Dawson 
his wealth; Klinger his ruthlessness, cleverness, and experience.
However, Salsbury didnt possess any armor of his own. He hadnt even 
realizedas Klinger had when he protected himself with that spiel about secrecy 
pledges and treasonthat he might need it. He had assumed that his discovery 
would generate enough money and power to satisfy all three of them, but he had 
just begun to understand that greed could not be sated as easily as a hearty 
appetite or a demanding thirst. If he had any defensive weapon at all, it was 
his intelligence, his lightning quick mind; but his intellect had been directed 
for so long into
narrow channels of specialized scientific inquiry that it now served him far 
less well in the common matters of life than it did in the laboratory.
Be cautious, suspicious, and watchful, he reminded himself for the second time 
that day. With men as aggressive as these, caution was a damned thin armor, but 
it was the only one he had.
He said, For ten years the Brockert Institute has been fully devoted to a 
Pentagon study of subliminal advertising. We havent been interested in the 
technical, theoretical, or sociological aspects of it; that work is being done 
elsewhere. Weve been concerned solely with the biological mechanisms of 
subliminal perception. From the start we have been trying to develop a drug that 
will prime the brain for subception, a drug that will make a man obey without 
question every subliminal directive thats given to him. Scientists at another 
CDA laboratory in northern California were trying to engineer a viral or 
bacterial agent for the same purpose. But they were on the wrong track. He knew 
that for a fact because he was on the right one. Currently, its possible to 
use subliminals to influence people who have no unshakable opinions about a 
particular subject or product. But the Pentagon wants to be able to use 
subliminal messages to alter the fundamental attitudes of people who do have 
very strong, stubbornly held opinions.
Mind control, Klinger said matter-of-factly.
Dawson took another sip from his brandy glass.
If such a drug can be synthesized, Salsbury said, it will change the course 
of history. Thats no exaggeration. For one thing, there will never again be 
war, not in the traditional sense. We will simply contaminate our enemies water 
supplies with the drug, then inundate them, through their own. mediatelevision, 
radio, motion pictures, newspapers, and magazines with a continuing series of 
carefully structured subliminals that will convince them to see things our way. 
Gradually, subtly, we can transform our enemies into our alliesand let them 
think that the transformation was their own idea.
They were silent for perhaps a minute, thinking about it.
Klinger lit a cheroot. Then he said, There would also be a number of domestic 
uses for a drug like that.
Of course, Salsbury said.
At long last, Dawson said almost wistfully, we could achieve national unity, 
put an end to all the bickering and protest and disagreement thats holding back 
this great country.
Ogden turned away from them and stared through the window. Night had fully 
claimed the lake. He could hear the water lapping at the boat dock pilings a few 
feet below him, just beyond the glass. He listened and allowed the rhythmic 
sound to calm him. He was certain now that Klinger would cooperate, and he saw 
the incredible future that lay before him, and he was so excited by the vision 
that he did not trust himself to speak.
To his back Klinger said, Youre primarily the director of research at 
Brockert. But apparently youre not just a desk man.
There are certain lines of study Ive reserved for myself, Salsbury admitted.
And youve discovered a drug that works, a drug that primes the brain for 
subception.
Three months ago, Ogden said to the glass.
Who knows about it?
The three of us.
No one at Brockert?
No one.
Even if you have, as you say, reserved some lines of study for yourself, you 
must have a lab assistant.
Hes not all that bright, Salsbury said. Thats why I chose him. Six years 
ago.
Klinger said, You were thinking about taking the discovery for yourself all 
that long ago?
Yes.
Youve doctored your daily work record? The forms that go to Washington at the 
end of every week?
I only had to falsify them for a few days. As soon as I saw
what I had come upon, I stopped working on it at once and changed the entire 
direction of my research.
And your assistant didnt figure the switch?
He thought Id given up on that avenue of research and was ready to try 
another. I told you, hes not terribly clever.
Dawson said, Ogden hasnt perfected this drug of his, Ernst. Theres still a 
great deal of work to be done.
How much work? the general asked.
Turning from the window, Salsbury said, Im not absolutely certain. Perhaps as 
little as six monthsor as much as a year and a half.
He cant work on it at Brockert, Dawson said. He couldnt possibly get away 
with falsifying his records for such a length of time. Therefore, Im putting 
together a completely equipped laboratory for him in my house in Greenwich, 
forty minutes from the Brockert Institute.
Raising his eyebrows, Klinger said, Youve got a house so big you can turn it 
into a lab?
Ogden doesnt need a great deal of room, really. A thousand square feet. Eleven 
hundred at the outside. And most of that will be taken up with computers. 
Hideously expensive computers, I might add. Im backing Ogden with nearly two 
million of my own money, Ernst. Thats an indication of the tremendous faith I 
have in him.
You really think he can develop, test, and perfect this drug in a jerry-built 
lab?
Two million is hardly jerry-built, Dawson said. And dont forget that 
billions of dollars worth of preliminary research has already been paid for by 
the government. Im financing just the final stage.
How can you possibly maintain secrecy?
There are thousands of uses for the computer system. We wont be incriminating 
ourselves just by purchasing it. Furthermore, well arrange for it through one 
of Futurexs subsidiaries. There wont be any record that it was sold to us. 
There wont be any questions asked, Dawson said.
Youll need lab technicians, assistants, clerks
No, Dawson said. So long as Ogden has the computer and a complete data file 
of his past researchhe can handle everything himself. For ten years hes had a 
full lab staff to do the drudgery; but most of that kind of work is behind him 
now.,
If he quits at Brockert, Klinger said, there will be an exhaustive security 
investigation. Theyll want to know why he quitand theyll find out.
They were talking about Salsbury as if he were somewhere else and unable to hear 
them, and he didnt like that. He moved away from the window, took two steps 
toward the general and said, Im not leaving my position at Brockert. Ill 
report for work as usual, five days a week, from nine to four. While Im there 
Ill labor diligently on a useless research project.
When will you find time to work at this lab Leonards setting up for you?
In the evenings, Salsbury said. And on weekends. Besides that, Ive 
accumulated a lot of sick leave and vacation time. Ill take most of itbut Ill 
spread it out evenly over the next year or so.
Klinger stood up and went to the elegant copper and glass bar cart that a 
servant had left a few feet from the easy chairs. His thick and hairy arms made 
the crystal decanters look more delicate than they actually were. As he poured 
another double shot of brandy for himself, he said, And what role do you see me 
playing in all of this?
Salsbury said, Leonard can get the computer system I need. But he cant provide 
me with a magnetic tape file of all the research Ive done for CDA or a set of 
master program tapes designed for my research. Ill need both of those before 
Leonards computers are worth a penny to me. Now, given three or four weeks, I 
could make duplicates of those tapes at Brockert without much risk of being 
caught. But once Ive got eighty or ninety cumbersome mag tapes and 
five-hundred-yard print-outs, how do I get them out of Brockert? Theres just no 
way. Security procedures, entering and leaving, are tight, too tight for my 
purpose. Unless . .
I see, Klinger said. He returned to his chair and sipped at his brandy.
Sliding forward to the edge of his seat, Dawson said, Ernst, youre the 
ultimate authority for security at Brockert. You know more about that system 
than anyone else. If theres a weak spot in their security, youre the man to 
find itor make it.
Studying Salsbury as if he were assessing the danger and questioning the wisdom 
of being associated with someone of such obviously inferior character, Klinger 
said, Im supposed to let you smuggle out nearly one hundred magnetic tapes 
full of top-secret data and sophisticated computer programs?
Ogden nodded slowly.
Can you do it? Dawson asked.
Probably.
Thats all you can say?
Theres a better than even chance it can be done.
Thats not sufficient, Ernst.
All right, Klinger said, slightly exasperated. I can do it. I can find a 
way.
Smiling, Dawson said, I knew you could.
But if I did find a way and was caught either during or after the operationId 
be dumped into Leavenworth and left to rot. Earlier, when I used the word 
treason, I wasnt tossing it around lightly.
I didnt suppose you were, Dawson said. But you wouldnt be required ever to 
see these mag tapes, let alone touch them. That would be a risk that only Ogden 
would have to take. They could convict you of nothing more serious than 
negligence for permitting or overlooking the gap in security.
Even so, Id be forced into early retirement or drummed out of the service with 
only a partial pension.
Amazed, Dawson shook his head and said, Im offering him one-third of a 
partnership that will earn millions, and Ernst is worrying about a government 
pension.
Salsbury was perspiring heavily. The back of his shirt was soaked and felt like 
a cold compress against his skin. To Klinger
he said, Youve told us that you can do it. But the big question is whether you 
will do it.
Klinger stared into his brandy glass for a while, then finally looked up at 
Salsbury and said, Once youve perfected the drugwhats our first step?
Getting to his feet, Dawson said, Well establish a front corporation in 
Liechtenstein.
Why there?
Liechtenstein did not require that a corporation list its true owners. Dawson 
could hire lawyers in Vaduz and appoint them as corporate officersand they 
could not be forced by law to reveal the identities of their clients.
Furthermore, Dawson said, I will acquire for each of us a set of forged 
papers, complete with passports, so that we can travel and do business under 
assumed names. If the lawyers in Vadnz are forced by extralegal means to reveal 
the names of their clients, they still wont endanger us because they wont know 
our real names.
Dawsons caution was not excessive. The corporation would quite rapidly become 
an incredibly successful venture, so successful that a great many powerful 
people in both business and government would eventually be prying at it quietly, 
trying to find out who lay behind the phony officers in Vaduz. With Salsburys 
drug and extensive programs of carefully structured subliminals, the three of 
them could establish a hundred different businesses and literally demand that 
customers, associates, and even rivals produce a substantial profit for them. 
Every dollar they earned would seem to be spotlessly clean, produced by a 
legitimate form of commerce. But, of course, a great many people would feel that 
it was not at all legitimate to manipulate the competition and the buying public 
by means of a powerful new drug. In the event that the corporation got caught 
using the drugstolen, as it was, from a U.S. weapons research projectwhat had 
once appeared to be excessive caution might well prove no more than adequate.
And once weve got the corporation? Klinger asked.
Money and business arrangements were Dawsons vocation
and his avocation. He began to declaim almost in the manner of a Baptist 
preacher, full of vigor and fierce intent, thoroughly enjoying himself. The 
corporation will purchase a walled estate somewhere in Germany or France. At 
least one hundred acres. On the surface it will appear to be an executive 
retreat. But in reality it will be used for the indoctrination of mercenary 
soldiers.
Mercenaries? Klingers hard, broad face expressed the institutional soldiers 
disdain for the free-lancer.
The corporation, Dawson explained, would hire perhaps a dozen of the very best 
mercenaries available, men who had fought in Asia and Africa. They would be 
brought to the company estate, ostensibly to be briefed on their assignments and 
to meet their superiors. The water supply and all bottled beverages on the 
estate would be used as media for the drug. Twenty-four hours after the 
mercenaries had taken their first few drinks, when they were primed for total 
subliminal brainwashing, they would be shown four hours of films on each of 
three successive daystravelogues, industrial studies, and technical 
documentaries detailing the use of a variety of weapons and electronic 
deviceswhich would be presented as essential background material for their 
assignments. Unknowingly, of course, they would be watching twelve hours of 
sophisticated subliminals telling them to obey without question any order 
prefaced by a certain code phrase; and when those three days had passed, all 
twelve men would cease to be merely hired hands and would become something quite 
like programmed robots.
Outwardly, they would not appear to have changed. They would look and behave as 
they always had done. Nevertheless, they would obey any order to lie, steal, or 
kill anyone, obey without hesitation, so long as that order was preceded by the 
proper code phrase.
As mercenary soldiers, they would be professional killers to begin with, 
Klinger said.
Thats true, Dawson said. But the glory lies in their unconditional, 
unquestioning obedience. As hired mercenaries, they would be able to reject any 
order or assignment that they
didnt like. But as our programmed staff, they will do precisely what they are 
told to do.
There are other advantages, too, Salsbury said, not unaware that Dawson, now 
that he was in a proselytizing mood, resented being nudged from the pulpit. For 
one thing, you can order a man to kill and then to erase all memory of the 
murder from both his conscious and subconscious mind. He would never be able to 
testify against the corporation or against us; and he would pass any polygraph 
examination.
Klingers Neanderthal face brightened a bit. He appreciated the importance of 
what Salsbury had said. Even if they used pentothal or hypnotic regressionhe 
still couldnt remember?
Sodium pentothal is much overrated as a truth serum, Salsbury said. As for 
the other. . - Well, they could put him in a trance and regress him to the time 
of the murder. But he would only draw a blank. Once he has been told to erase 
the event from his mind, it is beyond his recall just as surely as obsolete data 
is beyond the recall of a computer that has had its memory banks wiped clean.
Having finished his second brandy, Klinger returned to the bar cart. This time 
he filled a twelve-ounce tumbler with ice and Seven-Up.
Salsbury thought, Hes right about that: any man who doesnt keep a clear head 
here, tonight, is plainly suicidal.
To Dawson, Klinger said, Once weve got these twelve robots what do we do 
with them?
Because he had spent the last three months thinking about that while he and 
Saisbury worked out the details of their approach to the general, Dawson had a 
quick answer. We can do anything we want with them. Anything at all. But as a 
first stepI thought we might use them to introduce the drug into the water 
supplies of every major city in Kuwait. Then we could saturate that country with 
a multimedia subliminal campaign specially structured for the Arab psyche, and 
within a month we could quietly seize control without anyone, even the 
government of Kuwait, knowing what weve done.
Take over an entire country as a first step? Klinger asked incredulously.
Preaching again, striding back and forth between Salsbury and the general, 
gesturing expansively, Dawson said, The population of Kuwait is less than eight 
hundred thousand. The greatest part of that is concentrated in a few urban 
areas, chiefly in Hawaii and the capital city. Furthermore, all of the members 
of the government and virtually all of the wealthy reside in those metropolitan 
centers. The handful of super-rich families who own desert enclaves get their 
water by truck from the cities. In short, we could take control of everyone of 
influence within the countrygiving us a behind-the-scenes managerial 
dictatorship over the Kuwait oil reserves, which compose twenty percent of the 
entire world supply. That done, Kuwait would become our base of operations, from 
which we could subvert Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Yemen, and every other oil-exporting 
nation in the Mid-East.
We could smash the OPEC cartel, Klinger said thoughtfully.
Or strengthen it, Dawson said. Or alternately weaken and strengthen it in 
order to cause major fluctuations in the value of oil stocks. Indeed, we could 
affect the entire stock market. And because wed know about each fluctuation 
well in advance, we could take rare advantage of it. Within a year of assuming 
control of a half-dozen Mid-Eastern countries, we should be able to siphon one 
and a half billion dollars into the corporation in Liechtenstein. Thereafter, it 
will be a matter of no more than five or six years until everything, quite 
literally everything, is ours.
It soundscrazy, mad, Klinger said.
Dawson frowned. Mad?
Incredible, unbelievable, impossible, the general said, clarifying his first 
statement when he saw that it disturbed Dawson.
There was a time when heavier-than-air flight seemed impossible, Salsbury 
said. The nuclear bomb seemed incredible to many people even after it was 
dropped on Japan. And in 1961, when Kennedy launched the Apollo Space Program, 
very few Americans believed that a man would ever walk on the moon.
They stared at one another.
The silence in the room was so perfect that each tiny wave breaking against the 
boat dock, although it was little more than a gentle ripple and was muffled by 
the window, sounded like an ocean surf. At least it did to Salsbury; it 
reverberated within his nearly fevered mind.
Finally Dawson said, Ernst? Will you help us get those magnetic tapes?
Klinger looked at Dawson for a long moment, then at Salsbury. A shudder either 
of fear or pleasure; Ogden could not be certain whichpassed through him. He 
said, Ill help.
Ogden sighed.
Champagne? Dawson asked. Its a bit crude after brandy. But I believe that we 
should raise a toast to one another and to the project.
Fifteen minutes later, after a servant had brought a chilled bottle of Mot et 
Chandon and he had uncorked it, after the three of them had toasted success, 
Klinger smiled at Dawson and said, What if Id been terrified of this drug? 
What if Id thought your offer was more than I could handle?
I know you well, Ernst, Dawson said. Perhaps better than you think I do. Id 
be surprised if there was anything that you couldnt handle.
But suppose Id balked, for whatever reason. Suppose I hadnt wanted to come in 
with you.
Dawson rolled some champagne over his tongue, swallowed, inhaled through his 
mouth to savor the aftertaste, and said, Then you wouldnt have left this 
estate alive, Ernst. Im afraid youd have had an accident.
Which you arranged for a week ago. Nearly that.
I knew you wouldnt disappoint me.
You came with a gun? Dawson asked. A thirty-two automatic.
It doesnt show.
Its taped to the small of my back.
Youve practiced drawing it?
I can have it in my hand in less than five seconds.
Dawson nodded approval. And you would have used me as a shield to get off the 
estate.
I would have tried.
They both laughed and regarded each other with something very near to affection. 
They were delighted with themselves.
Jesus Christ! Salsbury thought. He nervously sipped his champagne.
5
Friday, August 19, 1977
PAUL AND MARK SAT cross-legged, side by side on the dew-damp mountain grass. 
They were as still as stones. Even Mark, who loathed inactivity and to whom 
patience was an irritant rather than a virtue, did no more than blink his eyes.
Around them lay a breath-taking panorama of virtually unspoiled land. On three 
sides of their clearing, a dense, purple-green, almost primeval forest rose like 
walls. To their right the clearing opened at the head of a narrow valley; and 
the town of Black River, two miles away, shimmered like a patch of opalescent 
fungus on the emerald quilt of the wild land. The only other scar of 
civilization was the Big Union mill, which was barely visible, three miles on 
the other side of Black River. Even so, from this distance the huge buildings 
did not resemble millworks so much as they did the ramparts, gates, and towers 
of castles. The planned forests that supplied Big Union, and which were less 
attractive than the natural woods, were out of sight beyond the next mountain. 
Blue sky and fast-moving white clouds overhung what could have passed for a 
scene of Eden in a biblical film.
Paul and Mark were not interested in the scenery. Their attention was fixed on a 
small, red-brown squirrel.
For the past five days they had been putting out food for the squirreldry 
roasted peanuts and sectioned appleshoping to make friends with it and 
gradually to domesticate it. Day by
day it crept closer to the food, and yesterday it took a few bites before 
succumbing to fear and scampering away.
Now, as they watched, it came forth from the perimeter of the woods, three or 
four quick yet cautious steps at a time, pausing again and again to study the 
man and boy. When it finally reached the food, it picked up a piece of the apple 
in its tiny forepaws and, sitting back on its haunches, began to eat.
When the animal finished the first slice and picked up another, Mark said, He 
wont take his eyes off us. Not even for a second.
As the boy spoke the squirrel became suddenly as still as they were. It cocked 
its head and fixed them with one large brown eye.
Paul had said they could whisper, breaking their rule of silence, if the 
squirrel had gained courage since yesterday and managed to stay at the food for 
more than a few seconds. If they were to domesticate it, the animal would have 
to become accustomed to their voices.
Please dont be scared, Mark said softly. Paul had promised that, if the 
squirrel could be tamed, Mark would be allowed to take it home and make a pet of 
it. Please, dont run away.
Not yet prepared to trust them, it dropped the slice of apple, turned, bounded 
into the forest, and scrambled to the upper branches of a maple tree.
Mark jumped up. Ah, heck! We wouldnt have hurt you, you dumb squirrel! 
Disappointment lined his face.
Stay calm. Hell be back again tomorrow, Paul said. He stood and stretched his 
stiff muscles.
Hell never trust us.
Yes, he will. Little by little.
We'll never tame him.
Little by little, Paul said. He cant be converted in one week. Youve got to 
be patient.
Im not very good at being patient.
I know. But youll learn.
Little by little?
Thats right, Paul said. He bent over, picked up the apple slices and peanuts, 
and dropped them into a plastic bag.
Hey, Mark said, maybe hes mad at us because we always take the food when we 
leave.
Paul laughed. Maybe so. But if he got in the habit of sneaking back and eating 
after weve gone, he wouldnt have any reason to come out while were here.
As they started back toward camp, which lay at the far end of the 
two-hundred-yard-long mountain meadow, Paul gradually became aware again of the 
beautiful day as if it were a mosaic for all the senses, falling into place 
around him, piece by piece. The warm summer breeze. White daisies gleaming in 
the grass, and here and there a buttercup. The odor of grass and earth and wild 
flowers. The constant rustle of leaves and the gentle soughing of the breeze in 
the pine boughs. The trilling of birds. The solemn shadows of the forest. High 
above, a hawk wheeled into sight, the last piece of the mosaic; its shrill cry 
seemed filled with pride, as if it knew that it had capped the scene, as if it 
thought it had pulled down the sky with its wings.
The time had come for their weekly trip into town to replenish their supply of 
perishable goodsbut for a moment he didnt want to leave the mountain. Even 
Black Riversmall, nearly isolated from the modem world, singularly peaceful 
would seem raucous when compared to the serenity of the forest.
But of course Black River offered more than fresh eggs, milk, butter, and other 
groceries: Jenny was there.
As they drew near the camp, Mark ran ahead. He pushed aside a pair of yellow 
canvas flaps and peered into the large tent that they had erected in the shadow 
of several eighty-foot hemlocks and firs. A second later he turned away from the 
tent, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, Rya! Hey, Rya!
Here, she said, coming out from behind the tent.
For an instant Paul couldnt believe what he saw: a small young squirrel perched 
on her right arm, its claws hooked
through the sleeve of her corduroy jacket. It was chewing on a piece of apple, 
and she was petting it gently.
How did you do it? he asked.
Chocolate.
Chocolate?
She grinned. I started out trying to lure it with the same bait you and Mark 
have been using. But then I figured that a squirrel can probably get nuts and 
apples on his own. But he cant get chocolate. I figured the smell would be 
irresistible and it was! He was eating out of my hand by Wednesday, but I 
didnt want you to know about him until I was sure hed gotten over the worst of 
his fear of humans.
Hes not eating chocolate now.
Too much of it wouldnt be good for him.
The squirrel raised its head and looked quizzically at Paul. Then it continued 
gnawing on the piece of apple in its forepaws.
Do you like him, Mark? Rya asked. As she spoke her grin melted into a frown.
Paul saw why: the boy was close to tears. He wanted a squirrel of his ownbut he 
knew they couldnt take two of the animals home with them. His lower lip 
quivered; however, he was determined not to cry.
Rya recovered quickly. Smiling, she said, Well, Mark? Do you like him? Ill be 
upset if you dont. I went to an awful lot of trouble to get him for you.
You little sweetheart, Paul thought.
Blinking back tears, Mark said, For me?
Of course, she said.
You mean youre giving him to me?
She feigned surprise. Who else?
I thought he was yours. .
Now what would I want with a pet squirrel? she asked. Hell be a good pet for a 
boy. But he would be all wrong for a girl. She put the animal on the ground and 
hunkered down beside it. Fishing a piece of candy from a pocket, she said, Come 
on. Youve got to feed him some chocolate if you really want to make friends 
with him.
The squirrel plucked the candy from Marks hand and nibbled it with obvious 
pleasure. The boy was also in ecstasy as he gently stroked its flanks and long 
tail. When the chocolate was gone, the animal sniffed first at Mark and then at 
Rya; and when it realized there would be no more treats today, it slipped out 
from between them and dashed toward the trees.
Hey! Mark said. He ran after it until he saw that it was much faster than he.
Dont worry, Rya said. Hell come back tomorrow, so long as we have some 
chocolate for him.
If we tame him, Mark said, can I take him into town next week?
Well see, Paul said. He looked at his watch. If were going to spend today 
in town, wed better get moving.
The station wagon was parked half a mile away, at the end of a weed-choked dirt 
lane that was used by hunters in late autumn and early winter.
True to form, Mark shouted, Last one to the ears a dope! He ran ahead along 
the path that snaked down through the woods, and in a few seconds he was out of 
sight.
Rya walked at Pauls side.
That was a very nice thing you did, he said.
She pretended not to know what he meant. Getting the squirrel for Mark? It was 
fun.
You didnt get it for Mark.
Sure I did. Who else would I get it for?
Yourself, Paul said. But when you saw how much it meant to him to have a 
squirrel of his own, you gave it up.
She grimaced. You must think Im a saint or something! If Id really wanted 
that squirrel, I wouldnt have given him away. Not in a million years.
Youre not a good liar, he said affectionately.
Exasperated, she said, Fathers! Hoping he wouldnt notice her embarrassment, 
she ran ahead, shouting to Mark, and was soon out of sight beyond a dense patch 
of mountain laurel.
Children! he said aloud. But there was no exasperation in his voice, only 
love.
Since Annies death he had spent more time with the children than he might have 
done if she had livedpartly because there was something of her in Mark and Rya, 
and he felt that he was keeping in touch with her through them. He had learned 
that each of them was quite different from the other, each with his unique 
outlook and abilities, and he cherished their individuality. Rya would always 
know more about life, people, and the rules of the game than Mark would. 
Curious, probing, patient, seeking knowledge, she would enjoy life from an 
intellectual vantage point. She would know that especially intense 
passionsexual, emotional, mentalwhich none but the very bright ever 
experience. On the other hand, although Mark would face life with far less 
understanding than Rya, he was not to be pitied. Not for a moment! Brimming with 
enthusiasm, quick to laugh, overwhelmingly optimistic, he would live every one 
of his days with gusto. If he was denied complex pleasures and 
satisfactionswell, to compensate for that, he would ever be in tune with the 
simple joys of life in which Rya, while understanding them, would never be able 
to indulge herself fully without some self-consciousness. Paul knew that, in 
days to come, each of his children would bring him a special kind of happiness 
and prideunless death took them from him.
As if he had walked into an invisible barrier, he stopped in the middle of the 
trail and swayed slightly from side to side.
That last thought had taken him completely by surprise. When he lost Annie, he 
had thought for a time that he had lost all that was worth having. Her death 
made him painfully aware that everythingeven deeply felt, strong personal 
relationships that nothing in life could twist or destroywas temporary, pawned 
to the grave. For the past three and a half years, in the back of his mind, a 
small voice had been telling him to be prepared for death, to expect it, and not 
to let the loss of Mark or Rya or anyone else, if it came, shatter him as 
Annies death had nearly done. But until now the voice had been almost 
subconscious, an urgent counsel of which he was only vaguely aware. This was the 
first time that he had let it pop loose from the subconscious. As it rose to the 
surface, it startled
him. A shiver passed through him from head to foot. He had an eerie sense of 
precognition. Then it was gone as quickly as it had come.
An animal moved in the underbrush.
Overhead, above the canopy of trees, a hawk screamed.
Suddenly the summer forest seemed much too dark, too dense, too wild: sinister.
Youre being foolish, he thought. Youre no fortune teller. Youre no 
clairvoyant.
Nevertheless, he hurried along the winding path, anxious to catch up with Mark 
and Rya.
At 11:15 that morning, Dr. Walter Troutman was at the big mahogany desk in his 
surgery. He was eating an early lunch two roast beef sandwiches, an orange, a 
banana, an apple, a cup of butterscotch pudding, and several glasses of iced 
tea and reading a medical journal.
As the only physician in Black River, he felt that he had two primary 
responsibilities to the people in the area. The first was to be certain that, in 
the event of a catastrophe at the mill or some other medical crisis, he would 
never find himself undernourished and in want of energy to fulfill his duties. 
The second was to be aware of all developments in medical techniques and theory, 
so that the people who came to him would receive the most modern treatment 
available. Scores of satisfied patients and the reverence and affection with 
which the whole town regarded himtestified to his success in meeting his second 
responsibility. As for the first, he stood five eleven and weighed two hundred 
and seventy pounds.
When an overweight patient, in the middle of one of the doctors lectures, had 
the temerity to mention Troutmans own excess poundage, he was always countered 
with the same joke. Obese? Me? Troutman would ask, clearly astonished. This 
isnt fat Im carrying. Its stored energy, ready to be tapped if theres ever a 
catastrophe up at the mill. Then he would continue his lecture.
In truth, of course, he was an almost compulsive eater and had been all of his 
life. By the time he was thirty, he had given
up dieting and psychotherapy as truly lost causes. The same year, having been 
guaranteed a handsome stipend by the Big Union Supply Company, he had come to 
Black River where the people were so pleased to have a doctor of their own that 
they didnt care if he was fat, thin, white, black, or green. For twenty years 
now, he had been accommodating his compulsion, stuffing himself with cakes and 
cookies and pies and five square meals a day; and in sum he felt that his life 
held more enjoyment than that of any other man he knew.
As he was about to enjoy it even more, as he was picking up the second roast 
beef sandwich, the telephone rang. He considered not answering it. But he was 
the kind of doctor who went out on house calls at any hour of the day or night. 
Even lunch had to be put aside if a patient needed help. He picked up the 
receiver. Hello?
Dr. Troutman?
Yes.
The voice on the other end of the line was cold and sharp. I am the key, Dr. 
Troutman.
I am the lock, Troutman said without hesitation.
Are you alone in the house?
Yes.
Where is your nurse, Miss MacDonald?
I dont know. At home, I suppose.
When will she be coming to work?
Half an hour before the office opens.
And the office opens at one thirty?
Thats correct, Troutman said.
Are you expecting anyone else before one oclock?
No. No one.
The stranger was silent for a moment.
Troutman listened to his desk clock ticking. He glanced at the food laid out on 
a linen napkin in front of him, picked a Sliver of roast beef from the sandwich, 
and ate it quickly like a fish taking a fly.
When the man on the other end of the line had decided on his approach, he said, 
Im going to ask you a number of important questions, doctor. You will give me 
complete answers to the best of your ability.
Yes, of course.
Have you recently had an epidemic of any sort in Black River?
Yes, we have.
Of what?
Night chills.
Explain what you mean by that term, doctor.
Severe chills, cold sweats, nausea but without vomiting-and the resultant 
insomnia.
When were the first cases reported to you?
Wednesday, the tenth of this month. Nine days ago.
Did any of your patients mention nightmares?
Every one of them said hed been awakened by a terrible dream.
Could any of them remember what it was?
No. None of them.
What treatment did you provide?
I gave placebos to the first few. But when I suffered the chills myself on 
Wednesday night, and when there were scores of new cases on Thursday, I began to 
prescribe a low-grade antibiotic.
That had no effect, of course.
None whatsoever.
Did you refer any patients to another physician?
No. The nearest other doctor is sixty miles awayand hes in his late 
seventies. However, I did request an investigation by the State Health 
Authority.
The stranger was silent for a moment. Then: You did that merely because there 
was an epidemic of rather mild influenza?
It was mild, Troutman said, but decidedly unusual. No fever. No swelling of 
the glands. And yet, for as mild as it was, it spread throughout the town and 
the mill within twenty-four hours. Everyone had it. Of course I wondered if it 
might not be influenza at all but some sort of poisoning.
Poisoning?
Yes. Of a common food or water supply.
When did you contact the Health Authority?
Friday the twelfth, late in the afternoon.
And they sent a man?
Not until Monday.
Was there still an epidemic at that time?
No, Troutman said. Everyone in town had the chills, the cold sweats, and the 
nausea again Saturday night. But no one was ill Sunday night. Whatever it was, 
it disappeared even more suddenly than it came.
Did the State Health Authority still run an investigation? Intently studying 
the food on the napkin, Troutman shifted in his chair and said, Oh, yes. Dr. 
Evans, one of their junior field men, spent all of Monday and most of Tuesday 
interviewing people and taking tests.
Tests? You mean of food and water?
Yes. Blood and urine samples too.
Did he take water samples from the reservoir?
Yes. He filled at least twenty vials and bottles.
Has he filed his report yet?
Troutman licked his lips and said, Yes. He called me last evening to give me 
the results of the tests.
I suppose he found nothing?
Thats correct. All the tests were negative.
Does he have any theories? the stranger asked, a vague trace of anxiety in his 
voice.
That bothered Troutman. The key should not be anxious. The key had all the 
answers. He believes that weve experienced a rare case of mass psychological 
illness.
An epidemic of formulated hysteria?
Yes. Exactly.
Then hes making no recommendations?
None that I know of.
He has terminated the investigation?
Thats what he told me.
The stranger sighed softly. Doctor, earlier you told me that
everyone in town and at the mill had experienced the night chills. Were you 
speaking figuratively or literally?
Figuratively, Troutman said. There were exceptions. Perhaps twenty children, 
all under eight years of age. And two adults. Sam Edison and his daughter, 
Jenny.
The people who run the general store? Thats correct.
They didnt suffer from the chills at all? Not at all.
Are they connected to the towns water supply?
Everyone in town is.
All right. What about the lumbermen who work in the planned forests beyond the 
mill? Some of them virtually live out there. Were they all affected?
Yes. That was something Dr. Evans wanted to know too, Troutman said. He 
interviewed all of them.
The stranger said, Ive no more questions, Dr. Troutman, but I do have some 
orders for you. When you hang up your receiver, you will instantly wipe all 
memory of our conversation from your mind. Do you understand?
Yes. Perfectly.
Youll forget every word weve exchanged. Youll erase this memory from both 
your conscious and subconscious, so that it can never be recalled no matter how 
much you might wish to recall it. Understood?
Troutman nodded somberly. Yes.
When you hang up your receiver, you will remember only that the phone rangand 
that it was a wrong number. Is that clear?
A wrong number. Yes, thats clear.
Very well. Hang up, doctor.
Carelessness, Troutman thought, a bit irritably, as he put down the receiver. If 
people paid attention to what they were doing, they wouldnt dial so many wrong 
numbers or make one tenth of the other mistakes that peppered their lives. How 
many patients, badly cut or burned, had he treated who had been injured only 
because they were inattentive, careless?
Scores. Hundreds. Thousands! Sometimes, when he opened the door of his waiting 
room and peered inside, he had the feeling that he had just pulled a pan from 
the oven and was staring not at people but at a row of wall-eyed trout with 
gaping mouths. And now, tying up a doctors line with a wrong number, even for 
half a minute or sowell, that could be damned serious.
He shook his head, dismayed by the ineptitude and inefficiency of his fellow 
citizens.
Then he grabbed the roast beef sandwich and took an enormous bite from it.
At 11:45 Paul Annendale stepped into Sam Edisons study on the second floor of 
the house, just above the general store. Squire Edison, I wish to arrange to 
take your daughter to lunch.
Sam was standing in front of a bookcase. A large volume lay open in his left 
hand, and he was paging through it with his right. Sit down, vassal, he said 
without looking up. The squire will be with you in just a minute.
If Sam had chosen to refer to this place as his library rather than his study, 
he would have been justified. Two lushly cushioned, somewhat tattered armchairs 
and two matching footstools stood in the center of the room, facing the only 
window. Two yellow-shaded floor lamps, one behind each chair, provided adequate 
but restful light, and a small rectangular table lay between the chairs. A pipe 
was turned upside down in a large ash tray on the table, and the air was 
redolent with the cherry scent of Sams tobacco. The room was only twelve feet 
by fifteen feet; but two entire walls, from floor to ceiling, were lined with 
thousands of books and hundreds of issues of various psychology journals.
Paul sat down and put his feet up on a stool.
He didnt know the title of the volume that the other man was looking through, 
but he did know that ninety percent of these books dealt with Hitler, Nazism, 
and anything else that was even remotely related to that philosophical-political 
night-
mare. Sams interest in the subject had been unwavering for thirty-two years.
In April of 1945, as a member of an American intelligence unit, Sam went into 
Berlin less than twenty-four hours behind the first Allied troops. He was 
shocked by the extent of the destruction. In addition to the ruin caused by 
Allied bombers, mortars, and tank fire, there was damage directly attributable 
to the Fhrers scorch-the-earth policy. In the final days of the war, the 
madman had decreed that the victors must be allowed to seize nothing of value, 
that Germany must be transformed into a barren plain of rubble, that not even 
one house could be left standing to come under foreign domination. Of course, 
most Germans were not prepared to take this final step into oblivionalthough 
many of them were. It seemed to Sam that the Germans he saw in the devastated 
streets were survivors not merely of the war but also of the frenzied suicide of 
an entire nation.
On May 8, 1945, he was transferred to an intelligence unit that was collecting 
data on the Nazi death camps. As the full story of the holocaust became known, 
as it was discovered that millions of men and women and children had passed 
through the gas chambers and that hundreds of thousands of others had been shot 
in the back and buried in trenches, Sam Edison, a young man from the backwoods 
of Maine, found nothing within his experience to explain such mind-numbing 
horror. Why had so many once-rational, basically good people committed 
themselves to fulfilling the evil fantasies of an obvious lunatic and a handful 
of subordinate madmen? Why had one of the most professional armies in the world 
disgraced itself by fighting to protect the SS murderers? Why had millions of 
people gone with so little protest to the concentration camps and gas chambers? 
What did Adolf Hitler know about the psychology of the masses that had helped 
him to achieve such absolute power? The ruin of the German cities and the death 
camp data raised all of these questions but provided answers to none of them.
He was sent back to the States and mustered out of the ser
vice in October of 1945, and as soon as he was home he began to buy books about 
Hitler, the Nazis, and the war. He read everything of value that he could find. 
Bits and pieces of explanations, theories and arguments seemed valid to him. But 
the complete answer that he sought eluded him; therefore, he extended his area 
of study and began collecting books on totalitarianism, militarism, war games, 
battle strategy, German history, German philosophy, bigotry, racism, paranoia, 
mob psychology, behavior modification, and mind control. His undiminishable 
fascination with Hitler did not have its roots in morbid curiosity, but came 
instead from a fearful certainty that the German people were not at all unique 
and that his own neighbors in Maine, given the right set of circumstances, would 
be capable of the same atrocities.
Sam suddenly closed the book through which hed been paging for the past few 
minutes and returned it to the shelf. Dam-mit, I know theyre here somewhere.
From his armchair Paul said, What are you looking for?
His head tilted slightly to the right, Sam continued to read the titles on the 
bindings. Weve got a sociologist doing research in town. I know Ive got 
several of his articles in my collection, but Ill be damned if I can find 
them.
Sociologist? What sort of research?
I dont know exactly. He came into the store early this morning. Had dozens of 
questions to ask. Said he was a sociologist, come all the way up from 
Washington, and was making a study of Black River. Said hed rented a room at 
Pauline Vickers place and would be here for three weeks or so. According to 
him, Black Rivers pretty special.
In what way?
For one thing, its a prosperous company town in an age when company towns have 
supposedly fallen into decay or vanished altogether. And because were 
geographically isolated, itll be easier for him to analyze the effects of 
television on our social patterns. Oh, he had at least half a dozen good reasons 
why were ripe material for sociological research, but I dont think he got 
around to explaining his main thesis, whatever it
is hes trying to prove or disprove. He took another book from the shelf, 
opened it to the table of contents, closed it almost at once, and put it back 
where hed gotten it.
Do you know his name?
Introduced himself as Albert Deighton, Sam said. The name didnt ring a bell. 
But the face did. Meek-looking man. Thin lips. Receding hairline. Glasses as 
thick as the lenses on a telescope. Those glasses make his eyes look like 
theyre popping right out of his head. I know Ive seen his picture several 
times in books or magazines, alongside articles hes written. He sighed and 
turned away from the bookshelves for the first time since Paul came into the 
room. With one hand he smoothed his white beard. I can spend all evening up 
here picking through these books. Right now you want me to take over the counter 
downstairs so you can escort my daughter to the elegant, incomparable Ultmans 
Cafe for lunch.
Paul laughed. Jenny tells me theres no more flu in town. So the worst we can 
get at Ultmans is food poisoning.
What about the kids?
Marks spending the afternoon with Bob Thorps boy. Hes been invited to lunch, 
and hell spend it mooning over Emma.
Still has a crush on her, does he?
He thinks hes in love, but hed never admit it.
Sams craggy face was softened by a smile. And Rya?
Emma asked her to come along with Mark. But if you dont mind looking after 
her, shed rather stay here with you.
Mind? Dont be ridiculous.
As he got up from the armchair, Paul said, Why dont you put her to work after 
lunch? She could come up here and pore through these books until she found 
Deightons name on a table of contents.
What a dull bit of work for a peppy girl like her!
Rya wouldnt be bored, Paul said. Its right down her alley. She likes 
working with booksand shed enjoy doing you a favor.
Sam hesitated, then shrugged and said, Maybe Ill ask her. When Ive read what 
Deightons written, Ill know where his
interests lie, and Ill have a better idea of what hes up to now. You know 
meas curious as the day is long. Once Ive got a bee in my bonnet, Ive just 
got to take it out and see whether its a worker, drone, queen, or maybe even a 
wasp.
Ultmans Cafe stood on the southwest corner of the town square, shaded by a pair 
of enormous black oak trees. The restaurant was eighty feet long, an aluminum 
and glass structure meant to look like an old-fashioned railroad passenger car. 
It bad one narrow window row that ran around three sides; and tacked on the 
front was an entrance foyer that spoiled the railroad-car effect.
Inside, booths upholstered in blue plastic stood beside the windows. The table 
at each booth held an ash tray, a cylindrical glass sugar dispenser, salt and 
pepper shakers, a napkin dispenser, and a selector for the jukebox. An aisle 
separated the booths from the counter that ran the length of the restaurant.
Ogden Salsbury was in the corner booth at the north end of the cafe. He was 
drinking a second cup of coffee and watching the other customers.
At 1:50 in the afternoon, most of the lunch-hour rush had passed. Ultmans was 
nearly deserted. In a booth near the door, an elderly couple was reading the 
weekly newspaper, eating roast beef and French fries, and quietly arguing 
politics. The chief of police, Bob Thorp, was on a stool at the counter, 
finishing his lunch and joking with the gray-haired waitress named Bess. At the 
far end of the room, Jenny Edison was in the other corner booth with a 
good-looking man in his late thirties; Salsbury didnt know him but assumed he 
worked at the mill or in the logging camp.
Of the five other customers, Jenny was of the greatest interest to Salsbury. A 
few hours ago, when he talked to Dr. Troutman, he learned that neither Jenny nor 
her father had complained of the night chills. The fact that a number of 
children had also escaped them did not disturb him. The effect of the 
subliminals was, in part, directly proportionate to the subjects language 
skills and reading ability; and he had expected that some children would be 
unaffected. But Sam and Jenny were adults, and they should not have gone 
untouched.
Possibly they hadnt consumed any of the drug. If that was true, then they 
hadnt drunk any water from the town system, hadnt used it to make ice cubes, 
and hadnt cooked with it. That was marginally possible, he supposed. 
Marginally. However, the drug had also been introduced into fourteen products at 
a food wholesalers warehouse in Bangor before those products were shipped to 
Black River, and it was difficult for him to believe that they could have been 
so fortunate as to have avoided, by chance, every contaminated substance.
There was a second possibility. It was conceivable, although highly improbable, 
that the Edisons had taken the drug but hadnt come into contact with any of the 
sophisticated subliminal programming that had been designed with such care for 
the Black River experiment and that had inundated the town through half a dozen 
forms of print and electronic media for a period of seven days.
Salsbury was nearly certain that neither of these explanations was correct, and 
that the truth was both complex and technical. Even the most beneficial drugs 
did not have a benign effect on everyone; any drug could be counted upon to 
sicken or kill at least a tiny percentage of those people to whom it was 
administered. Moreover, for virtually every drug, there were some people, 
another extremely small group, who were either minimally affected or utterly 
untouched by it, owing to differences in metabolisms, variances in body 
chemistries, and unknown factors. More likely than not, Jenny and Sam Edison had 
taken the subliminal primer in water or food but hadnt been altered by 
iteither not at all or not as they should have beenand subsequently were 
unimpressed by the subliminals because they hadnt been made ready for them.
Eventually he would have to give the two of them a series of examinations and 
tests at a fully equipped medical clinic, with the hope that he could find what 
it was that made them impervious to the drug. But that could wait. During the 
next three weeks he would be quietly recording and studying the effects that the 
drug and subliminals produced in the other people of Black River.
Although Salsbury was more interested in Jenny than in any of the other 
customers, most of the time his attention was focused on the younger of Ultmans 
two waitresses. She was a lean, lithe brunette with dark eyes and a honey 
complexion. Perhaps twenty-five years old. A captivating smile. A rich, throaty 
voice perfect for the bedroom. To Salsbury, her every movement was filled with 
sexual innuendo and an all but open invitation to violation.
More important, however, the waitress reminded him of Miriam, the wife he had 
divorced twenty-seven years ago. Like Miriam, she had small, high-set breasts 
and very beautiful, supple legs. Her throaty voice resembled Miriams. And she 
had Miriams walk: an unstudied grace in every step, an unconscious and sinuous 
rolling of the hips that took his breath away.
He wanted her.
But he would never take her because she reminded him too much of Miriam, 
reminded him of the frustrations, angers, and disappointments of that awful 
five-year marriage. She stirred his lustbut she also stirred his somewhat 
suppressed, long-nurtured hatred of Miriam and, by extension, of women in 
general. He knew that, in the act, as he achieved penetration and began to move, 
her resemblance to Miriam would leave him impotent.
When she brought the check for his lunch, flashing that dazzling smile that had 
begun to seem smug and superior to him, he said, I am the key.
He was taking an unwarranted risk. He couldnt defend it even to himself. Until 
he was certain that everyone in town, other than the Edisons and a handful of 
children, was properly programmed, he should restrict the use of the command 
phrase to telephone conversations, as with Troutman, and to situations wherein 
he was alone with the subject and free from fear of interruption. Only after 
three weeks of observation and individual Contact could he even begin to assume 
there was no risk involved; and now, on one level, he was a bit disturbed that 
he
was conducting himself irresponsibly on his first day in town. He didnt 
particularly mind if absolute power corrupted him absolutelyjust so it didnt 
make him overconfident and careless. On the other hand, so long as they kept 
their voices low, there was little chance that they would be overheard. The 
elderly couple in the booth by the door was nearer to Salsbury than anyone else 
in the cafe, and they were half a room away. Besides, unwarranted risk or not, 
he couldnt resist taking control of this woman. His emotions had unseated his 
reason, and he was riding with them.
I am the lock, she said.
Keep your voice low. Yes, sir.
Whats your name? Alice.
How old are you? Twenty-six.
Youre lovely, he said.
She said nothing.
Smile for me, Alice.
She smiled. She didnt look the least bit dazed. Even her big, dark eyes held no 
hint of a trance. Yet she was unhesitatingly obedient.
He said, Youve got a nice body.
Thank you.
Do you like sex?
Yeah.
Do you like it very much?
Yeah. I like it.
When youre in bed with a man, is there anything you wont let him do to you?
Yeah. Greek.
You wont let him take you in the ass?
She blushed and said, Yeah. I dont like that.
If I wanted you, I could have you.
She stared at him.
Couldnt I?
Yeah.
If I wanted you, I could have you right now, right here, on top of this table.
Yeah.
If I wanted to take you Greek-style, I could.
She resisted the idea but finally said, Is that what you want?
If I did want it, I could have it. Youd let me.
Yeah.
It was his turn to smile. He glanced around the cafe. No one was looking at 
them; no one had heard. Are you married, Alice?
No. Divorced.
Why did you get a divorce?
He couldnt hold a job.
Your husband couldnt?
Yeah, him.
Was he good in bed?
Not very.
She was even more like Miriam than he had thought. After all these years he 
could still remember what Miriam had said to him the day she left. Youre not 
just bad in bed, Ogden. Youre terrible. And youve no inclination to learn. But 
you know, I could live with that if there were compensations. If you had money 
and could buy me things, maybe I could live with your fumbling sex. When I said 
Id marry you, I thought you were going to make lots of money. Jesus Christ, you 
were at the top of your class at Harvard! When you completed your doctorate, 
everyone wanted to hire you. If you had any ambition whatsoever, youd have 
already gotten your hands on a decent piece of money. You know what, Ogden? I 
think youre as inept and unimaginative in your research as you are in bed. 
Youre never going to get anywhere, but I am. Im getting out. What a bitch she 
had been. Just thinking about her, he began to tremble and perspire.
Alice was still smiling at him.
Stop smiling, he said softly. I dont like it.
She did as she was told.
What am I, Alice?
Youre the key.
And what are you?
The lock.
Now that Ive opened you, youll do whatever I tell you to do. Isnt that 
true?
Yeah.
He took three one-dollar bills from his wallet and put them on top of the lunch 
check. Im going to test you, Alice. Im going to see just how obedient you 
are.
She waited docilely.
When you leave this table, he said, youll take the check and money to the 
cash register. Youll ring up the sale and take your tip from whatevers left of 
the three dollars. Is that clear?
Yeah.
Then you will go to the kitchen. Is there anyone back there?
No. Randy went to the bank.
Randy Ultman?
Yeah.
Thats good, Salsbury said. Now, when you go to the kitchen, youll pick up a 
meat fork, a cooks fork. One of those big, two-pronged forks. Is there one of 
those in the kitchen?
Yeah. Several.
Youll pick one of them up and stab yourself with it, run it all the way 
through your left hand.
She didnt even blink.
Is that understood, Alice?
Yeah. I understand.
When you turn away from this table, youll forget everything weve said to each 
other. Understood?
Yeah.
When you run the fork through your hand, youll think it was an accident. A 
freak accident. Wont you, Alice?
Sure. An accident.
Go away, then.
She turned and walked to the half-door at the end of the
lunch counter, her smooth hips rolling provocatively.
When she reached the cash register and began to ring up the sale, Salsbury slid 
out of the booth and started toward the door.
She dropped her tip into a pocket of her uniform, closed the cash register 
drawer, and went into the kitchen.
At the entrance Salsbury stopped and put a quarter in the newspaper vending 
machine.
Bob Thorp laughed loudly at some joke, and the waitress named Bess giggled like 
a young girl.
Salsbury took a copy of the Black River Bulletin from the wire rack, folded it, 
put it under his arm, and opened the door to the foyer. He stepped across the 
sill and began to pull the door shut behind him, thinking all the while: Come 
on, you bitch, come on! His heart was pounding, and he felt slightly dizzy.
Alice began to scream.
Grinning, Salsbury closed the first door, pushed through the outer door, went 
down the steps, and walked east on Main Street, as if he were unaware of the 
uproar in the cafe.
The day was bright and warm. The sky was cloudless.
He had never been happier.
Paul shouldered past Bob Thorp and stepped into the kitchen. The young waitress 
was standing at a counter that lay between two upright food freezers. Her left 
hand was palm down on a wooden cutting board. With her right hand she gripped an 
eighteen-inch-long meat fork. The two wickedly sharp prongs appeared to have 
been driven all the way through her left hand and into the wood beneath. Blood 
spotted her light blue uniform, glistened on the cutting board, and dripped from 
the edge of the Formica-topped counter. She was screaming and gasping for breath 
between the screams and shaking and trying to wrench the fork loose.
Turning back to Bob Thorp, who stood transfixed in the doorway, Paul said, Get 
Doc Troutman.
Thorp didnt have to be told again. He hurried away.
Taking hold of the womans right hand, Paul said, Let go
of the fork. I want you to let go of the fork. Youre doing more harm than 
good.
She raised her head and seemed to look straight through him. Her face was chalky 
beneath her dark complexion; she was obviously in shock. She couldnt stop 
screamingan ululating wail more animal than humanand she probably didnt even 
know that he had spoken to her.
He had to pry her fingers from the handle of the fork.
At his side Jenny said, Oh, my God!
Hold her for me, he said. Dont let her grab the fork.
Jenny gripped the womans right wrist. She said, I think Im going to be sick.
Paul wouldnt have blamed her if she had been just that. In the tiny restaurant 
kitchen, with the ceiling only a few inches above their heads, the screams were 
deafening. The sight of that slender hand with the fork embedded in it was 
horrifying, the stuff of nightmares. The air was thick with the stale odors of 
baked ham, roast beef, fried onions, greaseand the fresh, metallic tang of 
blood. It was enough to nauseate anyone. But he said, You wont be sick. Youre 
a tough lady.
She bit her lower lip and nodded.
Quickly, as if he had been prepared and waiting for exactly this emergency, Paul 
took a dishcloth from the towel rack and tore it into two strips. He threw one 
of these aside. With the other length of cloth and a long wooden tasting spoon, 
he fashioned a tourniquet for the waitresss left arm. He twisted the wooden 
spoon with his right hand and covered the handle of the meat fork with his left. 
To Jenny he said, Come around here and take the tourniquet.
As soon as her right hand was free, the waitress tried to get to the handle of 
the fork. She clawed at Pauls fist.
Jenny took hold of the spoon.
Pressing down on the waitresss wounded hand, Paul jerked up on the fork, which 
was sunk into the wood perhaps half an inch past her flesh, and pulled the tines 
from her in one sudden, clean movement. He dropped the fork and slipped an arm
around her waist to keep her from falling. Her knees had begun to buckle; he had 
thought they might.
As he stretched the woman out on the floor, Jenny said, She must be in awful 
pain.
Those words seemed to shatter the waitresss terror. She stopped screaming and 
began to cry.
I dont see how she did it, Paul said as he tended to her. She put that fork 
through her hand with incredible force. She was pinned to the board.
Weeping, trembling, the waitress said, Accident. She gasped and groaned and 
shook her head. Terrible . . . accident.
6
Fourteen Months Earlier:
Thursday, June 10, 1976
NAKED, THE DEAD MAN lay on his back in the center of the slightly tilted autopsy 
table, framed by blood gutters on all sides.
Who was he? Klinger asked.
Salsbury said, He worked for Leonard.
The room in which the three men stood was illuminated only in the center by two 
hooded lamps above the autopsy table. Three walls were lined with computer 
housings, consoles, and monitor boards; and the tiny systems bulbs and glowing 
scopes made ghostly patches of green, blue, yellow, and pale red light in the 
surrounding shadows. Nine TV display screenscathode-ray tubeswere set high on 
three walls, and four other screens were suspended from the ceiling; and all of 
them emitted a thin bluish-green light.
In that eerie glow the corpse looked less like a real body than like a prop in a 
horror film.
Somber, almost reverent, Dawson said, His name was Brian Kingman. He was on my 
personal staff.
For very long? Klinger asked.
Five years.
The dead man had been in his late twenties and in good condition. Now, 
circulation having ceased seven hours ago, lividity had set in; the blood had 
settled into his calves, the backs of
his thighs, his buttocks, and his lower back, and in these places the flesh was 
purple and a bit distended. His face was white and deeply lined. His hands were 
at his sides, his palms up, the fingers curled.
Was he married? Klinger asked.
Dawson shook his head: no.
Family?
Grandparents dead. No brother or sisters. His mother died when he was born, and 
his father was killed in an auto accident last year.
Aunts and uncles?
None close.
Girl friends?
None that he was serious about or that were serious about him, Dawson said. 
Thats why we chose him. If he disappears, theres no one to waste a lot of 
time and energy looking for him.
Klinger considered that for a few seconds. Then he said, You expected the 
experiment to kill him?
We thought there was a chance of it, Ogden said.
Smiling grimly, Klinger said, You were right.
Something about the generals tone angered Salsbury. You knew the stakes when 
you came in with Leonard and me.
Of course I did, Klinger said.
Then dont act as if Kingmans death is entirely my fault. The blame belongs to 
all of us.
Frowning, the general said, Ogden, you misunderstand me. I dont believe that 
you and Leonard and I are to blame for anything. This man was a machine that 
broke down. Nothing more. We can always get another machine. Youre too 
sensitive, Ogden.
Poor boy, Dawson said, regarding the corpse sadly. He would have done 
anything for me.
He did, the general said. He stared thoughtfully at the dead man. Leonard, 
youve got seven servants in this house. Did any of them know Kingman was here?
Thats highly unlikely. We brought him in secretly.
For thirteen months, this wing of the Greenwich house had been sealed off from 
the other twenty rooms. It had been provided with a new private entrance, and 
all of the locks had been changed. The servants were told that experiments, none 
of them dangerous, were being conducted for a subsidiary of Futurex, and that 
the security precautions were needed to protect the operations files and 
discoveries from industrial espionage.
Is the household staff still curious about what goes on here? Klinger asked.
No, Dawson said. So far as they can see, nothings happened in the past year. 
The sealed wing has lost its mystery.
Then I think we can bury Kingman on the estate without too much risk. He faced 
Salsbury. What happened? How did he die?
Salsbury sat on a high, white stool at the head of the autopsy table, hooked his 
heels around one of its rungs, and spoke to them across the corpse. We brought 
Kingman here for the first time in early February. He thought he was helping us 
with some sociological research that had important business applications for 
Futurex. During forty hours of interviews with him, I learned everything I 
wanted to know about the mans likes, dislikes, prejudices, personality quirks, 
desires, and basic thought processes. Later, at the end of February, I went 
through the transcripts of those interviews and selected five test points, five 
of Kingmans attitudes and/or opinions that I would try to reverse with a series 
of subliminals.
He had chosen three simple test points and two complex ones. Kingman craved 
chocolate candy, chocolate cake, chocolate in every form; and Salsbury wanted to 
make him ill at the first taste of chocolate. He couldnt and wouldnt eat 
broccoli; but Salsbury wanted to make him like it. Kingman had an ingrained fear 
of dogs; an attempt to transform that fear into affection would constitute the 
third of the simple test points. The remaining two indices presented Salsbury 
with a far greater chance of failure, for to deal with them he would have to 
design subliminal commands that bored especially deeply into King-
mans psyche. First of all, Kingman was an atheist, a fact he had hidden 
successfully from Dawson for five years. Secondly, he was extremely prejudiced 
against blacks. Making him over into a God-loving, prayer-saying champion of the 
Negro would be far more difficult than twisting his taste for chocolate into a 
loathing of it.
By the second week of April, Salsbury completed the subliminal program.
Kingman was brought back to the Greenwich house on the fifteenth of that 
monthostensibly to participate in additional sociological research for Futurex. 
Although he wasnt aware of it, he was fed the subliminal primer, the drug, on 
April 15. Salsbury put him under close medical observation and ran tests on him 
for three days, but he could find no indications of a temporary toxic state, 
permanent tissue damage, a change in blood chemistry, noticeable psychological 
damage, or any other deleterious side-effects attributable to the drug.
At the end of those three days, on April 19, still in excellent health, Kingman 
took part in what he thought was an experiment in visual perception. He was 
shown two feature-length motion pictures in one afternoon, and at the conclusion 
of each film he was required to answer a hundred questions that dealt with what 
he had just seen. His answers were unimportant, and they were filed only because 
Salsbury habitually filed every scrap of paper in his laboratory. The experiment 
actually had only one purpose: while Kingman was watching the films, he was also 
unwittingly absorbing three hours of subliminal programming that was meant to 
change five of his attitudes.
The events of the following day, April 20, proved the effectiveness of 
Salsburys drug and subliminal programs. At breakfast, Kingman tried to eat a 
chocolate doughnut, dropped it after one bite, quickly excused himself from the 
table, went to the nearest bathroom, and threw up. At lunch he ate four portions 
of broccoli in butter sauce with his pork chops. That afternoon, when Dawson 
took him on a tour of the estate, Kingman spent fifteen minutes playing with 
several of the guard dogs in the kennel. After dinner, when Ogden and Dawson
began to discuss the continuing efforts to integrate the public schools in the 
North, Kingman came on like a life-long liberal, an ardent advocate of equal 
rights. And finally, unaware of the two videotape cameras that monitored his 
bedroom in the sealed wing, he had said his prayers before going to sleep.
Standing now beside the corpse, smiling beatifically, Dawson said to Klinger, 
You should have seen it, Ernst! It was terribly inspiring. Ogden took an 
atheist, a soul condemned to burn in Hell, and converted him into a faithful 
disciple of Jesus. And all on one day!
Salsbury was uneasy. He shifted on the stool. Ignoring Dawson, staring at the 
middle of the generals forehead, he said, Kingman left the estate on April 
twenty-first. I set to work immediately to design the ultimate series of 
subliminals, the one we three have discussed a hundred times, the program that 
would give me total and permanent control of the subjects mind through the use 
of a code phrase. I finished it on the fifth of June. We brought Kingman back 
here on the eighth, two days ago.
He wasnt suspicious? Klinger asked. Or upset about all of this travel he was 
asked to do?
To the contrary, Dawson said. He was pleased that I was using him for such a 
special project, even if he didnt fully understand what it was. He saw it as a 
sign of my faith in him. And he thought that, if he made himself available for 
Ogdens work, he would be promoted much sooner than he might have been 
otherwise. His behavior wasnt peculiar. Ive seen it in every ambitious young 
executive and management trainee Ive ever known.
Tired of standing, the general went to the nearest computer console, swiveled 
the command chair away from the keyboard, and sat down. He was almost entirely 
in the shadows. Green light from a display screen washed across his right 
shoulder and that side of his brutal face. He looked like a troll. Okay. You 
finished the program on the fifth. Kingman came up here again on the eighth. You 
fed him the primer
No, Salsbury said. Once the drug has been administered
to a subject, theres no need to give him a booster dose, not even years later. 
When Kingman arrived, I began at once with the subliminal program. I ran two 
films for him during the evening. That night, the night before last, he had a 
very bad dream. He woke up, sweating, chilled, shaking, dazed, and nauseated. He 
had trouble getting his breath. He vomited beside the bed.
Fever? Klinger asked.
Do you think he had a delayed reaction to the druga month and a half delayed?
Maybe, Salsbury said. But he obviously didnt think that was the case. He got 
off the stool, went to his desk in a dark corner of the room, and came back with 
a computer print-out. This is a record of Kingmans sleep patterns between one 
oclock and three oclock this morning. Thats the crucial period. He handed it 
to Dawson. Yesterday, I showed Kingman two more films. That completed the 
program. Last nighthe died in bed.
The general joined Dawson and Salsbury in the oval of light at the autopsy table 
and began to read the two-yard-long sheet of computer paper.
PARTIAL RECAPITULATION
MEDICAL MONITORING PROGRAM:
BK/OB REP 14
RECORDED: 6/10/76
THIS PRINT: 6/1O/76
PRINT
 
 
HOURS MIN SEC READING
0100 00 00 EEGSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0100 01 00 EEG-STAGE 3 SLEEP
0100 02 00 EEGSTAGE 4 SLEEP
0100 03 00 EEGSTAGE 4 SLEEP
0100 04 00 EEGSTAGE 4 SLEEP
Klinger said, You had Kingman hooked up to a lot of machines while he slept?
Nearly every night he was here, right from the beginning, Salsbury said. The 
first few times there really wasnt any reason for it. But by the time it was 
necessary for me to keep a close watch on him, he was accustomed to the machines 
and had learned to sleep tangled up with all those wires.
Indicating the print-out, the general said, Im not quite sure what Im reading 
here.
Likewise, Dawson said.
Salsbury suppressed a smile. Months ago he had decided that his best defense 
against these two sharks was his highly specialized education. He never missed 
an opportunity to display it for themand to impress them with the fact that, if 
they should dispose of him, neither of them could carry on his research and 
development or deal with an unexpected scientific crisis after the research and 
development was finished.
Pointing to the first several lines of the print-out, he said, The fourth stage 
of sleep is the deepest. It tends to occur early in the night. Kingman went to 
bed at midnight and fell asleep at twenty minutes of one. As you can see here, 
he achieved the fourth level twenty-two minutes later.
Whats the importance of that? Dawson asked.
The fourth level is more like a coma than any other stage of sleep, Salsbury 
said. The electroencephalogram shows irregular large waves of just a few cycles 
per second. There is no bodily movement on the part of the sleeper. Its in 
stage four, with the outer mind virtually comatose and with all sensory input 
shut down tight, that the inner mind becomes the only truly operative part of 
the mind. Remember, unlike the conscious mind, it never sleeps. But because 
there isnt any sensory input, the subconscious cant do anything during stage 
four sleep except play with itself. Now, Kingmans subconscious had something 
unique to play with.
The general said, The key-lock program you implanted in him yesterday and the 
day before.
Thats right, Salsbury said. And look here, farther down the print-out.
0100 08 00 EEGSTAGE 4 SLEEP
0100 09 00 EEGSTAGE 4 SLEEP
0100 10 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0100 11 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
All night long, Salsbury said, we rise and fall and rise and fall through the 
stages of sleep. Almost without exception, we descend into deep sleep in Steps 
and ascend from it in steps as well, spending some time at each level along the 
way. In this case, however, Kingman soared straight up from deep sleep to light 
sleepas if a noise in the bedroom had startled him.
Was there a noise? Dawson asked.
Whats this REM? Klinger asked.
Salsbury said, That means rapid eye movement is taking place under the 
eyelidswhich is a highly reliable indication that Kingman was dreaming in stage 
one.
Dreaming? Dawson asked. About what?
Theres no way of telling.
The general scratched the shadow of a beard that shaded his blunt chin even when 
he was freshly shaved. But you think that the dream was caused by his 
subconscious playing around with the key-lock implant.
Yes.
And that the dream might have been about the subliminals.
Yes. I cant come up with an explanation that makes more sense. Something about 
the key-lock program so shocked his subconscious that he was propelled straight 
up into a dream.
A nightmare?
At this point, just a dream. But over the next two hours his sleep patterns 
became increasingly unusual, erratic.
0100 12 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0100 13 00 EEGALPHA WAVES
0100 14 00 EEGALPHA WAVES
The alpha waves mean Kingman was awake here for two minutes, Salsbury said. 
Not wide awake. His eyes were probably still closed. He was hovering on the 
edge of the first level of sleep.
The dream woke him, Klinger said.
Probably.
0100 15 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0100 16 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP
0100 17 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP
0100 18 00 EEG-STAGE 2 SLEEP
0100 19 00 EEGSTAGE 2 SLEEP
0100 20 00 EEGSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0100 21 00 EEGSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0100 22 00 EEGSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0100 23 00 EECSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0100 24 00 EECSTAGE 4 SLEEP
0100 25 00 EECSTAGE 4 SLEEP
0100 26 00 EECSTAGE 4 SLEEP
0100 27 00 EEGSTAGE 4 SLEEP
0100 28 00 EECSTAGE 4 SLEEP
0100 29 00 EECSTAGE 4 SLEEP
0100 30 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
The first time he entered deep sleep, Salsbury said, he stayed there for 
eight minutes. This time it lasted only six minutes. Thats the start of an 
interesting pattern.
0100 31 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0100 32 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0100 33 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0100 34 00 EEGALPHA WAVES
0100 35 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0100 36 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0100 37 00 EEGSTAGE 2 SLEEP
0100 38 00 EECSTAGE 2 SLEEP
0100 39 00 EECSTAGE 2 SLEEP
0100 40 00 EEC-STAGE 3 SLEEP
0100 41 00 EECSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0100 42 00 EECSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0100 43 00 EECSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0100 44 00 EECSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0100 45 00 EEGSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0100 46 00 EECSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0100 47 00 EECSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0100 48 00 EECSTAGE 4 SLEEP
0100 49 00 EECSTAGE 4 SLEEP
0100 50 00 EECSTAGE 4 SLEEP
0100 51 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
He was only in deep sleep three minutes that time, Klinger said. The cycle is 
accelerating, at least on the down side.
Dawson said, But why? Ernst apparently understands, but Im not sure I do.
Somethings happening in his subconscious mind during deep sleep, Salsbury 
said. Something so unsettling that it causes him to leap up into stage one 
sleep and dream. That subconscious experience, whatever it may be, is getting 
ever more intenseor, if it isnt getting mere intense, then his ability to 
withstand it is dwindling. Perhaps both. On each occasion, hes able to tolerate 
it for a shorter period of time than he did before.
You mean hes in pain in stage four? Dawson asked.
Pain is a condition of the flesh, Salsbury said. Its not the right word for 
this situation.
What is the right word.
Anxiety, perhaps. Or fear.
0100 52 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0100 53 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0100 54 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0100 55 00 EECALPHA WAVES
0100 56 00EECALPHA WAVES
0100 57 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0100 58 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0100 59 00 EECSTAGE 2 SLEEP/REM
0200 00 00 EEGSTAGE 2 SLEEP
0200 01 00 EECSTAGE 2 SLEEP
0200 02 00 EECSTAGE 2 SLEEP
0200 03 00 EECSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0200 04 00 EECSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0200 05 00 EEGSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0200 06 00 EECSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0200 07 00 EEGSTAGE 4 SLEEP
0200 08 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
One minute that time, Klinger said.
By now hes extremely agitated, Salsbury said, speaking of the dead man as if 
he were still alive. The pattern becomes increasingly unusual and erratic. At 
two twenty he gets back to the third level. Look what happens to him after 
that:
0200 20 00 EEGSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0200 21 00 EECSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0200 22 00 EEGSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0200 23 00 EECSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0200 24 00 EEGSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0200 25 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
Klinger was as fascinated by the print-out of Brian Kingmans disintegration as 
he possibly could have been by the sight of the real event. He didnt even 
reach the fourth level that time before he popped up to stage one again.
Hes having an acute subconscious anxiety attack, Salsbury said.
Dawson said, Is there such a thing?
There is now. His mind is wildly turbulent at this point yet in such a way 
that it doesnt wake him up altogether. And it gets worse.
0200 26 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 27 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 28 00 EECALPHA WAVES
0200 29 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 30 00 EEGALPHA WAVES
0200 31 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 32 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 33 00 EEGSTAGE 2 SLEEP
0200 34 00 EECSTAGE 2 SLEEP
0200 35 00 EEGSTAGE 2 SLEEP
0200 36 00 EECSTAGE 3 SLEEP
0200 37 00 EEGALPHA WAVES
He was frightened awake at two thirty-seven, wasnt he? Dawson asked.
Salsbury said, Thats right. Not wide awake. But beyond the first level of 
sleep, into alpha wave territory. Youre learning to read it now.
0200 38 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 39 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 40 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 41 00 EECALPHA WAVES
0200 42 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 43 00 EEGALPHA WAVES
0200 44 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 45 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 46 00 EEGSTAGE 2 SLEEP
0200 47 00 EECSTAGE 2 SLEEP
0200 46 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 49 00 EEGALPHA WAVES
0200 50 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 51 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 52 00 EECALPHA WAVES
0200 53 00 EECSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 54 00EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 55 00EEGALPHA WAVES
0200 56 00 EEGSTAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 5? 00 EECALPHA WAVES
0200 55 00 EECALPHA WAVES
0200 59 00 EECALPHA WAVES
0300 00 00 EEGALPHA WAVES
0300 01 00 EECALPHA WAVES
0300 02 00 EEGNO READING
0300 03 00 EECNO READING
0300 04 00 EECNO READING
0300 05 00 EECNO READING
LIFE SIGNS NEGATIVE
LIFE SIGNS NEGATIVE
LIFE SIGNS NEGATIVE
PATIENT DECEASED
 
 
END PRINT
END PROGRAM ::STOP::
Dawson let out his breath somewhat explosively, as if he had been holding it for 
the past minute. He was a good man. May he rest in peace.
There at the end, the general said, there were five consecutive alpha wave 
readings. Does that mean he was fully awake for five minutes before he died?
Fully awake, Salsbury said. But not rational.
I thought you said he died in his sleep.
No. I said he died in bed.
"What happened in those five minutes?
Ill show you, Salsbury said. He went to the nearest computer console and 
briefly used the keyboard.
All but two of the overhead scanners went dark. One of these was an ordinary 
television screen controlled by the computer on
a closed-circuit arrangement. The other was a cathode-ray readout tube.
Getting up from the keyboard, Salsbury said, The screen on the right will run a 
videotape of the last six minutes of King-mans life. The screen on the left 
will provide a synchronized read-out of some of his vital life signs, updating 
them every thirty seconds.
Dawson and Klinger moved closer.
The right-hand screen flickered. A sharply focused black-and-white picture 
appeared on it: Brian Kingman lying atop his covers, on his back, twelve 
data-gathering patches cemented to his head and torso, wires trailing from the 
patches to two machines at the side of the bed. A sphygmomanometer was attached 
to his right arm and wired directly to the smaller of the machines. Kingman 
glistened with perspiration. He was trembling. Every few seconds one of his arms 
would jerk up defensively, or one of his legs would kick out at the air. In 
spite of this movement, his eyes were closed, and he was asleep.
Hes in stage one now, Salsbury said.
Dreaming, Dawson said.
Obviously.
At the top of the left-hand screen there was a digital clock that broke down the 
time count into hours, minutes, seconds, and tenths of seconds. On the soft 
green background below the clock, white computer-generated characters reported 
on four of Kingmans most important life signs.
BK/OB REP 14, ONGOING, AS FOLLOWS:
TEST NORMAL FOR THIS SUBJECT VALUE
TEMPERATURE 98.6 98.6
RESPIRATION 18 PER MIN 22 PER MIN
PULSE 70 PER MIN 90 PER MIN
BLOOD PRESSURE
SYSTOLIC 100120 110
DIASTOLIC 6070 70
Hes still asleep, Salsbury said. But his respiration and pulse have picked 
up approximately twenty-five percent. He appears to be having a bad dream. His 
thrashing about gets worse in just a moment. Hes ready to come out of it now. 
Ready to wake up. Watch closely. There!
On the black-and-white screen, Kingman suddenly drew up his knees, kicked out 
with both feet, drew up his knees again, and kept them drawn up, almost to his 
chest. He gripped his head with both hands, rolled his eyes, opened his mouth.
Hes screaming now, Salsbury said. Im sorry theres no audio.
Whats he screaming at? Dawson asked. Hes awake now. The nightmares over.
Wait, Salsbury said.
His respiration and pulse are soaring, Klinger said.
Kingman screamed soundlessly.
0200 58 00
Look how his chest is heaving, Dawson said. Good God, his lungs will burst!
Writhing continuously but a degree less violently than he had been a moment ago, 
Kingman began to chew on his lower lip. In seconds his chin was covered with 
blood.
An epileptic seizure? the general asked.
Salsbury said, No.
At 2:59, the left-hand screen began a new line print from the top of the tube:
TEST NORMAL FOR THIS SUBJECT VALUE
TEMPERATURE 98.6 98.8
RESPIRATION 18 PER MIN 48 PER MIN
PULSE 70 PER MIN 190 PER MIN
BLOOD PRESSURE
SYSTOLIC CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL
CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL
On the black-and-white screen, Kingman convulsed and was almost perfectly still. 
His feet twitched, and his right hand
opened and closed, opened and closed; but otherwise he was motionless. Even his 
eyes had stopped rolling; they were squeezed tightly shut.
The read-out screen went blank, then an instant later flashed an emergency 
message.
0200 59 12
MASSIVE MYOCARDIAL INFARCTION
MASSIVE MYOCARDIAL INFARCTION
Heart attack, Salsbury said.
Kingmans left arm was bent in a V across his chest and seemed to be paralyzed. 
His left hand was fisted and unmoving against his neck.
0300 00 00
PULSE IRREGULAR
RESPIRATION IRREGULAR
Kingmans eyes were open now. He was staring at the ceiling.
Hes screaming again, Klinger said.
Trying to scream, Salsbury said. I doubt if he could manage more than a croak 
in his present state.
0300 01 00
PULSE ERRATIC
RESPIRATION ERRATIC
EEC WAVES DETERIORATING TO DELTA
Kingmans feet stopped kicking. His right hand stopped opening and closing. He 
stopped trying to scream.
Its over, Salsbury said. Simultaneously, the two screens went blank. Brian 
Kingman had died again.
But what killed him? Dawsons handsome face was the Color of dusting powder. 
The drug?
Not the drug, Salsbury said. Fear.
Klinger returned to the autopsy table to have a look at the body. Fear. I 
thought thats what you were going to say.
Sudden, powerful fear can kill, Salsbury said. And in this case, thats where 
all the evidence points. Of course, Ill do a thorough autopsy. But I dont 
believe Ill find any physiological cause for the heart attack.
Squeezing Saisburys shoulder, Dawson said, Do you mean Brian realized, in his 
sleep, that we were on the verge of taking control of him? And that he was so 
terrified of being controlled that the thought killed him?
Something like that.
Then even if the drug worksthe subliminals dont.
Oh, theyll work, Salsbury said. Ive just got to refine the program.
Refine?
Ill put it in lay terms as best I can. You see, to implant the key-lock 
subliminals, Ive got toto bore a hole through the id and the ego. Apparently, 
the first program was too crude. It didnt just bore a hole. It shattered the id 
and ego altogether, or very nearly did. Ive got to be more subtle the next 
time, preface the commands with some careful persuasion. He pushed a wheeled 
instrument cart to the side of the autopsy table.
Not wholly satisfied with Salsburys explanation, Dawson said, But what if you 
dont refine it quite enough? What if the next test subject dies? Its 
conceivable that one member of my personal staff might walk off his job, vanish 
without a trace. But two? Or three? Impossible!
Salsbury opened a drawer in the cart. He took out a thick white linen towel and 
spread it across the top of the cart. We wont use anyone from your staff for 
the second test.
Where else are we going to get a test subject?
Salsbury took surgical instruments, one at a time, from the drawer and lined 
them up on the linen. I think the time has come to put together that 
corporation in Liechtenstein. Hire three mercenaries, give them sets of forged 
papers, and bring them here from Europe under their new names.
To this house? Dawson asked.
Thats right. We wont need the walled estate in Germany or France for some 
time yet. Well give the drug to all three of
them the first day theyre here. The second day, Ill start the new key-lock 
program with one of them. If it works with him, if it doesnt kill him, then 
Ill use it on the other two. Eventually, well be running the field test in 
this country. When the time comes for that, well be happy to have two or three 
well-trained, submissive men so close at hand.
Scowling, Dawson said, Hiring lawyers in Vaduz, establishing the corporation, 
buying the forged papers, hiring the mercenaries, bringing them here . . . these 
are expenditures I didnt want to make until we were certain the drug and 
subliminals will work as you say.
They will.
We arent yet certain.
Holding a scalpel to the light, studying the silhouette of its razored edge, 
Salsbury said, Im sure the money wont come out of your pocket, Leonard. 
Youll find some way to squeeze it from the corporation. 
Its not is easy as all that, I assure you. Futurex isnt a private game park, 
you know. Its a public corporation. I cant raid the treasury at will.
Youre supposed to be a billionaire, Salsbury said. In the great tradition of 
Onassis, Getty, Hughes . . . Futurex isnt the only thing youve got your hand 
in. Somewhere, you found more than two million dollars to set up this lab. And 
every month you manage to come up with the eighty thousand dollars needed to 
maintain it. By comparison, this new expense is a trifle.
I agree, the general said.
Its not your money thats going down a rat hole, Dawson said irritably.
If you think the projects a rat hole, Salsbury said, then we Should call it 
off right now.
Dawson started to pace, stopped after a few steps, put his hands in his trouser 
pockets, and took them right out again. Its these men that bother me.
What men?
These mercenaries.
What about them?
Theyre nothing but killers.
Of course.
Professional killers. They earn their living byby murdering people.
Ive never had much of anything good to say about freelancers, Klinger said. 
But thats a simplification, Leonard.
Its essentially true.
Impatiently, Salsbury said, So what if it is?
Well, I dont like the idea of having them in my home, Dawson said. His tone 
was almost prissy.
You hypocritical ass, Salsbury thought. He didnt have the nerve to say it. His 
confidence had increased over the past year
but not enough to enable him to speak so frankly to Dawson. Klinger said, 
Leonard, how in the hell do you think wed
fare with the police and the courts if they found out how King-man died? Would 
they just pat us on the head and send us away with a scolding? Do you think that 
just because we didnt strangle or shoot or stab him, theyd hesitate to call us 
killers? Do you think wed get off scot-free because, although were killers, we 
dont earn our living that way?
For an instant Dawsons black eyes, like onyx mirrors, caught the cold 
fluorescent light and gleamed unnaturally. Then he turned his head a fraction of 
an inch, and the effect was lost. However, something of the same frigid, alien 
quality remained in his voice. I never touched Brian. I never laid a finger on 
him. I never said an unkind word to him.
Neither Salsbury nor Klinger responded.
I didnt want him to die.
They waited.
Dawson wiped one hand across his face. Very well. Ill move ahead in 
Liechtenstein. Ill get those three mercenaries for you.
How Soon? Salsbury asked.
If Im to maintain secrecy every step of the waythree months. Maybe four.
Salsbury nodded and continued laying out surgical instruments for the autopsy.
7
Monday, August 22, 1977
AT NINE 0 CL 0 C K Monday morning, Jenny came to visit the Annendale camp, and 
she brought with her a sturdy, yard-high canary cage.
Mark laughed when he saw her carrying it out of the woods. Whats that for?
A guest should always bring a gift, she said.
What will we do with it?
She put it in the boys hands as Paul kissed her on the cheek. Mark grinned at 
her through the slender, gilded bars. You said you wanted to bring your 
squirrel to town this coming Friday. Well, you cant let him loose in the car. 
This will be his travel cage.
He wont like being penned up.
Not at first. But hell get used to it.
Hell have to get used to it sooner or later if hes going to be your pet, 
Paul said.
Rya nudged her brother and said, For Gods sake, Mark, arent you going to say 
thank you? Jenny probably looked all over town for that.
The boy blushed. Oh, sure. Thanks. Thanks a lot, Jenny.
Rya, youll notice theres a small brown bag in the bottom of the cage. Thats 
for you.
The girl tore open the bag and smiled when she saw the three paperback books. 
Some of my favorite authors. And I dont have any of these! Thanks, Jenny.
Most eleven-year-old girls liked to read nurse novels, romances, perhaps Barbara 
Cartland or Mary Roberts Rinehart. But Jenny would have made a serious mistake 
if she had brought anything of that sort for Rya. Instead: one Louis LAmour 
western, one collection of horror stories, and one adventure novel by Alistair 
MacLean. Rya wasnt a classic tomboybut she sure as hell wasnt like most other 
eleven-year-old girls, either.
Both of these children were special. That was why, although she had no 
particular affection for children in general, she had fallen for them so 
quickly. She loved them every bit as much as she loved Paul.
Oh, yeah? she thought, catching herself in the admission. Youre just brimming 
with love for Paul, are you?
Enough of that.
Love, is it? Then why dont you accept his proposal?
Enough.
Why wont you marry him?
Well, because She forced herself to stop arguing with herself. People who
indulged in extended interior dialogues, she thought, were candidates for 
schizophrenia.
For a while the four of them fed the squirrel, which Mark had named Buster, and 
watched its antics. The boy regaled them with his plans for training the animal. 
He intended to teach Buster to roll over and play dead, to heel when told, to 
beg for his supper, and to fetch a stick. No one had the heart to tell him how 
unlikely it was that a squirrel could ever be made to do any of those things. 
Jenny wanted to laugh and grab him and hug himbut she only nodded and agreed 
with him whenever he asked for her opinion.
Later they played a game of tag and several games of badminton.
At eleven oclock Rya said, Ive got an announcement to make. Mark and I 
planned lunch. Were going to do all of the cooking ourselves. And we really 
have some special dishes to make. Dont we, Mark?
Yeah, we sure do. My favorite is
Mark! Rya said quickly. Its a surprise.
Yeah, he said, as if he hadnt almost given away everything. Thats right. 
Its a surprise.
Tucking her long black hair behind her ears, Rya turned to her father and said, 
Why dont you and Jenny take a nice long walk up the mountain? There are lots 
and lots of easy deer trails. You should work up an appetite.
Ive already worked one up by playing badminton, Paul said.
Rya made a face. I dont want you to see what were cooking.
Okay. Well sit over there with our backs to you. Rya shook her head: no. She 
was adamant. Youll still smell it cooking. There wont be any surprise.
The wind isnt blowing that way, Paul said. Cooking odors wont carry far.
Anxiously twisting her badminton racket in her hands, Rya glanced at Jenny.
What a lot of schemes and calculations are whirling around behind those innocent 
blue eyes of yours, Jenny thought. She was beginning to understand what the girl 
wanted.
With characteristic bluntness, Mark said, You got to go for a walk with Jenny, 
Dad. We know the two of you want to be alone.
Mark, for Gods sake! Rya was aghast.
Well, the boy said defensively, thats why were making lunch, isnt it? To 
give them a chance to be alone?
Jenny laughed.
Ill be damned, Paul said.
Rya said, I think Ill cook squirrel for lunch.
A look of horror passed across Marks face. Thats a terrible, rotten thing to 
say!
I didnt mean it.
Its still rotten.
I apologize.
Looking at her out of the corner of his eye, as if he were trying to assess her 
sincerity, Mark finally said, Well, okay.
Taking Pauls hand, Jenny said, If we dont go for a walk, your daughters 
going to be very upset. And when your daughter is very upset, shes a dangerous 
girl.
Grinning, Rya said, Thats true. Im a terror.
Jenny and I are going for a walk, Paul said. He leaned toward Rya. But 
tonight Ill tell you the shocking story of the hideous fate that befell a 
conniving child.
Oh, good! Rya said. I like bedtime stories. Lunch will be served at one 
oclock. She turned away and, as if she sensed Paul swinging his badminton 
racket at her backside, jumped to the left and ran into the tent.
The stream gushed noisily around a boulder, surged between banks lined with 
scrub birch and laurel, descended several rocky shelves, and formed a wide, deep 
pool at the end of the hollow before racing on to spill down the next step of 
the mountain. There were fish in the pool: darker shapes gliding in dark water. 
The surrounding clearing was sheltered by full-sized birches and one gargantuan 
oak with exposed and twisted roots, like tentacles, thrusting into the leaf 
mulch and black earth. The ground between the base of the oak and the pool was 
covered with moss so thick that it made a comfortable mattress for lovers.
Half an hour above the camp and the meadow where they had played badminton, they 
stopped beside the pool to rest. She stretched out on her back, her hands behind 
her head. He lay beside her.
She didnt know quite how it had happened, but the conversation had eventually 
given way to a gentle exchange of kisses. Caresses. Murmurs. He held her to him, 
his hands on her buttocks, his face in her hair, and licked lightly at her 
earlobe.
Suddenly she became the bolder of the two. She rubbed one hand across the crotch 
of his jeans, felt him swelling beneath the denim.
I want that, she said.
I want you.
Then we can both have what we want.
When they were naked, he began to kiss her breasts. He licked her stiffening 
nipples.
I want you now, she said. Quickly. We can take longer the second time.
They responded to each other with a powerful, unique, and utterly unexpected 
sensitivity that neither of them had ever quite achieved before. The pleasure 
was more than intense. It was very nearly excruciating for her, and she could 
see that it was much the same for him. Perhaps this was because they had wanted 
each other so fiercely but had not been together for so long, since March. If 
absence makes the heart grow fonder, she thought, does it also make the genitals 
grow randier? Or perhaps this electrifying pleasure was a response to the 
setting, to the wild lands sounds and odors and textures. Whatever the reason, 
he needed no lubrication to penetrate her. He slid deep with one fluid thrust 
and rocked in and out of her, down and down, filling her, tight within her, 
moving her. She was transfixed by the sight of his arms: the muscles bulged, 
each well defined, as he supported himself over her. She reached for his 
buttocks, hard as stone, and pulled him farther into her with each galvanizing 
stroke. Although she rapidly came into her climax, she coasted down from it so 
slowly that she wondered if there would be an end to it. Abruptly, when the 
sensations in her had subsided, he grew still, pinned by the power of his own 
orgasm. He softly said her name.
Shrinking within her, he kissed her breasts and lips and forehead. Then he 
rolled off her, onto his side.
She moved against him, belly to belly, and put her lips against the throbbing 
artery in his neck.
He held her, and she held him. The act that they had just Completed seemed to 
bind them; the memory of joy was an invisible umbilical.
For a few minutes she was not at all aware of the world beyond his shadow. She 
couldnt hear anything except the beat of her own heart and the heavy drawing of 
breath from both of them. In time the voices of the mountain filtered back to 
her:
leaves rustling overhead, the stream splashing down the slope into the pool, 
birds calling to one another in the trees. Likewise, at first she couldnt feel 
anything but the slight ache in her chest and Pauls warm semen trickling out of 
her. Gradually,
however, she realized that the day was hot and humid, and that their embrace had 
become less romantic than sticky.
Reluctantly, she disentangled herself from him and rolled onto her back. A sheen 
of perspiration filmed her breasts and stomach.
She said, Incredible.
Incredible.
Neither of them was ready to say more than that.
The breeze had almost dried them when he finally raised up on one elbow and 
looked down at her. You know something?
Whats that?
Ive never known another woman who was able to enjoy herself as thoroughly as 
you do.
Sex, you mean?
Sex, I mean.
Annie enjoyed it.
Sure. We had a fine marriage. But she didnt enjoy it quite like you do. You 
put everything youve got into it. Youre not aware of anything but your body 
and mine when we make love. Youre consumed by it.
I cant help it if Im horny.
Youre more than horny.
Oversexed, then.
Its not just sex, he said.
Youre not going to tell me that you like my mind too.
Thats precisely what Im going to tell you. You enjoy everything. Ive seen 
you savor a glass of water like some people do good wine. He drew a finger down 
the line between her breasts. Youve got a lust for life.
Me and Van Gogh.
Im serious.
She thought about it. A friend at college used to say the same thing.
You see?
If its true, she said, the credit belongs to my father.
Oh?
He gave me such a happy childhood.
Your mother died when you were a child.
She nodded. But she went in her sleep. A cerebral hemorrhage. One day she was 
theregone the next. I never saw her in pain, and that makes a difference to a 
child.
You grieved. Im sure you did.
For a while. But my father worked hard to bring me out of it. He was full of 
jokes and games and stories and presents, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a 
week. He worked just like you did to make your kids forget Annies death.
If I could have been as successful at that as Sam evidently was with you
Maybe he was too successful, she said.
How could that be?
Sighing, she said, Sometimes I think he should have spent less time making my 
childhood happy and more time preparing me for the real world.
Oh, I dont know about that. Happiness is a rare commodity in this life. Dont 
knock it. Grab every minute of it thats offered to you, and dont look back.
She shook her head, unconvinced. I was too nave. A regular Pollyanna. Right up 
through my wedding day.
A bad marriage can happen to anybody, wise or innocent.
Certainly. But the wise arent shattered by it.
His hand moved in lazy circles on her belly.
She liked the way he touched her. Already, she wanted him again.
He said, If you can analyze yourself this way, you can overcome your hang-ups. 
You can forget the past.
Oh, I can forget him all right. My husband. No trouble, given time. And not 
much time at that.
Well then?
Im not innocent anymore. God knows, Im not. But nave? Im not sure a person 
can become a cynic overnight. Or even a realist.
Wed be perfect together, he said, touching her breasts. Im certain of it.
At times Im certain of it too. And thats what I distrust about itthe 
certainty.
Marry me, he said.
How did we get around to this again?
I asked you to marry me.
I dont want to be set up for another fall.
Im not setting you up.
Not intentionally.
You cant live without taking risks.
I can try.
Itll be a lonely life.
She made a face at him. Lets not spoil the day.
Its not spoiled for me.
Well, it will be for me soon; if we dont change the subject.
What could we talk about thats more important than this? She grinned. You 
seem fascinated with my tits. Want to talk about those?
Jenny, be serious.
I am being serious. I think my tits are fascinating. I could spend hours 
talking about them.
Youre impossible.
Okay, okay. If you dont want to talk about my tits, we wont talk about them, 
lovely as they are. Insteadwell talk about your prick.
Jenny
Id like to taste it.
As she spoke the soft center of him swelled and grew hard.
Defeated by biology, she said. Youre a minx.
She laughed and started to sit up. He pushed her back.
I want to taste it, she said. Later.
Now.
I want to get you off first. And do you always get your way? I will this 
time. Im bigger than you. Male chauvinist.
If you say so. He kissed her nipples, shoulders, hands, her
navel and thighs. He rubbed his nose gently back and forth in the crinkled hair 
at the base of her belly.
A shiver passed through her. She said, Youre right. A woman should have her 
pleasure first.
He lifted his head and smiled at her. He had a charming, almost boyish smile. 
His eyes were so clear, so blue, and so warm that she felt as if she were being 
absorbed by them.
What a delightful man you are, she thought as the voices of the mountain faded 
away and her heartbeat replaced them. So beautiful, so desirable, so tender for 
a man. So very tender.
The house was on Union Road, one block from the town square. A white frame 
bungalow. Nicely kept. Windows trimmed in green with matching shutters. Railed 
front porch with bench swing and glider and bright green floor. Latticework 
festooned with ivy at one end of the porch, a wall of lilac bushes at the other 
end. Brick walkway with borders of marigolds on each side. A white ceramic 
birdbath ringed with petunias. According to the sign that hung on a decorative 
lamppost at the end of the walk, the house belonged to The Macklins.
At one oclock that afternoon, Salsbury climbed the three steps to the porch. He 
was carrying a clipboard with a dozen sheets of paper fixed to it. He rang the 
bell.
Bees hummed in the lilac leaves.
The woman who opened the door surprised him. Perhaps because of the flowers that 
had been planted everywhere and because of the pristine condition of the 
property that seemed the work of a singularly fussy person, he had expected the 
Macklins to be an elderly couple. A skinny pair who liked to putter in their 
gardens, who had no grandchildren to spend their time with, who would stare 
suspiciously at him over the rims of their bifocals. However, the woman who 
answered the bell was in her middle twenties, a slender blonde with the kind of 
face that looked good in magazine advertisements for cosmetics. She was tall, 
five eight or nine, not delicate but feminine, as leggy as a chorus girl. She 
was wearing dark blue shorts and a blue-and-
white polka-dot halter top. Even through the screen door, he could see that her 
body was well proportioned, firm, resilient, better than any he had ever 
touched.
As usual, confronted with a woman like one of those who had peopled his 
fantasies all of his adult life, he was unsettled. He stared at her and licked 
his lips and couldnt think of a damned thing to say.
Can I help you?
He cleared his throat. My namesAlbert Deighton. Ive been in town since last 
Friday. I dont know if you heard .
Im doing some research. Sociological research. Ive been talking to people
I know, she said. You were next door at the Solomans yesterday afternoon.
Thats right. Although the sun was hot and the air heavy, he hadnt perspired 
during any of the first three interviews of the day; but now he felt beads of 
sweat spring up on his forehead. Id like to talk with you and Mr. Mackin, if 
you can spare me the time. Half an hour ought to be enough. There are about a 
hundred questions
Im sorry, she said. My husband isnt home. He works up at the mill on the 
day shift. He wont be home till five thirty.
He looked at his clipboard for something to do. I can always catch him some 
other time. If I could interview you and the children now, get that out of the 
way
Oh, weve only been married a year. We havent any kids.
Newlyweds.
Just about. She smiled. She had dimples.
He felt as if he were being dragged along in a dangerous current, swept 
inexorably toward a decision that could destroy him. Is there anyone else 
living here? A relative?
Just Richie and me.
Richies your husband?
Thats right.
Last Friday, in Ultmans Cafe, he had risked exposing the entire project by 
using the code phrase to play with that waitress who looked like Miriam. He had 
gotten away with it, but he
knew he was a fool to allow his emotions to overwhelm him like that. As penance 
for his behavior, he was far more cautious on Saturday and Sunday than he needed 
to be. He used the code phrase two dozen times, interviewing the subjects in 
detail, searching for weak spots in their obedient mode; but he never approached 
one of them if there was the slimmest chance of discovery. Some of the women had 
been attractive, and he could have used them any way he wanted. But he had 
restrained himself. Having tasted total dominance when he opened Alice, that 
bitch waitress, with the code, he was anxious to make one of them undress and 
get down on the floor before him. Damned anxious. And this one, standing there 
in shorts and halter, seemed to radiate heat that evaporated his will power and 
his caution. He wanted to believe that, unlike the episode at the caf, this 
situation contained no threat; and wanting to believe was the first step toward 
convincing himself.
I am the key.
I am the lock.
Relieved, he wiped his brow. Are you alone?
Yes.
He began to tremble, not with fear but with excitement. Are you expecting 
anyone?
No. No one.
Is anyone expecting you? Were you planning to go visiting?
No.
Let me in.
She pushed open the screen door.
He stepped past her into the air-conditioned foyer. There was an oval mirror and 
accessory table on the right, a small painting of a storm-tossed sailing ship on 
his left. Close the door. And lock it.
She did as she was told.
A short corridor, containing two more paintings of sailing ships, led from the 
foyer to the kitchen.
On the left the living room opened to the hail through an archway. It was neatly 
furnished. An oriental carpet. Two Crushed velvet sofas and a slate-topped 
coffee table arranged to
form a conversation corner. Matching crushed-velvet drapes at the three windows. 
A magazine rack. A gun case. Two Stiffel lamps. To harmonize with the carpet, 
the paintings were of Western sailing ships docked in Chinese harbors.
Draw the drapes, he said.
She went from window to window, then came back to the center of the room. She 
stood with her hands at her sides, staring at him, a half-smile on her face.
She was waiting. Waiting for orders. His orders. She was his puppet, his slave.
For more than a minute he stood in the archway, unable to move, unable to decide 
what he should do next. Immobilized by fear, anticipation, and the grip of lust 
that made his groin ache almost unpleasantly, he was nevertheless sweating as if 
he had just run the mile. She was his. Entirely his: her mouth, breasts, ass, 
legs, cunt, every inch and fold of her. Better than that, there was no need for 
him to worry about whether or not he pleased her. The only consideration was his 
own pleasure. If he told her that she loved it, she would love it. No complaints 
afterward. No recriminations. Just the actand then to hell with her. Here, 
ready for the first time to use a woman exactly as he wanted, he found the 
reality more exhilarating than the dreams hed had so many years to elaborate 
upon.
She regarded him quizzically. Is that all?
No. His voice was hoarse.
What do you want?
He went to the nearest lamp, switched it on, and sat down on one of the sofas. 
You stand where you are, he said. Answer my questions and do what I say.
All right.
Whats your name?
Brenda.
How old are you, Brenda?
Twenty-six.
He took his handkerchief from his hip pocket, wiped his face. He looked at the 
paintings of sailing ships. Your husband likes the sea?
Then he likes paintings of the sea.
No. He doesnt care for them.
He had only been talking to pass time while he decided how he wanted to proceed 
with her. Now, her unexpected answer confused him. Then why the hell do you 
have all these paintings?
I was born and raised in Cape Cod. I love the sea.
But he doesnt care for it. Why does he let you hang these damned things 
everywhere?
He knows I like them, she said.
He wiped his face again, put the handkerchief away. He knows if he took them 
off the wall, youd freeze him out in bed. Wouldnt you, Brenda?
Of course not.
You know you would, you little bitch. Youre a pretty little piece. Hed do 
anything to keep you happy. Any man would. Men have been running to do your 
bidding since you were old enough to fuck. You snap your fingers, and they 
dance. Dont they?
Puzzled, she shook her head. Dance? No.
He laughed bitterly. A game of semantics. You know I didnt really mean 
dance. Youre like all the others. Youre a bitch, Brenda.
She squinted. Frowned.
I say youre a bitch. Am I right? Her frown vanished. Yes.
Im always right. Isnt that true? Yes. Youre always right.
What am I?
Youre the key.
What are you?
Im the lock.
He was feeling better by the minute. Not so tense as he had been. Not so 
jittery. Calm. In control. As hed never been. He pushed his glasses up on his 
nose. Youd like me to strip you naked and screw you. Wouldnt you like that, 
Brenda?
She hesitated.
Youd like it, he said.
Id like it.
Youd love it.
Id love it.
Take off your halter.
Reaching behind her back, she slipped the knot, and the polka-dot cloth fell to 
her feet. The flesh beneath was white, in stark and erotic contrast to her dark 
tan. Her breasts were neither large nor small, but exquisitely curved, upthrust. 
A few freckles. Pink nipples not much darker than her untanned skin. She kicked 
the halter out of her way.
Touch them, he said.
My breasts?
Squeeze them. Pull on the nipples. He watched, found her movements too 
mechanical, and said, Youre horny, Brenda. You want to be fucked. You cant 
wait to have me. You need it. You want it. You want it more than youve ever 
wanted it in your life. Youre almost sick with wanting it.
As she continued to caress herself, her nipples swelled and turned a darker 
shade of pink. She was breathing heavily.
He giggled. He couldnt suppress it. He felt terrific. So terrific. Take off 
your shorts.
She did.
And your panties. Youre a real blonde, I see. Now, put one hand between those 
pretty legs. Finger yourself. Thats it. Thats good. Thats a good girl.
Standing, her feet wide apart, masturbating, she was a stunning sight. She threw 
back her head, golden hair trailing like a banner, mouth open, face slack. She 
was gasping for breath. Shivering. Twitching. Moaning. With her free hand, she 
was still caressing her breasts.
The power. Good God, the power he had over them now, would always have over 
them, from this day forward! He could come into their homes, into their most 
sacred and private places, and once inside do whatever he wished with them. And 
not just with the women. Men too. If he ordered it of them, the men
would mewl and crawl to him on their hands and knees. They would beg him to 
screw their wives. Theyd give him their daughters, their girl children. They 
wouldnt deny him any experience, however extravagant or outrageous. He would 
demand every thrill, and he would enjoy each of them. But on the whole, he would 
be a benign ruler, a benevolent dictator, more like a father than a jailer. No 
jackboots in their faces. He laughed at that last thought. Ten years ago, when 
he was still conducting lecture tours and writing about the future of behavior 
modification and mind control, he was subjected to extensive ridicule and 
vehement condemnation from some members of the academic community. In lecture 
halls, all but forcibly detained at the end of his speeches, he had listened to 
countless self-righteous bores droning through homilies about invasion of 
privacy and the sanctity of the human mind, They quoted hundreds of great 
thinkers, epigrams by the scoresome of which he remembered to this day. There 
was one about the future of mankind amounting to little more than a jackboot in 
the face. Well, that was crap. Jackboots, and the cruel authoritarian state they 
symbolized, were only a means of keeping the masses in line. Now, with his drug 
and the key-lock program, jackboots had become obsolete. No one would have a 
jackboot pushed in his face. Of course, for selected women, he had something 
else to push in their faces. Massaging himself through his trousers, he laughed. 
The power. The sweet, sweet power.
Brenda.
Shuddering, gasping, her knees bending slightly, she climaxed as her index 
finger worked industriously between her legs.
Brenda.
At last she looked up at him. She was beginning to perspire. Her hair was dark 
and damp at the brow.
He said, Go to that sofa. Kneel on it with your back to me, and brace your arms 
against the pillows.
When she was in position, her white butt thrust up at him, she looked over her 
shoulder. Hurry. Please.
Laughing, he shoved the coffee table out of the way, sent it sliding off the 
carpet, across the hardwood floor and into the
magazine rack. He stood behind her, dropped his trousers and his yellow-striped 
shorts. He was ready, the veins about to burst, hard as iron, bigger than hed 
ever been, big as a stallions gun, a horse cock. And red. So red it looked as 
if it had been smeared with blood. He ran one hand over her buttocks, over the 
golden hairs on her back, along her side, under to the swinging breast, pinched 
the nipple, smoothed her flank, pinched her ass, slipped his fingers between her 
thighs, to her pubes. She was wet, dripping, far more ready then he was. He 
could even smell her. Giggling, he said, Youre a bitch in more ways than one. 
A regular little bitch dog. A little animal. Arent you, Brenda?
Yes.
Say youre a little animal. I am. Im a little animal. The power.
What do you want, Brenda?
I want you to screw me.
Do you?
Yes.
How bad do you want it?
Real bad.
Sweet, sweet power.
What do you want?
You know!
Do I?
I already said!
Say it again.
Youre humiliating me.
I havent even begun.
Oh, God.
Listen to me, Brenda. 
"What?"
Your cunts getting hotter.
She groaned softly. Shuddered. Feel it, Brenda?
Yes.
Hotter and hotter.
I dont I cant
You cant stand it?
So hot. Almost hurts.
He smiled. Now what do you want? I want you to screw me.
See, Miriam? I am somebody.
What are you, Brenda?
I am the lock.
What else are you? A bitch.
I cant hear it often enough.
A bitch.
In heat?
Yes, yes. Please!
Poised to enter her, dizzy with excitement, demoniac, electrified by the power 
he held, Salsbury had no illusions that his orgasm, deep within the silken 
regions of this woman, was the most important aspect of the rape. The spasmed 
outpouring of a tablespoon or two of semen was only the punctuation at the end 
of the sentence, at the conclusion of his declaration of independence. During 
the past half hour, he had proved himself, had freed himself from the dozens of 
bitches who had messed in his life all the way back to and including his mother, 
especially his mother, that goddess of bitches, that empress of ball-breakers. 
After her came the girls who were frigid and the girls who laughed at him and 
the girls who whined about his poor technique and the girls who rejected him 
with unconcealed distaste and Miriam and the contemptible whores to whom he had 
been forced to resort in later years. Brenda Macklin was only a metaphor, 
written into his life by chance. If it hadnt been her, it would have been 
someone else this afternoon or tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. She was the 
voodoo doll, the totem with which he would exorcise some of those bitches from 
his past. Each inch of prick he jammed into her was a blow to the Brendas of 
years gone by. Each strokethe more brutal it was the betterwas an announcement 
of his triumph. He would pound her. Bruise her. Use her until she was raw. Hurt 
her.
With every blade of pain he sent through her, he would be cutting each of those 
hated women. By mounting this lean blond animal, by battering relentlessly into 
her, tearing her apart, he would be proving his superiority to all of them.
He seized her hips and leaned close. But as the tip of his shaft touched her 
vagina, even before the head of it slipped into her, he ejaculated 
uncontrollably. His legs gave way. Crying out, he fell on her.
She collapsed against the pillows.
Panic took him. Memories of past failures. The sour looks they gave him 
afterwards. The contempt with which they treated him. The shame of it. He held 
Brenda down, weighed her down. Desperately, he said, Youre coming, girl. 
Youre climaxing. Do you hear me? Do you understand? Im telling you. Youre 
coming.
She made a noise, muffled by pillows. Feel it?
Mmmmm.
Do you feel it?
Raising her head she said, God, yes! Youve never had it better.
Not ever. Never. She was gasping.
Feel it?
Feel it.
Is it hot?
So hot. Oh!
Coasting now. Youre coming down. She stopped squirming under him.
Drifting down. Its almost over.
So good . . . Softly.
You little animal.
With that the tension drained out of her.
The doorbell rang.
What the hell?
She didnt react.
Pushing away from her, he swayed to his feet, tried to take a step with his 
trousers around his ankles and almost fell.
He grabbed his shorts, jerked them up, then his trousers. You said you werent 
expecting anyone.
Wasnt.
Then whos that?
She rolled onto her back. She looked sated.
Whos that? he asked again.
Dont know.
For Gods sake, get dressed.
She rose dreamily from the couch. Quickly, damn you!
Obediently, she scuttled after her clothes.
At one of the front windows, he parted the drapes a fraction of an inch, just 
enough to see the porch. A woman was standing at the door, unaware that she was 
under observation. In sandals, white shorts, and a scoop-necked orange sweater, 
she was even better-looking than Brenda Macklin.
Brenda said, Im dressed.
The doorbell rang again.
Letting go of the drapery, Salsbury said, Its a woman. You better answer it. 
But get rid of her. Whatever you do, dont let her inside.
What should I say?
If its someone youve never seen before, you dont have to say anything.
Otherwise?
Tell her youve got a headache. A terrible migraine headache. Now go.
She went out of the room.
When he heard her open the door in the foyer, he parted the velvet again in 
time to see a smile touch the face of the woman in the orange sweater. She said 
something, and Brenda replied, and the smile was replaced by a look of concern. 
Filtered through the walls and windows, their voices were hardly more than 
whispers. He couldnt follow the conversation, but it Seemed to go on forever.
Maybe you should have let her come inside, he thought. Use the code phrase on 
her. Then screw them both.
But what if you let her come in and then discover shes got a weak spot in her 
program?
Not much chance of that.
Or what if shes from out of town? A relative from Bexford, perhaps. Then what?
Then shed have to be killed.
And how would you dispose of the body?
Under his breath he said, Come on, Brenda, you bitch. Get rid of her.
Finally, the stranger turned away from the door. Salsbury had a brief glimpse of 
green eyes, ripe lips, a superb profile, extremely deep cleavage in the 
scoop-necked sweater. When she had her back to him and was going down the steps, 
he saw that her legs werent just sexy, as Brendas were, but sexy and elegant, 
even without nylons. Long, taut, smooth, scissoring legs, feminine muscles 
bunching and twisting and stretching and compacting and rippling sinuously with 
each step. An animal. A healthy animal. His animal. Like all of them now: his. 
At the end of the Macklin property, she turned left into the searing afternoon 
sun, distorted by waves of heat rising from the concrete sidewalk, soon out of 
sight.
Brenda came back into the living room.
When she started to sit down, he said, Stand. The middle of the room.
She did that, her hands at her sides.
Returning to the sofa, he said, What did you tell her?
That I had a migraine headache.
She believed you?
I guess so.
Did you know her?
Yes.
Who was she?
My sister-in-law.
She lives in Black River?
Has most all her life.
Quite a looker.
She was in the Miss USA contest.
Oh? When was that?
Twelve, thirteen years ago.
Still looks twenty-two.
Shes thirty-five.
She win?
Came in third.
Big disappointment, Ill bet.
For Black River. She didnt mind.
She didnt? Why not?
Nothing bothers her.
Is that so?
Shes that way. Always happy. Whats her name? Emma.
Last name?
Thorp.
Thorp? She married? Yes.
He frowned. To that cop? Hes the chief of police. Bob Thorp.
Thats right. Whats she doing with him? She was baffled. She blinked at 
him. Cute little animal. He swore he could still smell her. She said, What do 
you mean?
What I said. What s she doing with him?
Well. .. theyre married.
A woman like her with a big, dumb cop.
Hes not dumb, she said.
Looks dumb to me. He thought about it for a moment, and then he smiled. Your 
maiden names Brenda Thorp.
Yes.
Bob Thorps your brother.
My oldest brother.
Poor Bob. He leaned back in the sofa and folded his arms on his chest and 
laughed. First I get to his kid sisterthen I get to his wife.
She smiled uncertainly. Nervously.
Ill have to be careful, wont I?
Careful? she said.
Bob maybe dumb, but hes big as a bull.
He isnt dumb, she insisted.
In high school I dated a girl named Sophia.
She was silent. Confused.
Sophia Brookman. God, I wanted her.
Loved her?
Loves a lie. A myth. Its bullshit. I just wanted to screw her. But she 
dropped me after a few dates and started going with this other guy, Joey Duncan. 
You know what Joey Duncan did after high school?
How would I know? He went to junior college. So did I.
Took criminology for a year. I majored in history.
He flunked out. Not me.
Ended up with the home town police.
Just like my brother.
I went to Harvard.
Did you really?
I was always a better dresser than Joey was. Besides that, he was as dull as a 
post. I was much wittier than he was. Joey didnt read anything but the jokes in 
Readers Digest. I read The New Yorker every week.
I dont like either one.
In spite of all that, Sophia preferred him. But you know what?
What?
It was in The New Yorker that I first saw something about subliminal 
perception. Back in the fifties. An article, editorial,
maybe a little snippet at the bottom of a column. I forget exactly what it was. 
But thats what got me started. Something in The New Yorker.
Brenda sighed. Fidgeted.
Tired of standing? A little.
Are you bored?
Kind of.
Bitch.
She looked at the floor.
Get your clothes off.
The lovely power. He was filled with it, brimming with it but it had changed. 
At first it had seemed to him like a steady, exhilarating current. Part of the 
time it was still like that, a soft humming inside of him, perhaps imagined but 
nevertheless electrifying, a river of power on which he sailed in complete 
command. But occasionally now, for short periods, it felt not like a constant 
flow but like a continuous and endless series of short, sharp bursts. The power 
like a submachine gun: tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat . . . The rhythm of it 
affected him. His mind spun. Thoughts adance, no thought finished, leaping from 
one thing to another: Joey Duncan, Harvard, key-lock, Miriam, his mother, 
dark-eyed Sophia, breasts, sex, Emma Thorp, bitches, Dawson, Brenda, his growing 
erection, his mother, Klinger, Brenda, cunt, the power, jackboots, Emmas legs 
What now?
She was naked.
He said, Come here. Little animal.
Get down.
On the floor?
On your knees. She got down.
Beautiful animal. You like me?
Youll do until.
Until what?
Until I get your sister-in-law.
Emma?
Ill make him watch.
Who?
That dumb cop.
He isnt dumb.
Lovely ass. Youre horny, Brenda.
Im getting hot. Like before.
Of course you are. Hotter and hotter.
Im shaking.
You want me more than you did before.
Do it to me.
Hotter and hotter.
Imembarrassed.
No. You arent.
Oh, God.
Feel good?
So good.
You dont look at all like Miriam. Whos Miriam?
The old bastard should see me now. Who? Miriam?
Hed be outraged. Quote the Bible. Who would?
Dawson. Probably cant even get it up. Im scared, she said suddenly. Of 
what?
I dont know.
Stop being scared. You arent scared. Okay.
Are you scared?
She smiled. No. You going to screw me? Batter the hell out of you. Hot, 
arent you?
Yes. Burning up. Do it. Now. Klinger and his damned chorus girls. Klinger?
Probably queer anyway.
Are you going to do it?
Tear you up. Big as a horse. Yes. I want it. Im hot.
I think maybe Miriam was queer.
Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat .
At five oclock Monday afternoon, Buddy Pellineri, just out of bed with seven 
hours to pass before he had to report to work at the mill, went to Edisons 
store to see if any new magazines had been put on the racks. His favorites were 
the ones that had a lot of pictures in them: People, Travel, Nevada, Arizona 
Highways, Vermont Life, a few of the photography journals. He found two issues 
that he didnt have and took them to the counter to pay for them.
Jenny was at the cash register. She was wearing a white blouse with yellow 
flowers on it. Her long black hair looked freshly washed, thick and shiny. You 
look so pretty, Miss Jenny.
Why, thank you, Buddy.
He blushed and wished he had said nothing. She said, Is the world treating you 
right?
No complaints.
Im glad to hear it.
How much I owe you?
Do you have two dollars?
He thrust a hand into his pocket, came out with some change and rumpled bills. 
Sure. Here.
You get three quarters in change, she said.
I thought they cost more.
Now, you know you get a discount here.
Ill pay. Dont want special treatment.
Youre a close friend of the family, she said, shaking a finger at him. We 
give discounts to all close friends of the family. Sam would be angry if you 
didnt accept that. You put those quarters in your pocket.
Well . . . thanks.
Youre welcome, Buddy.
Is Sam here?
She pointed to the curtained doorway. Upstairs. Hes getting dinner.
I ought to tell him.
Tell him what? she asked.
About this thing I saw.
Cant you tell me?
Well . . . Better him.
You may go up and see him, if you like.
The invitation frightened him. He was never comfortable in other peoples 
houses. You have cats up there?
Cats? No. No pets at all.
He knew she wouldnt lie to himbut then, cats turned up in the most unexpected 
places. Two weeks after his mother died, he was asked to visit the parsonage. 
Reverend Potter and Mrs. Potter had taken him straight to the parlor where she 
had served homemade cakes and cookies. He sat on the divan, knees together, 
hands in his lap. Mrs. Potter made hot chocolate. Reverend Potter poured for 
everyone. The two of them sat opposite Buddy in a pair of wing-backed chairs. 
For a while everything was so nice. He ate the gingerbread and the little 
cookies with red and green sugar on them and he drank the cocoa and smiled a lot 
and talked a littleand then a big white furry cat leaped over his shoulder, 
onto his lap, claws digging in for an instant, from his lap to the floor. He 
didnt even know they had a cat. Was that fair? Not to tell him? It had crept 
onto the window sill behind the divan. How long had it been there? All the while 
he ate? Paralyzed with fear, unable to speak, wanting to scream, he spilled his 
chocolate on the carpet and wet himself. Peed in his pants right on the 
preachers brocade divan. What a stain. It was awful. An awful day. He never 
went back there again, and he stopped going to church as well, even if he might 
go to hell for that.
Buddy?
She startled him. What?
Do you want to go upstairs and see Sam?
Picking up his magazines, he said, No. No. Ill tell him some time. Some other 
time. Not now. He started toward the door.
Buddy?
He glanced back.
Is something wrong? she asked.
No. He forced a laugh. No. Nothing. Worlds treating me okay. He hurried out 
of the store.
On the other side of Main Street, back in his two-room apartment, he went to the 
bathroom and peed, opened a bottle of Coca-Cola, and sat down at the kitchen 
table to look at his magazines. First thing, he paged through both of them, 
search. ing for articles about cats and pictures of cats and advertisements for 
cat food. He found two pages in each magazine that offended him, and he tore 
them out at once, regardless of what was on the backs of them. Methodically, he 
ripped each page. into hundreds of tiny pieces and threw the resultant heap of 
confetti into the wastebasket. Only then was he prepared to relax and look at 
the pictures.
Halfway through the first magazine, he came across an article about a team of 
skin divers who were, it seemed to him, trying to uncover an ancient treasure 
ship. He couldnt read more than two words out of five, but he studied the 
pictures with great interestand suddenly was reminded of what he had seen in 
the woods that night. Near the mill. When he was taking a pee. At a quarter of 
five in the morning, on the day hed so carefully marked on his calendar. Skin 
divers. Coming down from the reservoir. Carrying flashlights. And guns. It was 
such a silly thing, he couldnt forget it. Such a funny. . . such a scary thing. 
They didnt belong where he had seen them. They hadnt been hunting for 
treasure, not at night, not up in the reservoir.
What had they been doing?
Hed thought about that for ever so long, but he simply couldnt figure it out. 
He wanted to ask someone to explain it, but he knew theyd laugh at him.
Last week, however, he realized that there was someone in Black River who would 
listen to him, who would believe him and wouldnt laugh no matter how silly the 
story was. Sam. Sam always had time for him, even before his mother died. Sam 
never made fun of him or talked down to him or hurt his feel-
ings. Furthermore, so far as Buddy was concerned, Sam Edison was easily the 
smartest person in town. He knew just about everything; or Buddy thought he did. 
If there was anyone who could explain to him what he had seen, it was Sam.
On the other hand, he didnt want to look like a fool in Sams eyes. He was 
determined to give himself every chance to work out the answer first. That was 
why he had delayed going to Sam since he had remembered him last Wednesday.
A while ago in the store, he finally was ready to let Sam take over his thinking 
for him. But Sam was upstairs, in rooms that were unfamiliar to Buddy, and that 
raised the question of cats.
Now he had more time to puzzle it out on his own. If Sam was in the store the 
next time Buddy went there, he would tell him the story. But not for a few days 
yet. He sat in the patterned late-afternoon sunlight that came through the 
curtain, drank Coca-Cola, and wondered.
8
Eight Months Earlier:
Saturday, December 18, 1976
IN THE COMPUTER CENTER of the sealed wing of the Greenwich house, seven days 
before Christmas, the monitor boards and systems bulbs and cathode-ray tubes and 
glowing scopes, although they were mostly red and green, had not reminded 
Salsbury of the holiday.
When he entered the room, his first time there in months, Klinger looked around 
at the lights and said, Very Christmasy.
Strangely enough, it was rather Christmasy.
However, because he hadnt perceived something which had registered with the 
general in mere seconds, Salsbury felt uneasy. For almost two years now, day and 
night, he had been telling himself that he must be quicker, sharper, more 
cunning, and more forward-thinking than either of his partnersif he was to keep 
his partners from eventually putting a bullet in his head and burying him at the 
southern end of the estate beside Brian Kingman. Which was surely what they had 
in mind for him. And for each other. Either that or slavery through the keylock 
program. Therefore, it was quite disturbing to him that Klinger-hairy, 
flat-faced gorilla that he wasshould make, of all things, an aesthetic 
observation before Salsbury himself had made it.
The Only way he could deal with his own uneasiness was to
put the general off his stride as quickly as possible. You cant smoke in here. 
Put that out at once.
Rolling the cheroot from the center of his thick lips to one side, Klinger said, 
Oh, surely
The delicate machinery, Salsbury said sharply, gesturing at the Christmasy 
lights.
Klinger took the slender cigar from his mouth and appeared to be about to drop 
it on the floor.
The waste can.
When he had disposed of the cheroot, the general said, Sorry.
Salsbury said, Thats all right. Youre not familiar with a place like this, 
with computers and all of that. You couldnt be expected to know.
And he thought: Score one for me.
Wheres Leonard? Klinger asked.
He wont be here.
For such an important test?
He wishes it werent necessary.
Pontius Pilate.
What?
Looking at the ceiling as if he could see through it, Klinger said, Up there 
washing his hands.
Salsbury wasnt about to take part in any conversation meant to dissect or 
analyze Dawson. He had taken every measure to protect himself from any attempt 
on Dawsons part to plant bugs in his work area. He didnt believe it was 
possible for anyone to spy on him while he was in here. But he couldnt be 
positively, absolutely certain of that. Under the circumstances, he felt that 
paranoia was a rational vantage point from which to view the world.
What all have you got to show me? Klinger asked. For a start, I thought youd 
want to see a few print-outs from the key-lock program.
Im curious, the general admitted.
Picking up a sheet of computer paper that was folded like an accordion into 
dozens of eighteen-inch-long sections, Salsbury said, All three of our new 
employees
The mercenaries?
Yes. All three of them were given the drug and then shown a series of films, 
ostensibly as evening entertainment: The Exorcist, Jaws, and Black Sunday, on 
successive nights. These were, of course, very special copies of the films. 
Processed right here on the estate. I did the work personally. Printed each of 
them over a different stage of the subliminal program.
Why those three movies in particular?
I could have used any I wanted, Salsbury said. I just chose them at random 
from Leonards film library. The movie is simply the package, not the content. 
It merely establishes a reason for the subjects to stare at the screen for a 
couple of hours while the subliminal program is running below their recognition 
threshold. He handed the print-out to Klinger. This is a second-by-second 
verbal translation of the images appearing on the screen in the rheostatic film, 
which begins simultaneously with the movie. Wherever the computer prints This 
Legend it means that the visual subliminals have been interrupted by a 
block-letter message on the rheostatic film, a direct command to the viewer.
 
SUBJECT CODEDKEY LOCK
REVISED PROGRAM/STAGE ONE
STORAGE MATERIAL
PROGRAM STORED: 8/6/76
THIS PRINT: 12/18/76
PRINT
 
SECONDS SUBLIMINAL CONTENT
0001 NO CONTENT
0002 NO CONTENT
0003 VISUALWOMANS BREASTS
0004 VISUALWOMAN'S BREASTS
0005 VISUALWOMANS BREASTS
0006 VISUALWOMANS BREASTS
0007 VISUALWOMANS BREASTS
0008 THIS LEGENDYOU WATCH
0009 THIS LEGENDYOU WATCH
0010 THIS LEGENDYOU WATCH
0011 THIS LEGENDYOU WATCH
0012 THIS LEGENDYOU WATCH THIS FILM
0013 THIS LEGENDYOU WATCH THIS FILM
0014 THIS LEGENDYOU WATCH THIS FILM
0015 VISUALDETUMESCENT PENIS
0016 VISUALDETUMESCENT PENIS
0017 VISUALDETUMESCENT PENIS
0015 VISUALPENIS IN WOMANS HAND
0019 VISUALWOMAN STROKING PENIS
0020 VISUALWOMAN STROKING PENIS
0021 VISUALWOMAN STROKING PENIS
0022 VISUALWOMAN STROKING PENIS
0023 THIS LEGENDYOU WATCH THIS FILM
The first sixty seconds do nothing but insure that the subject will pay close 
attention to the rest of the movie, Salsbury said. Beginning with the second 
minute and continuing throughout the movie, he is very carefully, very gradually 
primed for stage two of the program and for eventual, total submission to the 
key-lock behavior mode.
Carefully and slowlybecause of what happened to Brian Kingman? the general 
asked.
Because of what happened to Brian Kingman.
0061 VISUALWOMAN FONDLING TESTICLES
0062 VISUALWOMAN FONDLING TESTICLES
0063 VISUALWOMAN STROKING PENIS
0064 VISUALWOMAN STROKING PENIS
0065 VISUAL-WOMAN STROKING PENIS
0066 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0067 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0068 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0069 VISUALERECT PENIS
0070 VISUALERECT PENIS
0071 VISUALERECT PENIS
0072 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0073 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0074 VISUALWOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS
0075 VISUALWOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS
0076 VISUALWOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS
0077 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0078 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0079 VISUALDOG STYLE INTERCOURSE
0060 VISUALDOG STYLE INTERCOURSE
0081 VISUALDOG STYLE INTERCOURSE
0082 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0083 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0084 VISUALMALE DOMINANT INTERCOURSE
0085 VISUALMALE DOMINANT INTERCOURSE
0086 VISUALMALE DOMINANT INTERCOURSE
0087 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0088 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0089 VISUALWOMANS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY
0090 VISUALWOMANS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY
0091 VISUALWOMANS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY
0052 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0093 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0094 VISUAL-EJACULATION ON WOMANS PUBIC HAIR
0095 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0096 VISUALEJACULATION ON WOMANS PUBIC HAIR
0097 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0098 VISUALWOMANS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY
0099 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0100 VISUALEJACULATION ON WOMANS PUBIC HAIR
Klinger said, The penis doesnt become erect until the viewer is to]d that 
obedience to the key equals satisfaction.
Thats right. And youll notice that both the mans and womans orgasms are 
represented. This program would be effective with either sex.
Was all this taken from some porno movie?
It was shot especially for me by a professional pornographic-film maker in New 
York City, Salsbury said, pushing his glasses up on his nose and wiping his 
damp forehead. He was instructed to use only the most attractive performers. He 
shot everything at regular light intensity, but I used a special process to 
print below the recognition threshold. Then I intercut the sex footage with the 
block-letter messages. He unfolded some of the print-out. This first sequence 
lasts another forty seconds. Then there is a two-second pause, and another 
message is presented in the same fashion.
0143 VISUALWOMAN FINGERING CLITORIS
0144 VISUALWOMAN FINGERING CLITORIS
0145 VISUALMAN STROKING DETUMESCENT PENIS
0146 VISUALMAN STROKING DETUMESCENT PENIS
0147 VISUALMAN STROKING DETUMESCENT PENIS
0148 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION TO THE KEYFREEDOM FROM FAILURE
0149 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION TO THE KEYFREEDOM FROM FAILURE
0150 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION TO THE KEYFREEDOM FROM FAILURE
0151 VISUALWOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS
0152 VISUALWOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS
0153 VISUALWOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS
0154 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION TO THE KEYFREEDOM FROM FAILURE
0155 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION TO THE KEYFREEDOM FROM FAILURE
0156 VISUALWOMAN DOMINANT INTERCOURSE
0157 VISUALWOMAN DOMINANT INTERCOURSE
0155 VISUALWOMAN DOMINANT INTERCOURSE
0159 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION TO THE KEY FREEDOM FROM FAILURE
0160 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION TO THE KEY FREEDOM FROM FAILURE
0161 VISUALDOG STYLE INTERCOURSE
0162 VISUALDOG STYLE INTERCOURSE
0163 VISUALDOG STYLE INTERCOURSE
0164 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION TO THE KEY FREEDOM FROM FAILURE
0165 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION TO THE KEY FREEDOM FROM FAILURE
0166 VISUALWOMANS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY
0167 VISUALWOMANS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY
0168 VISUALWOMANS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY
0169 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION TO THE KEY FREEDOM FROM FAILURE
0170 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION TO THE KEY FREEDOM FROM FAILURE
0171 VISUALEJACULATION ON WOMANS BUTTOCKS
0172 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION TO THE KEY FREEDOM FROM FAILURE
0173 VISUALEJACULATION ON WOMANS BUTTOCKS
0174 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION TO THE KEY FREEDOM FROM FAILURE
0175 VISUALWOMANS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY
I see the pattern, Klinger said. How many of these legends were there?
They were standing at one of the computer consoles. Saisbury leaned over and 
used the keyboard.
One of the screens mounted on the wall began a line-print:
KEY/LOCK STAGE ONE BLOCKLETTER MESSAGES, IN ORDER OF
APPEARANCE, AS FOLLOWS:
01 OBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
02 SUBMISSION TO THE KEYFREEDOM FROM FAILURE
03 SUBMISSION TO THE KEYFREEDOM FROM FEAR
04 SUBMISSION TO THE KEYFREEDOM FROM GUILT
05 SUBMISSION TO THE KEYFREEDOM FROM WORRY
06 SUBMISSION TO THE KEYFREEDOM FROM MORAL CODES
07 SUBMISSION TO THE KEYFREEDOM FROM RESPONSIBILITY
08 SUBMISSION TO THE KEYFREEDOM FROM DEPRESSION
09 SUBMISSION TO THE KEYFREEDOM FROM TENSION
10 SUBMISSION TO THE KEYCONTENTMENT
11 SUBMISSION TO THE KEYHAPPINESS
12 SUBMISSION TO THE KEYYOUR GREATEST DESIRE
 
Salsbury touched a tab on the console.
The screen went blank.
The series was repeated three times through the film.
The same thing the second night? Klinger asked. No. He picked up another 
folded print-out from the seat of the console chair and exchanged it for the 
stage one analysis. The first minute is spent securing the. subjects undivided 
attention, as it was in the first film. The difference between stage one and 
stage two becomes evident starting with the second minute.
0061 VISUALWOMAN WEEPING
0062 VISUALWOMAN WEEPING
0063 VISUALWOMAN WEEPING
0064 VISUALMAN WEEPING
0065 VISUALMAN WEEPING
0066 THIS LEGENDREFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEYPAIN
0067 THIS LEGENDREFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEYPAIN
0065 VISUALWOMAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING
0069 VISUALWOMAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING
0070 THIS LEGEND-REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEYPAIN
0071 THIS LEGEND-REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEYPAIN
0072 VISUALMAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING
0073 VISUALMAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING
0074 THIS LEGEND-REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEYPAIN
0075 THIS LEGEND-REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEYPAIN
0076 VISUALWOMAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING
0077 VISUAL-MAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING
0076 THIS LEGENDREFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEYPAIN
0079 THIS LEGEND-PAIN, PAIN, PAINi PAIN
0080 NO CONTENT
0081 NO CONTENT
0082 VISUALWOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS
The second stage of the program alternates between negative reinforcement and 
positive reinforcement, Salsbury said. The next twenty-five seconds are 
devoted to a sex reinforcement sequence much like those you saw on the first 
print-out. Skip ahead just a bit.
0110 VISUALWOLFS FACE, SNARLING
0111 VISUALWOLFS FACE, SNARLING
0112 VISUALSCORPION STINGING A MOUSE
0113 VISUALSCORPION STINGING A MOUSE
0114 VISUALCOFFIN
0115 VISUALCOFFIN
0116 VISUALCOFFIN
0117 THIS LEGENDREFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEYDEATH
0118 THIS LEGENDREFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEYDEATH
0119 VISUALHUMAN SKULL
0120 VISUALHUMAN SKULL
0121 VISUALROTTING CORPSE
0122 THIS LEGENDREFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEYDEATH
0123 VISUALROTTING CORPSE
0124 THIS LEGENDREFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEYDEATH
Looking up from the print-out, Klinger said, Do you mean that death is as 
effective as sex in subliminal persuasion?
Nearly so, yes. In advertising, subliminals can be used to establish the same 
sort of motivational equation with death as with sex. According to Wilson Bryan 
Key, who wrote a book about the nature of subceptive manipulation a few years 
back, the first use of death images might have come in a Calvert Whiskey ad that 
appeared in a number of magazines in 1971. Since then hundreds of death symbols 
have become standard tools of the major ad agencies.
Putting down the second print-out, the general said, What about the third 
stage? What was hidden in the film you showed them on the third night?
Salsbury had another length of computer paper. In the beginning, this one just 
reinforces and strengthens the messages and effects of the first two films. Its 
broken down into tenths of seconds in some places because by this time the 
subjects are primed for faster input, rapid-fire commands. Like the others, it 
really begins with the second minute.
0060 00 VISUALWOMANS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY
0061 00 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0061 05 VISUALPENIS EJACULATING
0062 00 VISUALWOMANS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY
0062 05 THIS LEGENDOBEDIENCE TO THE KEYSATISFACTION
0063 00 VISUALWOMAN WEEPING
0063 03 VISUALMAN WEEPING
0063 06 VISUALWOLFS FACE, SNARLING
0063 09 VISUALSCORPION STINGING A MOUSE
0064 02 VISUALCOFFIN
0064 05 THIS LEGENDREFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEYDEATH
0065 00 VISUALWOMAN KISSING PENIS
0065 05 VISUALPENIS SLIDING BETWEEN WOMANS BREASTS
0065 08 VISUALPENIS ENTERING VAGINA
0066 00 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION TO THE KEYFREEDOM FROM FAILURE
0066 05 VISUALSEVERED, BLOODY HUMAN ARM
0066 08 VISUALROTTING CORPSE
Farther on, both the tempo and the emotional impact of the images increased 
drastically:
0800 00 VISUALHUMAN HEAD WITH GUNSHOT WOUND
0800 02 VISUALDEAD VIETNAMESE BABY
0800 04 VISUALMAGGOTS IN PIECE OF BEEF
0800 06 VISUALRATS FACE, SNARLING
0800 07 VISUALWOLFS FACE, SNARLING
0800 08 VISUALCOFFIN
0600 09 VISUALMAGGOTS IN PIECE OF BEEF
0801 00 THIS LEGENDREFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEYDEATH
0801 02 VISUALERECT PENIS
0801 04 VISUALWOMANS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY
0801 06 VISUALTONGUE ON CLITORIS
0801 08 VISUALWOMAN KISSING PENIS
0801 09 VISUALPENIS IN VAGINA
0802 00 VISUALEJACULATION ON WOMANS PUBIC HAIR
0802 01 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION TO THE KEYYOUR GREATEST DESIRE
Much farther on, faster and faster:
2400 00 VISUALDEAD BABYS FACE, CLOSEUP
2400 01 VISUAL-MAGGOTS IN HORSE MANURE
2400 02 THIS LEGENDREFUSE THE KEY: DEATH
2400 03 VISUALMAN FINGERING CLITORIS
2400 04 VISUALWOMAN LICKING PENIS
2400 05 THIS LEGENDSUBMIT TO THE KEY: HAPPINESS
2400 06 VISUALSTEAMING ENTRAILS OF COW
2400 07 THIS LEGENDREFUSAL: PAlN
2400 08 THIS LEGEND-REFUSAL: DEATH
2400 09 VISUALEJACULATION INTO WOMANS MOUTH
2401 00 VISUALWOMANS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY
2401 01 THIS LEGEND_SUBMISSION: HAPPINESS
2401 02 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION: BLISS
Eventually, there was less time given to the motivating images and more to the 
direct commands:
3600 00 VISUALMAGGOTS IN PIECE OF BEEF
3600 01 THIS LEGENDREFUSAL: DEATH
3600 02 VISUALDEAD CAT
3600 03 THIS LEGEND-OBEY THE KEY
3600 04 THIS LEGENDOBEY, OBEY, OBEY
3600 05 VISUALWOMAN LICKING PENIS
3600 06 THIS LEGENDSUBMISSION: LIFE
3600 0? THIS LEGEND-OBEY THE KEY
3600 08 VISUALEJACULATION ON WOMANS THIGH
3600 09 THIS LEGENDOBEY THE KEY
3600 10 THIS LEGENDLIFE, LIFE, LIFE
That pace is maintained straight through to the end of the film, Salsbury 
said. During the last fifteen minutes, while all of this sex and death input 
continues, the concept of the key-lock code phrases is also introduced and 
implanted permanently in the viewers deep subconscious mind.
Thats all there is to it?
Thanks to the drug that primes them for the subliminals yes, thats all there 
is to it.
And they dont realize theyve seen any of it.
If they did know, the program would have no effect on them. It has to speak 
solely to the subconscious in order to pass the natural reasoning ability of the 
conscious mind.
Klinger pulled the command chair away from the console and sat down. His left 
hand was curled in his lap. It was so matted with black hair that it reminded 
Salsbury of a sewer rat. The general petted it with his other hand while he 
considered the print-outs he had just seen. At last he said, Our three 
mercenaries. When did they complete the third stage of the program?
Thirty days ago. Ive been observing them and testing their submissiveness for 
the past few weeks.
Any of them react at all as Kingman did?
They all had bad dreams, Saisbury said. Probably about what they had seen on 
the rheostatic screen. None of them could recall. Furthermore, they all had 
severe night chills and mild nausea. But they lived.
Encountered any other problems?
None.
No weak spots in the program? No moments when they refused to obey you?
None at all, so far. In a few minutes, after weve put them to the ultimate 
test, well know whether or not we have absolute control of them. If not, Ill 
start over. If we dochampagne.
Klinger sighed. I suppose this is something we have to know. I suppose this 
last test is entirely necessary.
Entirely.
I dont like it.
Werent you an officer in Vietnam?
Whats that got to do with this?
Youve sent men to die before.
Grimacing, Klinger said, But always with honor. Always with honor. And theres 
sure as hell no honor in whats going to happen here.
Honor, Salsbury thought acidly. Youre as big an idiot as Leonard. There isnt 
any heaven, and theres no such thing as honor. All that counts is getting what 
you want. You know that and I know that and even Leonard, when hes humbled Over 
his fruit cup at a White House prayer breakfast with Billy Graham and the 
President, knows thatbut Im the only one of us who will admit it to himself.
Getting to his feet, Klinger said, Okay. Lets finish this. Where are they?
In the next room. Waiting.
They know what theyre going to do?
No. Salsbury went to his desk, thumbed a button on the
intercom, and spoke into the wire grid. Rossner, Holbrook, and Picard. Come in 
now. Were ready for you.
A few seconds later the door opened, and three men filed inside.
Co to the center of the room, Salsbury said.
They did as he directed.
Youve already opened them with the code phrase? Klinger asked.
Before you came.
The first of them, in spite of the fact that he was in his late thirties or 
early forties, looked like a dangerous street-corner punk. Slim but hard and 
wiry. Five feet ten. Dark complexion. Dark brown hair combed straight back and 
graying at the temples. A way of standing with his feet apart and most of his 
weight on his toes so that he was always prepared to move and move quickly. His 
face was pinched, his eyes a bit too close together, his lips thin and 
grayish-pink above a pointed chin.
This is Rossner, Salsbury told Klinger. Glenn Rossner. American. Hes been a 
free-lance soldier for sixteen years.
Hello, Rossner said.
None of you is to speak unless spoken to, Salsbury said. Is that understood?
Three voices: Yes.
The second man was approximately the same age as the first; otherwise, he could 
not have been less like Rossner. Six feet two. Husky. Fair complexion. 
Reddish-blond hair cropped close to his head. A broad face. Heavy jowls. His 
stem expression had been held for so many years that it seemed graven in his 
flesh. He looked like the sort of father who made arbitrary rules, used corporal 
punishment with a child at least twice a week, talked tough, acted bullheaded, 
and turned sons like Glenn Rossner into street-corner punks.
Salsbury said, This is Peter Holbrook. Hes British. Hes been a mercenary for 
twenty years, ever since he was twenty-two.
The last man was no older than thirty, and he was the only one of the three who 
could be called handsome. Six feet. Lean
and muscular. Thick brown hair. A broad brow. Peculiar green-gray eyes with long 
lashes that any woman would have been proud to have for her own. Very 
rectangular features and an especially strong jaw line and chin. He somewhat 
resembled the young Rex Harrison.
Michel Picard, Salsbury said. French. Speaks fluent English. Hes been a 
mercenary for four years.
Which will it be? Klinger asked.
Picard, I think.
Lets get on with it, then.
Saisbury turned to Rossner and said, Glenn, theres a folded canvas drop cloth 
on my desk. Bring it here.
Rossner went to the desk, came back with the cloth.
Peter, you help him unfold it on the floor.
A minute later the nine-foot-square canvas sheet was spread out in the middle of 
the room.
Michel, stand in the middle of the cloth. The Frenchman obeyed.
Michel, what am I?
You are the key.
And what are you?
I am the lock.
You will do what I tell you to do. Yes. Of course, Picard said.
Relax, Michel. You are very relaxed. Yes. I feel fine.
You are very happy.
Picard smiled.
You will remain happy, regardless of what happens to you in the next few 
minutes. Is that understood?
Yes.
You will not attempt to stop Peter and Glenn from carrying out the orders I 
give them, regardless of what those orders are. Is that understood?
"Yes."
Taking a three-foot length of heavy nylon cord from a pocket of his white 
laboratory smock, Salsbury said, Peter, take this.
Slip it about Michels neck as if you were going to strangle himbut proceed no 
further than that.
Holbrook stepped behind the Frenchman and looped the cord around his throat.
Michel, are you relaxed?
Oh, yes. Quite relaxed.
Your hands are at your sides now. You will keep them at your sides until I tell 
you to move them.
Still smiling, Picard said, All right.
You will smile as long as you are able to smile.
Yes.
And even when you are no longer able to smile, youll know this is for the 
best.
Picard smiled.
Glenn, you will observe. You will not become involved in the little drama these 
two are about to act out.
I wont become involved, Rossner said.
Peter, you will do what I tell you. The big man nodded. Without hesitation. 
Without hesitation. Strangle Michel.
If the Frenchmans smile slipped, it was only by the slightest fraction.
Then Holbrook jerked on both ends of the cord.
Picards mouth flew open. He seemed to be trying to scream, but he had no voice. 
He began to gag.
Although Holbrook was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, Salsbury could see the 
muscles bunching and straining in his thick arms.
Each desperate breath that Picard drew produced a thin, rattling wheeze. His 
eyes bulged. His face was flushed.
Pull tighter, Salsbury told Holbrook.
The Englishman obliged. A fierce grin, not of humor but of effort, seemed to 
transform his face into a deaths head.
Picard fell against Holbrook.
Holbrook stepped back.
Picard went to his knees.
His hands were still at his sides. He was making no effort to save himself.
Jesus jump to hell, Klinger said, amazed, numbed, unable to speak above a 
whisper.
Shuddering, convulsing, Picard lost control of his bladder and bowels.
Salsbury was pleased that he had thought to provide the canvas dropcloth.
Seconds later Holbrook stepped away from Picard, his task completed. The garrote 
had made deep, angry red impressions in the palms of his hands.
Salsbury took another length of cord from another pocket in his smock and gave 
it to Rossner. Do you know what that is, Glenn?
Yes. He had watched impassively as Holbrook murdered the Frenchman.
Glenn, I want you to give the cord to Peter. Without even pausing to think 
about it, Rossner placed the second garrote in the Englishmans hands.
Now turn your back to Peter.
Rossner turned.
Are you relaxed, Glenn?
Relax. Be calm. Dont worry about anything at all. Thats an order.
The lines in Rossners face softened.
How do you feel, Glenn?
Relaxed.
Good. You wont try to keep Peter from obeying the orders I give him, 
regardless of what those orders are.
I wont interfere, Rossner said.
Salsbury turned to the Englishman. Loop that cord around Glenns neck as you 
did with Michel.
With an expert flip and twist of the garrote, Holbrook was in position. He 
waited for orders.
Glenn, Salsbury said, are you tense?
No. Im relaxed.
Thats fine. Just fine. You will continue to be relaxed. Now, Im going to tell 
Peter to kill youand you are going to permit him to do that. Is that clear?
"Yes. I understand. His placid expression didnt waver.
Don t you want to live?
Yes. Yes, I want to live.
Then why are you willing to die?
II He looked confused.
You are willing to die because refusal to obey the key means pain and death 
anyway. Isnt that right,, Glenn?
Thats right.
Salsbury watched the two men closely for signs of panic. There were none. Nor 
even any of stress.
The stench from Michel Picards fouled body was nearly overpowering and getting 
worse.
Rossner surely knew what was about to happen to him. He had seen Michel die, had 
been told he would die in the same way. Yet he stood unmoving, apparently 
unafraid.
He was willing to commit what amounted to suicide rather than disobey the key. 
In fact disobedience was literally inconceivable to him.
Total control, the general said. Yet they dont look or behave like zombies.
Because they arent. Theres nothing supernatural involved. Just the ultimate 
in behavior modification techniques. Salsbury was elated. Peter, give me the 
cord. Thank you. You have both done well. Exceptionally well. Now, I want you to 
wrap Michels body in the canvas and move it to the next room. Wait there until 
I have additional orders for you.
As if they were a pair of ordinary laborers talking about how to move a load of 
bricks from here to there, Rossner and Holbrook quickly discussed the job at 
hand. When they had decided on the best way to roll and carry the corpse, they 
set to work.
Congratulations, Klinger said. He was perspiring. Cool, dry, steady-eyed Ernst 
Klinger was sweating like a pig.
What do you think of the computer lights now? Salsbury
wondered. Do they look as Christmasy as they did ten minutes ago?
The computer room smelled of lemons. Salsbury had used an aerosol spray to get 
rid of the odor of feces and urine.
He took a bottle of whiskey from his desk drawer and poured himself a shot to 
celebrate.
Klinger had a double shot to steady his nerves. When he had tossed it back he 
said, And now what?
The field test.
Youve mentioned that before. But why? Why cant we go ahead with the Middle 
East plan as Leonard outlined it in Tahoe, nearly two years ago? We know the 
drug works, dont we? And we know the subliminals work.
I achieved the desired results with Holbrook, Rossner, and poor Picard, 
Salsbury said, sipping his whiskey. But it doesnt necessarily follow that 
everyone will react as they have. I cant possibly have complete confidence in 
the program until Ive treated and observed and tested a few hundred subjects of 
both sexes and of all ages. Furthermore, our three mercenaries were treated and 
responded in controlled lab situations. Before we can take the extraordinary 
risks involved with something like the Middle East planwhere weve got to 
create a new subliminal series for another culture and in another language. 
weve simply got to know what the results will be in the field.
Klinger poured himself another shot of whiskey. As he lifted the glass to his 
lips, a look of fear flitted across his face. It lasted no more than a second or 
two. Pretending to be thinking about the field test, he stared at the liquor in 
his glass and then at the bottle on the desk and then at Salsburys glass.
Laughing, Salsbury said, Dont worry, Ernst. I wouldnt slip the drug into my 
own Jack Daniels. Besides, youre not a potential subject. Youre my partner.
Klinger nodded. Nevertheless, he put his glass down without tasting the whiskey. 
Where would you run a field test like this?
Black River, Maine. Its a small town near the Canadian border.
Why there?
Salsbury went to the nearest programming console and typed out an order to the 
computer. As he typed he said, Two months ago I drew a list of the basic 
requirements for the ideal test site.
All of the screens began to present the same information:
KEY/LOCK FIELD TEST DATA, AS FOLLOWS:
1A. SITE SHOULD BE SMALL TOWN, YET PROVIDE SUFFICIENT NUMBER OF SUBJECTS FOR 
STATISTICAL ACCURACY
1B. BLACK RIVER, MAINEPOPULATION 402 LUMBER CAMPPOPULATION 188
ADDITIONAL POPULATION WITHIN 5 MILESNONE
Lumber camp? Klinger asked.
Its a company town for Big Union Supply. Nearly everyone in Black River works 
for Big Union or services the people who do. The company maintains a full-scale 
campbarracks, mess hail, recreation facilities, the whole worksnear their 
planned forests for unmarried loggers who dont want to go to the expense of 
renting a room or an apartment in the village.
2A. SITE SHOULD BE GEOGRAPHICALLY ISOLATED BY CURRENT SOCIAL STANDARDS
2B. FIRST NEAREST TOWN TO BLACK RIVER30 MILES
SECOND NEAREST TOWN TO BLACK RIVER62 MILES
LAND ROUTES TO BLACK RIVER1 STATE HIGHWAY, 2LANE
1 RAILROAD LINE, ONLY INDUSTRIAL TRAFFIC
RIVER ROUTES TO BLACK RIVERRIVER NAVIGABLE, NO REGULAR TRAFFIC
AIRFIELD FACILITIES AT BLACK RIVERNONE
3A. SITE SHOULD BE WITHIN RECEPTION RANGE OF ONE OR MORE TELEVISION STATIONS
3B. STATIONS RECEIVED IN BLACK RIVER1 AMERICAN
1 CANADIAN
Theres an interesting bit of additional data that goes with that one, 
Salsbury said. The American station is owned by a subsidiary of Futurex. It 
plays a lot of old movies at night and on weekends. Well be able to get copies 
of the stations program schedules well in advance. We can prepare subliminally 
augmented prints of the movies theyre going to show and switch those for the 
original prints in the stations film library.
Thats a bit of luck.
Saves us some time. Otherwise, Futurex would have had to acquire one of the 
stations, and that could take years.
But how can you be certain the people in Black River will watch these movies 
youve doctored?
Theyre going to be inundated with subliminals in a variety of media that will 
command them to watch. For instance, the Dawson Foundation for Christian Ethics 
will run dozens of public service commercials on both the Canadian and American 
stations, two days in advance of the movies. Each of these commercials will 
harbor very strong subliminal commands directing the people in town and in the 
lumber camp to tune in at the right time on the right channel. Well also do 
direct mail advertising for several of Leonards companiesas a means of getting 
even more subceptive messages to them. Everyone in town will receive ads in the 
mail and some free gifts like soap samples, shampoo samples, and free rolls of 
photographic film. The advertisements and the samples will be packaged in 
wrappers rich in subliminal commands to watch .a certain television station at a 
certain hour on a certain day. Even if the subject throws the piece of mail away 
without opening it, hell be affected, because the envelopes will also be 
printed over with subliminal messages. The major magazines and newspapers 
entering Black River during the period of programming will carry ads full of 
subceptive commands that direct the people to watch the movies. He was getting 
a bit breathless in his recital. A motion picture theater could not ordinarily 
prosper in a town the size of Black River. But Big Union runs one as a service 
to the town. During the summer, every day but Sunday, theres a matinee show for 
children. The prints of the films shown at those matinees will be our prints, 
with subliminals urging the children to watch the television movies that will 
contain the key-lock program. All radio stations reaching the area will carry 
special thirty-second spot ads, hundreds of them, with subaudial subliminal 
directives. These account for only half our methods. By the time all of this 
washes through the community, everyone will be in front of a television set at 
the right time.
What about the people who dont have television sets? Klinger asked.
Theres not much to do in a place as isolated as Black River, Salsbury said. 
The recreation hall in the camp has ten sets. Virtually everyone in town owns a 
set. Those who dont will be directed, by the first wave of preliminary 
subliminals, to watch the movies at a friends house. Or with a relative or 
neighbor.
For the first time, Klinger looked at Salsbury with respect. Incredible.
Thank you.
What about the drug? How will that be introduced?
Salsbury finished his whiskey. He felt wonderful. There are only two sources of 
food and beverage within the site. The lumber camp men get what they want from 
the mess hall. In town everyone buys from Edisons General Store. Edison has no 
competition. He even supplies the towns only diner. Now, both the mess hall and 
the general store receive their goods from the same food wholesaler in Augusta.
Ahhh, the general said. He smiled.
Its a perfect commando operation for Holbrook and Rossner. They can break into 
the wholesalers warehouse at night and quickly contaminate several different 
items set aside for shipment to Black River. He pointed to the cathode-ray 
tubes where the list of requirements for an ideal site was being reprinted. 
Number four.
Klinger looked at the screen to his left.
4A. SITE SHOULD HAVE RESERVOIR THAT SERVES NO LESS THAN
90 PERCENT OF TOTAL POPULATION
4B. BLACK RIVER RESERVOIR SERVES100 PERCENT OF TOWN RESIDENTS
100 PERCENT OF LUMBER
CAMP RESIDENTS
 
Ordinarily, in a backwoods village like this, Salsbury said, each house would 
have its own fresh-water well. But the mill needs a reservoir for industrial 
purposes, so the town benefits.
How did you choose Black River? Where did you learn all of this stuff?
Salsbury depressed a tab on the programming keyboard and cleared the screen. In 
1960, Leonard bankrolled a company named Statistical Profiles Incorporated. It 
does all the marketing research for his other companiesand for companies he 
doesnt own. It pays for a trunk line to the Census Bureau data banks. \Ve used 
Statistical Profiles to run a search for the ideal test site. Of course, they 
didnt know why we were interested in a town that met these particular 
requirements.
Frowning, the general said, How many people at Statistical Profiles were 
involved in the search?
Two, Salsbury said. I know what youre thinking. Dont worry. Theyre both 
scheduled to die in accidents well before we begin the field test.
I suppose well send Rossner and Holbrook to contaminate the reservoir.
Then we get rid of them.
The general raised his bushy eyebrows. Kill them?
Or order them to commit suicide.
Why not just tell them to forget everything theyve done, to wipe it from their 
minds?
That might save them from prosecution if things went badly wrong. But it 
wouldnt save us. We cant wipe from our minds all memory of what we had them 
do. If problems develop with the field test, serious problems that throw our 
entire Operation in the garbage, and if it turns out that Rossner and Holbrook 
were seen at the reservoir or left any clues behind
well, we dont want the authorities to connect us with Glenn and Peter.
What problems could arise that would be that serious?
Anything. Nothing. I dont know.
After he bad thought about it for a while, Klinger said, Yes, I suppose youre 
right.
I know I am.
Have you set a date yet? For the field test?
We should be ready by August, Salsbury said.
9
Friday, August 26, 1977
TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT . . Since his experience with Brenda Mackim on Monday,
Salsbury had been able to resist temptation. At any time he could have taken 
full control of another good-looking woman, could have raped her and erased all 
memory of the act from her mind. He took strength from the knowledge that the 
bitches were his for the asking. Whenever he could honestly conclude that the 
field test was a smashing success, and that no danger of discovery existed, he 
would screw every one of them that he wanted. The bitches. Animals. Little 
animals. Dozens of them. All of them. Because he knew the future held an almost 
endless orgy for him, be was able to cop; if only temporarily, with his desire. 
He went from house to house, using the key-lock code phrase, interviewing his 
subjects, observing and testing. Denying himself. Working hard. Doing his job. 
So strict with himself. . . He was proud of his will power.
This morning his will power shattered. For the past four nights, his sleep had 
been disturbed by grotesque dreams that featured his mother and Miriam and 
sudden violence and blood and an eerie, indescribable atmosphere of perverted 
sex. When he came awake this morning, shouting and flailing at the bedclothes, 
he thought of Emma Thorpdeep cleavage in an orange sweaterand she seemed to 
him like an antidote for the poisons that had churned through him while he slept 
he had to have her, was going to have her, today, soon, and to hell with 
self-denial.
The smooth stream of power in him was again transformed into a rhythmic, 
alternating current, crackling across countless arcs, a hundred million 
synapses. His thoughts ricocheted with great energy from one subject to another, 
submachine-gun thoughts: tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat
At 7:45 he left Pauline Vickers rooming house and went to the cafe on the 
square.
The sky was cloudy, the air humid.
At 8:25 he finished breakfast and left the cafe.
At 8:40 he reached the Thorps place, the Last house on Union Road, next to the 
river.
He rang the doorbell twice.
The chief of police himself answered. He hadnt gone to work yet. Good. 
Wonderful.
Salsbury said, I am the key.
I am the lock.
Let me in.
Bob Thorp stepped out of his way, let him by, then closed the door after him.
Is your wife here? Yes.
Your son?
Hes here too.
Anyone else?
Just you and me. Your sons name? Jeremy.
Where are they? In the kitchen.
Take me to them. Thorp hesitated.
Take me to them!
They went along a narrow but brightly papered hallway.
The kitchen was modem and stylish. Mediterranean cupboards and fixtures. 
Coppertone refrigerator and upright freezer. A microwave oven. A television set 
was suspended from the
ceiling in one corner and angled toward the big round table by the window.
Jeremy was at the table, eating eggs and toast, facing the hall. To the boys 
right, Emma sat with one elbow on the table, drinking a glass of orange juice. 
She was wearing a blue, floor-length corduroy housecoat. Her hair was as golden 
and full as he remembered it. As she turned to ask her husband who had rung the 
bell, he saw that her lovely face was still soft with sleepand for some reason 
that aroused him.
She said, Bob? Whos this?
Salsbury said, I am the key.
Two voices responded.
At 8:55, making the weekly trip into town to lay in a fresh supply of 
perishables, Paul Annendale braked at the end of the gravel road, looked both 
ways, then turned left Onto Main Street.
From the back seat Mark said, Dont take me all the way to Sams place. Let me 
out at the square.
Looking in the rearview mirror, Paul said, Where are you going?
Mark patted the large canary cage that stood on the seat beside him. The 
squirrel danced about and chattered. I want to take Buster to see Jeremy.
Swiveling around in her seat and looking back at her brother, Rya said, Why 
dont you admit that you dont go over to their house to see Jeremy? We all know 
youve got a crush on Emma.
Not so! Mark said in such a way that he proved absolutely that what she said 
was true.
Oh, Mark, she said exasperatingly.
Well, its a lie, Mark insisted. I dont have a crush on Emma. Im not some 
sappy kid.
Rya turned around again.
No fights, Paul said. Well leave Mark off at the square with Buster, and 
there will be no fights.
 
* * *
 
Salsbury said, Do you understand that, Bob?
I understand.
You will not speak unless spoken to. And you will not move from that chair 
unless I tell you to move.
I wont move.
But youll watch.
Ill watch.
Jeremy?
Ill watch too.
Watch what? Salsbury asked.
Watch youscrew her.
Dumb cop. Dumb kid.
He stood by the sink, leaned against the counter. Come here, Emma.
She got up. Came to him.
Take off your robe.
She took it off. She was wearing a yellow bra and yellow panties with three 
embroidered red flowers at the left hip.
Take off your bra.
Her breasts fell free. Heavy. Beautiful.
Jeremy, did you know your mother looked so nice?
The boy swallowed hard. No.
Thorps hands were on the table. They had curled into fists.
Relax, Bob. Youre going to enjoy this. Youre going to love it. You cant wait 
far me to have her.
Thorps hands opened. He leaned back in his chair. Touching her breasts, staring 
into her shimmering green eyes, Salsbury had a delightful idea. Marvelous. 
Exciting. He said, Emma, I think this would be more enjoyable if you resisted 
me a bit. Not seriously, you understand. Not physically. Just keep asking me not 
to hurt you. And cry.
She stared at him.
Could you cry for me, Emma?
Im so scared.
Good! Excellent! I didnt tell you to relax, did I? You should be scared. 
Damned scared. And obedient. Are you frightened enough to cry, Emma?
She shivered. Youre very firm. She said nothing. Cry for me. Bob..
He cant help you. He squeezed her breasts. My son . .
Hes watching. Its all right if he watches. Didnt he suck these when he was a 
baby?
Tears formed at the corners of her eyes.
Fine, he said. Oh, thats sweet.
Mark could only carry the squirrel and the cage for fifteen or twenty steps at a 
time. Then he had to put it down and shake his arms to get the pain out of them.
Cup your breasts with your hands. She did as she was told.
She wept.
Pull on the nipples.
Dont make me do this.
Come on, little animal.
At first, upset by all the jerking and shaking and swinging of his cage, Buster 
ran in tight little circles and squealed like an injured rabbit.
You sound like a rabbit, Mark told him during one of the rest stops.
Buster squealed, unconcerned with his image.
You should be ashamed of yourself. Youre not a dumb bunny. Youre a squirrel.
In front of Edisons store, as he was closing the car door, Paul Saw something 
gleam on the back seat. Whats that?
Rya was still in the car, undoing her safety belt. Whats what?
On the back seat. Its the key to Busters cage.
Rya squirmed into the back seat. Id better take it to him.
He wont need it, Paul said. Just dont lose it.
No, she said. Id better take it to him. Hell want to let Buster out so he 
can show off for Emma.
Who are youCupid?
She grinned at him.
Unzip my trousers.
I dont want to.
Do it!
She did.
Enjoying yourself, Bob?
Yes.
He laughed. Dumb cop.
By the time he reached the edge of the Thorp property, Mark had found a better 
way to grip the cage. The new method didnt strain his arms so much, and he 
didnt have to stop every few yards to rest.
Buster had become so upset by the erratic movement of his pen that he had 
stopped squealing. He was gripping the bars with all four feet, hanging on the 
side of the cage, very stiU and quiet, frozen as if he were in the woods and had 
just seen a predator creeping through the brush.
Theyll be eating breakfast, Mark said. Well go around to the back door.
Squeeze it. She did.
Hot?
Yes.
Little animal.
Dont hurt me. Is it hard?
Yes. Crying.
Bend over.
Sobbing, shaking, begging him not to hurt her, she did as she had been told. Her 
face glistened with tears. She was almost hysterical. So beautiful...
Mark was passing the kitchen window when he heard the woman crying. He stopped 
and listened closely to the broken words, the pitiful pleas that were punctuated 
by long sobs. He knew at once that it was Emma.
The window was only two feet away, and it seemed to beckon him. He couldnt 
resist. He went to it.
The curtains were drawn shut, but there was a narrow gap between them. He 
pressed his face to the windowpane.
 
10
Sixteen Days Earlier:
Wednesday, August 10, 1977
AT TRREE OCLOCK in the morning, Salsbury joined Dawson in the first-floor study 
of the Greenwich house.
Have they begun already?
Ten minutes ago, Dawson said.
Whats coming in?
Exactly what wed hoped for.
Four men sat on straight-backed chairs around a massive walnut desk, one at each 
side of it. They were all household servants: the butler, the chauffeur, the 
cook, and the gardener. Three months ago the entire staff of the house had been 
given the drug and treated to the subliminal program; and there was no longer 
any need to hide the project from them. On occasion, as now, they made very 
useful tools. There were four telephones on the desk, each connected to an 
infinity transmitter. The men were referring to lists of Black River telephone 
numbers, dialing, listening for a few seconds or a minute, hanging up and 
dialing again.
The infinity transmitterspurchased in Brussels for $2,500 eachallowed them to 
eavesdrop on most of the bedrooms of Black River in perfect anonymity. With an 
IF hooked to a telephone, they could dial any number they wished, long distance 
or local, without going through an operator and without leaving a record of the 
call in the telephone companys computer. An
electric tone oscillator deactivated the bell on the phone being calledand 
simultaneously opened that receivers microphone. The people at the other end of 
the line heard no ringing and were not aware that they were being monitored. 
These four servants were able, therefore, to hear anything said in the room 
where the distant telephone was placed.
Salsbury went around the desk, leaned down and listened at each earpiece.
. . . nightmare. So vivid. I cant remember what it was, but it scared the hell 
out of me. Look how Im shaking.
so cold. You too? V/hat the devil? ...feel like Im going to throw up.
... all right? Maybe we should call Doc Troutman.
And around again:
...something we ate?
...flu. But at this time of year?
...first thing in the morning. God, if I dont stop shaking, Ill rattle myself 
to pieces!
...running with sweat but cold.
Dawson tapped Salsbury on the shoulder. Are you going to stay here and watch 
over them?
I might as well.
Then Ill go to the chapel for a while.
He was wearing pajamas, a dark blue silk robe, and soft leather slippers. At 
this hour, with rain falling outside, it didnt seem likely that even a 
religious fanatic of Dawsons bent would get dressed and go out to church.
Salsbury said, Youve got a chapel in the house?
I have a chapel in each of my residences, Dawson said proudly. I wouldnt 
build a house without one. Its a way of thanking Him for all that Hes done for 
me. After all, its be cause of Him that I have the houses in the first place. 
Dawson Went to the door, paused, looked back, and said, Ill thank Him for Our 
success and pray for more of the same.
Say one for me, Salsbury said with sarcasm he knew would escape the man.
Frowning, Dawson said, I dont believe in that.
In what?
I cant pray for your soul. And I can only pray for your success so far as it 
supports my own. I dont believe one man should pray for another. The salvation 
of your soul is your own concernand the most vital of your life. The notion 
that you can buy indulgences or have someone elsea priest, anyone else
pray for you - . . Well, that strikes me as Roman Catholic. Im not Roman 
Catholic.
Salsbury said, Neither am I.
Im glad to hear it, Leonard said. He smiled warmly, one Pope-hater to 
another, and went out.
A maniac, Salsbury thought. What am I doing in partnership with that maniac?
Disturbed by his own question, he went around the desk again, listening to the 
voices of the people in Black River. Gradually he forgot about Dawson and 
regained his confidence. It was going to work out as planned. He knew it. He was 
sure of it. What could possibly go wrong?
 
11
Friday, August 26, 1977
RYA FLUNG THE CAGE KEY high into the air and a few feet ahead of her. She ran 
forward as if she were playing center field, and she caught the golden ball. 
Then she flipped it up and ran after it again.
At the corner of Main Street and Union Road, she tossed the key once moreand 
missed. She heard the metal edge ring as it struck the sidewalk behind her, but 
when she turned she couldnt see the trinket anywhere.
Emma Thorp bent over and braced her arms on the kitchen table. She accidentally 
knocked aside an empty coffee cup. It fell off the table and shattered on the 
tile floor.
Kicking the fragments out of his way, Salsbury stepped in behind her and with 
both hands stroked the graceful curve of her back.
Bob watched, smiling primly.
Jeremy watched, amazed. 
Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat: the power, Miriam, his mother, the whores, Dawson, Klinger, 
women, vengeance - . . Ricocheting thoughts.
She looked over her shoulder at him.
Ive always wanted one of you like this. He giggled. He could not suppress it. 
He felt good. Scared of me. Of me!
Her face was pale and streaked with tears. Her eyes were wide.
Lovely, he said.
I dont want you touching me.
Miriam used to say that. But with Miriam it was an order. She never begged. He 
touched her.
She was covered with gooseflesh.
Dont stop crying, he said. I like you crying.
She wept, not quietly but uncontrollably and unashamedly, as if she were a 
childor as if she were in agony.
As he prepared to enter her, he heard someone shout just beyond the window. 
Startled, he said, Who
The kitchen door crashed open. A boy, no older than Jeremy Thorp, came inside, 
shouting at the top of his voice and wind-milling his thin arms.
At the edge of the Thorp property, Rya tossed the key and missed it again.
Two errors out of forty catches isnt so bad, she thought. In fact thats major 
league talent. Rya Annendale of the Boston Red Sox! Didnt sound bad. Not bad at 
all. Rya Annendale of the Pittsburgh Pirates! That was even better.
This time she saw where the key fell in the grass. She went straight to it and 
picked it up.
When the door flew open and the boy charged in like a dangerous animal breaking 
free of its cage, Salsbury stepped away from the woman and pulled up his 
trousers.
You let go of her!
The boy collided with him.
Get out of here! Now! Out!
Under attack, Salsbury staggered backwards. He was strong enough to handle the 
boy, but he was suffering from surprise and confusion; and he had lost his 
balance. When he backed into the refrigerator, still trying to button the 
waistband of his slacks, the boy pummeling him, he realized that it was 
ridiculous for him, of all people, to retreat. I am the key.
The boy hit him. Called him names.
Desperate, Salsbury fought back, seized him by the wrists and struggled with 
him. I am the key!
Mr. Thorp! Jeremy! Help me!
Stay right where you are, Salsbury told them.
They didnt move.
He swung the boy around, reversing their positions, and slammed him against the 
refrigerator. Bottles and cans and jars rattled loudly on the shelves.
Very young children would not have been affected by the subliminal program that 
had been played for Black River. Below the age of eight, children were not 
sufficiently aware of death and sex to respond to the motivational equations 
that the subceptive films established in older individuals. Furthermore, 
although the vocabulary had been made as simple as possible since the 
Hoibrook-Rossner-Picard indoctrination, a child had to have at least a 
third-grade reading ability to be properly impressed by the block-letter 
messages that established the key-lock code phrases. But this boy was older than 
eight, and he should respond.
Through clenched teeth Salsbury said, Im the key, damn you
 
 
Halfway across the lawn, atop the grape arbor, a robin bounced along the 
interlocking vines, stopped after every second or third hop, cocked its head, 
and peered between the leaves. Rya paused to watch him for a moment.
Panic.
He had to guard against panic.
But he had made a fatal mistake, and he might have the power taken away from 
him.
- No. It was a serious mistake. Granted. Very serious. But not fatal. He must 
not panic. Keep cool.
Who are you? he asked.
The boy squirmed, tried to free himself.
Where are you from? Salsbury demanded, gripping him so tightly that he gasped.
The boy kicked him in the shin. Hard.
For an instant Salsburys whole world was reduced to a bright
bolt of pain that shot from his ankle to his thigh, coruscated in his bones. 
Howling, wincing, he almost fell.
Wrenching loose, the boy ran toward the sink, away from the table, intent on 
getting around Salsbury.
Salsbury stumbled after him, cursing. He grabbed at the boys shirt, hooked it 
with his fingers, lost hold of it in the same second, tripped and fell.
If the little bastard gets away.
Bob! Panic. Stop him. Hysteria. Kill him. For Gods sake, kill him!
The canary cage was on the lawn by the kitchen window.
Rya heard Buster chatteringand then she heard someone shouting in the house.
Tat-tat-tat-tat...
Salsbury got up.
Sick. Scared.
The naked woman wept.
Crazily, he thought of the refrain from the rhyme that went with a childs game 
that he had once played: all fall down.. all fall down. . . all fall down...
Thorp blocked the door.
The boy tried to dodge him.
Kill him
Thorp caught the intruder and drove him backwards, knocked him against the 
electric range with devastating force, clutched him by the throat, and pounded 
his head into the stainless steel brightwork that ringed the four burners. A 
frying pan fell to the floor with a clang! As if he were a machine, an 
automaton, Thorp hammered the boys head against the metal edge until he felt 
the skull give way. When blood sprayed across the wall behind the range and 
streamed from the boys nostrils, the big man let go, stepped back as the body 
crumpled at his feet.
Jeremy was crying.
Stop that, Salsbury said sharply.
The boy stopped, reluctantly.
On his way to the bloodied child, Salsbury saw a girl in the open door. She was 
staring at the blood, and she seemed mesmerized by the sight. He started toward 
her.
She looked up, dazed.
I am the key.
She turned and fled.
Salsbury ran to the doorbut when he got there, she was already gone around the 
corner of the house, out of sight.
PART TWO:
Terror
 
 
 
1
Friday, August 26, 1977
 
9:45 A.M.
 
RYA SAT IN THE FRONT SEAT of the station wagon between Paul and Jenny, silent 
and unmoving, gripped by what appeared to be fear and by anger as well. Her 
hands were curled into solid little fists in her lap. Beneath her summer tan she 
was ashen. Fine beads of perspiration were strung along her hairline. She 
pressed her lips together like, the halves of a vise, partly to keep them from 
trembling, partly as a sign of her extreme anger, frustration, and determination 
to prove herself right.
Although she had never lied to him about anything serious, Paul couldnt believe 
the story she had told them minutes ago. She had seen something odd at the Thorp 
house. He was fairly certain of that. However, she had surely misinterpreted 
what she had seen. When she burst in upon Sam, Jenny, and him at the store, her 
tears and horror had been genuine; of that there was absolutely no doubt. But 
Mark dead? Unthinkable. Beaten to death by Bob Thorp, the chief of police? 
Ridiculous. If she wasnt lyingwell, then she was at least terribly confused.
Its t-t-true, Daddy. Its true! I swear to Cod its true. They they k-k-killed 
him. They did. Mr. Thorp did. The other man t-told Mr. Thorp to k-kill, and he 
did. He kept b-b-banging Marks head. . . his head.. . banging it against the 
stove. It was awful. B-banging it . . . over and over again . . . and all the 
blood. . . Oh, God, Daddy, its crazy but its true!
It was crazy.
And it couldnt be true.
Yet when she first came into the storebreathing hard, half-choking and 
half-crying, babbling as if she were in a fever, so unlike herselfhe felt an 
icy hand on the back of his neck. As she told her improbable story, the glacial 
fingers lingered. And they were still there.
He turned the corner onto Union Road. The police chiefs house was a quarter of 
a mile away, the last on the street, near the river. The garage, large enough 
for two cars and topped by a workmans loft, lay fifty yards beyond the house. 
He pulled into the driveway and parked the station wagon in front of the garage.
Wheres the canary cage? he asked.
Rya said, It was over there. Near the window. Theyve moved it.
Looks calm. Peaceful. Doesnt seem like a murder took place half an hour ago.
Inside, Rya said sharply. They killed him inside.
Jenny took hold of the girls hand and squeezed it. Rya
Inside. Her face was set; she was resolute.
Lets have a look, Paul said.
They got out of the car and crossed the freshly mown lawn to the back of the 
house.
Emma had evidently heard them drive up; for by the time they reached the kitchen 
stoop, she had the door open and was waiting for them. She wore a royal blue 
floor-length corduroy housecoat with a high neckline, round collar, and light 
blue corduroy belt at the waist. Her long hair was combed back and tucked behind 
her ears, held in place by a few bobby pins. She was smiling, pleased to see 
them.
Hi, Paul said awkwardly. He was suddenly at a loss for words. If even a tiny 
fraction of Ryas tale were true, Emma would not be this serene. He began to 
feel foolish for having placed any faith whatsoever in such a bizarre story. He 
couldnt imagine how he would ever tell Emma about it.
Hi there, she said cheerily. Hello, Rya. Jenny, how is your father?
Fine, thanks, Jenny said. She sounded quite as bewildered as Paul felt.
Well, Emma said, Im still in my robe. The breakfast dishes havent been 
washed. The kitchens a greasy mess. But if you dont mind sitting down in a 
disaster zone, youre welcome to visit.
Paul hesitated. Something wrong? Emma asked. Is Bob home? Hes at work. 
When did he leave?
Same as every day. A few minutes before nine.
Hes at the police station?
Or cruising around in the patrol car. Emma no longer needed to ask if 
something was wrong; she knew. Why? Why indeed? Paul thought. Rather than 
explain, he said, Is Mark here?
He was, Emma said. He and Jeremy went over to the basketball court behind the 
Union Theater.
When was that?
Half an hour ago.
It seemed to him that she had to be telling the truth, for her statement could 
be verified or disproved so easily. If her husband had killed Mark, what could 
she hope to gain by such a flimsy lie? Besides, he didnt think she was the sort 
of woman who could take part in the cover-up of a murdercertainly not with such 
apparent equanimity, not without showing a great deal of stress and guilt.
Paul looked down at Rya.
Her face was still a mask of stubbornnessand even more pale and drawn than it 
had been in the car. What about Buster? she asked Emma. Her voice was sharp 
and too loud. Did they take Buster over to the court so he could play 
basket-ball with them?
Understandably bewildered by the girls uncharacteristic nastiness and her 
intense reaction to such a simple statement,
Emma said, The squirrel? Oh, they left him with me. Do you want the squirrel? 
She stepped back, out of the doorway, Come in.
For a moment, recalling the tale of mindless violence that Rya had related just 
thirty minutes ago, Paul wondered if Bob Thorp was in the kitchen, waiting for 
him
But that was absurd. Emma was not aware that supposedly a boy had been slain in 
her kitchen this morning; he would have wagered nearly any sum on that. And in 
the light of Emmas innocence, Ryas story seemed altogether a fantasyand not 
really a very good one, at that.
He went inside.
The canary cage stood in one corner, next to the flip-top waste can. Buster sat 
on his hind feet and busily nibbled an apple. His tail flicked straight up, and 
he went stiff as a wooden squirrel when he became aware of the guests. He 
assessed Paul and Rya and Jenny as if he had never seen them before, decided 
there was no danger, and returned to his breakfast.
Mark told me he likes apples, Emma said.
He does.
The kitchen held no evidence that a violent and deadly struggle had taken place 
there. The dishes on the table were spotted with dried egg yolk, butter, and 
crumbs of toast. The clock-radio produced soft instrumental music, an 
orchestrated version of a pop tune. The new issue of the weekly newspaper, 
distributed that morning, was folded in half and propped against two empty juice 
glasses and the sugar bowl. A cup of steaming coffee stood beside the paper. If 
she had watched her husband murder a child, could Emma have sat down to read 
less than an hour after the killing? Improbable. Impossible. There was no blood 
on the wall behind the electric range, no blood on the range itself, and no 
blood, not even one thin smear, on the tile floor.
Did you come to get Buster? Emma asked. She was clearly perplexed by their 
behavior.
No, Paul said. But well take him off your hands. Actually, Im ashamed to 
tell you why we did come.
They cleaned it up, Rya said. I dont want to hear
They cleaned up the blood, she said excitedly.
Paul pointed one finger at her. You have caused quite enough trouble for one 
day, young lady. You keep quiet. Ill talk to you later.
Ignoring his warning, she said, They cleaned up the blood and hid his body.
Body? Emma looked confused. What body?
Its a misunderstanding, a hoax, or Paul began.
Rya interrupted him. To Emma she said, Mr. Thorp killed Mark. You know he did. 
Dont lie! You stood at that chair and watched him beat Mark to death. You were 
naked and
Rya! Paul said sharply.
Its true!
I told you to be quiet.
She was naked and
In eleven years he had never been required to deal out any punishment more 
severe than a twenty-four-hour suspension of some of her privileges. But now, 
angry, he started toward her. Rya pushed past Jenny, threw open the kitchen 
door, and ran. Shocked by her defiance, angry and yet worried about her, Paul 
went after her. When he set foot on the stoop, she was already out of sight. 
She. couldnt have had time to run to the garage or to the station wagon; 
therefore, she must have slipped around the corner of the house, either left or 
right. He decided she would most likely head for Union Road, and he went that 
way. When he reached the sidewalk he saw her and called to her.
She was nearly a block away, on the far side of the street, still running. If 
she heard him, she didnt respond; she disappeared between two houses.
He crossed the street and followed her. But when he reached the rear lawns of 
those houses, she wasnt there.
Rya!
She didnt answer him. She might have been too far away to hearbut he suspected 
that she was hiding nearby.
Rya, I just want to talk to you!
Nothing. Silence.
Already his anger had largely given way to concern for her. What in the name of 
God had possessed the girl? Why had she concocted such a grisly story? And how 
had she managed to tell it with such passion? He hadnt really believed any of 
it, not from the startyet hed been so impressed by her sincerity that hed 
come to the Thorp house to see for himself. She wasnt a liar by nature. She 
wasnt that good an actress. At least not in his experience. And when her story 
was shown to be a lie, why had she defended it so ardently? How had she defended 
it so ardently, knowing it was a lie? Did she believe, perhaps, that it wasnt a 
fabrication? Did she think that she actually had seen her brother killed? But if 
that was the case, she wasmentally disturbed. Rya? Mentally disturbed? Rya was 
tough. Rya knew how to cope. Rya was a rock. Even an hour ago he would have 
staked his life on her soundness of mind. Was there any psychological disorder 
that could strike a child so suddenly, without warning, without any symptoms 
beforehand?
Deeply worried, he went back across the Street to apologize to Emma Thorp.
 
2
10:15 A.M.
JEREMY THORP STOOD, almost as if at attention before a military court, in the 
center of the kitchen.
Do you understand what Ive said? Salsbury asked. Yeah.
You know what to do?
Yeah. I know. Any questions? Just one. What is it?
What do I do if they dont show up?
Theyll show up, Salsbury said. But what if they dont? You have a watch, 
dont you? The boy held up one thin wrist.
You wait twenty minutes for them. If they dont show up in that time, come 
straight back here. Is that understood?
Yeah. Twenty minutes.
Get moving.
The boy started toward the door.
Dont leave that way. Theyll see you. Go out the front. Jeremy went down the 
narrow hail to the door.
Salsbury followed, watched until the boy was out of sight behind the neighboring 
house, closed the door, locked it, and went back to the kitchen.
Not bad, he thought. Youre holding up well, Ogden. H. Leonard himself couldnt 
have coped any faster than youve done. Clever as hell. You are certainly 
clever. With your mind and the advantage of the power, the key-lock code 
phrases, youll weather this crisis. If Miriam could see you now . . -What 
would old Miriam say now? You arent anything like Miriam said you were. Youre 
a tough customer. Jesus, what a tough customer. You make sound decisions under 
pressure, and you stick with them. Smart. Damned smart. But oh, my God, what a 
razor edge youre walking!
Standing next to the rear window, he pushed the curtain aside a fraction of an 
inch, until he could see the garage. Annendale slid the squirrels cage into the 
cargo bed of the station wagon, closed the tailgate, and put up the electric 
window. Jenny Edison got in the car. Annendale and Emma talked for perhaps a 
minute. Then he got behind the wheel and reversed out of the driveway. When Emma 
waved good-by to them and started back toward the house, Salsbury let the 
curtain fall into place.
She came into the kitchen, saw him, and was startled. She looked as if she was 
ready to scream. What are you doing here? Who are you?
I am the key. I am the lock. Relax.
She did.
Sit down. She sat.
He stood in front of her, loomed over her. What were you and Annendale talking 
about out there?
He kept apologizing for his daughters behavior. Salsbury laughed.
Because her memories of this mornings events had been selectively edited, she 
didnt see the humor in the situation. Why
would Rya accuse Bob of murder? What a terrible thing. Does she think shes 
being funny? What a gruesome joke!
The entrance foyer of St. Margaret Marys Roman Catholic Church was quiet and 
nearly lightless. The entire interior was done in dark pinepegged pine floors, 
dark pine walls, open-beam ceilings, an intricately carved twelve-foot-high 
crucifixas befitted the major house of worship in a lumber mill town. A 
five-watt bulb burned above the holy water font twelve feet away. At the far end 
of the auditorium, votive candles flickered in ruby-colored glass cups, and soft 
lights shone at the base of the altar. However, little of this ghostly 
illumination filtered through the open archway into the foyer.
Cloaked in these shadows and in the holy silence, Jeremy Thorp leaned against 
one of the two heavy, brass-fitted front doors of the church. He opened it only 
two or three inches and held it in place with his hip. Beyond lay a set of brick 
steps, the sidewalk, a pair of birch trees, and then the western end of Main 
Street. The Union Theater was directly across the street; he had an adequate 
view of it in spite of the birches.
Jeremy looked at his watch in the blade of light that sliced through the narrow 
crack between the doors. 10:20.
As they approached the traffic light at the town square, Paul switched on the 
right-hand turn signal.
Jenny said, The stores to the left.
I know.
Where are we going?
To the basketball court behind the theater.
To check up on Emma?
No. Im sure shes telling the truth.
Why, then?
I want to ask Mark exactly what did happen this morning, he said, tapping his 
fingers on the steering wheel as he waited impatiently for the light to change.
Emma told us what happened. Nothing.
He said, Emmas eyes were red and puffy, as if shed been
crying. Maybe she and Bob had an argument while Mark was there. Rya might have 
come to the door at the height of the shouting. She might have misunderstood 
what was happening; she panicked and ran.
Emma would have told us.
She might have been too embarrassed.
As the traffic light turned green, Jenny said, Panic? That sure doesnt sound 
like Rya.
I know. But is it more in character for her to fabricate extravagant lies?
She nodded. Youre right. As unlikely as it is, its more likely that she was 
confused and that she panicked.
Well ask Mark.
According to Jeremy Thorps wrist watch it was 10:22 when Paul Annendale drove 
his station wagon up Main Street and into the alleyway beside the theater. As 
soon as the car was out of sight, the boy left the church. He went down the 
front steps, stood at the curb, and waited for the station wagon to reappear.
During the last hour the sky had come closer to the earth. From horizon to 
horizon, a solid mass of lowering gray-black clouds rolled eastward, driven by a 
strong high-altitude wind. Some of that wind had begun to sweep the streets of 
Black River, just enough of it to turn the leaves on the treesa sign, according 
to folklore, of oncoming rain.
No rain, please, Jeremy thought. We dont want any damn rain. At least not 
before tonight. This summer a dozen kids had organized a series of bicycle races 
to be held every Friday. Last week he had placed second in the main event, the 
cross-town dash. But Ill be first this week, he thought. Ive been in training. 
Heavy training. Not wasting my time like those other kids. Im sure to be the 
first this weekif it doesnt rain.
He glanced at his watch again. 10:26.
A few seconds later, when he saw the station wagon coming back down the alley, 
Jeremy started walking east along Main Street at a brisk pace.
* * *
As the car nosed out of the alley, just as Paul was about to turn right onto 
Main Street, Jenny said, Theres Jeremy.
Paul tapped the brakes. Where?
Across the street.
Marks not with him. He blew the horn, put down his window, and motioned for 
the boy to come to him.
After he had looked both ways, Jeremy crossed the street. Hi, Mr. Annendale. 
Hi, Jenny.
Paul said, Your mother told me you and Mark were playing basketball behind the 
theater.
We started to. But it wasnt much fun, so we went up to Gordons Woods.
Wheres that?
They were in the final block of Main Street; but the road continued to the west. 
It rose with the land, rounded a bluff, and went on until it reached the mill 
and after that the logging camp.
Jeremy pointed to the forest atop the bluff. Thats Gordons Woods.
Why would you want to go up there? Paul asked. Weve got a tree house in 
Gordons Woods. The boy read Pauls expression accurately, and he quickly said, 
Oh, dont worry, Mr. Annendale. Its not a rickety old place. Its completely 
safe. Some of our fathers built it for all the kids in town.
Hes right, Jenny said. Its safe. Sam was one of the fathers who built it. 
She smiled. Even though his daughter is a bit too old for treehouses.
Jeremy grinned. He wore braces. Those and the freckles that peppered his face 
disarmed Paul. The boy clearly didnt have the guile, the dark personality, or 
the experience to take part in a murder conspiracy.
Paul felt somewhat relieved. When he hadnt found Jeremy and Mark at the 
basketball court, that icy hand had settled once more, if briefly, on the back 
of his neck. He said, Is Mark up at the treehouse now?
Yeah.
Why arent you there?
Me and Mark and a couple of other kids want to play Monopoly. So Im going home 
to get my set.
Jeremy. . . How could he possibly find out what he wanted to know? Did 
anythinghappen in your kitchen this morning?
The boy blinked, a bit perplexed by the question. We had breakfast.
Feeling more foolish than ever, Paul said, Well . . . You better get your 
Monopoly set. The other kids are waiting.
Jeremy said good-by to Jenny and Paul and to Buster, turned, looked both ways, 
and crossed the street.
Paul watched him until he turned the corner at the square.
Now what? Jenny asked.
Rya probably ran to Sam for sympathy and protection. He sighed. She's had 
time to calm down. Maybe she realizes that she panicked. Well see what her 
story is now.
If she didnt run to Sam?
Then theres no use looking for her all over town. If she wants to hide from 
us, she can with little trouble. Sooner or later shell come to the store.
Sitting at the kitchen table, across from his mother, Jeremy recounted the 
conversation hed had with Paul Annendale a few minutes ago.
When the boy finished, Salsbury said, And he believed it?
Jeremy frowned. Believed what?
He believed that Mark was at the treehouse?
Well, sure. Isnt he?
Okay. Okay, okay, Salsbury thought. This isnt the end of the crisis. Youve 
bought some time to think. An hour or two. Maybe three hours. Eventually 
Annendale will go looking for his son. Two or three hours. Youve no time to 
waste. Be decisive. Youve been wonderfully decisive so far. What youve got to 
do is be decisive and get this straightened out before you have to tell Dawson 
about it.
Earlier, within twenty minutes of the boys death, he had
edited the Thorp familys memories, had erased all remembrance of the killing 
from their minds. That editing took no longer than two or three minutesbut it 
was only the first stage of a plan to conceal his involvement in the murder. If 
the situation were any less desperate, if a capital offense hadnt been 
committed, if the entire key-lock program didnt hang in the balance, he could 
have left the Thorps with blank spots in their memories, and he would have felt 
perfectly safe in spite of that. But the circumstances were such that he knew he 
should not merely wipe out the truth but that he should also replace it with a 
detailed set of false memories, recollections of routine events which might have 
happened that morning but which in reality did not.
He decided to begin with the woman. To the boy he said, Go into the living room 
and sit on the couch. Dont move from there until I call for you. Understood?
Yeah. Jeremy left the room.
Salsbury thought for a minute about how to proceed.
Emma watched him, waited.
Finally he said, Emma, what time is it?
She looked at the clock-radio. Twenty minutes of eleven.
No, he said softly. Thats wrong. its twenty minutes of nine. Twenty minutes 
of nine this morning.
It is?
Look at the clock, Emma.
Twenty of nine, she said.
Where are you, Emma?
In my kitchen.
Who else is here?
Just you.
No. He sat in Jeremys chair. You cant see me. You cant see me at all. Can 
you, Emma?
No. I cant see you.
You can hear me. But you know what? Whenever our little Conversation is over, 
you wont remember weve had it. Every event that I describe to you in the next 
couple of minutes will become a part of your memories. You wont remember that 
you
were told these things. You will think that you actually experienced them. Is 
that clear, Emma?
Yes. Her eyes glazed. Her facial muscles went slack.
All right. What time is it?
Twenty minutes of nine. Where are you?
In my kitchen.
Who else is here?
No one.
Bob and Jeremy are here. Bob and Jeremy are here, she said. Bobs in that 
chair.
She smiled at Bob.
Jeremys sitting there. The three of you are eating breakfast.
Yes. Breakfast.
Fried eggs. Toast, Orange juice.
Fried eggs. Toast. Orange juice.
Pick up that glass, Emma.
She lifted the empty glass in front of her.
Drink, Emma.
She stared doubtfully at the tumbler.
Its filled to the top with cold, sweet orange juice. Do you see it?
Yes.
Doesnt it look good? Yes.
Drink some of it, Emma. She drank from the empty glass.
He laughed aloud. The power. . . It was going to work. He could make her 
remember whatever he wished. How does it taste?
She licked her lips. Delicious.
Lovely animal, he thought, suddenly giddy. Lovely, lovely little animal.
 
3
NOON
IN BUDDYS NIGHTMARE two men were filling the towns reservoir with cats. In the 
deepest shadows of the night, just before sunrise, they were standing at the 
edge of the pool, opening cages and pitching the animals into the water. The 
felines squalled about this assault on their dignity and comfort. Soon the 
reservoir was teeming with cats: alley cats, Siamese cats, Angora cats, Persian 
cats, black cats and gray cats and white cats and yellow cats, striped cats, 
spotted cats, old cats and kittens. Below the reservoir, in Black River, Buddy 
innocently turned on the cold water tap in his kitchenand cats, dozens upon 
dozens of fiercely angry cats, began to spill into the sink, full-sized cats 
that had somehow, miraculously, passed through the plumbing, through 
narrow-gauge pipe and rat traps and elbow joints and filter screens. Screeching, 
wailing, hissing, biting, scratching cats fell over one another and clawed the 
porcelain and scrambled inexorably out of the sink as new streams of cats poured 
in behind them. Cats on the counter. Cats on the breadbox. Cats in the dish 
rack. They leapt to the floor and clambered atop the cupboards. One of them 
jumped on Buddys back as he turned to run. He tore it loose and threw it 
against the wall. The other cats were outraged by this cruelty. They Swarmed 
after Buddy, all of them spitting and snarling. He
reached the bedroom/living room inches ahead of them, slammed and locked the 
door. They threw themselves against the far side of the barrier and yammered 
incessantly, but they werent strong enough to force their way through it. 
Relieved that he had escaped them, Buddy turnedand saw ten-yard-square cages 
full of cats, scores of green eyes studying him intensely, and behind the cages 
two men wearing shoulder holsters, holding pistols, and dressed in black rubber 
scuba suits.
He woke up, sat up, and screamed. He flailed at the mattress, wrestled with the 
sheets, and pounded his fists into the pillows for a few seconds until, 
gradually, he realized that none of these things was a cat.
Dream, he mumbled.
Because Buddy slept in the mornings and early afternoons, the drapes were heavy, 
and there was virtually no light in the room. He quickly switched on the bedside 
lamp.
No cats.
No men in scuba suits.
Although he knew that he had been dreaming, although hed had this same dream on 
each of the last three days, Buddy got out of bed, stepped into a pair of 
slippers that were as large as most mens boots, and lumbered into the kitchen 
to check the water faucets. There were no cats streaming out of them, and that 
was a good thing to know.
However, he was badly shaken. He was no less affected by the dream for having 
endured it on two other occasions. All week his sleep had been disturbed by 
dreams of one sort or another; and he never was able to fall back to sleep once 
brought awake by a vivid nightmare.
The wall clock showed 12:13. He came home from the mill at half past eight and 
went to bed at half past nine, five days a week, as if he were a clockwork 
mechanism. Which meant that he had gotten barely three hours of sleep.
He went to the kitchen table, sat down, and opened the travel magazine that he 
had bought at the general store last Monday. He studied the photographs of 
divers in scuba suits.
why? he thought. Divers. Seamen. Guns. At the reservoir. Why? So late. Late at 
night. Dark. Divers. Why? Figure it. Come on. Figure it. Cant. Can. Cant. 
Can. Cant. Divers. In woods. Night. So crazy. Cant figure it.
He decided to shower, get dressed, and walk across the street to Edisons 
General Store. It was time he asked Sam to figure it for him.
At 12:05 Rya watched a man in thick glasses, gray trousers, and a dark blue 
shirt enter Pauline Vickers rooming house. He was the man who had ordered Bob 
Thorp to kill Mark.
At 12:10 she went to St. Margaret Marys and hid in one of the confessionals at 
the right rear corner of the nave. Last week she had heard Emma mention the 
Friday lunch and card club that met all afternoon in the church basement. 
Through a chink in the crimson velveteen confessional curtains, she could look 
across the back of the nave to the steps that ]ed down to the recreation room. 
Women in bright summer dresses and pant-Suits, many of them carrying umbrellas, 
arrived singly and in pairs for the next fifteen minutesand Emma Thorp came 
through the foyer arch promptly at twelve thirty. Rya recognized her even in the 
dim light. As soon as Emma disappeared down the stairs, Rya left the 
confessional.
For a moment she was transfixed by the sight of the crucifix at the far end of 
the chamber. The wooden Christ seemed to be staring over all the pews, directly 
at her.
You could have saved my mother, she thought. You could have saved Mark. Why did 
you put killers on earth?
Of course the crucifix had no answer.
God helps those who help themselves, she thought. Okay. Im going to help 
myself. Im going to make them pay for what they did to Mark. Im going to get 
proof of it. You wait and see if I dont. You wait and see.
She was beginning to tremble again, and she felt tears at the Corners of her 
eyes. She took a minute to calm herself, then Walked out of the nave.
In the foyer she discovered that one of the main doors was
open, and that the lowest of its four hinges had been removed. A toolbox stood 
on the foyer floor, and a variety of tools were spread out around it. The 
workman apparently had gone to get some piece of material that he had forgotten 
on his first trip.
She turned and looked through the archway at the twelve-foot-high crucifix.
The wooden eyes still seemed to be staring at her, a terribly sad expression in 
them.
Quickly, worried that the workman might return at any moment, she bent down, 
peered into the toolbox, and plucked a heavy wrench from it. She slipped the 
wrench into a pocket of her windbreaker and left the church.
At 12:35 she strolled past the municipal building which was at the northeast 
corner of the square. The police chiefs office was toward the rear of the first 
floor, and it had two large windows. The venetian blinds were raised. As she 
passed she saw Bob Thorp sitting at his desk, facing the windows; he was eating 
a sandwich and reading a magazine.
At 12:40 she stood in front of Ultmans Cafe and watched as a dozen kids cycled 
north on Union Road toward the macadamed alley where some of the Friday races 
were held. Jeremy Thorp was one of the cyclists.
At 12:45, at the southern end of Union Road, Rya crossed the street, walked 
under the grapevine arbor, and went around to the back of the Thorp place. The 
lawn ended in brush and trees, no parallel streets and no buildings in that 
direction. There was no house to her leftjust the lawn and the garage and the 
river. To her right the nearest dwelling was set closer to Union Road than was 
the Thorp house; therefore, she was not in anyones line of sight.
A polished copper knocker gleamed in the center of the door. To one side of 
that, near the knob, were three decorative windows, each six inches wide and 
nine inches long.
She knocked loudly.
No one answered.
When she tried the door she found that it was locked. She had expected as much.
She took the stolen wrench from her windbreaker, gripped it tightly in one hand, 
and used it to smash the middle pane in the verticle row of three. The blow made 
considerably more noise than she had anticipatedalthough not sufficient noise 
to discourage her. When she had broken every shard of glass out of the frame, 
she pocketed the wrench, reached through the window, and felt for the latch. She 
began to despair of ever locating the mechanismand then her fingers touched 
cool metal. She fumbled with the lock for almost a minute, finally released it, 
withdrew her arm from the window, and shoved open the door.
Standing on the stoop, staring warily into the shadow-hung kitchen, she thought: 
What if one of them comes back home and finds me in there?
Go ahead, she urged herself. You better go inside before you lose your courage.
Im scared. They killed Mark.
You ran away this morning. Are you going to run away again? Are you going to run 
away from everything that scares you, from now until the day you die?
She walked into the kitchen.
Glass crunched underfoot.
When she reached the electric range where the murder had taken place, she stood 
quite still, poised to flee, and listened closely for movement. The refrigerator 
and the upright freezer rumbled softly, steadily. The clock-radio hummed. A 
loose window rattled as a gust of wind rushed along the side of the house. In 
the living room a grandfather clock, running a few minutes late, solemnly chimed 
the third quarter of the hour; the note reverberated long after the pipe had 
been struck. The house was filled with noises; but none of them had a human 
source; she was alone.
Having broken the law, having violated the sanctity of another persons home, 
with the first and most dangerous step already taken, she couldnt decide what 
to do next. Well . . Search the house. Of course. Search it from top to bottom. 
Look for the body. But where to begin?
At last, when she realized that her indecision was an outgrowth of the fear 
which she was determined to overcome, when she realized that she was desperately 
afraid of finding Marks corpse even though she had come here to do precisely 
that, she began the search in the kitchen. There were only a few places in that 
room where the body of a nine-year-old boy might possibly be concealed. She 
looked in the pantry, in the refrigerator, and then in the freezer, but she 
uncovered nothing out of the ordinary.
When she opened the cabinet beneath the sink, however, she saw a bucket full of 
bloody rags. Not rags, really. Dish towels. They had used the towels to clean 
up, had thrown them in the bucketand then apparently had forgotten to destroy 
the evidence. She picked up one of the cloths. It was wet, cold, and heavy with 
blood. She dropped it and gazed at her stained hand.
Oh, Mark, she said sadly, a bit breathlessly. A pain rose from deep inside of 
her, filled her chest. Little Mark . . . You never ever hurt anyone. Not 
anyone. What they did to you. What an awful thing they did to you. Why?
She stood up. Her knees felt weak.
Find the body, she thought.
No, she told herself.
You came here to find the body.
Ive changed my mind. Find the body? No. No, thats just... too much. Much too 
much. Finding him.. . Mark.. . with his skull cracked open . . . and his eyes 
rolled back in his head .
and dried blood all over his face . . . Too much. Even strong girls cant deal 
with everything in life. Even strong girls have their limits, dont they? This 
is mine. My limit. I cant go looking . . . all through the house . . . just 
cant . .
Beginning to cry, beginning to shake, she picked up the bucket and left the 
house.
At 12:45 Salsbury carried his briefcase down from his room and went to the 
parlor.
Pauline Vicker was sitting in the largest of the three armchairs. She was a 
heavyset woman in her early sixties. Fluffy
gray hair. Ruddy complexion. Double chin. Merry eyes and a nearly constant 
smile. She had the archetypal grandmothers face, the model for grandmothers 
faces in storybooks and movies. Her bare feet were propped up on a hassock. She 
was eating candies and watching a television soap opera.
From the doorway he said, Mrs. Vicker.
She glanced up, chewing a caramel. She had some trouble swallowing. Then: Good 
afternoon, Mr. Deighton. If youve a complaint about your room or anythingdo 
you think perhaps it could wait just a bit, a few minutesnot longer than that 
mind youjust until this show ends? Its one of my favorite shows and
I am the key, he said impatiently.
Oh, she said, disappointed that she wasnt going to be able to finish watching 
the program. I am the lock.
Get up, Mrs. Vicker.
She struggled out of the chair.
Fat old cow, he thought.
What do you need? she asked pleasantly.
Ill need this room for a while, he said, walking to the desk which held her 
private telephone. Dont disturb me.
Am I to leave?
Yes. Now.
She looked wistfully at the round maple table beside her armchair. May I take 
my box of candy?
Yes, yes. Just get the hell out of here.
Pleased, she snatched up the candy. Im as good as gone. As good as gone, Mr. 
Deighton. You take your time here. I wont let anyone disturb you.
Mrs. Vicker.
Yes?
Go to the kitchen.
All right.
Eat your chocolates if you want.
I will.
Listen to your radio, and wait in the kitchen until I come to see you.
Yes, sir.
Is that completely clear?
Certainly. Certainly. Ill do just what you say. See if I dont. Ill go 
straight out to the kitchen and eat my chocolates and listen
And close the door as you leave, he said sharply. Leave now, Mrs. Vicker.
She shut the parlor door behind her.
At the desk Salsbury opened his briefcase. He took from it a set of screwdrivers 
and one of the infinity transmittersa small black box with several wires 
trailing from itthat Dawson had purchased in Brussels.
Smart, he thought. Clever. Clever of me to bring the IF. Didnt know why I was 
packing it at the time. A hunch. Just a hunch. And its paid off now. Clever. 
Im on top of the situation. Right up there on top, in control. Full control.
Having carefully considered his options, algebraic even when he was so recently 
returned from the edge of panic, he had decided that it was time to hear what 
Paul Annendale was saying to the Edisons. There were a dozen miniature glass 
swans lined up across the top of the desk, each slightly different in size and 
shape and color from the one that preceded it. He brushed these figurines to the 
floor; they bounced on the carpet and clinked against one another. His mother 
had collected hand-blown figurines, although not swans. She favored glass dogs. 
By the hundreds. He crushed one of the swans under his heel and imagined that it 
was a glass dog. Curiously satisfied by this gesture, he connected the infinity 
transmitter to the telephone and dialed the number of the general store. Across 
the street no telephone rang at the Edisons place. Nevertheless, every receiver 
in the store, as well as in the familys living quarters above the store, opened 
to Salsburys ear.
What he heard in the first couple of minutes broke down the paper-thin wall of 
composure that he had managed to rebuild since the murder. Buddy Pellineri, in 
his own half-literate fashion, was telling Sam and Jenny and Paul about the two 
men who had come down from the reservoir on the morning of August sixth.
Rossner and Holbrook had been seen!
However, that was neither the only nor the worst piece of bad news. Before Buddy 
had reached the end of his story, before Edison and the others had finished 
questioning him, Annendales daughter arrived with the bucket full of bloody 
rags. The damned bucket! In his haste to clean up the kitchen and hide the 
corpse, he had shoved the bucket under the sink and then had completely 
forgotten about it. The boys body wasnt all that well hiddenbut at least it 
wasnt in the room where the murder had occurred. The damned bloody rags. He had 
left evidence at the scene of the crime, virtually out in plain sight where any 
fool could have found it!
He could no longer afford to spend hours formulating his response to the events 
of the morning. If he was to contain the crisis and save the project, he would 
have to think faster and move faster than he had ever done before.
He stepped on another glass swan and snapped it to pieces.
4
1:10 P.M.
 
A PEAL OF THUNDER rumbled across the valley, and the wind seemed to gain 
considerable force in the wake of the noise.
Torn between a desire to believe Emma Thorp and a growing conviction that Rya 
was telling the truth, Paul Annendale climbed the steps to the stoop at the back 
of the Thorp house.
Putting a hand on his shoulder, pressing with fingers like talons, Sam said, 
Wait.
Paul turned. The wind mussed his hair, blew it into his eyes. Wait for what?
This is breaking and entering.
The doors open.
That doesnt change anything, Sam said, letting go of him. Besides, its open 
because Rya broke it open.
Aware that Sam was trying to reason with him for his own good but nonetheless 
impatient, Paul said, What in the hell am I supposed to do, Sam? Call the cops? 
Or maybe pull some strings, use my connections, put a call through to the chief 
of police, and have him investigate himself?
We could call the state police.
The body might not even be here.
If they could avoid it, they wouldnt move a corpse in broad daylight.
Maybe there is no corpse, not here, not anywhere.
I hope to God youre right.
Come on, Paul. Lets call the state police.
You said theyd need as much as two hours to get here. If the body still is in 
this housewell, it most likely wont be here two hours from now.
But this is all so improbable! Why on earth would Bob want to murder Mark?
You heard what Rya said. That sociologist ordered him to kill. That Albert 
Deighton.
She didnt know it was Deighton, Sam said.
Sam, youre the one who recognized him from her description.
Okay. Granted. But why would Emma go to a church luncheon and card game just 
after watching her husband kill a defenseless child? How could she? And how 
could a boy like Jeremy witness a brutal murder and then lie to you so 
smoothly?
Theyre your neighbors. You tell me.
Thats just the point, Sam insisted. Theyre my neighbors. They have been all 
their lives. Nearly all their lives. I know them well. As well as I know anyone. 
And Im telling you, Paul, they simply arent capable of this sort of thing.
Paul put one hand to his belly. His stomach spasmed with cramps. The memory of 
what he had seen in that bucketthe thickening blood and the strands of hair 
that were the same color as Marks hairhad affected him physically as well as 
emotionally. Or perhaps the emotional impact had been so devastating, so 
overwhelming that a sharp physical revulsion could not help but follow. Youve 
known these people under ordinary circumstances, during ordinary times. But I 
swear, Sam, theres something extraordinary happening in this town. First Ryas 
story. Marks disappearance. The bloody rags. And on top of that, Buddy comes 
around with this story of strange men at the reservoir in the dead of nightjust 
a few days before the
whole town suffered from a curious, unexplained epidemic
Sam blinked in surprise. You think the chills are connected with this, with
A deafening crack of thunder interrupted him.
As the sky grew quiet, Sam said, Buddys not a very reliable witness.
You believed him, didnt you?
I believe he saw something strange, yes. Whether or not it was precisely what 
Buddy thinks it was
Oh, I know he didnt see skin divers. Skin divers dont wear hip boots. What he 
sawI think maybe he saw two men with empty chemical dispersion tanks.
Someone contaminated the reservoir? Sam asked incredulously.
Looks that way to me.
Who? The government?
Maybe. Or maybe terrorists. Or even a private company.
But why?
To see if the contaminate did what it was supposed to do.
Sam said, Contaminated the reservoir . . . with what? He frowned. Something 
that turns sane men into psychopaths who will kill when told to?
Paul began to shake.
We havent found him yet, Sam said quickly. Dont lose hope. We havent found 
him dead.
Sam - . . Oh God, Sam, I think we will. I really think we will. He was close 
to tears, but he knew that, for the time being, they were a luxury that he 
couldnt allow himself to have. He cleared his throat. And Ill bet this 
sociologist, Deighton, is involved with the men Buddy saw. Hes not here to 
study Black River. He knows what was put in the reservoir, and hes in town only 
to see what effect that substance has on the people here.
Why didnt Jenny and I get the night chills?
Paul shrugged. I dont know. And Ive no idea what Mark walked into this 
morning. What did he see that made it necessary for him to be killed?
They stared at each other, horrified by the idea that the townspeople were 
unwitting guinea pigs in some bizarre experiment. Both of them wanted to laugh 
off the entire notion, dismiss it with a joke or two; but neither of them could 
even smile.
If any of this is true, Sam said worriedly, theres even more reason to call 
in the state police right now.
Paul said, Well find the body first. Then well call the state police. Im 
going to find my son before he winds up in an unmarked grave way to hell and 
gone in the mountains.
Gradually, Sams face became as white as his hair. Dont talk about him as if 
you know hes dead. You dont know that hes dead, dammit!
Paul took a deep breath. His chest ached. Sam, I should have believed Rya this 
morning. Shes no liar. Those bloody dish towels .. . Look, Ive got to talk 
about him as if hes dead. Ive got to think of him that way. If I convince 
myself that hes still alive and then I find his bodyitll hurt too much. Itll 
destroy me. Do you understand?
Yes.
You dont have to come in with me.
I cant let you go alone, Sam said.
Yes, you can. Ill be fine.
I wont let you go alone.
All right. Lets get this over with.
Hes a good boy, Sam said quietly. Hes always been such a good boy. I love 
him like my own.
Paul nodded, turned, and went into the dark house.
The telephone company maintained a narrow, two-story brick building on West Main 
Street, half a block from the square. It was a two-minute walk from Pauline 
Vickers rooming house.
The front office on the first floorwhere complaints could be lodged and bills 
paidwas small and neat. It contained eight gray filing cabinets, a cash 
register, an electronic calculator, a photostatic copier, a typewriter, a long 
pine worktable, and two Straight-backed chairs in one corner, a large metal desk 
with a Sturdy swivel chair, a Sierra Club calendar, several telephones,
stacks of company pamphlets, a radio, and the United States flag in a stainless 
steel stand. There was no dust on the furniture, no dirt on the tile floor, and 
every pile of typing paper, forms, and envelopes was properly squared off and 
neatly stacked.
The only person in the office was as businesslike as the room. She was a thin 
but not unattractive woman in her middle or late forties. Her short-cropped 
chestnut hair had no more than a dozen strands of gray in it. Her skin was 
smooth and milky. Although her features were very angular, they were balanced by 
a generous, sensuous mouth that saved her looks but seemed to have been borrowed 
from another face. She wore a smart and efficient green pantsuit with a white 
cotton blouse. Her glasses were on a chain so that when she took them off they 
hung ready at her breast.
When Salsbury entered the office, she stepped up to the counter, smiled 
professionally, and said, Does it still look like rain out there?
Closing the mullioned-window door, Salsbury said, Yes. Yes, it does.
What can I do for you?
I am the lock. I am the key.
He went to the counter.
She toyed with the glasses at her breast. He said, Whats your name?
Joan Markham.
Are you a secretary?
Im the assistant manager.
How many people are working here? Right now?
Right now, he said.
Six, including me.
Name them for me, one by one.
Well, theres Mr. Puichaski.
Whos he?
The manager.
Where is he now?
In his office, The front room upstairs.
Who else, Joan?
Leona Ives. Mr. Pulchaskis secretary.
Is she upstairs too?
Yes.
That leaves three.
Those are operators.
Switchboard operators?
Yes. Mary Ultman, Betty Zimmerman, and Louise Pulchaski.
Mr. Puichaskis wife?
His daughter, Joan said.
Where do the operators work?
She pointed to a door at the back of the room. That leads to the downstairs 
hall. The switchboards are in the next room, at the back of the building.
When do these operators go off duty?
At five oclock.
And three more come on the new shift?
No. Just two. There isnt that much business at night.
The new shift works untilone in the morning?
Thats right.
And two more operators come on duty until nine oclock in the morning?
No. Theres just one during the graveyard watch. She put on her glasses, took 
them off again a second later. Are you nervous, Joan?
Yes. Terribly.
Dont be nervous. Relax. Be calm.
Some of the stiffness went out of her slender neck and Shoulders. She smiled.
Tomorrow is Saturday, he said. Will there be three operators on duty during 
the daylight shift?
No. On weekends therere never more than two.
Joan, I see youve got a notebook and pen next to your typewriter. I want you 
to prepare for me a list of all the operators
who are scheduled to work tonight and during the first two shifts tomorrow. I 
want their names and their home telephone numbers. Understood?
Oh, yes.
She went to her desk.
Salsbury crossed to the front door. He studied West Main Street through the 
six-inch-square panes of glass.
Presaging a summer storm, the wind whipped the trees mercilessly, as if trying 
to drive them to shelter.
There was no one in sight on either side of the street. Salsbury looked at his 
watch. 1:15
Hurry up, you stupid bitch. She looked up. What?
I called you a stupid bitch. Forget that. Just finish the list. Quickly now.
She busied herself with pen and notebook.
Bitches, he thought. Rotten bitches. All of them. Every last one of them. Always 
fouling him up. Nothing but bitches.
An empty lumber truck went past on Main Street, heading toward the mill.
Here it is, she said.
He returned to the customer service counter, took the notebook page from her 
hand, and glanced at it. Seven names. Seven telephone numbers. He folded the 
paper and put it in his shirt pocket. Now, what about repairmen? Dont you have 
linemen or repairmen on duty all the time?
We have a crew of four men, she said. There are two on the day shift and two 
on the evening shift. Theres no one regularly scheduled for night shift or for 
the weekends, but every one of the crews on call in case of emergencies.
And there are two men on duty now? Yes.
Where are they?
Working on a problem at the mill. When will they be back?
By three. Maybe three thirty.
When they come in, you send them over to Bob Thorps
office. He had already decided to make the police chiefs office his 
headquarters for the duration of the crisis. Understood, Joan?
Yes.
Write down for me the names and home telephone numbers of the other two 
repairmen?
She needed half a minute for that assignment.
Now listen closely, Joan.
Resting her arms on the counter, she leaned toward him. She seemed almost eager 
to hear what he had to tell her.
Within the next few minutes, the wind will blow down the lines between here and 
Bexford. It wont be possible for anyone in Black River or up at the mill to 
make or receive a long-distance call.
Oh, she said wearily. Well, that sure is going to ruin my day. It sure is?
Complaints, you mean?
Each one nastier than the one before it.
If people complain, tell them that linemen from Bexford are working on the 
break. But there was a great deal of damage. The repairs will take hours. The 
job might not be done until tomorrow afternoon. Is that clear?
They wont like it.
But is that clear?
Its clear.
All right. He sighed. In a moment Im going to go back to talk with the girls 
at the switchboard. Then upstairs to see your boss and his secretary. When I 
leave this room, youll forget everything weve said. Youll remember me as a 
lineman from Bexford. I was just a lineman from Bexford who stopped in to tell 
you that my crew was already on the job. Understood?
Go back to work.
She returned to her desk.
He walked behind the counter. He left the room by the hall door and went to talk 
to the switchboard operators.
* * *
Paul felt like a burglar.
Youre not here to steal anything, he told himself. Just your sons body. If 
there is a body. And that belongs to you.
Nevertheless, as he poked through the house, undeterred by the Thorps right to 
privacy, he felt like a thief.
By 1:45 he and Sam had searched upstairs and down, through the bedrooms and 
baths and closets, through the living room and den and dining room and kitchen. 
There was no corpse.
In the kitchen Paul opened the cellar door and switched on the light. Down 
there. We should have looked down there first. Its the most likely place.
Even if Ryas story is true, Sam said, this isnt easy for me. This prying 
around. These people are old friends.
It isnt my style either.
I feel like such a shit.
its almost finished.
They descended the stairs.
The first basement room was a well-used work center. The nearer end contained 
two stainless-steel sinks, an electric washer-dryer, a pair of wicker clothes 
baskets, a table large enough for folding freshly laundered towels, and shelves 
on which stood bottles of bleach, bottles of spot removers, and boxes of 
detergents. At the other end of the room there was a workbench equipped with 
vises and all of the other tools that Bob Thorp needed to tie flies. He was an 
enthusiastic and dedicated fly fisherman who enjoyed creating his own bait; 
but he also sold between two and three hundred pieces of his handiwork every 
year, more than enough to make his hobby a very profitable one.
Sam peered into the shadow cavity beneath the stairs and then searched the 
cupboards beside the washer-dryer.
No corpse. No blood. Nothing.
Pauls stomach burned and gurgled as if he had swallowed a glassful of acid.
He looked in the cabinets above and below the workbench, flinching each time he 
opened a door.
Nothing.
The second basement room, less than half the size of the first,
was used entirely for food storage. Two walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling 
shelves; and these were lined with store-bought as well as home-canned fruits 
and vegetables. A large, chest-style freezer stood against the far wall.
In there or nowhere, Sam said.
Paul went to the freezer.
He lifted the lid.
Sam stepped in beside him.
Frigid air rushed over them. Streams of ghostly vapor snaked into the room and 
were dissipated by the warmer air.
The freezer contained two or three dozen plastic-wrapped and labeled packages of 
meat. These bundles werent stacked for optimum use of the spaceand to Paul at 
least, that looked rather odd. Furthermore, they hadnt been arranged according 
to size or weight or similarity of contents. They were merely dumped together 
every which way. They appeared to have been thrown into the freezer in great 
haste.
Paul took a five-pound beef roast from the chest and dropped it on the floor. 
Then a ten-pound package of bacon. Another five-pound beef roast. Another roast. 
More bacon. A twenty-pound box of pork chops
The dead boy had been placed in the bottom of the freezer, his arms on his chest 
and his knees drawn up; and the packages of meat had been used to conceal him. 
His nostrils were caked with blood. An icy, ruby crust of blood sealed his lips 
and masked his chin. He stared up at them with milky, frozen eyes that were as 
opaque as heavy cataracts.
Oh . . . no. No. Oh, Jesus, Sam murmured. He swung away from the freezer and 
ran. In the other room he turned on a faucet; the water splashed loudly.
Paul heard him gagging and puking violently into one of the stainless-steel 
sinks.
Strangely, he was now in full control of his emotions. When he saw his dead son, 
his intense anger and despair and grief were at once transformed into a deep 
compassion, into a tenderness that was beyond description.
Mark, he said softly. Its okay. Okay now. im here. Im here with you now. 
You arent alone anymore.
He took the remaining packages of meat from the freezer, one at a time, slowly 
excavating the grave.
As Paul removed the last bundle from atop the body, Sam came to the doorway. 
Paul? Ill . - . go upstairs. Use the phone. Call . . the state police.
Paul stared into the freezer.
Did you hear me?
Yes. I heard you.
Should I call the state police now?
Yes. Its time.
How are you feeling?
Im all right, Sam.
Will you be okay herealone?
Sure. Fine.
Are you certain?
Sure.
Sam hesitated, finally turned away. He took the steps two at a time, 
thunderously.
Paul touched the boys cheek.
It was cold and hard.
Somehow he found the strength to pull the body, stiff as it was, out of the 
freezer. He balanced his son on the edge of the chest, got both arms under him 
and lifted him. He swung around and put the boy on the floor, in the center of 
the room.
He blew on his hands to warm them.
Sam came back, still as pale as the belly of a fish. He looked at Mark. His face 
twisted with pain, but he didnt cry. He kept control of himself. There seems 
to be some trouble with the telephones.
What sort of trouble?
Well, the lines have been blown down between here and Bexford.
Frowning, Paul said, Blown down? It doesnt seem windy enough for that.
Not here it isnt. But it probably is much windier farther on
toward Bexford. In these mountains you can have a pocket of relative calm right 
next to a fierce storm.
The lines to Bexford . . . Paul brushed strands of stiff, frozen, 
blood-crusted hair from his sons white forehead. What does that mean to us?
You can ring up anyone you want in town or up at the mill. But you cant place 
a long-distance call.
Who told you?
The operator. Mandy Ultman.
Does she have any idea when theyll get it fixed?
Evidently, theres been a lot of damage, Sam said. She tells me a crew of 
linemen from Bexford are already working. But theyll need several hours to put 
things right.
How many hours?
Well, theyre not even sure they can patch it up any time before tomorrow 
morning.
Paul remained at his sons side, kneeling on the concrete floor, and he thought 
about what Sam had said.
One of us should drive into Bexford and call the state police from there.
Okay, Paul said.
You want me to do it?
if you want. Or I will. It doesnt matter. But first we have to move Mark to 
your place.
Move him?
Of course.
But isnt that against the law? He cleared his throat I mean, the scene of 
the crime and all that
I cant leave him here, Sam.
But if Bob Thorp did this, you want him to pay for it. Dont you? If you 
movemove the body, what proof do you have that you actually found it here?
Surprised by the steadiness of his own voice, Paul said, The police forensic 
specialists will be able to find traces of Marks hair and blood in the 
freezer.
"But"
I cant leave him here!
Sam nodded. All right I just cant, Sam.
Okay. Well get him to the car. Thank you.
Well take him to my place.
Thank you. How will we carry him? Youtake his feet. Sam touched the boy. 
So cold. Be careful with him, Sam. Sam nodded as they lifted the body. Be 
gentle with him, please. Okay.
Please.
I will, Sam said. I will.
 
5
2:00 P.M.
THUNDER CANNONED, and rain shattered against the windows of the police chiefs 
office.
Two men, employees of other governmental departments that shared the municipal 
building, stood with their backs to the windows, trying to look stern, 
authoritarian, and eminently reliable. Bob Thorp had provided them with bright 
yellow hooded rain slickers with POLICE stenciled across their shoulders and 
chests. Both men were in their middle or late thirties, yet they expressed an 
almost childish delight at the opportunity to wear these raincoats: adults 
playing cops and robbers.
Can you use a gun? Salsbury asked them.
They both said that they could.
Salsbury turned to Bob Thorp. Give them guns.
Revolvers? the police chief asked.
Do you have shotguns?
Yes.
"I believe those would be better than revolvers, Salsbury said. Dont you 
agree?
For this operation? Thorp said. Yes. Much better.
Then give them shotguns.
A brilliant explosion of lightning flashed against the windows. The effect was 
stroboscopic: everyone and every object in the
room seemed to jump rapidly back and forth for an instant, although in reality 
nothing moved.
Overhead the fluorescent lights flickered.
Thorp went to the metal firearms cabinet behind his desk, unlocked it, and 
fetched two shotguns.
Do you know how to use these? Salsbury asked the men in the yellow raincoats.
One of them nodded.
The other said, Not much to it. These babies pack a hell of a lot of punch. You 
pretty much just have to point in the general direction of the target and pull 
the trigger. He gripped the gun with both hands, admired it, smiled at it.
Good enough, Salsbury said. The two of von will go out to the parking lot 
behind this building, get in the spare patrol car, and drive to the east end of 
town. Understand me so far?
To the east end, one of them said.
A hundred yards short of the turn at the mouth of the valley, youll park the 
cruiser across the highway and block both lanes as best you can.
A roadblock, one of them said, obviously pleased with the way the game was 
developing.
Exactly, Salsbury said. If anyone wants to enter Black Riverlogging trucks, 
local citizens, maybe visitors from out of town, anyone at allyoull let them 
in. However, youll send them here, straight to this office. Youll tell them 
that a state of emergency has been declared in Black River and that they 
absolutely must, without exception, check in with the chief of police before 
they go on about their business.
What kind of emergency? You dont need to know. One of them frowned.
The other said, Everyone we stop will want to know.
If they ask, tell them that the chief will explain it. Both men nodded.
Thorp distributed a dozen shotgun shells to each of them.
If anyone tries to leave Black River, Salsbury said, youll also direct them 
to the chief, and youll give them the same story about a state of emergency. 
Understood?
Yes.
Yes.
Every time you send someone to see Bob, whether they were coming into town or 
trying to get out of it, youll radio this office. That way, if they dont show 
up within a few minutes, well know that weve got some renegades on our hands. 
Understood?
They both said, Yes.
Salsbury took his handkerchief from his hip pocket and blotted the perspiration 
from his face. If anyone leaving town tries to run your roadblock, stop them. 
If you cant stop them any other way, use the guns.
Shoot to kill?
Shoot to kill, Salsbury said. But only if theres no other way to stop them.
One of the men tried to look like John Wayne receiving orders at the Alamo, 
shook his head solemnly, and said, Dont worry. You can count on us.
Any questions?
How long will we be in charge of this roadblock?
Another team of men will relieve you in six hours, Salsbury said. At eight 
oclock this evening. He jammed his handkerchief back into his pocket. One 
other thing. When you leave this room, you will forget that you ever met me. 
Youll forget that I was here. Youll remember everything Ive said to you prior 
to what Im saying to you now, every previous exchange of this conversation 
weve just hadbut youll think that Bob Thorp gave you your instructions. Is 
that perfectly clear?
Yes.
Perfectly.
Then get moving.
The two men went out of the room, forgetting him the moment they set foot in the 
corridor.
A fiercely white pulse of lightning washed over the town, and a crack of thunder 
followed, rattling the windows.
Close those blinds, Salsbury said irritably.
Thorp did as he was told.
Salsbury sat down behind the desk.
When he had drawn the Venetian blinds, Bob Thorp returned to the desk and stood 
in front of it.
Salsbury looked up at him and said, Bob, I want to seal this burg up tight. 
Real tight. He made a fist with his right hand by way of example. I want to 
make damned sure that no one can get out of town. Is there anything else that I 
should block in addition to the highway?
Scratching his beetled brow, Thorp said, You need two more men at the east end 
of the valley. One to watch the river. He should be armed with a rifle so he can 
pick off anyone in a boat if he has to do that. The other man should be 
stationed in the trees between the river and the highway. Give him a shotgun and 
tell him to stop anyone who tries to sneak out through the woods.
The man at the riverhed have to be an expert with a rifle, wouldnt he? 
Salsbury asked.
You wouldnt need a master rifleman. But he would have to be a fairly good 
shot.
Okay. Well use one of your deputies for that. Theyre all good with a rifle, 
arent they?
Oh, sure.
Good enough for this?
No doubt about it.
Anything else?
Thorp thought about the situation for almost a minute. Finally he said, Theres 
a series of old logging roads that lead up into the mountains and eventually 
hook up with a second series of roads that come from the lumber operations 
around Bexford. A lot of that route has been abandoned. None of its paved. A 
few sections may be graveled if they havent been washed out this summer, but 
mostly its just dirt. Narrow. Full of weeds. But I guess if a man was 
determined enough, he could drive out that way.
Then well block it, Salsbury said, getting up from the chair. He paced 
nervously to the windows and back to the desk. This town is mine. Mine. And 
itll stay that way. Im going
to keep my hands on every man, woman, and child here until Ive solved this 
problem.
The situation had gotten incredibly far out of hand. He would have to call 
Dawson. Sooner or later. Probably sooner. Couldnt be avoided. But before he 
placed that call, he wanted to be certain that he had done everything that he 
could possibly do without Leonards help, without Klingers help. Show them he 
was decisive. Clever. A good man to have around. His efficiency might impress 
the general. And that Christ-kissing bastard. Impress them enough to compensate 
for his having caused the crisis in the first place. That was very important. 
Very important. Right now the trick was to survive his partners wrath.
2:30 P.M.
The air in Sams library was stale and humid.
Rain drummed on the outside window, and hundreds of tiny beads of dew formed on 
the inside.
Still numb from the discovery of his sons body, Paul sat in one of the easy 
chairs, his hands on the arms of the chair and his fingertips pressed like claws 
into the upholstery.
Sam stood by one of the bookcases, pulling volumes of collected psychology 
essays from the stacks and leafing through them.
On the wide window ledge, an antique mantel clock ticked hollowly, monotonously.
Jenny came into the room from the ball, letting the door stand open behind her. 
She knelt on the floor beside Pauls chair and put her hand over his.
Hows Rya? he asked.
Before they had gone to the Thorp house to search for the body, Sam had given 
the girl a sedative.
Sleeping soundly, Jenny said. Shell be out for at least two more hours.
Here! Sam said excitedly.
They looked up, startled.
He came to them, holding up a book of essays. His picture. The one who calls 
himself Deighton.
Paul stood up to have a better look at it.
No wonder Rya and I couldnt find any of his articles, Sam said. We were 
looking through tables of contents for something written by Albert Deighton. But 
thats not his name. His real names Ogden Salsbury.
Ive seen him, Paul said. He was in Ultmans Cafe the day that waitress drove 
the meat fork through her hand. In fact she waited on him.
Rising to her feet, Jenny said, You think that was connected with the rest of 
this, with the story Buddy Pellineri told us with what they did to Mark? Her 
voice faltered slightly on those last few words, and her eyes grew shiny. But 
she bit her lip and held back the tears.
Yes, Paul said, wondering again at his own inability to weep. He ached. God, 
he was full of pain! But the tears would not come. It must be connected. 
Somehow. To Sam he said, Salsbury wrote this article?
According to the introductory blurb, it was the last piece he ever 
publishedmore than twelve years ago.
But hes not dead.
Unfortunately.
Then why the last?
Seems he was quite a controversial figure. Praised and damned but mostly 
damned. And he got tired of the controversy. He dropped out of his lecture tours 
and gave up his writing so that hed have more time to dedicate to his 
research.
Whats the article about?
Sam read the title. Total Behavioral Modification through Subliminal 
Perception. And the subtitle: Mind Control from the Inside Out.
What does all of that mean?
Do you want me to read it aloud?
Paul looked at his watch.
It wouldnt hurt if we knew the enemy before we went into Bexford to see the 
state police, Jenny said.
Shes right, Sam said.
Paul nodded. Go ahead. Read it.
2:40 P.M.
Friday afternoon H. Leonard Dawson was in the study of his Greenwich, 
Connecticut, house, reading a long letter on lavender paper from his wife. Julia 
was one-third of the way through a three-week trip to the Holy Land, and day by 
day she was discovering that it was less and less like she had imagined and 
hoped it would be. The best hotels were all owned by Arabs and Jews, she said; 
therefore, she felt unclean every time she went to bed. There were plenty of 
rooms in the inns, she said, but she would almost have preferred to sleep in the 
stables. That morning (as she wrote the letter) her chauffeur had driven her to 
Golgotha, that most sweetly sacred of places; and she had read to herself from 
the Bible as the car wended its way to that shrine of both sorrow and 
everlasting joy. But even Golgotha had been spoiled for her. Upon arriving 
there, she found that the holy hill was literally swarming with sweaty Southern 
Negro Baptists. Southern Negro Baptists, of all people. Furthermore.
The white telephone rang. Its soft, throaty burrrr-burrrrburrrr was instantly 
recognizable.
The white phone was the most private line in the house. Only Ogden and Ernst 
knew the number.
He put down the letter, waited until the telephone had rung a second time, 
picked up the receiver. Hello?
I recognize your voice, Salsbury said guardedly. Do you find mine familiar?
Of course. Are you using your scrambler?
Oh, yes, Salsbury said.
Then theres no need to talk in riddles and be mysterious.
Even if the line is tapped, which it isnt, they cant make sense of what were 
saying.
With the situation what it is at my end, Salsbury said, I think we should 
take the precaution of riddle and mystery and not trust solely in the 
scrambler.
What is the situation at your end?
Weve got serious trouble here.
At the test site?
At the test site.
Trouble of what sort?
Theres been one fatality.
Will it pass for natural causes?
Not in a million years.
Can you handle it yourself? No. There are going to be more. Fatalities? 
Dawson asked. Weve got people here who are unaffected. Unaffected by the 
program? Thats right.
Why should that lead to fatalities? My cover is blown.
How did that happen? Salsbury hesitated.
Youd better tell me the truth, Dawson said sharply. For all our sakes. Youd 
better tell me the truth.
I was with a woman.
You fool.
It was a mistake, Salsbury admitted.
It was idiotic. Well discuss it later. One of these unaffected people came 
upon you while you were with the woman.
Thats right.
If your cover is blown it can be repaired. Undramatically.
Im afraid not I ordered the killer to do what he did. Despite the riddle form 
of the conversation, the events in Black River were becoming all too clear to 
Dawson. I see. He thought for a moment. How many are unaffected?
Besides a couple of dozen babies and very young children, at least four more. 
Maybe five.
Thats not so many.
Theres another problem. You know the two men we sent up here at the beginning 
of the month?
To the reservoir.
They were seen.
Dawson was silent.
If you dont want to come, Salsbury said, thats okay. But I have to have 
some help. Send our partner and
Well both arrive tonight by helicopter, Dawson said. Can you bold it 
yourself until nine or ten oclock?
I think so.
You had better.
Dawson hung up.
Oh Lord, he thought, You sent him to me as an instrument of Your will. Now 
Satans gotten to him. Help me to set all of this aright. I only want to serve 
You.
He telephoned his pilot and ordered him to fuel the helicopter and have it at 
the landing pad behind the Greenwich house within the hour.
He dialed three numbers before he located Klinger. Theres some trouble up 
north.
Serious?
Extremely serious. Can you be here in an hour?
Only if I drive like a maniac. Better make it an hour and a quarter.
Get moving.
Dawson hung up again.
Oh Lord, he thought, both of these men are infidels. I know that. But You sent 
them to me for Your own purposes, didnt You? Dont punish me for doing Your 
will, Lord.
He opened the lower right-hand drawer of the desk and took Out a folder thick 
with papers.
The label on it said:
HARRISON-BODREI DETECTIVE AGENCY
SUBJECT: OGDEN SALSBURY
 
Thanks to the HarrisonBodrei Agency, he understood his partners almost better 
than they understood themselves. For
the past fifteen years he had kept a constantly updated file on Ernst Klinger. 
The Salsbury dossier was comparatively new, begun only in January 1975; but it 
traced his life all the way back through his childhood, and it was undeniably 
complete. Having read it ten or twelve times, from cover to cover, Dawson felt 
that he should have anticipated the current crisis.
Ogden was neither stark-raving mad nor perfectly sound of mind. He was a 
pathological woman-hater. Yet periodically he indulged in lascivious sprees of 
whoring, using as many as seven or eight prostitutes during a single weekend. 
Occasionally, there was trouble.
To Dawsons way of thinking, two of the reports in the file were more important, 
told more about Ogden, than all of the others combined. He withdrew the first of 
them from the folder and read it yet again.
A week past his eleventh birthday, Ogden was taken from his mother and made a 
ward of the court. Katherine Salsbury (widowed) and her lover, Howard Parker, 
were later convicted of child abuse, child molestation, and corrupting the 
morals of a minor. Mrs. Salsbury was sentenced to seven to ten years in the New 
Jersey Correctional Institution for Women. Upon her conviction, Ogden was 
transferred to the home of a neighbor, Mrs. Carrie Barger (now Peterson), where 
he became one of several foster children. This interview was conducted with Mrs. 
Carrie Peterson (now sixty-nine years old) in her home in Teaneck, New Jersey, 
on the morning of Wednesday, January 22, 1975. The subject was obviously 
intoxicated even at that early hour and sipped at a glass of just plain orange 
juice throughout the interview. The subject was not aware that she was being 
recorded.
Dawson had marked the sections of the report that most interested him. He 
skipped ahead to the third page.
AGENT: Living next door to Mrs. Salsbury, you must have witnessed a great many 
of those beatings.
MRS. PETERSON: Oh, yes. Oh, I should say. From the time
that Ogden was old enough to walk, he was a target for her. That woman! The 
least little thing he didwhup! she beat him black and blue.
AGENT: Spanked him?
MRS. PETERSON: No, no. She hardly ever spanked. Had she only spanked! That 
wouldnt have been so horrid. But that woman! She started out hitting him with 
her open hands. On the head and all about his sweet little face. As he got older 
shed sometimes use her fists. She was a big woman, you know. Shed use her 
fists. And shed pinch. Pinch his little arms . . . I cried many the time. Hed 
come over to play with my foster children, and hed be a mess. His little arms 
would be spotted with bruises. Just spotted all over with bruises.
AGENT: \Vas she an alcoholic?
MRS. PETERSON: She drank. Some. But she wasnt addicted to gin or anything. She 
was just mean. Naturally mean. And I dont think she was too smart. Sometimes, 
very dim-witted people, when they get frustrated, they take it out on children. 
Ive seen it before. Too often. Suffer the little children. Oh, they suffer so 
much, I tell you.
AGENT: She had a great many lovers?
MRS. PETERSON: Dozens. She was a vile woman. Very common-looking men. Always 
very common-looking. Dirty. Crude laborers. Her men drank a lot. Sometimes 
theyd stay with her as much as a year. More often it was a week or two, a 
month.
AGENT: This Howard Parker 
MRS. PETERSON: Him!
AGENT: How long was he with Mrs. Salsbury?
MRS. PETERSON: Nearly six months, I think, before the crime. What a horrible 
man. Horrible!
AGENT: Did you know what was happening in the Salsbury house when Parker was 
there?
MRS. PETERSON: Of course not! Id have called the police at once! Of course the 
night of the crimeOgden came to me. And then I did call the police.
AGENT: Do you mind talking about the crime?
MRS. PETERSON: It still upsets me. To think of it. What a horrible man! And that 
woman. To do that to a child.
AGENT: Parker wasbisexual?
MRS. PETERSON: He was what?
AGENT: He customarily had relations with both sexes. Is that right?
MRS. PETERSON: He raped a little boy! Its . . . I dont know. I just dont 
know. Why did God make some people so wicked? I love children. Have all my life. 
Love them more than anything. I cant understand a man like that Parker.
AGENT: Does it embarrass you to talk about the crime?
MRS. PETERSON: A little bit.
AGENT: If you can bear with me. . . Its really important that you answer a few 
more questions.
MRS. PETERSON: If its for Ogdens sake, like you said, I surely can. For 
Ogdens sake. Although he never comes back to see me. You know that? After I 
took him in and raised him from the age of eleven. He just never comes back.
AGENT: The court records of that time were not properly explicit. Either that or 
the judge had some of the testimony altered to protect the boys reputation. I 
am not certain whether Mr. Parker subjected the boy toyoull excuse me, but it 
has to be saidto oral or anal intercourse.
MRS. PETERSON: That horrible man!
AGENT: Do you know which it was?
MRS. PETERSON: Both.
AGENT: I see.
MRS. PETERSON: With the mother watching. His mother watched! Can you imagine 
such a thing? Such a rotten thing? To do that to a defenseless child. . . What 
monsters they were!
AGENT: I didnt mean to make you cry.
MRS. PETERSON: Im not crying. Just a tear or two. Its so sad. Dont you think? 
So terribly sad. Suffer the little children.
AGENT: Theres no need to continue with 
MRS. PETERSON: Oh, but you said this was for Ogdens sake, that you needed to 
ask all of this for Ogdens sake. He was one of my children. Foster children. 
But I felt like they were my own. I loved them dearly. Loved all of them. Little 
dears, every one. So if its for Ogdens sake . . . Well . . . For months, 
without anyone at all knowing, with poor little Ogden too afraid to tell 
any-one, that terrible Howard Parker . . . was using the boy. . . using. . . his 
mouth. And the mother watching! She was a vicious woman. And sick. Very sick.
AGENT: And the night of the crime MRS. PETERSON: Parker used the boy.. . he 
used . . . the
boys rectum. Hurt him terribly. You cant know the pain that boy suffered.
AGENT: Ogden came to you that night.
MRS. PETERSON: I lived right next door to them. He came to me. Shaking like a 
leaf. Scared out of his wits. The poor, poor baby. . . Crying his heart out, he 
was. That awful Parker had beat him up. His lips were cracked. One eye was 
puffed and black. At first I thought that was all that was wrong with him. But I 
soon discovered. . . the other. We rushed him to the hospital. He needed eleven 
stitches. Eleven! AGENT: Elevenrectal stitches?
MRS. PETERSON: Thats right. He was in such pain. And he was bleeding. He had to 
stay in the hospital for nearly a week.
AGENT: And eventually you became his foster mother.
MRS. PETERSON: Yes. And never sorry for it. He was a fine boy. A dear boy. Very 
bright too. At school they said he was a genius. He won all of those 
scholarships and went up to Harvard. Youd think hed come to see me, wouldnt 
you? After all I did for him? But no. He never comes. He never comes around. And 
now the social
workers wont let me have any more children. Not since my second husband died. 
They say there have to be two parents in a foster home. And besides they say 
that Im too old. Well, thats craziness. I love children, and thats all that 
should count. I love each and every one of them. Havent I dedicated my life to 
foster children? Im not too old for them. And when I think of all the suffering 
children, I could just cry.
The last half of that report was a transcription of a long and rambling 
conversation with the man to whom Mrs. Peterson had been married at the time 
that she took the eleven-year-old Ogden Salsbury into her home.
This interview was conducted with Mr. Allen J. Barger (now eighty-three years 
old) in the Evins-Maebry Nursing Home in Huntington, Long Island, on the 
afternoon of Friday, January 24, 1975. The subject is supported at the home by 
the three children from his second marriage. The subject, who suffers from 
senility, was alternately lucid and incoherent. The subject was not aware that 
he was being recorded.
Dawson leafed ahead to the passage he bad marked.
AGENT: Do you remember any of the foster children that you took in while you 
were married to Carrie?
MR. BARGER: She took them in. Not me.
AGENT: Do you remember any of them?
MR. BARGER: Oh, Christ.
AGENT: Whats the matter?
MR. BARGER: I try not to remember them.
AGENT: You didnt enjoy them like she did?
MR. BARGER: All those dirty little faces when I came home from work. She tried 
to say we needed the extra money, the few dollars the government gave us for 
keeping the kids. It was the Depression. But she drank up the money.
AGENT: She was an alcoholic?
MR. BARGER: Not when I married her. But she was sure on her way to being one.
AGENT: Do you remember a child named 
Mr. BARGER: My trouble was I didnt many her for her mind.
AGENT: Excuse me?
MR. BARGER: I married my second wife for her mind, and that worked out swell. 
But when I got hitched to Carrie . . . Well, I was forty years old and still 
single and sick to death of going to whores. Carrie came along, twenty-six and 
fresh as a peach, so much younger than me but interested in me, and I let my 
balls do my thinking for me. Married her for her body with no thought as to what 
was in her head. That was a big mistake.
AGENT: Im sure it was. Well . . . Now, could you tell me if you can remember a 
child named MR. BARGER: She had magnificent jugs.
AGENT: I beg your pardon?
MR. BARGER: Jugs. Boobs. Carrie had a magnificent set.
AGENT: Oh. Yes. Uh...
MR. BARGER: She was pretty good in bed too. When you could get her away from 
those goddamned kids. Those kids! I dont know why I ever agreed to take the 
first one in. After that we never had less than four and usually six or seven. 
She had always wanted a big family. But she wasnt able to have children of her 
own. I guess maybe that made her want them even more. But she didnt really want 
to be a mother. It was just a dream, a sort of sentimental thing with her.
AGENT: What do you mean?
MR. BARGER: Oh, she liked the idea, of having children more than she liked 
really having them.
AGENT: I see.
MR. BARGER: She couldnt discipline them worth a damn. They walked right over 
her. And I wasnt about to take over that chore. No, sir! I worked hard, long 
hours in those days. When I came home I didnt want to do
anything but relax. I didnt spend my time chasing after a pack of brats. So 
long as they left me alone, they could do what they wanted. They knew that, and 
they never bothered me. Hell, they werent my kids.
AGENT: Do you remember one of them named Ogden Salsbury?
MR. BARGER: No.
AGENT: His mother lived next door to you. She had a lot of
lovers. One of them, a man named Parker, raped the boy.
Homosexual rape.
MR. BARGER: Come to think of it, I do remember him. Ogden. Yeah. He came to the 
house at a bad time.
AGENT: A bad time? Hows that?
MR. BARGER: It was all girls then.
AGENT: All girls?
MR. BARGER: Carrie was on a kick. She wouldnt take in any but little girls. 
Maybe she thought she could control them better than she could a bunch of boys. 
So this Ogden and I were the only men in the house for about two or three years.
AGENT: And that was bad for him?
MR. BARGER: The older girls knew what had happened to him. They used to tease 
him something fierce. He couldnt take it. Hed blow up every time. Start 
yelling and screaming at them. Of course that was what they wanted, so they just 
teased him some more. When this Ogden used to let the girls get his goat, Id 
take him aside and talk to himalmost father to son. I used to tell him not to 
pay them any mind. I used to tell him that they were just women and that women 
were good for only two things. Fucking and cooking. That was my attitude before 
I met my second wife. Anyway, I think I must have been a great help to that boy. 
A great help . . . Do you know they wont let you fuck in this nursing home?
The other report that Dawson found especially interesting was an interview with 
Laud Richardson, a first-level clerk in
the Pentagons Bureau of Security Clearance Investigations. A Harrison-Bodrei 
agent had offered Richardson five hundred dollars to pull Salsburys army 
security file, study it, and report its contents.
Again, Dawson had bracketed the most relevant passages with a red pen.
RICHARDSON: Whatever research hes doing must be damned important. Theyve spent 
a lot of money covering for the sonofabitch over the past ten years. And the 
Pentagon just doesnt do that unless it expects to be repaid in spades some day.
AGENT: Covering for him? How?
RICHARDSON: He likes to mark up prostitutes.
AGENT: Mark them up?
RICHARDSON: Mostly with his fists.
AGENT: How often does this happen?
RICHARDSON: Once or twice a year.
AGENT: How often does he see prostitutes?
RICHARDSON: He goes whoring the first weekend of every other month. Regular as 
you please. Like hes a robot or something. You could set your watch by his 
need. Usually, he goes into Manhattan, makes the rounds of the leisure and 
health spas, phones a couple of call girls and has them up to his hotel room. 
Now and then one of them comes along with the kind of look that sets him off, 
and he beats the shit out of her.
AGENT: What look is that?
RICHARDSON: Usually blond, but not always. Usually pale, but not always. But she 
is always small. Five one or five two. A hundred pounds. And delicate. Very 
delicate features.
AGENT: Why would a girl like that set him off?
RICHARDSON: The Pentagon tried to force him into psychoanalysis. He went to one 
session and refused to go the second time. He did tell the psychiatrist that 
these frenzies of his were generated by more than the girls appearance. They 
have to be delicate.but not just in a
physical sense. They have to seem emotionally vulnerable to him before be gets 
the urge to pound them senseless.
AGENT: In other words if he thinks the woman is his equal or his superior, shes 
safe. But if be feels that he can dominate her
RICHARDSON: Then shed better have her Blue Cross paid in full.
AGENT: He hasnt killed any of these women, has he?
RICHARDSON: Not yet. But hes come close a couple of times.
AGENT: You said someone in the Pentagon covers up for him.
RICHARDSON: Usually someone from our bureau.
AGENT: How?
RICHARDSON: By paying the girls hospital bills and giving her a lump sum. The 
size of the pay-off depends on the extent of her injuries.
AGENT: Is he considered a high security risk?
RICHARDSON: Oh, no. If be was a closet queen and we found out about it, hed be 
classified as a fairly bad risk. But his hang-ups and vices arent secret. 
Theyre out in the open. No one can blackmail him, threaten him with the loss of 
his job because we already know all of his dirty little secrets. In fact, 
whenever he marks up a girl, he has a special number to call, a relay point 
right in my department. Someone is at his hotel room within an hour to clean up 
after him.
AGENT: Nice people you work for.
RICHARDSON: Arent they? But Im surprised that even they put up with this 
sonofabitch Salsbury. Hes a sick man. Hes a real can of worms all by himself. 
They should stick him away in a cell somewhere and just forget all about him.
AGENT: Do you know about his childhood?
RICHARDSON: About his mother and the man who raped him? Its in the file.
AGENT: It helps to explain why he
RICHARDSON: You know what? Even though I can see where his craziness comes from, 
even though I can see that it isnt entirely his fault that he is what he is, I 
cant dredge up any compassion for him. When I think about all of those girls 
who ended up in hospitals with their jaws broken and their eyes swollen shut . . 
. Listen, did any of those girls feel less pain because Salsburys evil isnt 
entirely his own doing? Im an old-style liberal when it comes to most things. 
But this liberal line about compassion for the criminalthats ninety percent 
horseshit. You can only spout that kind of garbage if you and your own family 
have been lucky enough to avoid animals like Salsbury. If it was up to me, Id 
put him on trial for all of those beatings. Then Id send him away to a cell 
somewhere, hundreds of miles from the nearest woman.
Dawson sighed.
He put the reports in the folder and returned the folder to the lower right-hand 
desk drawer.
O Lord, he thought prayerfully, give me the power to undo what damage hes done 
in Black River. If this mistake can be remedied, if the field test can be 
completed properly, then I will be able to feed the drug to both Ernst and 
Ogden. Ill be able to program them. Ive been making preparations. You know 
that. Ill be able to program them and convert them to Your holy fellowship. And 
not just them. The world. There will be no more souls for Satan. Heaven on 
earth. Thats what itll be, Lord. True heaven on earth, all in the shining 
light of Your love.
2:55 P.M.
Sam read the last line of Salsburys article, closed the book, and said, 
Jesus!
At least now we have some idea of whats happening in Black River, Paul said.
All of that crazy stuff about breaking down the ego, primer drugs, code 
phrases, achieving total control, bringing contentment to the masses through 
behavioral modification, the benefits of a subliminally directed society. . . 
Somewhat dazed by Salsburys rhetoric, Jenny shook her head as if that would 
help her to think more clearly. He sounds like a lunatic. Hes certifiable.
Hes a Nazi, Sam said, in spirit if not in name. Thats a very special breed 
of lunatic. A very deadly breed. And there are literally thousands of people 
like him, hundreds of thousands who would agree with every word he said about 
the benefits of a subliminally directed society.
Thunder exploded with such violence that it sounded as if the bowl of the sky 
had cracked in two. A fierce gust of wind slammed against the house. The tempo 
of the rain on the roof and windows picked up to double time.
Whatever he is, Paul said, hes done exactly what he said could be done. Hes 
made this insane scheme work. By God, that has to be whats happening here. It 
explains everything since the epidemic of night chills and nausea.
I still dont understand why Dad and I werent afflicted, Jenny said. 
Salisbury mentions in the article that the subliminal program would not affect 
illiterates and children who havent yet come to terms, however crude, with sex 
and death. But neither Dad nor I fit into one of those categories.
I think I can answer that, Paul said.
Sam said, So can I. One thing they teach budding pharmacologists is that no 
drug affects everyone the same way. On some people, for instance, penicillin has 
little or no effect. Some people dont respond well at all to sulfa drugs. I 
suspect that, for whatever reasons of genes and metabolisms and body 
chemistries, were among the tiny percentage of those who arent touched by 
Salsburys drug.
And thank God for that, Jenny said. She hugged herself and shivered.
There ought to be more adults unaffected, Paul said. Its summertime. People 
take vacations. Wasnt anyone out of town during the week when the reservoir was 
contaminated and the subliminal messages broadcast?
When the heavy snows come, Sam said, logging operations have to stop. So in 
the warm months everyone connected with the mill works his butt off to make sure 
there will be a stockpile of logs to keep the saws going all winter. No one at 
the mill takes a vacation in the summer, And everyone in town who serves the 
mill takes his time off in the winter too.
Paul felt as if he were on a turntable, whirling around and around. His mind 
spun with the implications of the article that Sam had read. Mark and Rya and I 
werent affected because we got to town after the contaminant had passed out of 
the reservoirand because we didnt watch whatever television programs or 
commercials contained the subliminal messages. But virtually everyone else in 
Black River is now under Salsbury's control.
They stared at one another.
The storm moaned at the window.
Finally Sam said, We enjoy the benefits and luxuries provided by modern 
scienceall the while forgetting that the technological revolution, just like 
the industrial revolution before it, has its dark side. For several long 
seconds, with the mantel clock ticking behind him, he studied the cover of the 
book in his hand. The more complex a society becomes, the more dependent each 
part of it becomes on every other part of it, the easier it is for one man, one 
lunatic or true believer, to destroy it all on a whim. One man working alone can 
assassinate a chief of state and precipitate major changes in his countrys 
foreign and domestic policies. They tell us that one man with a degree in 
biology and a lot of determination can culture more than enough plague bacillus 
to destroy the world. One man working alone can even build a nuclear bomb. All 
he needs is a college degree in physics. And the ability to get his hands on a 
few Pounds of plutonium. Which isnt so damned hard to do either. He can build a 
bomb inside a suitcase and wipe out New York
City because. . . Well, hell, why not because he was mugged there, or because he 
once got a traffic ticket in Manhattan and he doesn't think he deserved it.
But Salsbury cant be working alone, Jenny said.
I agree with you.
The resources needed to perfect and implement the program that he described in 
his article. . . Why, they would be enormous.
A private industry might be able to finance it, Paul said. A company as large 
as AT&T.
No, Sam said. Too many executives and research people would have to know 
about it. There would be a leak. It would never get this far without a leak to 
the press and a major scandal.
A single wealthy man could provide what Salsbury needed, Jenny said. Someone 
as rich as Onassis was. Or Hughes.
Tugging gently on his beard, Sam said, Its possible, I suppose. But were all 
avoiding the most logical explanation.
That Salsbury is working for the United States government, Paul said 
worriedly.
Exactly, Sam said. And if he is working for the government or the CIA or any 
branch of the militarythen were finished. Not just the three of us and Rya, 
but the whole damned country.
Paul went to the window, wiped away some of the dew, and stared at wind-lashed 
trees and billowing gray sheets of rain. Do you think that whats happening 
here is happening all over the country?
No, Sam said. If there were a general takeover in progress, Salsbury wouldnt 
be in a backwoods mill town. Hed be at a command post in Washington. Or 
somewhere else, anywhere else.
Then its a test. A field test,
Probably.
And thats maybe a good sign, Sam said. The government would run a field test 
where it already bad tight security. Most likely on an army or air force base. 
Not here.
Lightning blasted through the thunderheads; and for an instant the patterns of 
rain on the window seemed to form faces: Annies face, Marks face...
Suddenly Paul thought that his wife and son, although they had met quite 
different deaths, had been killed by the same force. Technology. Science. Annie 
had gone into the hospital for a simple appendectomy. It hadnt even been an 
emergency operation. The anesthesiologist had given her a 
brand-new-on-the-market-revolutionary-you-couldnt-ask-for-better anesthetic, 
something that wasnt as messy as ether, something that was easier to use 
(easier for the anesthesiologist) than pentothal. But after the operation she 
didnt regain consciousness as she should have done. She slipped, instead, into 
a coma. Shed had an allergic reaction to the 
brand-new-on-the-market-revolutionary-you-couldnt-ask-for-better anesthetic; 
and it had destroyed a large part of her liver. Fortunately, the doctors told 
him, the liver was the one organ of the body that could regenerate itself. If 
they kept her in the intensive care unit, supporting her life processes with 
machines, the liver would repair itself day by day, until eventually she would 
be well again. She was in intensive care for five weeks, at which time the 
doctors fed all of the data from the life-support machines into a Medico 
computer, and the computer told them that she was well enough to be moved out of 
intensive care and into a private room. Eleven weeks later, the same computer 
said she was well enough to go home. She was listless and apatheticbut she 
agreed that the computer must be right. Two weeks after she came home, she had a 
relapse and died within forty-eight hours. Sometimes he thought that if he had 
only been a medical doctor instead of a veterinarian, he might have saved her. 
But that was pointless masochism. What he could have done was demand that her 
Original surgery be performed with ether or pentothal, something known to be 
safe, something that had stood the test of decades. He could have told them to 
stuff their computer up their collective ass. But he hadnt done that either. He 
had trusted in their technology simply because it was technology, because it was 
all new. Americans were brought up to respect
what was new and progressiveand more often than they wanted to admit, they died 
for their faith in what was bright and shiny.
After Annie died he became suspicious of technology, of every new wonder that 
science gave to mankind. He read Paul Ehrlich and other back-to-the-land 
reformers. Gradually he came to see that the yearly camping trips to Black River 
could be the beginning of a serious program to free his children from the city, 
from the ever-growing dangers of the science and technology that the cities 
represented. The yearly trips became an education for lives they would live in 
harmony with nature.
But the back-to-the-land advocates were possessed by an impossible dream. He saw 
that now, saw it as clearly as he had ever seen anything in his life. They were 
trying to run away from technologybut it moved much faster than they did. There 
was no land to get back to anymore. The city, its science and technology, the 
effects of its life-style, had tendrils snaking out into even the most remote 
mountains and forests.
Furthermore, you ignored the advancements of science at your own peril. His 
ignorance about anesthetics and the reliability of the Medico computer had cost 
Annie her life. His ignorance of subliminal advertising and the research being 
done in that field had, if you wanted to stretch a point, cost Mark his life. 
The only way to survive in the 1970s and in the decades to follow was to plunge 
into the fast-moving, supertechnical society, swim with it, learn from it and 
about it, learn all that you could, and be its equal in any confrontation.
He turned away from the window. We cant go to Bexford and call the state 
police. If our own government is behind Salsbury, if our own leaders want to 
enslave us, well never win. Its hopeless. But if it isnt behind him, if it 
doesnt know what hes achieved, then we dont dare let it know. Because the 
moment the military finds outitll appropriate Salsburys discoveries; and 
there are some factions of the military that wouldnt be opposed to using 
subliminal programming against us.
Looking around at the books about Nazism, totalitarianism, and mob psychology, 
thinking ruefully of what hed learned
about some mens lust for power, Sam said, Youre right. Besides, Ive been 
thinking about the problems with the long-distance phone service.
Paul knew what he meant. Salsburys taken over the telephone exchange. 
And if hes done that, Sam said, hes taken other precautions too. Hes 
probably blockaded the roads and every other route out of town. We couldnt go 
to Bexford and tell the state police even if we still wanted to.
Were trapped, Jenny said quietly.
For the time being, Paul said, that really doesnt matter. Weve already 
decided theres no place to run anyway. But if hes not working for the 
government, if hes backed by a corporation or a single wealthy man, maybe weve 
got a chance to stop him here in Black River.
Stop him . . . Sam stared thoughtfully at the floor. Do you realize what 
youre saying? Wed have to get our hands on him, interrogate himand then kill 
him. Death is the only thing that will stop a man like that. Wed also have to 
find out from him who hes associated withand kill anyone else who might 
understand how the drug was made and how the subliminal program was 
constructed. He looked up from the floor. That could mean two murders, three, 
four, or a dozen.
None of us is a killer, Jenny said.
Every mans a potential killer, Paul said. When it comes to matters of 
survival, any man is capable of anything. And this is sure as hell a matter of 
survival.
I killed men in the war, Sam said.
So did I, Paul said. A different war than yours. But the same act.
That was different, Jenny said.
Was it?
That was war, she said.
This is war too, Paul said.
She stared at Pauls hands, as if imagining them with a knife or a gun or 
clamped around a mans throat.
Sensing her thoughts, he raised his hands and studied them
for a moment. On occasion, washing his hands before dinner or after treating a 
sick animal, he would flash back to the war, back to Southeast Asia. He would 
hear the guns and see the blood again in his memory. In these almost psychic 
moments, he was both amazed and dismayed that the same hands were accustomed to 
mundane and horrible acts, that they could heal or injure, make love or kill, 
and look no different after the task was done. Codified morality, he thought, 
was indeed a blessing but also a curse of civilization. A blessing because it 
permitted men to live in harmony most of the time. A curse because when the 
Jaws of nature and especially of human nature made it necessary for a man to 
wound or kill another man in order to save himself and his familyit spawned 
remorse and guilt even if the violence was unwanted and unavoidable.
Besides, he reminded himself, these are the 1970s. This is the age of science 
and technology when a man often is required to act with the implacable and 
unemotional savagery of the machine. For better or worse, in these times 
gentility is becoming less and less a sign of the civilized man and is, in fact, 
very nearly an obsolescent quality. You see gentility, most often, in those who 
are least likely to survive wave after wave of future shock.
Lowering his hands he said, In the classic paranoid vein, its us against them. 
Except that this isnt a delusion or an illusion; its real.
Jenny seemed to accept the need for murder as quickly as he had accepted the 
fact that he might be called upon to commit it. By this point in her life, she 
had experienced, as had all but the most gentle people, at least the flickering 
of a homicidal urge in a moment of despair or great frustration. She hadnt 
accepted it as the solution to whatever problem had inspired it. But she was not 
incapable of conceiving of a situation in which homicide was the most reasonable 
response to a threat. In spite of the overprotected, sheltered upbringing of 
which shed spoken last Monday, she could adapt to even the most unpleasant 
truths. Perhaps, Paul thought, the ordeal with her first husband
had made her stronger, tougher, and more resilient than she realized.
She said, Even if we could bring ourselves to kill in order to stop this thing. 
. . Well, its still too much. To stop Salsbury, we need to know more about him. 
And how do we learn anything? Hes got hundreds of bodyguards. Or if he wants, 
he can turn everyone in town into killers and send them after us. Do we just sit 
here, pass the time, wait for him to stop around for a chat?
Returning the hardbound volume of essays to the shelf from which hed taken it, 
Sam said, Wait a minute.. . Suppose. . . He faced them. He was excited. All 
three of them were tense, twisted as tight as watch springs. But now a glimmer 
of pleasurable excitement was in his Santa Clauslike features. When Salsbury 
saw Rya standing in the kitchen doorway at the Thorp house, what do you imagine 
he did, very first thing?
Grabbed for her, Jenny said.
Wrong.
Bitterly, Paul said, Ordered Bob to kill her.
Not that either. Remember, he would expect her to be another one of 
hiszombies.
Sucking in her breath, Jenny said, He would use the code phrase on her, the 
system he talks about in the article. Hed try to open her up and take control 
of her before she ran away. So . . . Rya must have heard the code phrase!
And if she can recall it, Sam said, well have control of everyone in Black 
River, the same as Salsbury. He wont be able to send them after us. He wont 
have hundreds of bodyguards to hide behind. It wont be us against them. Itll 
be us against him.
6
3:15 P.M.
 
DR. WALTER TROUTMAN entered the police chiefs office. He was carrying his black 
leather satchel in his right hand and a chocolate candy bar with almonds in his 
left. He appeared to be delighted with the world and with himself. You wanted 
to see me, Bob?
Before Thorp could answer, Salsbury stepped away from the windows and said, I 
am the key.
I am the lock.
Buddy Pellineri is waiting in the room across the hail, Salsbury said. You 
know him, dont you?
Buddy? Troutman asked, wrinkling his fleshy face. Well, of course I know 
him.
Ive told him that were afraid hes picked up a very bad germ and that youre 
going to give him a vaccination so he wont get sick. As you know, hes not 
especially bright. He believed me. Hes waiting for you.
Vaccination? Troutman said, perplexed.
Thats what I told him to keep him here. Instead, youll inject an air bubble 
into his bloodstream.
Troutman was shocked. That would cause an embolism.
I know.
It would kill him!
Salsbury smiled and nodded. It had better. Thats the whole idea, doctor.
Looking at Bob Thorp, who was seated behind the desk, then back at Salsbury, 
Troutman said miserably, But I cant do a thing like that. I cant possibly.
am I, doctor? Yourethe key.
Very good. And who are your
Im the lock.
All right. You will go across the hail to the room where Buddy is waiting. 
Youll chat with him, be very pleasant, give him no cause to be suspicious. 
Youll tell him that youre going to give him a vaccination, and youll inject 
an air bubble into his bloodstream. You wont mind killing him. You wont 
hesitate. As soon as he is dead, youll leave the roomand you will remember 
only that you gave him a shot of penicillin. You wont remember killing him when 
you leave that room. You will come back here, look in the door, and say to Bob, 
Hell be better in the morning. Then youll go back to your house, having 
forgotten entirely about these instructions. Is that clear?
Yes.
Go do it.
Troutman left the room.
Ten minutes ago Salsbury had decided to eliminate Buddy Pellineri. Although the 
man had experienced the night chills and nausea, and although he had been 
partially brainwashed by by the subceptive program, he was not a good subject. 
He could not be fully and easily controlled. When told to erase from his memory 
the men he had seen coming down from the reservoir on the morning of August 
sixth, he might forget them forever or only for a few hours. Or not at all. Had 
he been been a genius, the drug and the subliminals would have transformed him 
into the ideal slave. Ironically, however, his ignorance condemned him.
It was a pity that Buddy had to die. In his own way he was a likable brute.
But Ive got the power, Salsbury thought. And Im going to
keep it. Im going to eliminate as many people as have to be eliminated for me 
to keep the power. Ill show them. All of them. Dawson, good old Miriam, the 
bitches, the holier-than-thou college professors with their snotty questions and 
self-righteous denunciations of my work, the whores, my mother, the bitches . . 
. Tat-tat-tat-tat. . . No one is going to take this away from me. No one. Not 
ever. Never.
3:20 P.M.
Rya sat up in bed, yawning and smacking her lips. She looked from Jenny to Sam 
to Paulbut she didnt seem to know for certain who they were.
Do you remember what he said? Paul asked again. The man with the thick 
glasses. Do you remember?
Squinting at him, scratching her head, she said, Who . . . am this?
Shes still dopey, Jenny said, and will be for a while yet. Studying the 
girl from the foot of the bed, Sam said, Salsbury knows hes got to deal with 
us. As soon as hes decided how, hell come here. We dont have time to wait for 
the sedative to wear off. Weve got to help her come out of it. He looked at 
Jenny. You give her a cold shower. A long one. Ill make some fresh coffee.
Dont like coffee, Rya said sullenly.
You like tea, dont you?
Sokay. She yawned.
Sam hurried downstairs to make a pot of tea.
Jenny hustled Rya out of bed and into the bathroom at the end of the hallway.
Left alone, Paul went to the living room to sit with Marks body until Rya was 
ready to be questioned.
When you decide to meet that big, bright, shiny, chrome-edged American world on 
its own terms, he thought, things start to move. Faster and faster and faster.
3:26 P.M.
Dr. Troutman leaned in the open doorway and said, Hell be better in the 
morning.
Thats fine, Bob Thorp said. You go along home now. Popping the last piece 
of his chocolate-almond bar into his mouth, the doctor said, Take care. He 
walked away.
To Thorp, Salsbury said, Get some help. Move the body into one of the cells. 
Stretch him out on the bunk so that he looks like hes sleeping.
4:16 P.M.
Rain gurgled noisily down the leader beside the kitchen window.
The room smelled of lemons.
Steam rose from the spout of the teapot and from the china cup.
Rya wiped away her tears, blinked in sudden recollection, and said, Oh. Oh, yes 
. . . I am the key.
4:45 P.M.
The downpour dwindled abruptly to a drizzle. Soon the rain stopped altogether.
Salsbury raised one of the Venetian blinds and looked out at North Union Road. 
The gutters were overflowing. A miniature lake had formed down toward the square 
where a drainage grating was clogged with leaves and grass. The trees dripped 
like melting candles.
He was glad to see it end. He had begun to worry about the turbulent flying 
conditions that Dawsons helicopter pilot would have to face.
One way or another, Dawson had to get to Black River to-
night. Salsbury didnt actually need help to deal with the situation; but he did 
need to be able to share the blame if the field test went even further awry.
Neither of his current options was without risk. He could send Bob Thorp and a 
couple of deputies to the general store to arrest the Edisons and the 
Annendales. Of course there might be trouble, violence, even a shoot-out. Every 
additional corpse or missing person that had to be explained to the authorities 
outside of Black River increased the chance of discovery. On the other hand, if 
he had to maintain the roadblock through tomorrow, keep control of the town, and 
perpetuate the state of siege, his chances of coming out on top of this would be 
less promising than they were now.
What in the devil was happening at Edisons place? They had found the boys 
body. He knew that. He had assigned several guards to cover the store. Why 
hadnt they come here to see Bob Thorp? Why hadnt they tried to leave town? Why 
hadnt they, in short, acted like anyone else would have done? Surely, even with 
Buddys story to build from, they couldnt have reconstructed the truth behind 
the events of the past few weeks. They couldnt know who he really was. They 
probably didnt know about subliminal advertising in generaland certainly not 
about his research in specific. He suddenly wished that he had brought his 
briefcase with the infinity transmitter from Pauline Vickers rooming house.
Everything looks so crisp and fresh after a summer rain, doesnt it? Bob Thorp 
asked.
Im glad its over, Salsbury said.
It isnt. Not by a long shot.
Salsbury turned from the windows. What?
Smiling, as amiable as Salsbury had ordered him to be, Bob Thorp said, These 
summer storms start and stop half a dozen times before theyre finished. Thats 
because they bounce back and forth, back and forth between the mountains until 
they finally find a way out.
Thinking of Dawsons helicopter, Salsbury said, Since when are you a 
meteorologist?
Well, Ive lived here all my life, except for my hitch in the service. Ive 
seen hundreds of storms like this one, and they
I said its over! The storm is over, Finished. Done with. Do you understand?
Frowning, Thorp said, The storm is over.
I want it to be over, Salsbury said. So it is. Its over if I say it is. 
isnt it?
Of course.
All right.
Its over.
Dumb cop.
Thorp said nothing.
Arent you a dumb cop?
Im not dumb.
I say you are. Youre dumb. Stupid. Stupid as an ox. Arent you, Bob?
Yes.
Say it.
What?
That youre as stupid as an ox.
Im as stupid as an ox.
Returning to the window, Salsbury stared angrily at the lowering cobalt clouds.
Eventually he said, Bob, I want you to go to Pauline Vickers house.
Thorp stood up at once.
Ive got a room on the second floor, the first door on the right at the head of 
the stairs. Youll find a leather briefcase beside the bed. Fetch it for me.
4:55 P.M.
The four of them went through the crowded stockroom and onto the rear porch of 
the general store.
Immediately, twenty yards away on the wet emerald-green
lawn, a man moved out of the niche formed by two angled rows of lilac bushes. He 
was a tall, hawk-faced man in horn-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a dark 
raincoat and holding a double-barreled shotgun.
Do you know him? Paul asked.
Harry Thurston, Jenny said. Hes a foreman at the mill. Lives next door.
With one hand Rya clutched Pauls shirt. Her self-confidence and her faith in 
people had been seriously eroded by what she had seen Bob Thorp do to her 
brother. Watching the man with the shotgun, trembling, her voice pitched 
slightly higher than it normally was, she said, Is he . . . going to shoot US?
Paul placed one hand on her shoulder, squeezed gently, reassuringly. Nobodys 
going to be shot.
As he spoke he ardently wished that he could believe what he was telling her.
Fortunately, Sam Edison sold a line of firearms in addition to groceries, dry 
goods, drugs, notions and sundries; therefore, they werent defenseless. Jenny 
had a .22 rifle. Sam and Paul were both carrying Smith & Wesson Combat Magnum 
revolvers loaded with .38 Special cartridges which would produce only half of 
the fierce kick of Magnum ammunition. However, they didnt want to use the guns, 
for they were trying to leave the house secretly; they kept the guns at their 
sides, barrels aimed at the porch floor.
Ill handle this, Sam said. He went across the porch to the wooden steps and 
started down.
Hold it right there, said the man with the shotgun. He came ten yards closer. 
He pointed the weapon at Sams chest, kept his finger on the trigger, and 
watched all of them with unconcealed anxiety and distrust.
Paul glanced at Jenny.
She was biting her lower lip. She looked as if she wanted to swing up her rifle 
and level it at Harry Thurstons head.
That might set off a meaningless but disastrous exchange of gunfire.
He had a mental image of the shotgun booming. Booming again. . . Flame 
blossoming from the muzzles . .
Calm, he said quietly.
Jenny nodded.
At the bottom of the steps, still twenty-five feet from the man with the 
shotgun, Sam held out a hand in greeting. When Thurston ignored it, Sam said, 
Harry?
Thurstons shotgun didnt waver. Neither did his expression. But he said, 
Hello, Sam.
What are you doing here, Harry?
You know, Thurston said.
Im afraid I dont.
Guarding you, Thurston said.
From what?
From escaping.
Youre here to keep us from escaping from our own house? Sam grimaced. Why 
would we want to escape from our own house? Harry, you arent talking sense.
Thurston frowned. Im guarding you, he said stubbornly.
For whom?
The police. Ive been deputized. Deputized? By whom?
Bob Thorp.
When?
An hour.. . hour and a half.
Why does Bob want you to keep us in the house?
You know why, Thurston said again.
Ive already told you that I dont know.
Youve done something. What have we done? Something wrong. Illegal. You 
know us better than that. Thurston said nothing. Dont you, Harry? Silence.
What have we done? Sam insisted. I dont know.
Bob didnt tell you?
Im just an emergency deputy.
The shotgun looks nonetheless deadly for that, Paul thought.
You dont know what were supposed to have done? Sam asked. But youre 
willing to shoot us if we try to leave?
Those are my orders.
How long have you known me?
Twenty years anyway.
And Jenny?
A long time.
Youre willing to kill old friends just because someone tells you to? Sam 
asked. He was probing, trying to discover the breadth and depth of Salsburys 
control.
Thurston couldnt answer that question. His eyes flicked from one to the other 
of them, and he shuffled his feet in the wet grass. He was exceedingly nervous, 
confused, and exasperated but he was determined to do what the chief of police 
had asked of him.
Unable to take his eyes off the finger that was curled tightly around the 
shotgun trigger, unable to look at Sam when he spoke to him, Paul said, We 
better get on with this. I think maybe youve pushed him far enough.
I think so too, Sam said tensely. And then to Thurston: I am the key.
I am the lock.
Lower the gun, Harry. Thurston obeyed.
Thank God, Jenny said. Come here, Harry.
Thurston went to Sam.
Ill be damned, Jenny said.
A perfect zombie, Paul thought. A regular little tin soldier.. A chill passed 
along his spine.
Sam said, Harry, who really told you to come over here and keep a watch on us?
Bob Thorp.
Tell me the truth.
It was Bob Thorp, Thurston said, perplexed.
It wasnt a man named Salsbury?
Salsbury? No.
Havent you met Salsbury?
No. Who are you talking about? Maybe he called himself Albert Deighton. Who 
did? Thurston asked. Salsbury.
I dont know anyone named Deighton.
Jenny, Rya, and Paul came down the rain-slick steps and joined the two men.
Salsburys obviously working through Bob Thorp, Jenny said, one way or 
another.
What are you people talking about? Thurston asked.
Sam said, Harry, I am the key.
I am the lock.
Taking a moment to study Thurston and to decide upon his approach, Sam finally 
said, Harry, we are going for a walk up toward Hattie Langes house. You wont 
try to stop us. Is that clear?
I wont stop you.
You wont shoot us.
No. Of course not.
You wont call out or make trouble of any kind.
Thurston shook his head: no.
When we leave here, Sam said, youll go back to the lilac bush. Youll forget 
that we ever came out of the house. Is that clear?
Yes.
I want you to forget that weve had this little talk. When the four of us leave 
here, I want you to forget every word thats been spoken between us. Can you do 
that, Harry?
Sure. Ill forget that we talked, that I saw any of you just now, all of it, 
like a you said.
For a human robot, for an honest-to-God zombie, Paul thought, he seemed damned 
relaxed.
Youll think were still inside, Sam said.
Thurston stared at the back of the general store.
Youll guard the place exactly as you were doing a few minutes ago, Sam said.
Guard it.. . Thats what Bob told me to do.
Then do it, Sam said. And forget youve seen us.
Obediently, Harry Thurston returned to the man-size niche in the wall of lilac 
bushes. He stood with his feet apart. He held the shotgun in both hands, 
parallel to the ground, prepared to raise it and fire within a second if faced 
with a sudden threat.
Incredible, Jenny said.
Looks like a storm trooper, Sam said wearily. Come on. Lets get out of 
here.
Jenny followed him.
Paul took hold of Ryas icy hand.
Her face drawn, a haunted look in her eyes, she squeezed his hand and said, 
Will it be all right again?
Sure. Everything will be fine before much longer, he told her, not certain if 
that was the truth or another lie.
They went west, across the rear lawns of the neighboring houses, walking fast 
and hoping they wouldnt be seen.
With every step Paul expected someone to shout at them. And in spite of the 
manner in which Harry Thurson had behaved, he also expected to hear a shotgun 
blast close behind him, much too close behind him, inches from his shoulder 
blades: one sudden apocalyptic roar and then an endless silence.
Halfway down the block they came to the back of St. Lukes, the towns 
all-denominational church. It was a freshly painted, neatly kept rectangular 
white frame structure on a brick-faced foundation. There was a five-story-high 
bell tower at the front of the building, out on the Main Street side.
Sam tried the rear door and found it unlocked. They slipped inside, one at a 
time.
For two or three minutes they stood in the narrow, musty, windowless foyer, and 
waited to see if Harry Thurston or anyone else would follow them.
No one did.
Small blessings, Jenny said.
Sam led them into the chamber behind the altar. That room was even darker than 
the foyer. They accidentally knocked over a rack full of choir gownsand stood 
very still until the echo
of the crash had faded away, until they were certain that they hadnt revealed 
themselves.
Holding hands, forming a human chain, they stumbled out of that room and onto 
the altar platform. Because the storm clouds filtered the day into twilight 
before it was filtered again by the leaded stained-glass windows, the church 
proper was only marginally brighter than the room behind it, Nevertheless, there 
was sufficient light to allow them to break the chain; and they followed Sam 
along the center aisle, between the two ranks of pews, without having to feel 
their way as if they were blind people in a strange house.
At the rear of the nave, on the left-hand side, Sam pulled open a door. Beyond 
lay an enclosed spiral staircase. Sam went first; Jenny went next, then Rya.
Paul stood on the bottom step, staring out at the shadowy church for a minute or 
two. His revolver was ready in his right hand. When the big room remained silent 
and deserted, he closed the stairwell door and went up to join the others.
The top of the bell tower was a nine-foot-square platform. The bellone yard 
wide at the mouthwas at the center of the platform, of course, suspended from 
the highest point of the arched ceiling. A chain was welded to the rim of the 
bell and trailed through a small hole in the floor, down to the base of the 
tower where the toiler could tug on it. The walls were only four feet high, open 
from there to the ceiling. A white pillar rose at each corner, supporting the 
peaked, slate-shingled roof. Because the roof overhung the wails by four feet on 
all sides, the rain hadnt come in through the open spaces; and the belfry 
platform was dry.
When he reached the head of the stairs, Paul got on his hands and knees. People 
seldom looked up as they hurried about their business, especially when they were 
in a familiar place; however, there was no reason to risk being seen. He crawled 
around the bell to the opposite side of the platform.
Jenny and Rya were sitting on the floor, their back to the half-wall. The .22 
rifle lay at Jennys side. She was talking to the girl in a low voice, telling 
her a joke or a story, trying to help
her ease her tensions and overcome some of her grief. Jenny glanced at Paul, 
smiled, but kept her attention focused on Rya.
That should be my job, Paul thought. Helping Rya. Reassuring her and comforting 
her, being with her.
And then he thought, No. For the time being, your job is to prepare yourself to 
kill at least one man. Maybe two or three. Maybe as many as half a dozen.
Suddenly he wondered how the violence past and the violence yet to come would 
affect his relationship with his daughter. Knowing he had killed several men, 
would Rya fear him as she now feared Bob Thorp? Knowing he was capable of the 
ultimate brutal act, would she ever be at ease with him again? Death had taken 
his wife and his son. Would alienation take his daughter from him?
Sam was on his knees, peering over the belfry wall.
Deeply disturbed but aware that this wasnt the time to worry about more than a 
few hours of the future, easing in beside Sam, Paul looked eastward, to his 
left. He could see Edisons General Store half a block away. Karkovs service 
station and garage. The houses in the last section of town. The baseball diamond 
on the meadow near the river. At the end of the valley, near the bend in the 
highway, a police car was angled across both lanes.
Roadblock.
Sam said, Ive seen it.
Salsbury does have us penned up.
And right now hes probably wondering why the hell we havent tried to call the 
cops or leave Black River.
To Pauls right was the main part of town. The square. Ultmans Cafe with its 
pair of enormous black oak trees. The municipal building. Beyond the square, 
more lovely houses:
brick houses and stone houses and white gingerbread Gothic houses and trim 
little bungalows. A couple of shops with striped awnings out in front. The 
telephone company office. St. Margaret Marys. The cemetery. The Union Theater 
with its old fashioned marquee. And then the road to the mill. The entire 
panorama, so recently scrubbed by the storm, looked crisp and
bright and quaintand too innocent to contain the evil that he knew it harbored.
You still think Salsburys holed up in the municipal building? Paul asked.
"Where else?
I guess so.
The chiefs office is the logical command center.
Paul looked at his watch. A quarter past five.
Well wait here until dark, Sam said. Nine oclock or thereabouts. Then well 
sneak across the street, get past his guards with the code phrase, and reach him 
before hes seen us coming.
It sounds so easy.
It will be, Sam said.
Lightning flashed like a fuse and thunder exploded and rain like shrapnel 
clattered on the tower roof and on the streets below.
5:20 P.M.
Smiling as he had been told to smile, his arms folded across his broad chest, 
Bob Thorp leaned casually against the window sill and watched Salsbury, who was 
working at Bobs desk
The infinity transmitter was connected to the office telephone. The line was 
open to Sam Edisons placeor at least the number had been dialed, and the line 
should have been open.
Salsbury hunched over the chiefs desk, the receiver gripped so tightly in his 
right hand that his knuckles appeared to be about to slice through the pale skin 
that sheathed them. He listened closely for some sound, some insignificant tiny 
little sound of human origin, from the general store or from the living quarters 
on the two floors above the store.
Nothing.
Come on, he said impatiently.
Silence.
Cursing the infinity transmitter, telling himself that the damned thing hadnt 
worked, that it was a piece of crappy Belgian-made hardware and so what could 
you expect, he hung up. He checked to see if the wires were attached to the 
proper terminals, then dialed the Edisons number again.
The line opened: hissing, a soft roar not unlike the echo of your own 
circulation when you held a seashell to your ear.
In the background at the Edisons place, a clock ticked rather noisily, 
hollowly.
He looked at his watch. 5:24
Nothing. Silence.
5:26
He hung up, dialed again.
He heard the ticking clock.
5:28
5:29
5:30
 
No one spoke over there. No one cried or laughed or sighed or coughed or yawned 
or moved.
5:32
5:33
Salsbury pressed the receiver to his ear as hard as he could, concentrated, 
strained with his whole body and attention to hear Edison or Annendale or one of 
the others.
5:34
5:35
They were over there. Dammit, they were!
5:36
He slammed the receiver into its cradle.
The bastards know Im listening to them, he thought. Theyre trying to be quiet, 
trying to worry me. Thats it. That has to be
it.
He picked up the telephone and dialed the Edisons number.
A ticking clock. Nothing else.
5:39
5:40
 
Bastards!
He hung up the phone with a bang!
Suddenly he was drenched with perspiration.
Clammy and uncomfortable, he got to his feet. But he was frozen by rage; he 
couldnt move.
He said to Thorp, Even if they did get out of the store some way, somehow, they 
cant have left town. Thats absolutely impossible. None of thems a magician. 
They cant have done it. Ive got it all sewed up. Havent I?
Thorp smiled at him. He was still operating under the previous orders Salsbury 
had given him.
Answer me, damn you!
Thorps smile vanished.
Salsbury was livid and greasy with sweat. Havent I got this fucking town sewed 
up tight?
Oh, yes, Thorp said obediently.
No one can get out of this crummy burg unless I let them out of it. Isnt that 
right?
Yes. Youve got it sewn up.
Salsbury was shaking. Dizzy. Even if they slipped out of the store, I can find 
them. I can find them any damned time I want to. Cant I?
Yes.
I can tear this goddamned town apart, rip it wide open and find those 
sonsofbitches.
Any time you want.
They cant escape.
Abruptly sitting down, almost as if he had collapsed, Salsbury said, But that 
doesnt matter. They havent left the store. They cant have left it. Its 
guarded. Closely guarded. Its a damned prison. So theyre still in the place. 
Being quiet as mice. They know Im listening. Theyre dying to trick me. Thats 
what it is. A trick. Thats precisely what it is.
He dialed the Edisons number.
He heard the familiar ticking of the clock in one of the rooms where there was a 
receiver.
5:44
5:45
He hung up.
Dialed again.
Ticking...
5:46
5:47
He hung up.
Grinning at the chief of police, he said, Do you realize what they want me to 
do?
Thorp shook his head: no.
They want me to panic. They want me to order you to make a house-to-house 
search for them. He giggled. I could do that. I could make everyone in town 
cooperate in a house-to-house search. But that would take hours. And then Id 
have to erase the memory of it from everyones mind, Four hundred minds. That 
would take a couple of hours more. They want me to waste my time. Precious time. 
They want me to panic and waste hours and maybe give them a chance to slip by me 
in the confusion. Isnt that what they want?
Salsbury giggled. Well, Im not playing their game. Im going to wait for 
Dawson and Klinger. Im not going to panic. Not me. I am in control of the 
situationand Ill stay that way.
Ti-under boomed over the valley and reverberated in the two office windows.
He dialed the general store.
5:50
5:51
He giggled and hung up.
Then he had a startling thought: if the Edisons and the Annendales knew he was 
listening to them, that meant they knew the entire story, the truth, knew who he 
was, really was, and what be was doing here in Black River. . . And that was 
impossible.
He dialed again.
5:52
Nothing. Silence.
He put down the receiver and turned to Thorp. Well, I guess it doesnt matter 
if they do know. They cant get away. Ive got them where I want them. I have 
the power . . . He stared at the infinity transmitter for a while, then looked 
back at Thorp. What do you think Miriam will do when she finds out about the 
power Ive got?
Whos Miriam?
You know Miriam.
I dont know her.
Shes my ex-wife.
A rotten bitch.
Thorp said nothing.
Frigid as a Popsicle.
Im sorry.
I know what shell do, Salsbury said. Shell come crawling to me. Old Miriam. 
Crawling to me, Bob. On her hands and knees. She will. Wont she?
Yes, Thorp said.
The power...
You know what Ill do?
Thorp said, No.
You know what the hell Ill do when that rotten bitch comes on her hands and 
knees, crawling on her hands and knees to me?
Kick her in the face.
Thats assault, Thorp said.
Same for Dawson. Kick him in the face.
Thats assault. Youll wind up in jail.
Ill get Dawson, Salsbury said solemnly. Then he giggled. Ill get that 
sanctimonious old bastard.
Thorp frowned.
Think I could find a pair of jackboots, Bob?
A pair of what?
Maybe there are a few people, just a few people, not many mind you, that Id 
want jackboots for.
6:30 P.M.
 
Hello?
Mrs. Wolinski?
Yes.
I am the key.
I am the lock.
Is your husband there? Hes upstairs right now.
Is he alone upstairs? Alone? Yes. Are you alone downstairs? Yes.
Do you know Sam Edison? Oh, sure.
Is he at your house now? Sam? No.
Is Jenny Edison at your house? No. Why should she be?
Havent you seen either of the Edisons today?
No. Look here, I
Mrs. Wolinski, when you hang up your telephone, youll forget every word of 
this conversation. Youll only remember that someone called and tried to sell 
you life insurance. Someone from Bexford. Is that understood?
Yes.
Hang up, Mrs. Wolinski.
 
6:45 P.M.
St. Margaret Marys.
Is this the rectory? Yes, it is. Father OHara? Speaking.
I am the key.
I am the lock.
Are you alone, father?
Yes.
What about your housekeeper?
Shes gone home for the day.
Do you know Sam and Jenny Edison?
Certainly. Fine people. Is either of them with you now?
Here at the rectory? No.
In the church perhaps? No. Why do you ask?
Have you seen either of the Edisons today?
No. I
Do you know Paul Annendale?
I dont believe so. If theres some sort of emergency Shut up, OHara. When 
you hang up your telephone, youll forget every word of this conversation. 
Youll only remember that someone dialed a wrong number. Is that understood?
Yes.
Hang up, OHara.
 
7:00 P.M.
 
 
either of the Edisons today? I saw Sam. Down at the store. When was that, 
Mrs. Jamison? This morning. Around nine. You havent seen him since?
Mrs. Jamison, I dont want you to go away from the phone. You stand right 
there. But give the receiver to your husband.
Hello?
Mr. Jamison?
Yes?
I am the key.
I am the lock.
 
7:30 P.M.
 
 
...dont want you to go away from the phone, Mrs. Potter. You stand right 
there. But give the receiver to Reverend Potter.
All right. Just a minute. .
Hello?
Reverend Potter?
This is he.
I am the key.
I am the lock.
Do you know Sam and Jenny Edison? Yes. Very well, in fact.
Have you seen either of them today? "No."
Are you absolutely sure of that?
Oh, yes. Absolutely.
Have you talked to either of them today?
No. I
Do you know Paul Annendale or his daughter? Yes. Every year they
Have you seen or talked to them today?
No. Ive spent the day
What the fucks happening, Potter?
I beg your pardon?
Where in the hell are they?
I dont like foul language or
Ive called fifty people in the past hour and a half. Nobodys seen them. 
Nobodys heard from them. Nobody knows anything. Well, theyve got to be in this 
town. Im damn sure of that! They cant get out . . . Christ. You know what I 
think, Potter? I think theyre still in the general store.
"If-"
Being quiet as mice. Trying to fool me. They want me to come looking for them. 
They want me to send Bob Thorp after
them. They probably have guns in there. Well, they cant fool me. Theyre not 
going to start a shooting match and leave me with a dozen bodies to account for. 
Ill wait them out. Ill get them, Potter. And you know what Ill do when I get 
my hands on them? The Edisons will have to be studied, of course. Ill have to 
End out why they didnt respond to the drug and the subliminals. But I know why 
the Annendales didnt respond. They werent here for the program. So when I get 
them, I can dispose of them right away. Right away. Ill have Bob Thorp blow 
their fucking heads off. The sonsofbitches. Thats exactly what Ill do.
7
9:00 P.M.
AT DUSK, when the thunderstorm temporarily abated for the fourth time that day, 
a streamlined executive helicopter, painted bright yellow and black like a 
hornet, already gleaming with green and red running lights, fluttered into the 
east end of the Black River valley. It was flying low, no higher than sixty feet 
above the ground. It followed Main Street toward the town square, chopping up 
the humid air. A flat echo of the stuttering blades rebounded from the wet 
pavement below.
In the bell tower of the all-denominational church, also sixty feet above the 
ground-but safely hidden in the deep shadows that were cast by the overhanging 
belfry roofRya, Jenny, Paul, and Sam watched the aircraft as it approached. In 
the penumbral, purple-gray twilight the helicopter seemed dangerously close to 
them; but no one in it was looking their way. However, the waning daylight was 
still bright enough to allow them to see into the flight deck and into the cozy 
passenger cabin behind it.
"Two men besides the pilot, Sam said.
At the square the helicopter hovered for a moment, then swept across the 
municipal building and settled into the parking lot ten yards from the spare 
police car.
As the evening quietude returned in the aircrafts wake, jenny said, Do you 
think those men are connected with Salsbury?
No doubt about it, Sam said.
Government?
Paul said, No.
I agree, Sam said almost happily. Even the Presidents chopper is 
military-style on the outsidealthough probably not on the inside. The 
government doesnt use sleek little executive machines like that yellow and 
black job.
Which doesnt rule out the governments having a part in this, Paul said.
Oh, certainly not. It doesnt rule out anything, Sam said. But its a good 
sign.
What now? Rya asked.
Now we watch and wait, Paul said, his eyes fixed on the white-brick municipal 
building. Just watch and wait.
The damp air still held an unpleasant tang of the helicopter's exhaust fumes.
Up in the mountains, thunder rumbled menacingly. Lightning arced between two of 
the higher peaks as if they were terminals in Frankensteins laboratory.
To Paul time seemed almost at a standstill. Each minute ticked on and on and on. 
Each second was like a tiny bubble of air rising slowly through the bottle of 
glucose on the intravenous-feeding rack that he had watched for hour after 
leaden hour at Annies hospital bedside.
Finally, at 9:20 two cars came down Main Street from the municipal building: the 
second police cruiser and a one-year-old Ford LTD. The four headlamps sliced 
open the crescent darkness. Half a block beyond the church, they parked at the 
curb in front of the general store.
Bob Thorp and two men with handguns climbed out of the squad car. For a moment 
they stood in the splash of amber white light from the LTD; then they went up 
the porch steps and disappeared beneath the veranda roof.
Three men got out of the second car. They left the engine
running and the doors open. They didnt follow Thorp; they remained at the LTD. 
Because they were standing behind the headlights, they were for the most part in 
darkness. Paul couldnt tell if they were armed or not. But he knew for certain 
who they were: Salsbury and the two passengers from the helicopter.
Do you want to go down there and take them now? Paul asked Sam. While they 
have their backs to us?
Too risky. We dont know if theyve got guns. They might hear us coming. And 
even if we did catch them by surprise, one of them would get away, sure as hell. 
Lets wait a bit.
At 9:35 one of Bob Thorps deputies came down the porch steps and joined the 
three men at the second car. They talked, possibly argued, for a few seconds. 
The deputy remained at the LTD while Salsbury and his associates mounted the 
steps to the general store.
9:50 P.M.
 
 
Turning away from the bookshelves in Sam Edisons study, Dawson said, All right 
then. Now we understand how they might have pieced it together. Ogden, do they 
know the code phrases?
Shocked by the question, Salsbury said, Of course not! How in the hell could 
they know?
The little girl might have heard you use them with Thorp or with her brother.
No, he said. Impossible. She didnt Step into that doorway until long after I 
gave up trying to get control of her brotherand long, long after Id already 
assumed control of Thorp.
Did you try to use the phrase on her?
Did I? Salsbury wondered. I remember seeing her there, taking a step toward her, 
being unable to catch her. But did I use the code phrase?
He rejected that notion because if he accepted it he would
have to accept defeat, complete destruction. No, he told Dawson. I didnt 
have time to use the phrase. I saw her. She turned and ran. I ran after her, but 
she was too fast.
Youre absolutely certain?
Absolutely.
Regarding Salsbury with unvarnished disgust, the general said, You should have 
foreseen this development with Edison. You should have known about this library, 
this hobby of his.
How in the hell could I foresee any of it? Salsbury asked. His face was 
flushed. His myopic eyes seemed to bulge even more than usual behind his thick 
glasses.
If you had done your duty
Duty, Salsbury said scornfully. Half of his anger was generated by his fear; 
but it was important that neither Dawson nor Klinger see that. This isnt the 
stinking military, Ernst. This isnt the army. Im not one of your oh-so-humble 
enlisted men.
Klinger turned away from him, went to the window, and said, Maybe wed all be 
better off if you were.
Willing the general to look at him, aware that he was at a disadvantage so long 
as Klinger felt safe enough to turn his back, Salsbury said, Christ! No matter 
how careful Id been
Thats enough, Dawson said. He spoke softly but with such command that 
Salsbury stopped talking and the general looked away from the window. We 
havent time for arguments and accusations. Weve got to find those four 
people.
They cant have gotten out of town through the east end of the valley, 
Salsbury said. I know Ive got that sealed tight.
You thought you had this house sealed up tight too, Klinger said. But they 
slipped past you.
Lets not judge too harshly, Ernst, Dawson said. He smiled in a fatherly, 
Christian fashion and nodded at Salsbury. But there was only hatred and loathing 
in his black eyes. I agree with Ogden. His precautions at the east end are 
certainly adequate. Although we might consider tripling the number of men along 
the river and in the woods now that night has fallen. And I believe Ogdens also 
covered the logging roads well enough.
Then there are two possibilities, Klinger said, deciding to play the military 
strategist. Onethey might still be in town, hiding somewhere, waiting for a 
chance to get past the roadblock or the men guarding the river. Or twomaybe 
theyre going to walk out through the mountains. We know from Thorp that the 
Annendales are experienced campers and hikers.
Bob Thorp was standing by the door, as if he were an honor guard. He said, 
Thats true.
I dont see it, Salsbury said. I mean, they have an eleven-year-old girl with 
them. Shell slow them down. Theyll need days to reach help that way.
That little girl has spent a big part of the last seven summers in these 
forests, the general said. She might not be as much of a drag on them as you 
think. Besides, if we dont locate them, theyll do the same damage whether they 
reach help tonight or not until the middle of next week.
Dawson thought about that. Then: If theyre trying to walk out through the 
mountains, sixty miles round-about to Bexford, how far do you think theyve 
gotten by now?
Three, maybe three and a half miles, Klinger said.
No farther than that?
I doubt it, Klinger said. Theyd have to be damned careful leaving town if 
they didnt want to be seen. Theyd move slowly, a few yards at a time for the 
first mile. In the forest theyd need a while to really hit their stride. And 
even if the little girl is at home in the woods, shed slow them down a bit.
Three and a half miles, Dawson said thoughtfully. Wouldnt that put them 
somewhere between the Big Union mill and the planned forests?
Thats about right.
Dawson closed his eyes and seemed to mutter a few words of silent prayer; his 
lips moved slightly. Then his eyes snapped open, as if sprung by a holy 
revelation, and he said, The first thing well do is organize a search in the 
mountains.
Thats absurd, Salsbury said, although he was aware that Dawson probably 
thought of his plan as a divine inspiration,
the very handiwork of God. It would be likewell, like hunting for a needle in 
a haystack.
His voice as cold as the dead boy in the next room, Dawson said, We have nearly 
two hundred men at the logging camp, all of them familiar with these mountains. 
Well mobilize them. Arm them with axes and rifles and shotguns. Give them 
flashlights and Coleman lanterns. Well put them in trucks and jeeps and send 
them a mile or so beyond the logging camp. They can form a search line and walk 
back. Forty feet between the men. That way, the line will be a mile and a half 
from one end to the otheryet each man will have only a small area of ground to 
cover. The Edisons and the Annendales wont be able to get by them.
Itll work, Klinger said admiringly.
But what if they arent up there in the mountains? Salsbury said. What if 
theyre right here in town?
Then weve nothing to worry about, Dawson said. They cant get to you because 
youre surrounded by Bob Thorp and his deputies. They cant get out of town 
because every exit is blocked. All they can do is wait. He smiled wolfishly. 
If we dont find them in the mountains by three or four oclock in the morning, 
well begin a house-to-house search here in town. One way or another, I want 
this whole affair wrapped up by noon tomorrow.
Thats asking a lot, the general said.
I dont care, Dawson said. It isnt asking too much. I want the four of them 
dead by noon. I want to restructure the memories of everyone in this town to 
cover our trail completely. By
noon.
Dead? Salsbury said, confused. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. But I 
need to study the Edisons. You can kill the Annendales if you want. But Ive got 
to know why the Edisons werent affected. Ive got
Forget that, Dawson said brusquely. If we attempted to capture them and take 
them back to the laboratory at Greenwich, theres a good chance theyd escape 
along the way. We Cant risk that. They know too much. Much too much.
But well have so damned many corpses! Salsbury said. For Gods sake, theres 
already the boy. And Buddy Pellineri. Four more. . - And If they fight back, we 
may have as many as a dozen to bury. How are we going to account for so many?
Obviously pleased with himself, Dawson said, Well put the lot of them in the 
Union Theater. Then well stage a tragic fire. Weve got Dr. Troutman to issue 
death certificates. And we can use the key-lock program to keep the relatives 
from requesting autopsies.
Excellent, Klinger said, grinning, lightly clapping his hands. Sycophant to 
the court of King Leonard the First, Salsbury thought sourly.
Really excellent, Leonard, Klinger said.
Thank you, Ernst.
Christ on a crutch, Salsbury said weakly.
Dawson gave him a nasty look. He was displeased with such strong profanity. For 
every sin that we commit, the Lord will have His awful retribution one day. 
Theres no escaping that.
Salsbury said nothing.
There is a hell.
Looking at Klinger, finding no support nor even a wink of sympathy, Salsbury 
managed to keep quiet. There was something in Dawsons voicelike a well-honed 
knife hidden in the soft folds of a priests gownsomething hard and sharp that 
frightened him.
Dawson glanced at his watch and said, Time to be moving, gentlemen. Lets get 
this over with.
10:12 P.M
 
The helicopter rose from the parking lot behind the municipal building. It swung 
gracefully over the town square where several people stood watching it, and then 
it clattered westward toward the mountain, into the darkness.
In a moment it was gone.
Sam turned away from the street and slumped with his back to the belfry wall. 
On their way to the mill?
Looks like it, Paul said. But why?
Good question. I would have asked the same thing myself if you hadnt.
Another thing, Paul said. What if theyve figured out how we escaped? What if 
they realize we know the code phrase?
Thats not very likely.
But if its the case? 
I wish I knew, Sam said worriedly. He sighed. But remember that even under 
the worst circumstances, its just us against them. If they realize how much we 
know, we lose the advantage of surprise. But theyve lost the advantage of an 
army of programmed bodyguards. So it balances out.
Jenny said, Do you think both of Salsburys friends are aboard the helicopter?
Sam held his revolver before him. He was unable to see more than the outline of 
it in the darkness. Nevertheless, studying it with dread fascination, he said, 
Well now, thats another thing I sure wish I knew.
Pauls hands were shaking. His own Smith & Wesson felt as if it weighed a 
hundred pounds. He said, I guess we go after Salsbury now.
Its past time we did.
Jenny touched her fathers hand, the one that held the gun. But what if one of 
those men did stay with Salsbury?
Then its two against two, Sam said. And we sure as hell can handle that.
If I went along, she said, it would be three against two, and that would have 
to improve the odds.
Rya needs you, Sam said. He hugged her, kissed her on the cheek. Well be 
okay, Jen. I know we will. You just watch after Rya while were gone.
And if you dont come back?
We will.
If you dont? she insisted.
Thenyoure on your own, Sam said, his voice almost breaking. If there were 
tears in the corners of his eyes, the darkness hid them. Theres nothing more I 
can do for you.
Look, Paul said, even if Salsbury does know how much
weve learned, he doesnt know where we are. But we know exactly where he is. So 
we still have some advantage.
Rya clung to Paul. She didnt want to let him go. She spoke in a quiet but 
fierce voice, and she virtually demanded that he not leave her in the tower.
He stroked her dark hair, held her tight, spoke softly to her, calmed and 
reassured her as best he could.
And at 10:20 he followed Sam down the tower stairs.
8
10:20 P.M
 
PHIL KARKOV, the proprietor of Black Rivers only service station and garage, 
and his girl friend, Lolah Tayback, tried to leave town a few minutes past ten 
oclock. As programmed, the deputies who manned the roadblock sent them to the 
municipal building to have a talk with Bob Thorp.
The mechanic was soft-spoken, courteous, and obviously liked to think of himself 
as a model citizen. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, red-haired man in his 
middle thirties. His good looks were marred only by a bulbous and somewhat 
misshapen nose that appeared to have been broken in more than one fight. He was 
an amicable man with a ready smile; and he was most anxious to help the chief of 
police in any way that he could.
After he opened the two of them with the code phrase and spent a minute 
interrogating them, Salsbury was satisfied that Karkov and Lolah Tayback were 
fully, properly programmed. They hadnt been trying to escape. They hadnt seen 
anything out of the ordinary in town today. They had only been going to a bar in 
Bexford for beer and sandwiches.
He sent the mechanic home and told him to stay there for the rest of the night.
The woman was another matter altogether.
Child-woman was a better word for her, he thought. Her Silvery-blond hair hung 
to her narrow shoulders and framed a
face of childlike beauty: crystalline green eyes, a perfectly clear and milky 
complexion with a light, cinnamon like dusting of freckles across her 
cheekbones, an upturned pixie nose, dimples, a blade-straight jaw line and round 
little chin . . . Every feature was delicate and somehow bespoke navet. She 
stood perhaps five feet two and weighed no more than one hundred pounds. She 
seemed fragile. Yet in her red-and-white-striped T-shirt (sans bra) and blue 
jean shorts, she presented a strikingly desirable, quite womanly figure. Her 
breasts were small, high set, accentuated by an extremely thin waistline, the 
nipples delectably silhouetted through the thin material of the T-shirt. Her 
legs were sleek, supple, shapely. As he stood in front of her, looking her up 
and down, she regarded him shyly. She was unable to meet his eyes. She fidgeted. 
If appearance could count for anything, she ought to have been one of the most 
malleable, vulnerable women he had ever met.
However, even if she were a fighter, a real hellcat, she was now vulnerable. As 
vulnerable as he wished her to be. Because he had the power...
Lolah?
Yes.
How old are you?
Twenty-six.
Are you engaged to Phil Karkov?
No. Softly.
Going steady with him?
More or less.
Are you sleeping with him? She blushed. Fidgeted.
Lovely little animal . Screw you, Dawson. You too, Ernst.
He giggled.
Are you sleeping with him, Lolah? Almost inaudibly: Do I have to say? You 
must tell me the truth.
Yes, she whispered.
Youre sleeping with him?
"Yes."
How often?
Oh . . . Every week.
Speak up.
Every week.
Little minx.
Are you going to hurt me?
He laughed. Once a week? Twice?
Twice, she said. Sometimes three. . .
Salsbury turned to Bob Thorp. Get the hell out of here. Go down to the end of 
the hail and wait with the guard there until I call you.
Sure. Thorp closed the door as he left.
Lolah?
Yes?
What does Phil do to you?
What do you mean?
In bed.
She stared at her sandaled feet.
The power filled him, pulsed within him, leaped across tens of thousands of 
terminals in his flesh: sparked, flashed, crackled. He was exhilarated. This was 
what the key-lock program was all about: this power, this mastery, this 
unlimited command of other peoples souls. No one could ever touch him again. No 
one could ever use him. He was the user now. Always would be. From here on out. 
Now and forever, amen. Amen, Dawson. Did you hear that? Amen. Thank you, God, 
for sending along this cute little piece of ass, amen. He was happy again for 
the first time since this morning, since he had touched Thorps wife.
Ill bet Phil does everything to you, be said.
She said nothing. Shuffled her feet.
Doesnt he? Doesnt he do everything to you, Lolah? Admit it. Say it. I want to 
hear you say it.
He doeseverything.
He put his hand under her chin, lifted her head.
She gazed at him. Timid. Frightened.
Im going to do everything to you, he said.
Dont hurt me.
Lovely, lovely little bitch, he said. He was excited as he had never been in 
his life. Breathing hard. Yet everything so clear. So in control. Firmly in 
control. Her absolute master. Everyones absolute master. That was Howard 
Parkers phrase, flashing back to him across the decades, much as a bizarre 
hallucination erupting in an acidheads mind years after his last tab of LSD: 
absolute master. Thats exactly what Im going to do to you, he told Lolah 
Tayback. Im going to hurt you, just like I hurt the others. Make you pay. Make 
you bleed. Im your absolute master. Youre going to take everything I dish out 
to you. Everything. Maybe even like it. Learn to like it. Maybe.. .
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
The pilot flew the helicopter in a wide circle around the logging camp, 
searching for the best place to set down between the scattered lights from the 
buildings.
In the passenger cabin, Dawson broke an extended silence. Ogden has to be 
eliminated.
Klinger had no difficulty accepting that judgment. Of course. Hes 
untrustworthy.
Unstable.
But if we eliminate him, the general said, can we continue with the plan?
Everything that Ogden has learned is in the Greenwich computer, Dawson said. 
The research was beyond us. But we can use the finished product well enough.
Hasnt he encoded his data?
Naturally. But the day after the computer was installed, long before Ogden 
began to use it, I had my people program it to decode and print out any data 
that I requestedregardless of how the request was phrased, regardless of 
passwords or number keys or other security devices that he might use to limit my 
access to the information.
The helicopter hovered, descended.
When do we deal with him?
You deal with him, Dawson said. 
Meor do I program someone to do it?
Do it yourself. He can deprogram anyone else. Dawson smiled. You do have a 
handgun with you?
Oh, yes.
In the small of your back?
Strapped to my right ankle.
Marvelous.
Back to the original question, Klinger said. When do I eliminate him?
Tonight. Within the hour, if possible.
Why not back in Greenwich?
I dont want to bury him on the estate. Thats taking too great a chance.
What will we do with the body? Bury it here. In the woods. The helicopter 
touched ground. The pilot shut off the engines.
Overhead, the rotors coughed and slowed down. A welcome silence gradually 
replaced the racket they had made.
Klinger said, You intend for him to justdisappear off the face of the earth?
Thats correct.
His vacation ends on the fifth of next month. Thats when hes due back at the 
Brockert Institute. Hes a punctual man. The morning of the fifth, when he 
doesnt show up, theres going to be some commotion. Theyll come looking for 
him.
They wont come looking in Black River. Theres nothing at all to connect Ogden 
with this place. Hes supposed to be vacationing in Miami.
Theres going to be a very quiet and very big manhunt, Klinger said. Pentagon 
security people, the FBI . . .
Unbuckling his seat belt, Dawson said, And theres nothing to connect him with 
you or with me. Eventually theyll decide that he went over to the other side, 
defected.
Maybe.
Definitely.
Dawson opened his door.
Do I take the chopper back to town? Klinger asked.
No. He might hear you coming and suspect what youre there for. Take a car or a 
jeep from here. And youd better walk the last few hundred yards.
All right.
And Ernst?
Yes?
In the amber cabin light, Dawsons five-hundred-dollars-apiece capped teeth 
gleamed in a broad and dangerous smile. There seemed to be light behind his 
eyes. His nostrils were flared: a wolf on the trail of a blood scent. Ernst, 
dont worry so much.
Cant help but.
Were destined to survive this night, to win this battle and all of those 
battles that will come after it, Dawson said with solemn conviction.
I wish I could be as confident of that as you are.
But you should be. Were blessed, my friend. This entire enterprise is blessed, 
you see. Dont you ever forget that, Ernst. He smiled again.
I wont forget, Klinger said.
But he was reassured more by the weight of the revolver at his ankle than by 
Dawsons words.
Straining to hear any sound other than their own footsteps, Paul and Sam left 
the church by the rear door and crossed the open fields to the riverbank.
The high grass was heavy with rain. Within twenty yards, Pauls shoes and socks 
were wet through to his skin. The legs of his jeans were soaked almost to the 
knees.
Sam located a footpath that traversed the bank of the river at a 
forty-five-degree angle. Every groove and depression in the earth had been 
transformed into a puddle. The way was exceedingly muddy and slick. They slipped 
and slid and waved their arms to keep their balance.
At the bottom of the path, they came onto a two-foot-wide
rocky shelf. On the right the river rolled and gurgled, filling the darkness 
with syrupy sound: a wide ebony strip which, at this hour of the night, looked 
like crude oil rather than water. On their left the bank of the river rose up 
eight or nine feet; and in some places the exposed roots of willow trees and 
oaks and maples overlaid the earthen wall.
Without benefit of a flashlight, Sam led Paul westward, toward the mountains. 
His snowy hair was a ghostly, luminescent sign for Paul to follow. The older man 
stumbled occasionally; but he was for the most part sure-footed, and he never 
cursed when he misstepped. He was surprisingly quiet, as if the skills and 
talents of an experienced warrior suddenly had come back to him after all these 
years.
This is war, Paul reminded himself. Were on our way to kill a man. The enemy. 
Several men
The warm, heavy air was redolent with the odor of damp moss and with the stale 
fumes of the plants that were decomposing in the muck at the waters edge.
Eventually, Sam found a series of wind- and water-chiseled ledges, steps that 
took them up from the river again. They came out in an apple orchard on the 
slopes at the extreme west end of town.
Thunder roared down from the peaks, disturbing the birds in the apple trees.
They went north. They were taking the safestand also the most roundaboutroute 
to the back of the municipal building. Soon they came to a waist-high white 
picket fence that marked the end of the orchard and the verge of Main Street, 
where it became known to the locals as the mill road.
After he had looked both ways and had carefully studied the land to which he was 
running, when he was certain that there was no one to see him, Sam slipped over 
the fence. He was as agile as a young man. He sprinted silently across the lane 
and quickly disappeared into a dense stand of scrub pines, scraggly birches, and 
brush on the other side.
Paul tucked his revolver into his belt, put both hands on the fence, looked up 
and down the street as Sam had donebut was
suddenly arrested by a severe spell of uncontrollable shivering. His stomach 
twisted, and he was short of breath.
He tried to tell himself that the shakes were caused by his wet feet, but he 
knew that wasnt true. The night was warm. His feet were wet but not cold.
He was shivering for only one reason: because he was going to kill a man.
Or be killed .
That was a possibility.
He felt sick.
Dizzy.
He followed Sam.
 
10:30 P.M.
 
 
Lolah Tayback stood before him, naked.
Im the absolute master, he said.
Yes, sir.
Look at me, Lolab. She stared at the floor. Lolah?
Let me go. Soft voice. Tears.
Whats the matter? Im scared. Dont you like me? She didnt respond. Do 
you like me, Lolah? Yes, sir.
Tell the truth, Lolab. I . . . dont. . . like you. He slapped her face. She 
fell against the desk. Bitch.
Dont hurt me. Animal.
Dont hurt me. Please.
Ill kill you.
Dont
He struck her with his fist. Then he struck her again.
Twin arc lamps on ribbed aluminum poles bracketed the parking lot behind the 
municipal building. In the stark blue-white light the needles of nearby pine 
trees resembled feathers. The lamps made the wet macadam shine like molten tar 
and transformed the puddles into broken mirrors. It glinted coldly on the 
windshields of several automobiles, including the town ambulance and the spare 
police cruiser.
When Sam opened the rear door of the building and Paul stepped into the 
first-floor corridor, two men looked up in surprise. Bob Thorp reached for the 
revolver in the holster at his hip. The other man, a uniformed deputy, raised 
his shotgun.
I am the key, Paul said quickly. They both said, I am the lock.
Speak softly. They nodded.
Bob, leave your gun in the holster.
All right.
And you. Put down that shotgun. The deputy obeyed.
Opening these men, using them, pushing buttons deep within their minds, Paul 
felt neither triumph nor the exhilaration of command. Instead, aware that their 
lives and sanity and dignity were in his hands, he had an almost overpowering 
sense of solemn responsibility; and for a moment he was paralyzed by it.
Sam opened the first door on the right, switched on the overhead fluorescent 
lights, and ushered everyone into a file room.
 
10:36 P.M.
 
 
 
Salsburys knuckles were skinned. His hands were covered with thin gloves of 
blood: his blood and hers.
He took a Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special from the firearms cabinet behind 
Thorps desk. He located a box of shells on the top shelf and loaded the 
handgun.
He returned to Lolah Tayback.
She was on the floor in the center of the room, lying on her side with her knees 
drawn up. Both of her eyes were bruised and swollen. Her lower lip was split. 
Her septum was broken, and blood trickled from her delicate nostrils. Although 
she was barely conscious, she groaned miserably when she saw him.
Poor Lolah, he said mock sympathetically.
Through the thin slits of her swollen eyelids, she watched him apprehensively.
He held the gun to her face.
She closed her eyes.
With the barrel of the .38, he drew circles around her breasts and prodded her 
nipples.
She shuddered.
He liked that.
The file room was a cold, impersonal place. The fluorescent strip lighting, 
institutional-green walls, yellowed Venetian blinds, rank on rank of gray metal 
cabinets, and brown tile floor made it a perfect place for an interrogation.
Sam said, Bob, is there anyone in your office right now?
Yes. A couple of people. Who?
Lolah Taybackand him. Who is him?
I . . . dont know.
You dont know his name? Gee, I guess not.
Is it Salsbury? Thorp shrugged.
Is he a somewhat chubby man?
About forty pounds too heavy, Thorp said. And he wears very thick glasses?
Yeah. Thats him.
And hes alone with Lolah?
Like I said.
Youre certain of that?
Sure.
Paul said, And his friends?
What friends? Thorp asked.
In the helicopter.
They arent here. Neither of them? Neither of them. Where are they? I 
dont know.
Arent they at the mill?
I dont know.
Will they be back?
I dont know that either. Who are they?
Im sorry. I dont know.
Sam said, Thats it, then.
We go after him? Paul asked.
Right now.
Ill hit the door first.
Im older, Sam said. Ive got less to lose. Im youngerand faster, Paul 
said.
Speed wont matter. He wont be expecting us.
And maybe he will, Paul said.
Reluctantly, Sam said, All right. You first. But Ill be damned close behind.
Salsbury forced her to lie on her back. He parted her legs with one hand and put 
the cool steel barrel of the .38 between her silken thighs. He shivered and 
licked his lips. With his left hand he slid his glasses up on his nose. Do you 
want it? he asked eagerly. Do you want it? Well, Im going to give it to you. 
All of it. Every last inch of it. Do you hear me, you little bitch? Little 
animal. Bust you wide open. Wide open. Going to truly and really give it to you. 
. .
* * *
Paul hesitated outside of the closed door to the police chiefs office. When he 
heard Salsbury talking inside and knew that the man was unaware of their 
presence in the building, he threw open the door and went inside fast, 
crouching, the big .357 Magnum shoved out in front of him.
At first he couldnt believe what he saw, didnt want to believe what he saw. 
There was a badly beaten, naked young woman lying on the floor, spread-eagled, 
conscious but dazed. And Salsbury: face flushed, sweat-filmed, spotted with 
blood, eyes wild, savage-looking. He was kneeling over the woman, and he seemed 
like a troll, an evil and disgusting bug-eyed troll. He was pressing a revolver 
between her pale thighs in a vile, grotesque imitation of the sex act. Paul was 
so mesmerized by the scene, so riveted by revulsion and outrage, that for a few 
seconds he forgot altogether that he was in terrible danger.
Salsbury took advantage of Pauls and Sams inability to act. He stood up as if 
he had had an electric shock, pointed his revolver, and fired at Pauls head.
The shot was a bit too high, an inch or two, no more than that. The bullet 
slammed into the wall beside the door. Chips of plaster rained down on Pauls 
shoulders.
Still crouching, he pulled off two quick shots of his own. The first was wide of 
the mark; it smashed through the Venetian blinds and shattered one of the 
windows. The second struck Salsbury in the left shoulder, approximately four 
inches above the nipple. It caused him to drop his gun, almost lifted him off 
his feet, pitched him backward as if he were a sack full of rags.
He was thrown to the floor by the impact of the bullet, and he slumped against 
the wall beneath the windows. He clutched his left shoulder with his right hand, 
but for all the pressure he applied, blood still streamed between his fingers. 
Pain pulsed rhythmically within him, deep within him exactly as the power bad 
once done: tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.
A man came toward him. Blue-eyed. Curly-haired.
He couldnt see very well. His vision was blurred. But the sight of those bright 
blue eyes was sufficient to catapult him
back in time, back to the memory of another pair of blue eyes, and he said, 
Parker.
The blue-eyed man said, "Whos Parker?
Dont tease me, Salsbury said. Please dont tease me.
Im not teasing. Dont touch me. Whos Parker? Please dont touch me, 
Parker. Me? Thats not my name. Salsbury began to cry.
The blue-eyed man took him by the chin and forced his head up. Look at me, damn 
you. Look at me closely.
You hurt me bad, Parker.
I. Am. Not. Parker.
For a moment the blazing pain subsided. Salsbury said, Not Parker?
My names Annendale.
The pain blossomed again, but the past receded to its proper place. He blinked 
and said, Oh. Oh, yes. Annendale.
Im going to ask you a lot of questions.
Im in terrible pain, Salsbury said. You shot me. You hurt me. That isnt 
right.
Youre going to answer my questions.
No, Salsbury said adamantly. None of them.
All of them. Youll answer all of them, or Ill blow your damned head off, the 
blue-eyed man said.
Okay. Do it. Blow my head off. Thats better than losing all of it. Thats 
better than losing the power.
Who were those men in the helicopter?
None of your business. Were they government men? Co away.
Youre going to die sooner or later, Salsbury.
Oh, is that so? Like hell I am.
You are. So save yourself some pain. Salsbury said nothing.
Were they government men?
Fuck off.
The blue-eyed man reversed the revolver in his right hand, and he used the butt 
to rap hard on Salsburys right hand. The blow seemed to send jagged shards of 
glass through his skinned knuckles. But that was the least of the pain. The 
shock was transmitted through his hand, to and into the tender, bloody wound in 
his shoulder.
He gasped. He bent over and almost vomited.
Do you see what I mean?
Bastard.
Were they government men?
I . . . told you . . . to . . . fuck off.
Klinger parked the car on West Main Street, two blocks from the town square.
He slid out from behind the wheel, closed the doorand heard gunfire. Three 
shots. One right after the other. Inside, muffled by walls. Not far away. Toward 
town. The municipal building? He stood very still and listened for at least a 
minute, but there was nothing more.
He took the snub-nosed .32 Webley from the ankle holster and flicked off the 
safety.
He hurried into the alleyway beside the Union Theater, taking a safe if 
circuitous route to the back door of the municipal building.
9
10:55 P.M.
IN THE AMBULANCE LoIah Tayback lay on a cot, strapped down at chest and thighs. 
A crisp white sheet was drawn
up to her neck. Her head had been elevated with two pillows to prevent her from 
choking on her own blood during the trip to the hospital in Bexford. Although 
her breathing was regular, it was labored; and she moaned softly as she exhaled.
Behind the ambulance, at the open bay doors, Sam stood with Anson Crowell, 
Thorps night deputy. All right. Lets go through it one more time. What 
happened to her?
She was attacked by a rapist, the deputy said, as Sam had programmed him to 
say.
Where did it happen?
In her apartment. Who found her? I did.
Who called the police? Her neighbors. Why?
They heard screaming. Did you catch her assailant? Im afraid not.
Do you know who he is? No. But were working on it.
Have any leads?
A couple.
What are they?
Id prefer not to say at this time. Why not?
I might prejudice the case.
By talking to other policemen?
Were real careful in Black River. Thats being too careful, isnt it?
No offense. Thats just how we operate..
Do you have a description of the man?
The deputy recited a list of physical characteristics that Sam had made up off 
the top of his head. The fictitious assailant did not remotely resemble the real 
one, Ogden Salsbury.
What if the state police or the Bexford police offer assistance in the case?
I tell them thanks but no thanks, the deputy said. Well handle it ourselves. 
We prefer it that way. Besides, I dont have the authority to allow them to come 
in on it. That would be up to the chief.
Good enough, Sam said. Get in.
The deputy clambered into the passenger bay of the ambulance and sat on the 
padded bench beside Lolah Taybacks cot.
Youll be stopping at the end of Main Street to pick up her boyfriend, Sam 
said. He had already talked to Phil Karkov on the telephone, had primed him to 
play the role of the anxiety-stricken lover at the hospitaljust as he had 
primed Lolah to play a bewildered rape victim who had been attacked in her 
apartment. Phil will be staying at the hospital with her, but youll come back 
as soon as youve learned shes going to be okay.
I understand, Crowell said.
Sam closed the doors. He went around to the drivers window to reinforce the 
story that he had planted in the mind of the night duty volunteer fireman who 
was behind the wheel.
At first it seemed that there was no way to break through Salsburys iron 
resolve, no way to open him up and make him
talk. He was in great painshaking, sweating, dizzybut he refused to make 
things easier for himself. He sat in Thorps office chair with an air of 
authority that simply did not make sense under the circumstances. He leaned back 
and gripped his shoulder wound and kept his eyes shut. Most of the time he 
ignored Pauls questions. Occasionally he responded with a string of profanities 
and sex words that sounded as if they had been arranged to convey the minimum of 
meaning.
Furthermore, Paul wasnt a born inquisitor. He supposed that if he knew the 
proper way to torture Salsbury, if he knew how he could cause the man 
mind-shattering pain without actually destroying himand if he had the stomach 
for ithe could get the truth in short order. When Salsburys stubbornness 
became particularly infuriating, Paul used the butt of his revolver to jar the 
mans shoulder wound. That left Salsbury gasping. But it wasnt enough to make 
him talk. And Paul was incapable of any more effective cruelties.
Who were the men in the helicopter? Salsbury didnt answer.
Were they government people? Silence.
Is this a government project? Go to hell.
If he knew what most terrified Salsbury, he could use that to crack him. Every 
man had one or two deeply ingrained fears some of them quite rational and some 
utterly irrationalthat shaped him. And with a man like this, a man so 
apparently in the borderlands of sanity, there should be more than the usual 
number of terrors to play upon. If Salsbury were afraid of heights, he could 
take the bastard up to the church bell tower and threaten to throw him off if he 
didnt talk. If Salsbury were severely afflicted with agoraphobia, he could take 
him to the flattest and biggest open space in townperhaps to the baseball 
fieldand stake him down in the very center of it. If, like the protagonist in i 
984, he were brought near to madness merely by the thought of being placed in a 
cage with rats Suddenly Paul remembered how Salsbury had reacted to him
when he had first come into the room. The man had been
shocked, damned scared, devastated. But not just because Paul had surprised him. 
He had been terrified because, for some reason known only to himself, he had 
thought that Paul was a man named Parker.
What did this Parker do to him? Paul wondered. What could he possibly have done 
to leave such a deep and indelible scar?
Salsbury?
Silence.
V/ho were the men in the helicopter? Youre a fucking bore.
Were they government people?
A regular broken record.
You know what Im going to do to you, Salsbury? He didnt deign to answer.
You know what Im going to do? Paul asked again. Doesnt matter. Nothing will 
work.
Ill dowhat Parker did.
Salsbury didnt respond. He didnt open his eyes. However, he grew stiff in the 
chair, tense, every muscle knotted tight.
Exactly what Parker did, Paul said.
When Salsbury finally opened his eyes there was a monstrous horror in them, a 
trapped and haunted look that Paul had never seen anywhere but in the eyes of 
cornered, panic-stricken wild animals.
This is it, Paul thought. This is the key, the pressure point, the knife with 
which Ill open him. But how should I react if he calls my bluff?
He was close to getting the truth, so closebut he hadnt the vaguest idea what 
Parker had done.
How do you. . . How do you know Parker? Salsbury asked. His voice was a thin, 
pathetic whine.
Pauls spirits lifted even further. If Salsbury didnt recall that it was he who 
had first mentioned this Parker, then the use of the name carried a great deal 
of weight.
Never mind how I know him, Paul said shortly. But I do. I know him well. And 
I know what he did to you.
I . . . was only . . . eleven. You wouldnt.
I would. And enjoy it
But you arent the type, Salsbury said desperately. He had been shiny with 
sweat; now he was dripping with it You just arent the type!
What type is that?
Queer! he blurted. You arent a damned queer! Still bluffing but with more 
good cards on the table to back
his hand, Paul said, We dont all look like what we are, you know. Most of us 
dont advertise it.
You were married.
Doesnt matter.
You had children! Paul shrugged.
Youre sniffing around that Edison bitch!
Have you ever heard of AC-DC? Paul asked. He grinned. Salsbury closed his 
eyes.
Ogden?
He said nothing.
Get up, Ogden.
Dont touch me.
Lean against the desk.
I wont get up. Come on. Youll love it.
No. I wont. You loved it from Parker.
Thats not true! Youre the type. Im not. Admit it. He didnt move. A 
talent for Greek. Salsbury winced. No. Lean on the desk. It hurts . .
Of course. Now get up and lean on the desk and drop your pants. Come on.
Salsbury shuddered. His face was drawn and ashen.
If you dont get up, Ogden, Ill have to throw you out of that chair. You cant 
refuse me. You cant get away from me. You cant fight me off, not when Ive got 
the gun, not when your arms all torn up like that.
Oh, Jesus God, Salsbury said miserably.
Youll love it. Youll love the pain. Parker told me how much you love the 
pain.
Salsbury began to cry. He didnt weep gently or quietly, but let go with great, 
wracking sobs. Tears seemed to spurt from his eyes. He shook and gagged.
Are you scared, Ogden? S-Scared. Yes.
You can save yourself. From . . . from . . .
From being raped.
H-How?
Answer my questions. Dont want to.
Get up then.
Please . .
Ashamed of himself, sick of this violent game but determined to carry on with 
it, Paul took hold of the front of Salsburys shirt. He shook him and tried to 
lift him out of the chair. When Im done with you, Ill let Bob Thorp have you. 
Ill tape your mouth so you cant talk to him, and Ill program him to put it to 
you. He was incapable of doing that, of course. But Salsbury obviously believed 
he would. And not just Thorp. Others. Half a dozen others.
With that, Salsburys resistance dissolved. Anything. Ill tell you anything, 
he said, his voice distorted by the wretched sobbing that he couldnt control. 
Anything you want. Just dont touch me. Oh, Jesus. Oh, dont touch me. Dont 
make me undress. Dont touch. Dont.
Still twisting Salsburys shirt in his left hand, leaning toward the man, nearly 
shouting in his face, Paul said, Who were those men in the helicopter? Unless 
you want to be used until youre raw, you better tell me who they were.
Dawson and Klinger.
There were three.
I dont know the pilots name.
Dawson and Klinger. First names?
Leonard Dawson and The Leonard Dawson? Yes. And Ernst Klinger.
Is Klinger a government man?
Hes an army general.
Is this a military project?
No.
A government project?
No, Salsbury said.
Paul knew all of the questions. There was no point in the rapid-fire 
interrogation at which he had to hesitate.
And there was never a single moment when Salsbury dared hesitate.
Ernst Klinger crouched behind a yard-high wall of shrubbery across the alleyway 
from the municipal parking lot. Stunned, confused, he watched them load the 
woman into the white Cadillac van with the words BLACK RIVEREMERGENCY painted 
in red letters on the side.
At 11:02 the ambulance pulled out of the parking lot, swung into the alley and 
from there onto North Union Road. It turned right, toward the square.
Its bright red flashers washed the trees and the buildings, and Sent crimson 
snakes of light wriggling along the wet pavement.
The bearded, white-haired man who stood in the parking lot was Sam Edison. 
Klinger recognized him from a photograph that he had seen in one of the rooms 
above the general store, little more than an hour ago.
Edison watched the ambulance until it turned east at the Square. He was too far 
away for Klinger to get a shot at him with the Webley. When the ambulance was 
out of sight, he went inside the municipal building.
Have we lost control of the town? Klinger asked himself. Is
it all coming down on our heads: the field test, the plan, the project, the 
future? Sure as hell looks that way. Sure does. So... Is it time to get out of 
Black River, out of the country with a big bundle of cash and the phony identity 
Leonard provided?
Dont panic, another part of him thought. Dont be rash. Wait. See what happens. 
Give it a few minutes.
He looked at his watch. 11:03.
Thunder rumbled in the mountains.
It was going to rain again.
11:04.
He had been hunkered down for so long that his legs ached. He longed to stand up 
and stretch.
What are you waiting here for? he asked himself. You cant plan your strategy 
without information. Youve got to reconnoiter. Theyre probably in Thorps 
office. Get under those windows. Maybe you can hear what theyre up to.
At five minutes past the hour, he hurried across the alley. He dodged from car 
to car in the parking lot, and then to the thick trunk of a pine tree.
Just like in Korea, he thought almost happily. Or Laos in the late fifties. Just 
like it must have been for the younger guys in Nam. Commando work in an enemy 
town. Except this time the enemy town is American.
 
11:05 P.M.
 
Sam stood in the doorway and studied Ogden Salsbury, who was still in the 
spring-backed office chair. To Paul, Sam said, Youre sure he told you 
everything?
Yes.
And that everything hes told you is true?
Yes.
This is important, Paul.
He didnt withhold anything, Paul said. And he didnt lie to me. Im sure of 
it.
Stinking of sweat and blood, crying quietly, Salsbury looked from one to the 
other of them.
Does he understand what were saying? Paul wondered. Or is be broken, shattered, 
unable to think clearly, unable to think at all?
Paul felt unclean, sick to his soul. In dealing with Salsbury, be had descended 
to the mans own level. He told himself that these were after all the 1970s, the 
very first years of a brave new world, a time when individual survival was 
difficult and when it counted for more than all else, the age of the machine and 
of the machines morality, perhaps the only era in the entire span of history 
when the ends truly did justify the meansbut he still felt unclean.
Then the time has come, Sam said quietly. One of us has todo it.
A man named Parker apparently raped him when he was eleven years old, Paul 
said. He was speaking to Sam, but he was watching Ogden Salsbury.
Does that make any difference? Sam asked.
It should.
Does it make any difference that Hitler might have been born of a syphilitic 
parent? Does it make any difference that he was mad? Does that bring back the 
six million dead? Sam was talking softly but with tremendous force. He was 
trembling. Does what happened to him when he was eleven justify what he did to 
Mark? If Salsbury wins, if he takes control of everyone, does it matter what 
happened to him when he was eleven?
Theres no other way to stop him? Paul asked, although he knew the answer.
Weve already discussed that.
I guess we have.
I'll do it, Sam said.
No. If I cant get up the courage here, I wont be any help to you later, with 
Dawson and Klinger. We may be in a tight spot with one of those. Youll have to 
know that you can count
Letting go of his left shoulder, reaching out as if to shake with one bloody 
hand, Salsbury said, Wait. Ill make you a partner. Both of you. Partners.
Paul aimed at the center of the mans chest.
If youre partners, youll have everything. Everything you could want. All the 
money you could ever spend. All the money in the world. Think of that!
Paul thought of Lolah Tayback.
Partners. That doesnt mean just money. Women. You can have all of the women 
you want, any women you want, no matter who they are. Theyll crawl to you. Or 
men, if thats what you like. You can even have children. Little girls. Nine or 
ten years old. Little boys. Anything you want.
Paul thought of Mark: a lump of frosted meat jammed into a food freezer.
And he thought of Rya: traumatized perhaps, but with a chance to live a halfway 
normal life.
He squeezed the trigger.
The Magnum bucked in his hand.
Because of his revolvers impressive kickwhich jolted Paul from hand to 
shoulder in spite of that fact that he was using .38 Special ammunition rather 
than Magnumsthe bullet was high. It tore through Salsburys throat.
Blood and bits of flesh spattered the metal firearms cabinet. The roar of the 
shot was deafening. It bounced back and forth between the walls, echoed inside 
Pauls skull, reverberated as it would forever in his memory.
He squeezed off another round.
That one took Salsbury in the chest, nearly rocked him and the chair backward 
onto the floor.
He turned away from the dead man.
Are you going to be sick? Sam asked.
Im all right. He was numb.
Theres a toilet at the end of the hail, to your left.
Im okay, Sam.
You look
I killed men in the war. Killed men over in Asia. Remember?
This is different. I understand that. In the war its always with rifles or 
grenades or mortars. Its never from three feet with a handgun.
Im fine. Believe me. Just fine. He went to the door, pushed past Sam, 
stumbled into the corridor as if he had tripped, turned left, ran to the 
washroom, and threw up.
Scuttling sideways like a hermit crab, the Webley ready in his right hand, 
Klinger reached the western flank of the municipal building and found that the 
lawn there was littered with glass. He hadnt made a sound on his run from the 
shrubbery. Now, pieces of glass snapped and crunched under his shoes, and he 
cursed silently. One of the windows in the police chiefs office was broken, and 
a few of the slats in the Venetian blind were bent out of shape, providing a 
convenient peephole for his reconnaissance work.
As he was rising up to have a look insidecautious as a suspicious mouse 
sniffing the cheese in the traptwo shots exploded virtually in front of his 
face. He frozethen realized that he hadnt been seen, that no one was firing at 
him.
Through the twisted slats of the blind, he could see two-thirds of Thorps 
starkly furnished and somewhat sterile office:
gray-blue walls, a pair of three-drawer filing cabinets, an oak work table, a 
bulletin board with an aluminum frame, bookshelves, most of a massive metal 
desk And Salsbury.
Dead. Very dead.
Where was Sam Edison? And the other one, Annendale? And the woman, the little 
girl?
There appeared to be no one in the room except Salsbury. Salsburys corpse.
Suddenly afraid of losing track of Edison and Annendale, afraid that they might 
somehow get away or sneak around behind him, afraid of being outmaneuvered, 
Klinger turned from the windows. He loped to the end of the lawn, then across 
the
parking lot and the alleyway. He hid behind the hedge again, where he commanded 
a good view of the back door of the municipal building.
When he came out of the washroom, Sam was waiting in the corridor for him.
Feeling better?
Yeah, Paul said.
Its rough.
Itll get worse.
That it will.
Christ.
What did you learn from Salsbury? Who were those men in the helicopter?
Leaning against the wall, Paul said, His partners. One of them was H. Leonard 
Dawson.
Ill be damned.
The other one is a general. United States Army. His names Ernst Klinger.
Scowling, Sam said, Then this is a government project?
Surprisingly, no. Just Salsbury, Dawson, and Klinger. A bit of private 
enterprise. Paul took three minutes to outline what he had learned about the 
field test and the conspiracy behind
it.
Sams scowl disappeared. He risked a slight smile. Then we have a chance of 
stopping it right here, for good.
Maybe.
Its just a simple four-part problem, Sam said. He held up one finger. Kill 
Dawson. Two fingers. Kill Ernst Klinger. Three fingers. Destroy the data in 
the computer at the house in Greenwich. Four fingers. Then use the key-lock 
code to restructure the memories of everyone in town whos seen or heard 
anything, to cover up every last trace of this field test.
Paul shook his head. I dont know. It doesnt sound so simple to me.
For the moment at least, positive thinking was the only sort of thinking that- 
interested Sam. It can be done. First . .
where did Dawson and Klinger go when they left here?
To the logging camp.
Why?
Quoting Salsbury, he told Sam about Dawsons plan to organize a search in the 
mountains. But he and Klinger wont be at the camp now. They intended to fall 
back to the mill and establish a sort of field headquarters there once the 
manhunt was underway. There are about eighty or ninety men working on the night 
and graveyard shifts up there. Dawson wants to post a dozen of them as guards 
around the mill and pack the rest of them off to join the search beyond the 
logging camp.
Any guards he posts are worthless, Sam said. Well use the code phrase to get 
past them. Well move in on Dawson and Klinger before they know whats 
happened.
I suppose its possible.
Of course it is.
But what about the computer in Greenwich?
We can deal with that later, Sam said.
How do we get to it?
Didnt you say Dawsons household staff is programmed?
According to Salsbury.
Then we can get to the computer.
And the cover-up here?
Well manage.
How?
Thats the least of our problems.
Youre so goddamned optimistic.
Ive got to be. So do you.
Paul pushed away from the wall. All right. But Jenny and Rya must have heard 
the shots. Theyll be worried. Before we go to the mill, we should stop back at 
the church and fill them in, let them know where we all stand.
Sam nodded. Lead the way.
aboutSalsbury?
Later.
They left by the rear door and started across the parking lot toward the alley.
After a few steps Paul said, Wait.
Sam stopped, turned back.
We dont have to sneak around the long way, Paul said. Were in control of 
the town now.
Good point.
They circled around the municipal building and went out to East Main Street.
 
11:45 P.M.
 
 
Klinger stood in the velvety darkness, two-thirds of the way up the bell tower 
stairs, listening. Voices drifted down from above: two men, a woman, a child. 
Edison. And Jenny Edison. Annendale and his daughter...
He now knew what was happening in Black River, what the carnage at Thorps 
office signified. He knew the extent of these peoples knowledge of the field 
test and of all the working, planning, and scheming that lay behind the field 
testand he was shocked.
Because of what he had heard, he knew that they were motivated to resist, at 
least in part, for altruistic reasons. He didnt understand that. He could 
easily have understood them if they had wanted to seize the power of the 
subliminals for their own. But altruism . . . That had always seemed foolish to 
him. He had decided a long time ago that men who eschewed power were far more 
dangerous and deadly than those who pursued it, if only because they were so 
difficult to fathom, so unpredictable.
However, he also knew that these people could be stopped. The field test wasnt 
an unmitigated disaster; not yet. They werent going to win as easily as they 
thought. They hadnt yet brought him or Dawson to ruin. The project could be 
saved.
Overhead, they finished discussing their plans. They said good-by to one another 
and told one another to be careful and wished one another luck and hugged and 
kissed and said they would pray for one another and said that they really had to 
get on with it.
In the perfect darkness, without a flashlight or even a match to show them the 
way, out of sight around two or three bends in the long spiral staircase, Sam 
Edison and Paul Annendale started down the narrow, creaking steps.
Klingers own hurried descent was masked by the noise that the two men made 
above him.
He paused in the whispery, echo-filled nave of the church, where the walls and 
the altar and the pews were no more than adumbrated by the meager nocturnal 
storm light that shone through the arched windows. He wasnt certain what he 
should do next.
Confront them here and now? Shoot them both as they came out of the stairwell?
No. The light was much too poor for gunplay. He couldnt target them with any 
accuracy. Under these conditions he would never bring down both of themand 
perhaps not either of them.
He thought of searching quickly for a light switch. He could flip it on as they 
entered the nave and open fire on them in the same instant. But if there was a 
switch nearby, he would never find it in time. And if he did find it in time, he 
would be every bit as surprised and blinded by the light as they would be.
Even if, by the grace of one of the saints depicted in these stained-glass 
windows, he did somehow kill both of them, then he would have alerted the woman 
in the tower. She might be armed; she almost certainly was. And if that was the 
case, the belfry would be virtually impregnable. With any sort of weapon at 
allrifle or shotgun or handgunand a supply of ammunition, she would be able to 
hold him off indefinitely.
He wished to God that he were properly equipped. He should have at least those 
few essentials of behind-the-lines combat:
a pretty damned good machine pistol, preferably German-made or Belgian, and 
several fully loaded magazines for it; an automatic rifle with a bandolier of 
ammo; and a few grenades, three or four. Especially the grenades. After all, 
this was no ladies tea party. This was a classic commando operation, a classic 
clandestine raid, deep in hostile territory.
Behind him, Edison and Annendale were unsettlingly close, on the last twenty 
steps and coming fast.
He dashed along the side aisle to the fourth or fifth row of pews where he 
intended to hide between the high-backed seats. He tripped over a kneeler that 
some thoughtless member of the congregation had forgotten to put up after saying 
a prayer, and he fell with a loud crash. His heart hammering, he scrambled 
farther along the row toward the center aisle, then stretched out on the bench 
of the pew, flat on his back, the Webley at his side.
As they came into the dark church, Paul put one hand on Sams shoulder.
Sam stopped. Yeah? he said softly.
Sssshhh, Paul said.
They listened to the storm wind and to the distant thunder and to the settling 
sounds that the building made.
Finally Sam said, Is something wrong?
Yeah. What was that?
What was what?
That noise.
"I didnt hear anything.
Paul studied the darkness that seemed to pulse around them. He squinted as if 
that would help him penetrate the inky pools in the corners and the purple-black 
shadows elsewhere. The atmosphere was Lovecraftian, a dank seed bed of paranoia. 
He rubbed the back of his neck which was suddenly cold.
How could you have heard anything with all that racket we were making on the 
stairs? Sam asked.
I heard it. Something. . .
Probably the wind.
No. It was too loud for that. Sharp. It sounded as ifas if someone knocked 
over a chair.
They waited.
Half a minute. A minute.
Nothing.
Come on, Sam said. Lets go.
Give it another minute.
As Paul spoke a particularly violent gust of wind battered the east side of the 
church; and one of the ten-foot-high windows fluttered noisily in its frame.
There you are, Sam said. You see? Thats what you heard. It was just the 
window.
Relieved, Paul said, Yeah.
Weve got work to do, Sam said.
They left the church by the front door. They went east on Main Street to Pauls 
station wagon, which was parked in front of the general store.
As the station wagon reached the mill road and its taillights dwindled to tiny 
red dots beyond the west end of town, Klinger left the church and ran half a 
block to the telephone booth beside Ultmans Cafe. He paged through the slim 
directory until he found the numbers for the Big Union Supply Company: twenty of 
them, eight at the logging camp and twelve at the mill complex. There wasnt 
time to try all of them. In what part of the mill would Dawson establish his HQ? 
Klinger wondered. He thought about it, painfully aware of the precious seconds 
ticking by. Finally he decided that the main office was the location most 
consistent with Dawsons personality, and he dialed that number.
After it had rung fifteen times, just as Klinger was about to give up, Dawson 
answered it warily. Big Union Supply Company.
Klinger here.
Have you finished?
Hes dead, but I didnt kill him. Edison and Annendale got to him first.
Theyre in town?
Thats right. Or they were. Right now theyre coming for you. And for me. They 
think were both at the mill. As best he could in less than a minute, the 
general summed up the
Situation
Why didnt you eliminate them when you had the chance, in the Church? Dawson 
asked.
Because J didnt have the chance, Klinger said impatiently.
I didnt have time to set it up right. But you can set it up just perfectly. 
Theyll probably park half a mile from the mill and walk in to you. They expect 
to surprise you. But now you can surprise them.
Look, why dont you get in a car and come up here right away? Dawson asked. 
Come in behind them. Trap them between us.
Under the circumstances, Klinger said, that makes no military sense, Leonard. 
As a group of four, three of them armed, theyd be too formidable for us. Now 
that theyre split into pairs and puffed up with self-confidence, the advantage 
is ours.
But if Edison and Annendale know the key-lock phrases, I cant keep guards 
posted. I cant use any of these people up here. Im alone.
You can handle it.
Ernst, my training is in business, finance. This is more your line of work.
And Ive got work down here in town.
I dont eliminate people.
Oh?
Not like this.
What do you mean?
Not personally.
You brought guns back from the camp?
A few of them. Ive posted guards.
With a rifle or shotgun, you can do whats necessary. I know you can. Ive seen 
you shoot skeet both ways.
You dont understand. Its against my beliefs. My religious beliefs.
Youll have to set those aside for now, Klinger said. This is a matter of 
survival.
You cant just set aside morality, Ernst, whether or not its a matter of 
survival. Anyway, I dont like being here alone. Handling this alone. Its no 
good.
Trying to think of some way to convince the man that be could and should do what 
had to be done so that he would get
off the phone, the general hit upon an approach that he recognized at once as 
custom-tailored for Dawson. Leonard, theres one thing that every soldier 
learns his first day on the battlefield, when the enemy is firing at him and 
grenades are exploding around him and it seems like hell never get through to 
the next day alive. If hes fighting for the right cause, for the just cause, be 
learns that hes never alone. Gods always with him.
Youre right, Dawson said.
You do believe ours is a just cause?
Of course. Im doing all of this for Him.
Then youll come out just fine.
Youre right, Dawson said. I shouldnt have hesitated to do what He so 
obviously wishes me to do. Thank you, Ernst.
Dont mention it, Klinger said. You better get moving. Theyre probably 
leaving the station wagon about now. Youll have ten minutes at most to prepare 
for them.
And you?
Ill go back to the church.
God be with you.
Good luck.
They both hung up.
10
Saturday, August 27, 1977
 
 
12:10 A.M.
 
 
THE WIND RAISED a steady, haunting whooooo! in the highest reaches of the trees. 
Thunder rumbled frequently, each peal louder and more unsettling than the one 
that had come before it. Above the forest, the sky periodically blazed with 
lightning; the electric glow pulsed down through the canopy of interlaced 
branches and left in its wake a series of stroboscopic images that dazzled the 
eye.
In the dense underbrush, small animals scampered this way and that, busily 
searching for food or water or companionship or safety. Or perhaps, Paul thought 
as one of them dashed across the path and startled him, they were frightened of 
the oncoming storm.
Paul and Sam had expected to find armed guards rather than animals at the edge 
of the woods that surrounded the mill, but there were none. Although all of the 
lights were on in the main building, the structure seemedas did the land around 
it deserted.
They circled through the woods. Eventually they came to the employee parking lot 
and studied the scene from behind a thick clump of laurel.
The helicopter was there, on the macadam, thirty feet away. A man stood beside 
it in the darkness, smoking a cigarette, watching the lightning and the 
fast-moving clouds.
Paul whispered: Dawson or Klinger? 
I dont think so, Sam said.
Neither do I.
Then hes the pilot.
You see a gun? No. Nothing.
Move in now?" Wait.
For what?
The right moment.
They watched.
A few seconds later the pilot dropped his cigarette and crushed it under the 
sole of his shoe. He put his hands in his pockets and began to walk aimlessly 
about, just killing time. At first he came toward the trees, wandered within ten 
or twelve feet of them, then turned and went back the way hed come.
Quickly, Sam said.
Paul stood up. He eased through the laurel and ran after the pilot.
The man heard him and turned. His face was a black mask, but his eyes seemed 
phosphorescent. Who
I am the key, Paul said.
I am the lock. Speak softly.
Yes, sir.
Paul looked beyond the helicopter. He could see the windows
most of them with light behind themon the second and third floors of the main 
building at the end of the storage yard. If he could see the windows, anyone who 
happened to glance Out might be able to see him, in turn, despite the darkness. 
He hustled the pilot closer to the helicopter, where they were pretty much 
hidden from the main building.
Sam joined them and said, Whats your name?
Malcolm Spencer.
You are the pilot?
Yes. I am.
Wheres Leonard Dawson?
In the mill, Spencer said.
Which building?
The biggest one.
Which floor? First, second, or third?
First floor. Theres a sort of public sales area with.
And Ernst Klinger, Sam said. Wheres he?
Hes in Black River, Spencer said.
That cant be right.
Sir?
You mean hes in town? Paul asked.
Thats right.
Paul and Sam glanced at each other.
Something wrong? the pilot asked. He seemed to be concerned about them.
Youre lying, Paul said.
Surprised, Spencer said, No, sir.
I am the lock, Paul said.
I am the key, Spencer said.
Wheres Klinger?
Hes in Black River.
Paul stared at Sam. Christ!
To the pilot, Sam said, You took Klinger and Dawson to the logging camp, didnt 
you? And then brought them to the mill?
No. Just Mr. Dawson. General Klinger went to town from the camp.
When?
A couple of minutes after we got there, Spencer said. He smiled uncertainly. 
His teeth seemed even more radiant than his eyes.
How did he go? Not in the chopper?
No, sir. He took a car.
Why-
Before he could get out more than one word of the question, Sam screamed and 
stumbled forward against the helicopter.
In the same instant, the night silence was split open by a single rifle shot.
Instinctively, Paul dropped to the ground and rolled.
A bullet cracked into the pavement where hed just been, ricocheted into the 
darkness.
A second bullet smashed the macadam on the other side of him, bracketing him.
He rolled onto his back and sat up. He saw the rifleman at once: down on one 
knee in a sportsmans pose, thirty feet away at the edge of the woods. On the 
drive from town, Paul had reloaded the Combat Magnum; now he held it with both 
hands and squeezed off five quick shots.
All of them missed the mark.
However, the sharp barking of the revolver and the deadly whine of all those 
bullets skipping across the pavement apparently unnerved the man with the rifle. 
Instead of trying to finish what he had begun, he stood and ran.
Paul scrambled to his feet, took a few steps after him and fired once more.
Untouched, the rifleman headed away in a big loop that would take him back to 
the mill complex.
Sam?
Here.
He could barely see Samdark clothes against the macadam
and was thankful for the older mans telltale white hair and beard. You were 
hit.
In the leg.
Paul started toward him. How bad?
Flesh wound, Sam said. That was Dawson. Get after him, for Gods sake.
But if youre hurt
Ill be fine. Malcolm can make a tourniquet. Now get after him, dammit!
Paul ran. At the end of the parking area he passed the rifle: it was on the 
ground; Dawson had either dropped it by accident and had been too frightened to 
stop and retrieve itor he bad discarded it in panic. Still running, Paul fished 
in his pocket with one hand for the extra bullets he was carrying.
12:15 A.M.
 
 
The wooden tower stairs creaked under Klingers weight. He paused and counted 
slowly to thirty before going up three more steps and pausing again. If he 
climbed too fast, the woman and the girl would know that he was coming. And if 
they were ready and waiting for himwell, he would be committing suicide when he 
walked onto the belfry platform. He hoped that, by waiting for thirty seconds or 
as much as a minute between brief advances, he could make them think that the 
creaking stairs were only settling noises or a product of the wind.
He went up three more steps.
 
12:16 A.M.
Ahead, Dawson disappeared around a corner of the mill.
When he reached the same corner a moment later, Paul stopped and studied the 
north work yard: huge stacks of logs that had been piled up to feed the mill 
during the long winter; several pieces of heavy equipment; a couple of lumber 
trucks: a conveyor belt running on an inclined ramp from the mill to the maw of 
a big furnace where sawdust and scrap wood were incinerated . . . There were 
simply too many places out there in which Dawson could hide and wait for him.
He turned away from the north yard and went to the door in the west wall of the 
building, back the way he had come, thirty feet from the corner. It wasnt 
locked.
He stepped into a short, well-lighted corridor. The enormous processing room lay 
at the end of it: the bull chain leading from the mill pond, up feeding shoots, 
into the building; then a crosscut saw, a log deck, the carriage that moved logs 
into the waiting blades that would make lumber of them, the giant band saw, 
edging machine, trimmer saws, dip tank, grading ramp, the green chain, and then 
the storage racks . . . He remembered all of those terms from a tour that the 
manager had given Rya
and Mark two summers ago. In the processing room the fluorescent strip lights 
were burning, but none of the machines was working; there were no men tending 
them. To his right was a washroom, to his left a set of stairs.
Taking the steps two at a time for four flightsthe first level was two floors 
high in order to accommodate the machines in ithe came out in the second-floor 
hallway. He stopped to think, then went to the fifth office on the left.
The door was locked.
He kicked it twice.
The lock held.
There was a glass case bolted to the corridor wall. It contained a fire 
extinguisher and an ax.
He jammed the revolver in his belt, opened the front of the case, and took out 
the ax. He used the flat head of it to batter the knob from the office door. 
When the knob fell off, the cheap latch snapped. He dropped the ax, pushed open 
the ruined door, and went inside.
The office was dark. He didnt switch on any lights because he didnt want to 
reveal his position. He closed the door to the hall so that he would not be 
silhouetted by the pale light that spilled in.
The windows in the north wall of the office opened above the first-floor 
terrace. He slid one of them up, slipped through it, and stepped onto the 
tar-papered terrace roof.
The wind buffeted him.
He took the Combat Magnum from his belt.
If Dawson was hiding anywhere in the north yard, this was the best vantage point 
from which to spot him.
The darkness offered Dawson good protection, for none of the lights was on in 
the yard.
He could have turned them on, of course. But he didnt know where to find the 
switches, and he didnt want to waste a lot of time looking for them.
The only thing that moved out there was the clattering conveyor belt that rolled 
continuously up the inclined ramp to the Scrap furnace. It should have been shut 
down with the rest of
the equipment, but it had been overlooked. The belt came out of the building 
directly beneath him and sloped to a high point twenty feet above the ground. It 
met the furnace door forty yards away. Because the cone-shaped furnacethirty 
feet in diameter at the base, ten feet in diameter at the top; forty feet 
highwas primed by a gas flame, the fire in it was never out unless the mill 
foreman ordered it extinguished. Even now, when the belt had no fuel for it, the 
furnace roared. Judging by the intensity of the flames leaping beyond the open 
door, however, several hundred pounds of the days inputconveyed out of the 
mill before Dawson had halted operations had yet to be fully consumed.
Otherwise, the yard was quiet, still. The mill pondwith the giant grappling 
hook suspended from thick wires over the center of itlay to the right of the 
ramp and the furnace. It was dotted with logs that looked a bit like dozing 
alligators. A narrow channel of water called the slip led from the pond to the 
terrace. When the mill was in operation, slip men poled logs along the slip to 
the chutes that were covered by the terrace roof. Once in the chutes, the logs 
were snared by hooked bull chains and dragged into the processing system. East 
and north of the pond was the deck, those forty-foot-high walls of gargantuan 
logs set aside to supply the mill with work during the winter. To the left of 
the ramp and the furnace, two lumber trucks, a high-lift, and a few other pieces 
of heavy equipment were parked in a row, backed up against the chain-link fence 
of a storage yard. Dawson wasnt to be seen in any of that.
Thunder and lightning brought a sudden fall of fat raindrops. Some sixth sense 
told Paul that he had heard more than the clap of thunder. Propelled by an icy 
premonition, he spun around.
Dawson had come out of the window behind him. He was no more than a yard away. 
He was older than Paul, a decade and a half older, but he was also taller and 
heavier; and he looked deadly in the rain-lashed night. He had an ax. The 
goddamned fire ax! In both hands. Raised over his head. He swung it.
* * *
Klinger was at the mid-point of the tower when the rain began to fall again. It 
drummed noisily on the belfry shingles and on the roof of the church, providing 
excellent cover for his ascent.
He waited until he was absolutely certain that the downpour would lastthen he 
went upward without pausing after every third step. He couldnt even hear the 
creaking himself. Exhilarated, brimming with confidence now, the Webley clutched 
in his right hand, he climbed through the last half of the tower in less than a 
minute and rushed onto the belfry platform.
Paul crouched.
The ax blade whistled over his head.
Startled to hear himself screaming, unable to stop screaming, abruptly aware 
that the Smith & Wesson was still in his hand, Paul pulled the trigger.
The bullet tore through Dawsons right shoulder.
The ax flew from his hands. It arced out into the darkness and smashed through 
the windshield of one of the lumber trucks.
With a certain eerie grace, Dawson pirouetted just once and toppled into Paul.
The Combat Magnum tumbled in the path of the ax.
Grappling with each other, clinging to each other, they fell off the terrace 
roof.
The belfry held very little light in the midst of that primeval Storm, but it 
was bright enough for Klinger to see that the only person there was the 
Annendale girl.
Impossible.
She was sitting on the platform, her back to the half-wall. And she seemed to be 
regarding him with dread.
What the hell?
There should have been two of them. The nine-foot-square belfry wasnt large 
enough for a game of hide-and-seek. What he Saw must be true. But there should 
have been two of them.
The night was rocked with thunder, and razor-tined forks of
white lightning stabbed the earth. Wind boomed through the open tower.
He stood over the child.
Looking up at him, her voice wavering, she said, Please... please.. . dont.. . 
shoot me.
Where is the other one? Klinger asked. Where did she go?
A voice behind him said, Hey, mister.
They had heard him coming up the stairs. They were ready and waiting for him.
But how had they done it?
Sick, trembling, aware that it was too late for him to save himself, he 
nevertheless turned to meet the danger.
There was no one behind him. The storm conveniently provided another short burst 
of incandescent light, confirming that he saw what he thought he saw: he and the 
child were alone on the platform.
Hey, mister.
He looked up.
A black form, like a monstrous bat, was suspended above him. The woman. Jenny 
Edison. He could not see her face, but he had no doubt about who she was. She 
had heard him coming up the stairs when he thought he was being so clever. She 
had climbed atop the bell and had braced herself in the steel bell supports, 
against the ceiling, at the highest point of the arch, six feet overhead, like a 
goddamned bat.
Its twenty-seven years since I was in Korea, he thought. Im too old for 
commando raids. Too old .
He couldnt see the gun she held, but he knew he was looking into the barrel of 
it.
Behind him the Annendale girl scrambled out of the line of fire.
It happened so fast, too fast.
Good riddance, you bastard, the Edison woman said.
He never heard the shot.
Dawson landed on his back in the middle of the inclined ramp. Trapped in the 
other mans clumsy but effective embrace,
Paul fell on top of him, driving the breath from both of them. After a long 
shudder, the conveyor belt adjusted to their
weight. It swiftly carried them headfirst toward the open mouth of the scrap 
furnace.
Gasping, limp, Paul managed to raise his head from Dawsons heaving chest. He 
saw a circle of yellow and orange and red flames flickering satanically thirty 
yards ahead.
Twenty-five yards
Winded, with a bullet wound in one shoulder, having cracked his head against the 
ramp when he fell, Dawson was not immediately in a fighting mood. He sucked air, 
choked on the fiercely heavy rain, and blew water from his nostrils.
The belt clattered and thumped upward.
Twenty yards...
Paul tried to roll off that highway of death.
With his good hand Dawson held Paul by the shirt.
Fifteen yards .
Let go . . . you . . . bastard. Paul twisted, squirmed, hadnt the strength to 
free himself.
Dawsons fingers were like claws.
Ten yards .
Tapping his last reserves of energy, the dregs from the barrel, Paul pulled back 
his fist and punched Dawson in the face.
Dawson let go of him.
Five yards .
Whimpering, already feeling the furnace heat, he threw himself to the right, off 
the ramp.
How far to the ground?
He fell with surprisingly little pain into a bed of weeds and mud beside the 
mill pond.
When he looked up he saw Dawsondelirious, unaware of the danger until it was 
too late for himdropping headfirst into that crackling, spitting, roiling, 
hellish pit of fire.
If the man screamed, his voice was blotted out by a cymballike crash of thunder.
 
 
 
 
THE ENDING
 
 
Saturday, August 27, 1977
 
5:00 A.M.
 
THE MESS HALL at the logging camp was a rectangle, eighty feet by forty feet. 
Sam and Rya sat behind a dining
table at one end of the long room. A single-file line of weary lumbermen 
stretched from their table across the hail and out the door at the far end.
As each man stepped up to the table, Sam used the power of the key-lock program 
to restructure his memory. When the new recollections were firmly implanted, he 
excused the manand Rya struck a name from the Big Union Supply Companys 
employee list.
Between the thirtieth and the thirty-first subject, Rya said to Sam, How do you 
feel?
How do you feel?
Im not the one who was shot.
Youve been hurt too, he said.
All I feel isgrown up.
More than that.
And sad, she said.
And sad.
Because itll never be the same. Not ever. Her lips trembled She cleared her 
throat. Now, hows your leg?
About a yard long, he said.
He pulled on her chin.
She pulled on his beard.
He managed to get a smile from her, and that was better medicine than Doc 
Troutmans antibiotics.
 
6:30 A.M.
 
The storm clouds had begun to break up two hours ago. Dawn brought welcome 
shafts of autumn sunlight.
In the dense pine forest, half a mile above Black River, three men lowered the 
remains of Dawson, and the bodies of Salsbury and Klinger into a common grave.
All right, Jenny told them. Fill it in.
With each shovelful of dirt that struck the corpses, she felt more alive.
 
9:30 A.M.
 
 
After a refueling stop in Augusta, the hornetlike helicopter put down on the 
landing pad behind the Greenwich house at nine thirty in the morning.
Get it gassed up and serviced for a trip back to Black River this evening, 
Paul said.
Yes, sir, Malcolm Spencer said.
Then go home and get some sleep. Be back here by seven oclock this evening. 
That should give us both time to rest.
I can use it, Spencer said.
Paul got out of the helicopter and stretched. He had showered and shaved and 
changed clothes before leaving Maine, but that had refreshed him only 
temporarily. He was stiff, sore, and tired deep in his bones.
He went to the rear door of the stone house and knocked. A servant answered. She 
was a plump, pleasant-faced woman in her fifties. Her hair was tied back in a 
bun. Her hands were white with flour. Yes, sir?
I am the key.
I am the lock. -
Let me in.
She stepped out of his way.
Inside, he said, Wheres the computer?
The what, sir? she asked.
The computer. Dawsons computer.
I havent any idea, sir.
He nodded. Okay. Forget about me. Go back to whatever you were doing. He 
looked around the elaborately equipped kitchen. Doing a bit of baking, I see. 
Go ahead with it Forget that I was ever here.
Humming to herself, she returned to the counter beside the oven.
He poked about on his own until he located the computer room. When he found it, 
he sat before one of the programming consoles and typed out the access code that 
he had gotten from Salsbury.
The computer responded on all of its read-out screens:
PROCEED
Pecking at the typewriter keys with one finger, doing precisely what Salsbury 
had told him to do, he ordered it to:
ERASE ALL STORED DATA
Five seconds later the read-out screen flickered:
ALL STORED DATA ERASED
That message disappeared from the tubes, and his second order was displayed for 
a few seconds:
ERASE ALL PROGRAMS
It said:
REQUEST CONFIRMATION
OF LAST DIRECTIVE
So weary that the letters on the keys blurred before him, Paul again typed:
ERASE ALL PROGRAM!
Those three words shimmered on the green background for perhaps half a minute. 
Then they blinked several times, vanished.
He typed the words Black River and asked for a read-out and a full print-out 
of associated data.
The computer did nothing.
Next, he typed the words key-lock and asked for a read-out and a full 
print-out of all information in that file.
Nothing.
He requested that the computer run a systems check on itself and display its 
circuitry on the cathode-ray tubes.
The tubes showed nothing.
He leaned back in the programmers chair and closed his eyes.
Years ago, when he had been in high school, he had seen a boy lose a finger in 
woodworking shop. The boy had sliced it off on the band saw, a very even cut 
between the second and third knuckles. For two or three minutes, while everyone 
around him babbled in panic, the boy had treated the bloody stump as little more 
than a curiosity. He had even joked about it. And then, when his composure had 
infected those who were giving him first aid, he suddenly came to terms with 
what had happened, suddenly recognized the loss and the pain, began to scream 
and wail.
In much the same fashion, the meaning of Marks death exploded in Paul, hit him 
with the emotional equivalent of a truck plowing through a stone wall. He 
doubled over in the chair and, for the first time since hed come across the 
pathetic body in the freezer, he wept.
 
6:00 P.M.
When he got out of the car, Sam stood for a while, looking at the general store.
Jenny said, Whats the matter, Dad?
Just deciding how much I can get for it.
For the store? Youre selling?
Im selling."
But . . . its your life.
Im getting out of Black River, he said. I cant stay here knowing that any 
time I want. - . I can just open these
people with the phrase. . . use them . .
You wouldnt use them, she said, taking him by the arm as Rya took his other 
arm.
But knowing that I could. . . That sort of thing can eat at the soul, rot a man 
up inside.. . Flanked by them, he went up the porch steps. For the first time 
in his life, he felt like an old man.
 
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1977
 
 
The following headline appeared at the bottom of the front page of The New York 
Times:
MRS. DAWSON HIRES INVESTIGATORS;
DISSATISFIED WITH F.B.I.S WORE
 
 
 
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1977
 
 
Two bellhops showed them to the honeymoon suite. On the desk in the parlor, 
there was an arrangement of carnations and roses, compliments of the management. 
Jenny made him savor the fragrances: first a rose by itself, then a carnation, 
then a rose and a carnation together.
Later, they made love, taking their time about it, doing what most pleased each 
other. He seemed to float on her and she on him, he in her and she in him. It 
was a rich, full experience; and they were sated afterwards.
For a while they were silent, lying on their backs, holding hands, eyes closed.
At last she said, It was different that time.
Not bad, though, he said. At least not for me.
Oh, no. Not bad. Not for me either.
What then?
Just. . . different. I dont know. Maybe. . . Weve gained somethingintensity, 
I think. But weve also lost something. There wasnt any innocence to it this 
time.
Were not innocent people anymore.
I guess we arent, she said.
Were killers, he thought. Children of the 1970s, sons and daughters of the 
great machine age, survivalists.
All right, he told himself angrily. Enough. Were killers. But even killers can 
grab hold of a little happiness. More important, even killers can give a little 
happiness. And isnt that the most anyone can do in this life? Give a little 
happiness?
He thought of Mark: the faked death certificate, the small grave next to Annies 
casket...
He turned to Jenny again and took her in his arms and let the world shrink until 
it was no larger than their two bodies.
 
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