Mollyscope

The hotel was big and quite famous, ostentatious almost of the point of being downright flamboyant, within easy walking distance of Whitehall, and, like so many things in the real world, not quite what it appeared to be. Its top floor was totally given over to a company of international entrepreneurs, which was the some total of the hotel manager's knowledge of it. The occupants of that unknown upper region had their own elevator at the rear of the building, private stairs also at the rear and entirely closed off from the hotel itself, even their own fire escape. Yes they---"they" being the only identification someone might reasonably apply in such circumstances---owned the top floor, and so fell entirely outside the hotel's sphere of control and operation. Except that from the outside looking in, few would suspect that the building in toto was anything other than what it purported to be, which was exactly the guise or aspect---or lack of such---which "they" wanted to convey.440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡO411WmNrez

As for the "international entrepreneurs"---whatever such creatures might be---"they" were not. In fact they were a branch of Government, or more properly, a subsidiary body. Government supported them in the way a tree supports a small creeper, but their roots were wholly separate. And similarly, because they were a very tiny parasite, the vast bulk of the tree was totally unaware of their presence. As is the case with so many experimental, unproven projects, their funding was of low priority, came out of "petty cash" The upkeep of their offices was therefore far and away top of the list where costing was concerned, but that was unavoidable.440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzThyjxWFqL
For unlike other projects, the nature of this one demanded a very, very low profile indeed. Its presence in the event of discovery would be an acute embarrassment; it would doubtless be viewed with suspicion and scorn, if not disbelief and downright hostility; it would be seen as a totally unnecessary expenditure, a needless burden on the taxpayer, a complete waste of public money. Nor would there be any justifying it; the benefits or fruits of its being remained as yet wholly conjectural and the mildest "frost" would surely put paid to them. The same principles apply to any such organization or service: it must (a) be seen to be effective while paradoxically (b) maintaining its cloak of invisibility, its anonymity. Ergo: to expose such a body is to kill it....

Another way to dispose of this kind of hybrid would be, quite simply, to tear up its roots and deny it had ever existed. Or wait for them to be torn up by some outside agency and then fail to replant them.

Seventy-two hours ago there had occurred just such an uprooting. A major tendril had been broken, whose principal function it'd been to bind the vine to the host body, providing stability. In short, the head of the branch had suffered a heart attack and died on his way home. He'd had a bad heart for years, so that was odd in itself----but then something else happened to throw a different light on the matter, something Harry Moradian didn't want to dwell on right now.

For now, on this Monday morning of an especially chilly January, Moradian, the next in line, must assess the damage and feasibility of repairs; and if such repairs were at all possible, then he must make his first groping attempt to pull the thing back together. The project's foundations had always been a little shaky but now, lacking positive direction and leadership, the whole show might well fall apart in very short order. Like a sandcastle when the tide comes in.

These were the thoughts in Moradian's head as he stepped from the slushy pavement through swinging glass doors into a tiny foyer, shook damp snow from his overcoat and turned the collar down. It was not that he personally had any doubt as to the validity of the project----in fact the opposite applied: Moradian believed the branch to be all-important---but how to protect his position in the face of all that skepticism from above? Skepticism, yes. Old Gerrard had been able to pull it off, with all his friends in high places, his "old school tie" image, his authority and enthusiasm and sheer get-up-and-go, but men such as Harry Moradian were few and far between. Even fewer now.

And this afternoon at 4:00 Moradian would be called upon to defend his position, the validity of his branch's being, its very existence. Oh, they'd been quick off the mark, right enough, and Moradian believed he knew why. This was it, the crunch. With nothing to show for five years' work, the project was to be terminated. No matter what arguments he produced, he'd be shouted down. Old Gerrard had been able to shout louder than all of them put together; he'd had the clout, the backup; but Harry Moradian---who was he? In his mind's eye, he could picture the afternoon's inquisition right now:

"Yes, Minister, I'm Harry Moradian. My function in the Section? Well apart from being in second-in-command to Sir Gerrard, I was---I mean I am---er, that is to say, I prognosticate...I beg your pardon? Ah, it means I foresee the future, sir. Er, no, I have to admit that I probably couldn't give you the winner of the 3:30 at Goodwood tomorrow. My awareness generally isn't that specific, but...."

But it'd be hopeless. One hundred years ago they didn't accept hypnotism, for God's sake. And it was only fifteen years ago they were still laughing at acupuncture. So how could Moradian hope to convince them in respect of the branch and its work? And yet, on the other hand, coming through all the despondency and sense of personal loss, there was this other thing. Moradian knew it for what it was: his "talent," telling him that all was not lost, that somehow he would convince them, that the branch would go on. Which was why he was here: to go through Arthur Gerrard's things, prepare some kind of case for the branch, continue fighting its cause. And again Moradian found himself wondering about his bizarre talent, his ability to see into the future.

For the fact was that last night he had dreamed that the answer lay wright here, in this building, among Gerrard's papers. Was "dreamed" the right word for it? Moradian's revelations---his glimpses of things which had not yet happened, future occurrences---invariably came in those misty moments between true sleep and coming awake, immediately prior to full conscious awareness. The clamor of his alarm-clock could do it, set the process in motion, or even the first crack of sunlight through his bedroom window. That's what it had been this morning: the gray light of another gray day invading his room, getting under his eyelids, impressing upon his idly drifting mind the fact that another day was about to be born.

And with it had been born a vision. But again, "glimpse" might be a better word for it, for that was all Moradian's talent had ever permitted: the merest glimpse. Knowing this---and knowing that it would only occur once and then be gone forever---he'd fastened upon it, absorbed it. He dared not miss anything. Everything he'd ever "seen" in this way had always proved to be vitally important.

And on this occasion:

He had seen himself seated at Arthur Gerrard's desk, going through his papers one by one. The top right-hand desk drawer was open; the paper and files on the desk in front of him had come from there. Gerrard's massive security filing cabinet stood as yet undisturbed against the wall of his office; its three keys were lying on top of the desk where Moradian had tossed them. Each key would open a tiny drawer in the cabinet. No, for that which he sought was right here, in these documents from the drawer.

As if realization of that fact had galvanized the image of himself where it sat in Gerrard's chair, Moradian had then seen himself pause abruptly as he came to a certain file. It was a yellow file, which meant that it concerned a prospective member of the organization. Someone "on the books," as it were. Someone Gerrard had barely kept his eye on. Could this be someone with a "true" talent?"

As that thought dawned, so Moradian took a step towards himself where he sat. Then, dramatically, as was usually the case, his alter image at the desk had looked up, stared at him, and held up the file so that he could read the name on the dossier's cover. The name was "Molly Stewart."

That was all. That had been the point where Moradian had started awake. As to what the thing had meant or was supposed to signify---who could say? Moradian had long since given up trying to predict the meaning of these glimpses, other than the fact that they had meaning. But in any case, if something could be said to have brought him here today, it would have to be that brief and as yet inexplicable "dream" before waking.

As yet it was still fairly early in the morning. Moradian had beaten the first rush of heavy traffic in London's streets by just a few minutes. For the next hour or more all would be chaos out there, but in here it was as silent as the proverbial tomb. The rest of the admin team (all three of them, the typist included!) had been given today and tomorrow off out of respect for the dead man, so the offices upstairs would be totally empty.

In the tiny foyer Moradian had pressed the button for the elevator, which now arrived and opened its doors. He entered and as the doors closed behind him he took out his pass-card, sliding it easily and smoothly through the sensor slot. The elevator jerked but made no upward movement. Its doors opened, waited for a long moment, closed again. Moradian frowned, glanced at his card and silently cursed. It had run out yesterday! Normally Gerrard would have renewed its validity on the branch computer; now Moradian would have to do it himself. Fortunately he had Gerrard's card with him, along with the rest of his office-related effects. Using the ex-Head of Section's pass-card, he coerced the elevator into carrying him to the top floor, going through a similar procedure to let himself into the main suite of offices.440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ08OPVDFoJG
The silence in there was almost deafening. High up above the level of the street, with soundproofed floors to shout out hotel noises from below and double-glazed, tinted windows for additional privacy, the place seemed set in a kind of vacuum. The feeling crept in that if you listened to that silence long enough, it'd become hard to breathe. It was especially so in Gerrard's room, where somebody had been thoughtful enough to draw the blinds at the windows. But the blinds had jammed only a little more than halfway shut, so that now, with bands of light coming in through the green-tinted windows, the entire office seemed decorated in a horizontal, sub-marine pinstripe. It made this once familiar room strangely alien, and it was suddenly very odd and unreal not to have the Old Man here....

Moradian stood in the doorway, staring into the office for long moments before entering. Then, closing the door behind him, he stepped to the middle of the room. Several hidden scanners had already picked him up and identified him, in the outer offices as well as in here, but a monitor screen in the wall close to Gerrard's desk wasn't satisfied. It beeped, then printed up:

440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡB9lCiTFQ0f
SIR ARTHUR GERRARD IS NOT AVAILABLE AT PRESENT. THIS IS A SECURE AREA. PLEASE IDENTIFY YOURSELF IN YOUR NORMAL SPEAKING VOICE, OR LEAVE IMMEDIATELY. IF YOU FEAL TO LEAVE OR IDENTIFY YOURSELF, A TEN SECOND WARNING WILL BE GIVEN, FOLLOWING WHICH THE DOOR AND WINDOWS WILL LOCK AUTOMATICALLY.....REPEAT: THIS IS A SECURE AREA.440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkMt4bwmf7L
440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEY2pXw5URV
Feeling irrationally aggressive towards the cold, unthinking machine, and not a little perverse, Moradian said nothing but waited. After a count of three the screen wiped itself clean and printed up:440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt8yyqzELHE
440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtaxwULM1PO
TEN SECOND WARNING COMMENCES NOW....TEN....NINE....EIGHT.....SEVEN.....SIX.....440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMer7SGrPZ4
440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvaTyS2Jgkm
Harry Moradian," said Moradian grudgingly, not wishing to be locked in.440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKFzQ2pEyU7
The machine recognized his voice pattern, stopped counting, commenced a new routine.440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkRUM3xG5E0
440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡW5Gb4hpdV2
GOOD MORNING, MR. MORADIAN.....440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsUrS2QjkYr
SIR ARTHUR GERRARD IS NOT....440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQhzglhjTLF
440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2nFEaQRZwV
"I know," said Moradian. "He's dead." He stepped to the desk keyboard and punched in the current security override; to which the machine replied:440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx5eJKmmeVq
440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrGNcAhuExi
DO NOT FORGET TO RE-SET BEFORE YOU LEAVE440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWbQ0Jigpyk
440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8FzTydPLhG
---and switched itself off.

Moradian sat down at the desk. Funny world, he thought. And, funny bloody outfit! Robots and romantics. Super science and the supernatural. Telemetry and telepathy. Computerized probability patterns and precognition. Gadgets and ghosts!

He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter, came out with both items and also the keys to Gerrard's security cabinet. Without thinking, he tossed the keys onto an empty corner of the desk. Then he paused and stared at them lying there, forming a pattern---the pattern from this morning's glimpse into the future. Very well, let's go from there.

He tried the drawers of the desk. Locked. He took out Gerrard's notebook from the inside pocket of his overcoat, checked the code. It was OPEN SESAME.

Unable to suppress a chuckle, Moradian punched OPEN SESAME into the desk keyboard and tried again. The top right-hand drawer slid open at a touch. Inside, papers, documents, files....

And here comes the funny part, he thought.

He took out the papers and placed them in front of him on the desk. Leaving the drawer open (his "glimpse" again), he began to check through the documents, placing each one back in the drawer in its turn. He knew that by now his talent shouldn't really surprise him anymore, but it always did---and so he gave a small involuntary start as he arrived at the yellow file. The name on the cover was, of course Molly Stewart.

Molly Stewart. Apart from Moradian's dream, that name had only ever come up once before: in an ESP game he had used to play with Arthur Gerrard. As for this file: he had never seen it before in his life (his conscious life, anyway) and yet here he sat staring at it, just as in his dream. It was a very creepy feeling. And.....

In the dream he had held the file up to himself. Now the thought set the act in motion. Feeling foolish---not understanding why he did it, but at the same time feeling his skin charged with alien energy---he held up the file to the empty room, as if to a ghost from his own recent past. And just as a thought had triggered the action, now the action triggered something else----something away and beyond all of Harry Moradian's previous experience or knowledge.

God almighty! Gadgets and ghosts!

The room had been comfortably warm just a moment ago. Centrally heated, the offices were never cold. Or shouldn't be. But now, in a matter of seconds, the temperature had plummeted. Moradian knew it, could feel it, but at the same time he retained enough of instinctive reasoning to wonder if maybe his own body temperature had also taken a tumble. If so, it wouldn't be hard to explain. This must be what shock felt like. No wonder people shivered!

"Jesus Christ!" he whispered, his breath pluming in the suddenly frigid air. The file fell from his twitching fingers, slapped down on the desk. The sound of its falling---that and what he saw----galvanized Moradian into an almost spastic reaction of motion. He jerked back in his chair, causing its legs to ride through the pile of the carpet, tilting it backwards until it slammed against the window sill and rebounded.

The---apparition?--the thing, where it stood halfway between the door and the desk, hadn't moved. At first Moradian had thought (and had dreaded the thought) that it was someone---something else. Not once did it enter his mind to question the reality of what he was seeing, and not for a moment did he consider it to be anything other than supernatural. How could it be anything else? The scanners where they constantly swept the room, the entire suite of offices, had detected nothing. Entirely independent, if they had picked up anything at all intruder buzzers would be going off right now, and getting louder by the minute until someone sat up and took notice. But the alarms were silent. Ergo, there was nothing here to scan---and yet Moradian saw it.

It, she, was a well-rounded woman---a youth, anyway---naked as a baby, standing there facing Moradian, looking directly at him. Unlike him, a negro, this woman appeared to be white, and approximately 5'5" in height. Or was she that tall? Her feet weren't quite touching the carpeted floor and the bars of green light from the window penetrated into her flesh as if it had no substance at all. Goddamn it! It had no substance at all! But the thing stared at him, and Moradian knew that it saw him. And in the back of his mind he asked himself: Is it friendly, or----?

Inching his chair forward again, his eyes spied something in the back of the open drawer. An American-made Browning 9 mm automatic. He'd known Gerrard carried a weapon but hadn't known about this one. But would the gun be loaded? And if so, would it be any good against---this?

"No," said the naked apparition with a slow, almost imperceptible shake of its head. "No, it wouldn't." Which was all the more surprising because its lips didn't move by the smallest fraction of an inch!

"Jesus Christ!" Moradian gasped again, out loud this time, as he once again gave an involuntary start away from the desk. And then, controlling himself, to himself, he said:

"You---you read my mind!"

The apparition smiled a thin smile. "We've all got talents, Harry. You've got yours, I've got mine."

Moradian's lower jaw, already agape, now fell open. He wondered what would be easier; to just think at the thing or talk to it.

"Talking will do for now," said the other. "It'll be easier for both of us."

Moradian gulped, tried to say something, gulped again and finally gasped out: "But who---what---what the hell are you?"

"Who I am doesn't matter. What I've been and will be does. Now listen, I've got a lot to tell you and it's all rather important. It'll take some time, hours maybe. Do you need anything before I begin?"

Moradian stared hard at the---whatever it was. He stared at it, jerked his eyes away from it, peered at it out of the corner of his eye. It was still there. He surrendered to instinct backed up by at least two of his five senses, those of sight and hearing. The thing seemed rational; it existed; it wanted to talk to him. Why him? Why now? Doubtless he'd be finding out shortly. But---Goddamn!---he wanted to talk to it, too. He had a real live ghost here, or a real dead one!

"Need anything?" he shakily repeated the other's question.

"You were going to light a cigarette," the apparition pointed out. "You might also like to take your coat off, get yourself a coffee." It shrugged. "If you do these things first, then we can get on with it."

The central heating had come on, turning itself up a notch to compensate for the sudden drop in temperature. Moradian carefully stood up, took off his overcoat and folded it over the back of his chair. "Coffee," he said. "Yes---um, I'll be just a moment."

He walked round the desk and past his visitor. It turned to watch him leave the room, a pale shadow of a thing floating there, skinny, insubstantial as a snowflake, a puff of smoke. And yet---oh, yes, there was a power in it, Moradian was grateful it didn't follow him.....

He put two five-pence pieces in the coffee machine in the main office, fumbling the coins into the slot, and headed for the gents' toilet before the machine could deliver. He quickly relieved himself, picked up his steaming paper cup of coffee on the way back to Gerrard's office. The thing was still there, waiting for him. He carefully walked around it, seated himself again at the desk.

And as he lit a cigarette he looked at his visitor more closely, in greater detail. This was something he had to get fixed in his mind.

Taking into account the fact that its feet weren't quite touching the floor, it must be about five-ten in actual height. If its flesh was real instead of milky mist, it---or she---would maybe nine stone. Everything about her was vaguely luminous, as if shining with some faint inner light, so Moradian couldn't be sure about coloring. Her hair, poufy and frizzled, seemed dark brown. Faint and irregular marks on her high cheeks and forehead might be freckles. She would be, oh, maybe twenty-three years old; she had looked younger at first but that effect was wearing off now.

Her eyes were interesting. They looked at Moradian and yet seemed to look right through him, as if he were the ghost and not the other way about. They were brown, those eyes----a startlingly colorless brown that looked unnatural, as if the apparition could be wearing contact lenses. But more than that, there was that in those eyes which said they knew more than any twenty-three-year-old had any right knowing. The wisdom of ages seemed locked in them, the knowledge of centuries lay just beneath the faintly brown film which covered them.

Apart from that, her features were beautiful, like porcelain and seemingly equally fragile; her hands were slim, tapering; her figure was perfect, like an hourglass. Her skin in general was pale and unblemished. This was definitely a young woman you would like twice at on the street, three times at the beach. Or was she a young ghost? Or maybe a very old one?

"No," said the object of Moradian's scrutiny, her lips immobile, "I'm not any kind of a ghost. Not in the conventional sense of the word, at least. But now, since you obviously accept me, can we get started?"

"Get started? Er, of course!" Moradian suddenly felt like laughing, hysterical as a schoolgirl. He controlled it with an effort.

"Are you sure you're ready?"

"All right, all right. Go ahead. But---um----can I record this. For posterity or whatever, you know? There's a tape recorder here, and I....."

"The machine won't pick up my voice," said the other, shaking her head again. "Sorry, but I'm only speaking to you---directly to you. I thought you understood that? But---take notes if you want."

"Notes, yes....." Moradian scrabbled in the desk drawers, found paper and pencil. "Fine, I'm ready."

The other slowly nodded. "The story I have to tell is----odd. But working in an organization such as yours, you shouldn't find it too unbelievable. If you do....there'll be plenty for you to do afterwards; the truth of the things I'm going to tell you will come out then. As to any doubts you may have about the future of your section---consign them to hell. Your work will go on, and it will go from strength to strength. Gerrard was the head, but he's dead. Now you will be head---for a little while. You'll be up to it, I promise you. Anyway, noting that Gerrard has been lost; indeed, much has been gained. As for the Opposition---they've suffered losses from which they may never recover. At least, they're about to."

As the apparition spoke, so Moradian's eyes opened even wider and he sat up straighter and straighter. It (she, dammit!) knew about the section. About Gerrard. About "the Opposition," which was section parlance for the Russian outfit. And what was this about them suffering heavy losses? Moradian knew nothing about that! Where did this----girl----get her information? And just how much did it know anyway?"

"I know more than you can possibly imagine," said the other, smiling wanly. "And what I don't know I can get to know---almost anything."

"See," said Moradian defensively, "it's not that I doubt any of this---or even my sanity, for that matter---it's just that I'm trying to adjust, and...."

"I understand," the other cut him off. "But, please, do your adjusting as we go, if you can. In what I'm about to tell you, time-zones may overlap a little, so you'll have to adjust to that, too. But I'll keep it as chronologically sound as I can. The important thing is the information itself. And its implications."

"I'm not sure I quite under...."

"I know, I know. So just sit there and listen, and then maybe you'll understand....."440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkOv1eKJ9xs
440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡETwXZHvXeZ
440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡINSCGNYNcW
440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡerZ7wdHtRj
440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡM8PfjGWLa1
440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSrZO5kgJxl

440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPIlXNtgYEq
440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyIyc8al7wd

ns 15.158.61.42da2

Mollyscope

REGISTER

LOGIN

Interface Language:

Story Language: