Paul laughed. “Jenny tells me there’s no more flu in town. So the worst we can get at Ultman’s is food poisoning.”
“What about the kids?”
“Mark’s spending the afternoon with Bob Thorp’s boy. He’s been invited to lunch, and he’ll spend it mooning over Emma.”
“Still has a crush on her, does he?”
“He thinks he’s in love, but he’d never admit it.”
Sam’s craggy face was softened by a smile. “And Rya?”
“Emma asked her to come along with Mark. But if you don’t mind looking after her, she’d rather stay here with you.”
“Mind? Don’t be ridiculous.”
As he got up from the armchair, Paul said, “Why don’t you put her to work after lunch? She could come up here and pore through these books until she found Deighton’s name on a table of contents.”
“What a dull bit of work for a peppy girl like her!”
“Rya wouldn’t be bored,” Paul said. “It’s right down her alley. She likes working with books — and she’d enjoy doing you a favor.”
Sam hesitated, then shrugged and said, “Maybe I’ll ask her. When I’ve read what Deighton’s written, I’ll know where his interests lie, and I’ll have a better idea of what he’s up to now. You know me — as curious as the day is long. Once I’ve got a bee in my bonnet, I’ve just got to take it out and see whether it’s a worker, drone, queen, or maybe even a wasp.”
Ultman’s Cafe stood on the southwest comer 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 had 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 from the jukebox. An aisle separated the booths from the counter that ran the length of the restaurant.
Ogden Salsbury was in the comer 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. Ultman’s 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 comer booth with a good-looking man in his late thirties; Salsbury didn’t 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 subject’s 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 hadn’t consumed any of the drug. If that was true, then they hadn’t drunk any water from the town system, hadn’t used it to make ice cubes, and hadn’t cooked with it. That was marginally possible, he supposed. Marginally. However, the drug had also been introduced into fourteen products at a food wholesaler’s 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 hadn’t 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 hadn’t been altered by it — either not at all or not as they should have been — and subsequently were unimpressed by the subliminals because they hadn’t 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 Ultman’s 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 Miriam’s. And she had Miriam’s 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 lust — but 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 couldn’t 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 didn’t particularly mind if absolute power corrupted him absolutely — just so it didn’t 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 couldn’t resist taking control of this woman. His emotions had unseated his reason, and he was riding with them.