“The insurance man, honey,” says the young lady, who has whisked off her apron while Mr. Wilier was turned to face the entrance through which the young man has come. She hands her husband the card.
“Insurance?” says young Mr. Conalt frowning, reading the card. “What insurance? Liberty Mutual? But I don’t— we don’t have any policies with Liberty Mutual. If you’re selling—”
“Not at the moment,” says Mr. Wilier, beaming at them as well as the looseness of his false teeth will permit. “I actually am an insurance agent, but that hasn’t anything to do with this. I only wanted to see you first.”
“First before what?” demands Mr. Conalt, staring hard at him.
“Before revealing myself,” says Mr. Wilier. “You are the two young people who have been broadcasting a call to any other psi-sensitives within range, aren’t you?”
“Oh, Hank!” gasps Mrs. Conalt; but Conalt does not unbend.
“What are you talking about?” he demands.
“Come, come,” replies Mr. Wilier deprecatingly.
“But, Hank—” begins Mrs. Conalt.
“Hush, Edie. I think this guy—”
“Oh, wad the power the Giftie gie us, to see oorselves as ithers see us—more or less, if you young people will pardon the accent.”
“What’s that? That’s Robert Burns, isn’t it,” says Hank. “It goes—it would frae mony an error free us.” He hesitates.
“And foolish notion. Yes,” says Mr. Wilier. “And now that the sign and counter-sign have been given, let us get down to facts. You were broadcasting, both of you, were you not?”
“Were you receiving?” demands Hank.
“Of course,” says Mr. Wilier unperturbed. “How else would I know what quotation to use for a password?” He beams at them again. “May I sit down?”
“Oh, of course!” says Edie hastily. They all sit down. Edie bounces up again. “Would you like some coffee, Mr. —er—” she glances over at the card, still in Hank’s hands —”Wilier?”
“Thank you, no,” replies Mr. Wilier, clacking his teeth. “I have one cup of coffee a day, after dinner. I believe in moderation of diet. But to the point. You are the people I heard.”
“Say we were,” says Hank finally. “You claim to be psi-sensitive yourself, huh?”
“Claim? No doubt about it, my boy. Ash tray?” He lifts his hand. An ash tray on an end table across the room comes sailing on the air like a miniature ceramic UFO to light gently upon his upturned palm. Mr. Wilier sets it down and closes his eyes.
“You have seven dollars in your wallet, Hank. One five-dollar bill and two singles. At this moment you are interrupting your main line of thought to wonder worriedly what happened to the third one-dollar bill, as you had eight dollars in the wallet earlier this morning. Rest easy. You were stopped by the newspaper delivery boy shortly after ten this morning while you were mowing the lawn and paid him eighty cents. The two dimes change are in your right-hand pants pocket.”
He opens his eyes. “Well?”
“All right,” says Hank with a heavy sigh. “You sold me. We can’t do anything like that, Edie and I. We can just read each other’s minds—and other people’s if they’re thinking straight at us.” He stares a little at Mr. Wilier. “You’re pretty good.”
“Tut,” says Mr. Wilier. “Experience, nothing else. I will be a hundred and eighty-four next July 12th. One learns things.”
“A hundred and eighty-four!” gasps Edie.
“And some months, ma’am,” says Mr. Wilier, giving her a little half-bow from his chair. “Sensible living, no extravagances and peace of mind—the three keys to longevity. But to return to the subject, what caused you young people to send out a call?”
“Well, we—” began Edie.
“What we thought,” says Hank, “is that if there were any more like us, we ought to get together and decide what to do about it. Edie and I talked it all over. Until we met each other we never thought there could be anybody else like ourselves in the world. But if there were two of us, then it stood to reason there must be more. And then Edie pointed out that maybe if a bunch of us could get together we could do a lot for people. It was sort of a duty, to see what we could do for the rest of the world.”
“Very commendable,” says Mr. Wilier.
“I mean, we could read the minds of kids that fall in a well and get trapped—and send emergency messages maybe. All sorts of things. There must be a lot more we haven’t thought of.”
“No doubt there are,” says Mr. Wilier.
“Then you’re with us?” says Hank. “Together, I’ll bet we can darn near start a new era in the world.”
“Well, yes,” replies Mr. Wilier. “And no. A hundred and eighty-four years have taught me caution. Moreover, there is more to the story than you young people think.” He clacks his teeth. “Did you think you were the first?”
“The first?” echoes Hank.
“The first to discover you possess unusual abilities. I see by the expression on year faces you have taken just that for granted. I must, I’m afraid, correct that notion. You are not the first any more than I was. There have been many.”
“Many?” asked Edie faintly.
“A great number within my experience,” says Mr. Wilier, rubbing his leathery old hands together.
“But what happened to them?” asked Edie.
“Many things,” replies Mr. Wilier. “Some were burned as witches, some were put in insane asylums. Fifteen years ago one was lynched in a small town called Pashville. Yes, indeed. Many things happen.”
The two others stare at him.
“Yeah?” says Hank. “How come you’re in such good shape, then?”
“Ah, that’s the thing. Look before you leap. I always have. It pays.”
“What—what do you mean?” asks Edie.
“I mean it’s fortunate I was around to hear you when you broadcast.” Mr. Wilier turns to her. “Lucky for you I reached you before you went ahead trying to put this help-the-world plan of yours into effect.”
“I still think it’s a good notion!” says Hank almost fiercely.
“Because you’re young,” replies Mr. Wilier with a slight quaver in his voice. “And idealistic. You wouldn’t want to expose your wife to the sort of thing I’ve mentioned, eh?”
“Anything Hank decides!” says Edie stoutly.
“Well, well,” says Mr. Wilier, shaking his head. “Well, well, welll”
“Look here!” says Hank. “You can’t tell me there’s no way of putting what we’ve got to good use.”
“Well…” says Mr. Wilier.
“Look. If you want out,” says Hank, “you just get in your car—”
Mr. Wilier shakes his head.
“No,” he says. And suddenly his face lights up with a smile. He beams at them. “You’d really let me go?”
“Shove off,” says Hank.
“Goodl” cried Mr. Wilier. He does not move. “Congratulations, both of you. Forgive me for putting you both to the test this way but for the sake of everybody else in the Colony, I had to make sure you were ready to go through with it before I told you anything.”
“Colony?” says Edie.
“Anything?” says Hank.
Nine hours later, just at dusk, a small, gray 1937 sedan in good repair is to be seen approaching the gate of a certain military installation in New Mexico. It stops at the wide gate and two MPs in white helmets approach it. There is a short conversation between them and the driver, and then they march rather stiffly and woodenly back to their small, glassed-in gatehouse. The sedan proceeds on into the interior of the installation.
A little under an hour later, after several more like conversations, the sedan parks. Its three occupants leave it for another gate, another guard, another compound within another area, and finally find themselves standing at the foot of an enormous tall, tapering metallic creation.