Dreamcatcher(72)

'How many ETs still up there?' Owen asked.

'Maybe a hundred.'

'How much don't we know? Does anybody have any idea?' Kurtz waved this aside. He was not a knower; knowing was someone else's department, and none of those guys had been invited to this particular pre-Thanksgiving party.

'The survivors,' Underhill persisted. 'Are they crew?' 'Don't know, but probably not. Too many for crew; not enough to be colonists; nowhere near enough to be shock-troops.'

'What else is going on up here, boss? Something is.'

'Pretty sure of that, are you?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

Underhill shrugged. 'Intuition?'

'It's not intuition,' Kurtz said, almost gently. 'It's telepathy.'

'Say what?'

'Low-grade, but there's really not any question about it. The men sense something, but they haven't put a name on it yet. Give them a few hours and they will. Our gray friends are telepaths, and they seem to spread that just as they spread the fungus.'

'Holy f**king shit,' Owen Underhill whispered.

Kurtz sat calmly, watching him think. He liked watching people think, if they were any good at it, and now there was more: he was hearing Owen think, a faint sound like the ocean in a conch shell.

'The fungus isn't strong in the environment,' Owen said. 'Neither are they. What about the ESP?'

'Too soon to tell. If it lasts, though, and if it gets out of this pine-tree pisspot we're in, everything changes. You know that, don't you?'

Underhill knew. 'I can't believe it,' he said.

'I'm thinking of a car,' Kurtz said. 'What car am I thinking of?'

Owen looked at him, apparently trying to decide if Kurtz was serious. He saw that Kurtz was, then shook his head. 'How should I . . .' He paused. 'Fiat.'

'Ferrari, actually. I'm thinking of an ice cream flavor. Which f - '

'Pistachio,' Owen said.

'There you go.'

Owen sat another moment, then asked Kurtz  -  hesitantly  -  if Kurtz could tell him his brother's name.

'Kellogg,' Kurtz replied. 'Jesus, Owen, what kind of name is

that for a kid?'

'My mother's maiden name. Christ. Telepathy.'

'It's going to f**k with the ratings of Jeopardy and Wants to Be a Millionaire, I can tell you that,' Kurtz said, then repeated, it gets loose.'

From outside the building there came a gunshot and a scream. 'You didn't have to do that!' someone cried in a voice filled with outrage and fear. 'You didn't have to do that!'

They waited, but there was no more.

'The confirmed grayboy body-count is eighty-one,' Kurtz said. 'There are probably more. Once they go down, they decompose pretty fast. Nothing left but goo . . . and then the fungus.' 'Throughout the Zone?'

Kurtz shook his head. 'Think of a wedge pointing east. The thick end is Blue Boy. Where we are is about the middle of the wedge. There are a few more illegal immigrants of the gray persuasion wandering around east of here. The flashlights have mostly stayed over the wedge area. ET Highway Patrol.'

'It's all toast, isn't it?' Owen asked. 'Not just the grayboys and the ship and the flashlights  -  the whole f**king geography.'

'I'm not prepared to speak to that just now,' Kurtz said.

No, Owen thought, of course you're not. He wondered immedi?ately if Kurtz could read his thought. There was no way of telling, certainly not from those pale eyes.

'We are going to take out the rest of the grayboys, I can tell you that much. Your men will crew the gunships and your men only. You are Blue Boy Leader. Got that?'

'Yes, sir.'

Kurtz did not correct it. In this context, and given Underhill's obvious distaste for the mission, sir was probably good. 'I am Blue One.'

Owen nodded.

Kurtz got up and drew out his pocket-watch. It had gone noon.

'This is going to get out,' Underhill said. 'There are a lot of U.S. citizens in the Zone. There's simply no way to keep it quiet. How many have those . . . those implants?'

Kurtz almost smiled. The weasels, yes. A good many here, a few more over the years. Underhill didn't know, but Kurtz did. Nasty little fellows they were. And one good thing about being the boss: you didn't have to answer questions you didn't want to answer.

'What happens later is up to the spin doctors,' he said. 'Our job is to react to what certain people  -  the voice of one of them is probably on your tape  -  have determined is a clear and present danger to the people of the United States. Got it, buck?'

Underhill looked into that pale gaze and at last looked away,

'One other thing,' Kurtz said. 'Do you remember the phooka?'

'The Irish ghost-horse.'

'Close enough. When it comes to nags, that one's mine. Always has been. Some folks in Bosnia saw you riding my phooka. Didn't they?'

Owen chanced no reply. Kurtz didn't look put out by that, but he looked intent.

'I want no repeat, Owen. Silence is golden. When we ride the phooka horse, we must be invisible. Do you understand that?'

'Yes.'

'Perfect understanding?'