Firestarter(101)

Herman Pynchot came into the living room. He was shorter than Andy but very slender; there was something about him that had always struck Andy as slightly effeminate, although it was nothing you could put your finger on. Today he was looking extremely reet and compleat in a thin gray turtleneck sweater and a summerweight jacket. And of course he was grinning.

"Good morning, Andy," he said.

"Oh, "Andy said, and then paused, as if to think. "Hello, Dr. Pynchot."

"Do you mind if I turn this off? We ought to go for our walk, you know."

"Oh." Andy's brow furrowed, then cleared. "Sure. I've seen it three or four times already. But I like the ending. It's pretty. The UFOs take him away, you know. To the stars."

"Really," Pynchot said, and turned off the TV. "Shall we go?"

"Where?" Andy asked.

"Our walk," Herman Pynchot said patiently. "Remember?"

"Oh," Andy said. "Sure." He got up.

5

The hall outside Andy's room was wide and tile-floored. The lighting was muted and indirect.

Somewhere not far away was a communications or computer center; people strolled in with keypunch cards, out with swatches of printouts, and there was the hum of light machinery.

A young man in an off-the-rack sport coat-the essence of government agent-lounged outside the door of Andy's apartment. There was a bulge under his arm. The agent was a part of the standard operating procedure, but as he and Pynchot strolled, he would fall behind them, watching but out of earshot. Andy thought he would be no problem.

The agent fell in behind them now as he and Pynchot strolled to the elevator. Andy's heartbeat was now so heavy it felt as if it were shaking his entire ribcage. But without seeming to, he was watching everything closely. There were perhaps a dozen unmarked doors. Some of them he had seen standing open on other walks up this corridor-a small, specialized library of some kind, a photocopying room in another-but about many of them he simply had no idea. Charlie might be behind any one of them right now... or in some other part of the installation entirely.

They got into the elevator, which was big enough to accommodate a hospital gurney. Pynchot produced his keys, twisted one of them in the keyway, and pushed one of the unmarked buttons. The doors closed and the elevator rose smoothly. The Shop agent lounged at the back of the car. Andy stood with his hands in the pockets of his Lee Riders, a slight, vapid smile on his face. The elevator door opened on what had once been a ballroom. The floor was polished oak, pegged together. Across the wide expanse of the room, a spiral staircase made a graceful double twist on its way to the upper levels. To the left, French doors gave on to a sunny terrace and the rock garden beyond it. From the right, where heavy oak doors stood half open, came the clacking sound of a typing pool, putting out that day's two bales of paperwork.

And from everywhere came the smell of fresh flowers.

Pynchot led the way across the sunny ballroom, and as always Andy commented on the pegged together floor as if he had never noticed it before. They went through the French doors with their Shop-shadow behind them. It was very warm, very humid. Bees buzzed lazily through the air. Beyond the rock garden were hydrangea, forsythia, and rhododendron bushes. There was the sound of riding lawnmowers making their eternal rounds. Andy turned his face up to the sun with a gratitude that wasn't feigned.

"How are you feeling, Andy?" Pynchot asked.

"Good. Good."

"You know, you've been here almost half a year now," Pynchot said in an isn't-it-amazing-how-the-time-flies-when-you're-having-a-good-time tone of mild surprise. They turned right, onto one of the graveled paths. The smell of honeysuckle and sweet sassafras hung in the still air. On the other side of the duckpond, near the other house, two horses cantered lazily along.

"That long," Andy said. "Yes, it is a long time," Pynchot said, grinning. "And we've decided that your power has... diminished, Andy. In fact, you know we've had no appreciable results at all." "Well, you keep me drugged all the time," Andy said reproachfully. "You can't expect me to do my best if I'm stoned." Pynchot cleared his throat but did not point out that Andy had been totally clean for the first three series of tests and all three had been fruitless. "I mean, I've done my best, Dr. Pynchot. I've tried." "Yes, yes. Of course you have. And we thinkthat is, I think-that you deserve a rest. Now, the Shop has a small compound on Maui, in the Hawaii chain, Andy. And I have a six-month report to write very soon. How would you like it"-Pynchot's grin broadened into a game-show host's leer and his voice took on the tones of a man about to offer a child an incredible treat-"how would you like it if I recommended that you be sent there for the immediate future?"

And the immediate future might be two years, Andy thought. Maybe five. They would want to keep an eye on him in case the mental-domination ability recurred, and maybe as an ace in the hole in case some unforeseen difficulty with Charlie cropped up. But in the end, he had no doubt that there would be an accident or an overdose or a "suicide." In Orwell's parlance, he would become an unperson.

"Would I still get my medication?" Andy asked.

"Oh, of course," Pynchot said.

"Hawaii..." Andy said dreamily. Then he looked around at Pynchot with what he hoped was an expression of rather stupid cunning. "Probably Dr. Hockstetter won't let me go. Dr. Hockstetter doesn't like me. I can tell."