Firestarter(102)

"Oh, he does," Pynchot assured him. "He does like you, Andy. And in any case, you're my baby, not Dr. Hockstetter's. I assure you, he'll go along with what I advise."

"But you haven't written your memorandum on the subject yet," Andy said.

"No, I thought I'd talk to you first. But, really, Hockstetter's approval is just a formality."

"One more series of tests might be wise," Andy said, and pushed out lightly at Pynchot. "Just for safety's sake."

Pynchot's eyes suddenly fluttered in a strange way. His grin faltered, became puzzled, and then faded altogether. Now Pynchot was the one who looked drugged, and the thought gave Andy a vicious kind of satisfaction. Bees droned in the flowers. The scent of new-cut grass, heavy and cloying, hung in the air.

"When you write your report, suggest one more series of tests," Andy repeated.

Pynchot's eyes cleared. His grin came splendidly back. "Of course, this Hawaii thing is just between us for the time being," he said. "When I write my report, I will be suggesting one more series of tests. I think it might be wise. Just for safety's sake, you know."

"But after that I might go to Hawaii?"

"Yes," Pynchot said. "After that."

"And another series of tests might take three months or so?"

"Yes, about three months." Pynchot beamed on Andy as if he were a prize pupil.

They were nearing the pond now. Ducks sailed lazily across its mirror surface. The two men paused by it. Behind them, the young man in the sport coat was watching a middle-aged man and woman cantering along side by side on the far side of the pond. Their reflections were broken only by the long, smooth glide of one of the white ducks. Andy thought the couple looked eerily like an ad for mail-order insurance, the kind of ad that's always falling out of your Sunday paper and into your lap-or your coffee.

There was a small pulse of pain in his head. Not bad at all. But in his nervousness he had come very close to pushing Pynchot much harder than he had to, and the young man might have noticed the results of that. He didn't seem to be watching them, but Andy wasn't fooled.

"Tell me a little about the roads and the countryside around here," he said quietly to Pynchot, and pushed out lightly again. He knew from various snatches of conversation that they were not terribly far from Washington, D.C... but nowhere as close as the CIA's base of operations in Langley. Beyond that he knew nothing.

"Very pretty here," Pynchot said dreamily, "since they've filled the holes."

"Yes, it is nice," Andy said, and lapsed into silence. Sometimes a push triggered an almost hypnotic trace memory in the person being pushedusually through some obscure association-and it was unwise to interrupt whatever was going on. It could set up an echo effect, and the echo would become a ricochet, and the ricochet could lead to... well, to almost anything. It had happened to one of his Walter Mitty businessmen, and it had scared the bejesus out of Andy. It had turned out okay, but if friend Pynchot suddenly got a case of the screaming horrors, it would be anything but okay.

"My wife loves that thing," Pynchot said in that same dreamy voice.

"What's that?" Andy asked. "That she loves?"

"Her new garbage disposer. It's very..."

He trailed off:

"Very pretty," Andy suggested. The guy in the sport coat had drifted a little closer and Andy felt a fine sweat break on his upper lip. "Very pretty," Pynchot agreed, and looked vaguely out at the pond. The Shop agent came closer still, and Andy decided he might have to risk another push... a very small one. Pynchot was standing beside him like a TV set with a blown tube. The shadow picked up a small chunk of wood and tossed it in the water. It struck lightly and ripples spread, shimmering. Pynchot's eyes fluttered.

"The country is very pretty around here," Pynchot said. "Quite hilly, you know. Good riding country. My wife and I ride here once a week, if we can get away. I guess Dawn's the closest town going west... southwest, actually. Pretty small. Dawn's on Highway Three-oh-one. Gether's the closest town going east."

"Is Gether on a highway?"

"Nope. Just on a little road."

"Where does Highway Three-oh-one go? Besides Dawn?"

"Why, all the way up to D.C... if you go north. Most of the way to Richmond, if you go south."

Andy wanted to ask about Charlie now, had planned to ask about Charlie, but Pynchot's reaction had scared him a little. His association of wife, holes, pretty, and-very strange!-garbage disposer had been peculiar and somehow disquieting. It might be that Pynchot, although accessible, was nevertheless not a good subject. It might be that Pynchot was a disturbed personality of some sort, tightly corseted into an appearance of normality while God knew what forces might be delicately counterbalanced underneath. Pushing people who were mentally unstable could lead to all sorts of unforeseen results. If it hadn't been for the shadow he might have tried anyway (after all that had happened to him, he had damn few compunctions about messing with Herman Pynchot's head), but now he was afraid to. A psychiatrist with the push might be a great boon to mankind... but Andy McGee was no shrink.

Maybe it was foolish to assume so much from a single trace-memory reaction; he had got them before from a good many people and very few of them had freaked out. But he didn't trust Pynchot. Pynchot smiled too much.