The Touch

At the Foundation

Ba had a bad feeling about tonight as he pulled into the curb before the Foundation building. His initial plan had been simple: one man moving stealthily through the halls. Now it had been complicated by the Missus.

He was still recovering from the shock of the Missus' insisting on coming along tonight. He had planned to take his AMC Pacer, but now he was driving the Graham, and the Missus was in her usual place in the rear seat.

During the drive, Ba had argued strenuously to limit her to the most marginal involvement, such as waiting at the wheel of the car while he went inside, but she had flatly refused. She wanted to be there.

So he had reluctantly given the Missus a safe assignment: Go to the front entrance and make a scene—create a diversion.

"That's my specialty," she had said. "Making scenes."

As he put on the emergency brake, Ba heard the top twist off a bottle. He turned and saw her pouring liquor into a short glass. She took some in her mouth, rinsed it around like mouth wash, then swallowed with a grimace.

"Ugh! How do people drink scotch?" She breathed into her palm. "At least I'll smell the part. Let's go. It's showtime." Her eyes were bright with excitement.

Ba got out and stepped around to let her out, then watched as she walked up to the brightly lit front entrance, glass in hand, staggering just enough to look like someone who had had more than enough to drink.

He took a small duffle bag from the front seat and left the car under the lights at the curb. It would be safe there for a while, and he had decided that the best way to bring Dr. Bulmer out was straight through the front door.

He hurried off toward the side of the building.

It was 9:20 and he could wait no longer.

Senator McCready had rested all day. Sleep in other than short dozes had been almost impossible due to the excitement and anticipation of tonight. But he had resolutely stored up his strength, all but screaming at the clock for the unbearably slow caress of the hands across its face.

Now the time was almost here. He was going to Bulmer. At first he had intended to have him brought up here to the top-floor residence, but had dropped that idea in favor of one with more psychological appeal. He would go to Bulmer, thus appearing to be a humble supplicant rather than someone expecting a command performance.

Yes, this was the better approach. And after he was cured, Bulmer would have to be discredited. Try as he might, McCready could think of no alternative solution. That small, almost forgotten part of him let out a faint cry of protest. He turned a deaf ear to it. He couldn't relent now. He couldn't ignore the polls or the computer projection. A vindicated Dr. Alan Bulmer would be too much of a liability. McCready had to ruin him. There was simply no other way out.

The doors slid open and Rossi wheeled him into the elevator. They headed for the seventh floor.

The guard spotted her from his marble-enclosed guard station and was moving toward her before she was halfway through the revolving door.

"Sorry," miss," he said, holding out his hands in a "Stop" gesture. "We're closed to all visitors now."

Sylvia took a deep breath and launched herself into character.

"Wanna shee my doctor."

"None of the staff doctors are here now. Only a few resident physicians. Who's your doctor? We'll leave a message for him."

She had decided to be a belligerent drunk. She had seen enough of them at her parties—she hoped she could be convincing.

"I'm not talkin' 'bout one of your goddamn staff doctors! I'm talkin' 'bout Dr. Alan Bulmer. He's a patient here!"

"Visiting hours ended at seven. They start again at one tomorrow."

"I don't give a shit about your visiting hours! I'm here now… and I wanna shee Bulmer now!" She started toward the elevators. "What floor is he on?"

He grabbed her gently but firmly by the arm and guided her back toward the door. "Tomorrow, lady. Tomorrow."

Sylvia snatched her arm away. "Do you know who I am, you… you lackey?"

"No. And I don't care. Git!"

Sylvia had to hand it to the guard—he was keeping his cool. But it was showing signs of wear.

"Call the senator!" she cried as he grabbed her shoulders from behind and firmly propelled her toward the door. "He'll tell you who I am!"

It was time to play her ace card. She lurched away from him and leaned over the front of the guard station. There was a large panel of green and red lights there. Only the green were lit; they glowed steadily. She let her knees buckle.

"I'm gonna be sick!"

"Not there you ain't!" He pulled her away and eased her onto a bench a few feet away. "Sit here. I'll get you some water." He reached for her glass of scotch. "And you've had too much of that already."

"Doncha touch that! Just get me some water."

As he stepped over to the water fountain and filled a paper cup for her, Sylvia took a breather. So far, so good. She glanced at her watch.

Almost time.

She stood up again and staggered over to the guard station.

"Hey! Get away from there!" the guard cried as he returned with her water.

"You're right," Sylvia said, holding up her glass of scotch. "I don't need any more of thish." She placed the glass carefully on the marble rim directly above the control panel, then she made sure to hit it with her elbow as she swung around to return to the bench.

The guard's cry of "Oh, shit, no!" mixed with the tinkle of breaking glass, followed by a chorus of electrical pops and hisses accompanied by acrid white smoke rising from the control board as twelve-year-old scotch leaked down into the printed circuits.

As buzzers and bells began to sound, Sylvia moaned. "Oooh, I'm gonna be so sick!"

The small aluminum grappling hook had caught the ledge of a darkened second-floor window on the third try. Ba hauled himself up the length of the attached quarter-inch nylon cord until he could grab the ledge and pull himself up and balance there. He repeated the process with the window directly above.

This was as far as he would go on the outside. Dr. Axford had said that the administrative offices were on the third floor. As Ba had hoped, they were deserted at this time of night, and there was no sign that the windows were hooked up to the alarm system. A brief flick of his flashlight revealed that the floor inside was carpeted. Good. He pulled the duffle bag up to the ledge, withdrew Dr. Axford's white lab coat, and wrapped it around his right hand. Turning his face away, he struck the window a hard backhand blow. A splintering crash was followed by a softer clatter of the shards falling against each other as they hit the carpet, then silence.

Ba hooked his grapple inside the frame and waited, ready to slide down to street level at the first sign of anyone coming to investigate. No one showed, so he climbed in. He donned the lab coat, which was far too short in the arms, and waited until it came: a cacophony of bells and beeps. It sounded as if every alarm in the building was going off at once.

Ba checked his watch: 9:32. He bowed his respect to the Missus. His old friend Sergeant Nash had chosen well for a wife. She was as resourceful as she was compassionate. He stepped into the deserted hall and from there made his way to the fire stairs near the elevator alcove. He was on the third floor; the senator's domain was on the twentieth.

He began to climb.

He was breathing hard when he reached the top level, so he stopped and rested a moment, peering through the small rectangle of wired glass. There was only one elevator door at this level, and one doubtlessly needed a key to travel this far. He checked the latch on the door. It was unlocked. A warning sounded in his brain. It would be senseless to lock a door to a fire stair, but if the senator was as security conscious as Dr. Axford had said, this door would be wired with an alarm. The security system, however, was in chaos now, so it might be safe to open it and check around for any other possible entry to the top floor besides the single elevator.

He moved out into the alcove and followed a short hallway to a set of double doors that was tightly closed. It was the only doorway on the entire floor. He briefly put his ear against it but could hear no sound from within. The entire level had a deserted feeling to it. He checked his watch: 9:40. He was on schedule, and it was apparent that Dr. Buhner hadn't arrived yet.

Ba hurried back to the stairwell to wait. He had decided that the simplest and safest course was to intercept Dr. Bulmer as he stepped from the elevator and bring him back down to street level—leaving behind whoever had been escorting him to the twentieth floor, of course.

When he heard the knock on the door, Alan glanced at the clock. Nine twenty-six. Right on time.

He opened the door and found himself face to face with the swarthy security guard who had refused to let him leave the wing hours ago. With him was another guard. They looked familiar, and then he recognized them as Axford's assistants. Their name tags said "Henly" and "Rossi."

He swallowed the anger that had been simmering for hours and said: "What happened to the white coats?"

"Traded them in," Henly, the blond guard, said.

"Catch that maniac?" Alan asked Rossi.

He nodded. "Yep. And we brought you a visitor."

Leaning heavily on his cane, Senator McCready shuffled into the room. An empty wheelchair sat behind him in the hall.

"Good evening, Dr. Bulmer!" he said, genially enough. "I hope the unavoidable extension of your stay here hasn't inconvenienced you too much."

Alan hid his shock at seeing the senator come to him. He had expected the opposite. Much of his rage evaporated at seeing the infirmity and debility of the man close up. The slowness of his movements, the exertion they cost him—he was in sad shape.

"What an unexpected pleasure!" he managed to say. "And don't give my incarceration a second thought. How often does a man get a chance to be alone with his thoughts for nearly half a day? A little introspection is good for the soul." He grabbed McCready's hand and shook it. "I can't thank you enough for what you've done for me!"

That last sentence, at least, was true. By coming to the Foundation, Alan had learned that he could prove the existence of the Dat-tay-vao and could predict the hour of its occurrence with a simple tide chart. He had also learned that it was destroying his mind. He had gained something despite McCready's treachery.

McCready smiled. "As the barker said, 'You ain't seen nothin' yet!' " He fairly dropped into the chair. "We've gathered enough evidence to polish up your reputation and safeguard your medical license."

But you've destroyed it! Alan thought, his anger rising.

"We'll be sending out a general press release first thing tomorrow morning."

You lying bastard! It would never be composed, much less released.

Alan forced a smile. "I can barely wait to see it."

Suddenly the air was full of whooping sirens and clanging bells.

McCready snapped a glance at the two guards. "What's that all about?" His voice was barely audible above the din.

"Beats me," Henly said, his expression concerned and puzzled as he unclipped his walkie-talkie from his belt. "Sounds like fire and break-in and everything else. I'll check with Dave."

He turned and stuck his head into a relatively quiet corner while Alan and the others waited in silence. Finally Henly turned back to them.

"It's all right. Dave says some lady came in stewed to the gills demanding to see a patient and spilled a drink on the control console. Says it's a mess down there."

"Go help him out," McCready said. He turned to Rossi. "And you wait outside. I have a personal matter to discuss with Dr. Buhner."

The guard stepped out and closed the door, muffling somewhat the continued clamor of the alarms.

"Personal matter?" Alan said.

"Yes." The senator rested both hands atop his cane and leaned forward. "As I'm sure you can see, I'm not a well man. By this time of night I'm usually fast asleep from exhaustion. It is only from sheer force of will that I made it here tonight."

"What's the problem?"

McCready removed his dark glasses. "You tell me, Doctor."

Alan saw the pathognomonic drooping, half-closed eyelids.

"Myasthenia gravis."

"Correct. A relentlessly progressive case. I… this is so difficult to ask… I was wondering if you might—"

"Heal you?"

"Yes. If you would."

Over my dead body! was what Alan wanted to say, but he kept his expression bland.

"Do you happen to know when high tide is, Senator?"

"It's at ten-eighteen." McCready checked his watch. "Just a little over thirty minutes away."

"Good. Then the Dat-tay-vao should be working soon."

"The what?"

"The Touch, Senator. The Touch that heals. Let's give it a try, shall we?"

Alan waited a few moments until his watch ticked around to 9:50. He had had a long time to think today, and had decided that his life had been manipulated too often for too long. He was reclaiming control, and here was where it began. McCready could wreck his career, ruin his reputation, send his teetering marriage over the edge, and convince the world that he was insane. But Alan Bulmer could still decide if and when to use the Dat-tay-vao. It was all he had left.

And it was all that McCready wanted.

Not quite knowing what would happen next, Alan stood up and placed his hands upon the senator's head.

Out in the hall, the alarms stopped.

Ba's watch said it was almost ten o'clock. All was quiet— too quiet. No one had come or gone on the top floor here. This troubled him. If they were going to bring the Doctor up to the senator's quarters, they surely would have done so by now.

Which left two possibilities: Either Dr. Bulmer wasn't coming up here tonight or the senator had gone to him. Dr. Axford had seemed quite sure that the senator would stay where he was and have Dr. Bulmer brought up. But Dr. Axford had been wrong before.

Seven-nineteen. That was the number of Dr. Bulmer's room.

Ba started down the steps.

"Had a few too many, lady?"

The blond guy was leering down at her as she slumped on the bench. He had arrived like the cavalry to help the downstairs guard stop the racket and reset all the alarms. He strutted before her as if he knew without question that his uniform made him irresistible to women. Sylvia hated uniforms. Especially paramilitary models.

"Buzzsh-off, bozo," she said. "I ain't feelin' too good."

"Oh, but you're looking fine!"

"Yeah. Right."

He took her gently but firmly by the arm. "Let's you and me take a walk back to the overnight quarters where we can talk about this privately."

Sylvia snatched her arm away. She wanted to lash out at lover-boy, here, but held back.

"Talk about what?"

"About how much trouble you're in, honey. But maybe we can work something out."

Sylvia had a pretty good idea of how he wanted to work out. "Ain't in no trouble. Senator's a friend of mine."

"Yeah? What's your name?"

"Toad. Mrs. S. Toad."

The guard waved her off with disgust. "Get her out of here, Dave. I've got to get back upstairs to the senator."

Sylvia's heart leaped. Alan would be wherever the senator was. She took a fresh and sudden interest in the guard.

"You're gonna see the senator?" she cried, rising and following him toward the elevator. "Take me with you! I gotta see him!"

"Get lo—!" he began, then stopped. A calculating gleam lit his eyes. "Well… okay. What say I take you up to the senator's personal quarters and see if he's there? And if he ain't there"—he winked at Dave—"we can wait for him."

"S'go," Sylvia said, taking his arm. She wanted in the worst way to get upstairs to where Alan was, and this seemed as good a route as any. "Senator's an ol' buddy of mine."

The guard patted her hand as he led her toward the elevator.

"Mine, too."

As the elevator doors closed and the car started up, he leaned against her and ran a hand up her flank.

"Ooh," she said, swaying against the side wall of the car. "This elevator's making me sick."

He backed away. "Hold on, hon. It's a short ride."