Margaret St. Clair Read Free Page B

marvels, and outside of office hours he knew some unusual people.
    Over the telephone he was told to bring something the person he was interested in had handled. An appointment was made for eight the next night.
    Next evening, Dr. Lawrence was punctual. He handed Mrs. Casson, the psychometrist, a sheet of paper. “This is the best I could do,” he said. “It’s a drawing the pe rson I’m interested in made when I asked her to draw a picture of herself. I didn’t have access to anything that had belonged to her, like a comb or a piece of jewelry.”
    “The picture will do nicely,” Mrs. Casson answered. She was a plump, soft woman who wore her graying hair in two heavy braids down her back. “You haven’t sat with me before, have you, Doctor?”
    “No, I haven’t had that pleasure,” Dr. Lawrence replied.
    “It’s quite simple. We sit opposite each other, and I hold to my forehead whatever my sitter has brought. Sometimes nothing happens, sometimes I go into a light trance, sometimes I can give information in my normal state. Sit down there, Doctor, and I’ll light some incense. It establishes the atmosphere.”
    The incense was lit. It smelled, Dr. Lawrence thought, better than he had expected. Coils of smoke began to roll between him and Mrs. Casson.
    They sat in silence. Once or twice Mrs. Casson cleared her throat. She was sitting, as far as he could see in the dull light, with her elbows on the arms of her chair and her forehead resting on the sheet of paper she held in her hands.
    The moments passed. Dr. Lawrence began to wonder when Mrs. Casson would say that she was sorry, but she couldn’t get anything. Then he became aware that she was h umming a tune.
    What was it? Oh, yes, “Sailing, Sailing, Over the Bounding Main.” Yes, he thought that was it.
    She began to speak. Her voice was considerably deeper than it had been earlier. “There’s a ship, an old, old ship with sails.
    “There’s a mast in the middle. Now it’s beginning to sprout leaves. The vines are spreading out from it, there are leaves all over the ship. And the god —the god in the middle —the god —” Her voice faltered, and then strengthened. “The pirates threw him into the water. Bu t the sweet sea beasts bore him up. He played the lyre and rode safe on their backs to Corinth.” Mrs. Casson breathed deeply. Then, almost in a shriek, she said, “Madelaine!”
    She was still sitting with her head resting on her fingers. Very softly the doc tor ventured a question. “Where did they take her? Is it far?”
    “No, not far. Out—outside the Gate. To the Rock.” Mrs. Casson exhaled deeply. Her body slowly collapsed to the right. Her hands dropped to her sides. Her head lolled back.
    Dr. Lawrence did not know whether he ought to try to revive her. But after a moment she sat up and yawned. “I went into trance then,” she said. “Did I say anything?” “Yes, quite a bit.”
    “Was it what you wanted?”
    “I think so. I can’t be sure.”
    “Good. I think I told you what my fee is. If you want to sit with me again, I’ll be glad —”
    “I’ll keep you in mind, indeed,” the doctor said. He put a bill in her hand. “Thank you very much for your help.”
    Lawrence drove home slowly, pondering. The stuff about the ship sprou ting vines sounded like something from Greek mythology —Dionysus, he rather thought. Mrs. Casson seemed to have fused it with another story, that of Arion and the dolphin. Well. If Madelaine had been taken away from Drake’s Bay by a dolphin, or dolphins —we l l, where would she have gone?
    Mrs. Casson had said, “Not far.”
    “The Rock,” to anybody who lived near San Francisco bay, would mean Alcatraz, the former site of a Federal prison. But, apart from the fact that the Rock was under continual observation by bay shipping, and hence was an unsuitable place for anyone who wanted not to be seen, it was inside the Gate, since it was within San Francisco Bay. Was there any place