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Authors: Robert Ludlum
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is
intelligent
, Jim.
In
discriminate use among the
un
intelligent leads to chaos.”
“Socratically, you’re only half right. The other half is ‘control.’ Effective control among the ‘iron’ and ‘bronze’ then frees the ‘gold’—to borrow from
The Republic
. If the intellectually superior were continually kept from thinking, experimenting, because their thought processes were beyond the comprehension of their fellow citizens, there’d be no great works—artistically, technically, politically. We’d still be in the Dark Ages.”
Matlock inhaled his cigarette and closed his eyes. Had he been too strong, too positive? Had he sounded too much the false proselytizer? He waited, and the wait was not long. Archie spoke quietly, but urgently nevertheless.
“Progress is being made every day, old man. Believe that. It’s the truth.”
Matlock half opened his eyes in relief and looked at Beeson through the cigarette smoke. He held hisgaze steady without blinking and then shifted his stare to Beeson’s wife. He spoke only two words.
“You’re children.”
“That’s a relative supposition under the circumstances,” answered Beeson, still keeping his voice low, his speech precise.
“And that’s talk.”
“Oh, don’t be so sure about that!” Ginny Beeson had had enough alcohol in her to be careless. Her husband reached for her arm and held it. It was a warning. He spoke again, taking his eyes off Matlock, looking at nothing.
“I’m not at all sure we’re on the same wavelength …”
“No, probably not. Forget it … I’ll finish this and shove off. Be in touch with you about the seminar.” Matlock made sure his reference to the seminar was offhanded, almost disinterested.
Archie Beeson, the young man in an academic hurry, could not stand that disinterest.
“Would you mind if I had one of those?”
“If it’s your first, yes, I would.… Don’t try to impress me. It doesn’t really matter.”
“My first?… Of what?” Beeson rose from the couch and walked to the table where the cigarette case lay open. He reached down, picked it up, and held it to his nostrils. “That’s passable grass. I might add, just passable. I’ll try one … for openers.”
“For openers?”
“You seem to be very sincere but, if you’ll forgive me, you’re a bit out of touch.”
“From what?”
“From where it’s at.” Beeson withdrew two cigarettes and lit them in
Now, Voyager
fashion. He inhaled deeply, nodding and shrugging a reserved approval,and handed one to his wife. “Let’s call this an hors d’oeuvre. An appetizer.”
He went into his study and returned with a Chinese lacquered box, then showed Matlock the tiny peg which, when pushed, enabled the holder to flip up a thin layer of wood on the floor of the box, revealing a false bottom. Beneath were two dozen or so white tablets wrapped in transparent plastic.
“This is the main course … the entrée, if you’re up to it.”
Matlock was grateful for what knowledge he possessed and the intensive homework he’d undertaken during the past forty-eight hours. He smiled but his tone of voice was firm.
“I only take white trips under two conditions. The first is at
my
home with very good, very old friends. The second is with very good, very old friends at
their
homes. I don’t know you well enough, Archie. Self-discretion.… I’m not averse to a small red journey, however. Only I didn’t come prepared.”
“Say no more. I just may be.” Beeson took the Chinese box back into his study and returned with a small leather pouch, the sort pipe smokers use for tobacco, and approached Matlock’s chair. Ginny Beeson’s eyes grew wide; she undid a button on her half-unbuttoned blouse and stretched her legs.
“Dunhill’s best.” Beeson opened the top flap and held the pouch down for Matlock to see inside. Again there was the clear plastic wrapped around tablets. However, these were deep red and slightly larger than the
intelligent
, Jim.
In
discriminate use among the
un
intelligent leads to chaos.”
“Socratically, you’re only half right. The other half is ‘control.’ Effective control among the ‘iron’ and ‘bronze’ then frees the ‘gold’—to borrow from
The Republic
. If the intellectually superior were continually kept from thinking, experimenting, because their thought processes were beyond the comprehension of their fellow citizens, there’d be no great works—artistically, technically, politically. We’d still be in the Dark Ages.”
Matlock inhaled his cigarette and closed his eyes. Had he been too strong, too positive? Had he sounded too much the false proselytizer? He waited, and the wait was not long. Archie spoke quietly, but urgently nevertheless.
“Progress is being made every day, old man. Believe that. It’s the truth.”
Matlock half opened his eyes in relief and looked at Beeson through the cigarette smoke. He held hisgaze steady without blinking and then shifted his stare to Beeson’s wife. He spoke only two words.
“You’re children.”
“That’s a relative supposition under the circumstances,” answered Beeson, still keeping his voice low, his speech precise.
“And that’s talk.”
“Oh, don’t be so sure about that!” Ginny Beeson had had enough alcohol in her to be careless. Her husband reached for her arm and held it. It was a warning. He spoke again, taking his eyes off Matlock, looking at nothing.
“I’m not at all sure we’re on the same wavelength …”
“No, probably not. Forget it … I’ll finish this and shove off. Be in touch with you about the seminar.” Matlock made sure his reference to the seminar was offhanded, almost disinterested.
Archie Beeson, the young man in an academic hurry, could not stand that disinterest.
“Would you mind if I had one of those?”
“If it’s your first, yes, I would.… Don’t try to impress me. It doesn’t really matter.”
“My first?… Of what?” Beeson rose from the couch and walked to the table where the cigarette case lay open. He reached down, picked it up, and held it to his nostrils. “That’s passable grass. I might add, just passable. I’ll try one … for openers.”
“For openers?”
“You seem to be very sincere but, if you’ll forgive me, you’re a bit out of touch.”
“From what?”
“From where it’s at.” Beeson withdrew two cigarettes and lit them in
Now, Voyager
fashion. He inhaled deeply, nodding and shrugging a reserved approval,and handed one to his wife. “Let’s call this an hors d’oeuvre. An appetizer.”
He went into his study and returned with a Chinese lacquered box, then showed Matlock the tiny peg which, when pushed, enabled the holder to flip up a thin layer of wood on the floor of the box, revealing a false bottom. Beneath were two dozen or so white tablets wrapped in transparent plastic.
“This is the main course … the entrée, if you’re up to it.”
Matlock was grateful for what knowledge he possessed and the intensive homework he’d undertaken during the past forty-eight hours. He smiled but his tone of voice was firm.
“I only take white trips under two conditions. The first is at
my
home with very good, very old friends. The second is with very good, very old friends at
their
homes. I don’t know you well enough, Archie. Self-discretion.… I’m not averse to a small red journey, however. Only I didn’t come prepared.”
“Say no more. I just may be.” Beeson took the Chinese box back into his study and returned with a small leather pouch, the sort pipe smokers use for tobacco, and approached Matlock’s chair. Ginny Beeson’s eyes grew wide; she undid a button on her half-unbuttoned blouse and stretched her legs.
“Dunhill’s best.” Beeson opened the top flap and held the pouch down for Matlock to see inside. Again there was the clear plastic wrapped around tablets. However, these were deep red and slightly larger than the
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