it out of her hands. After less than a minute of dowsing, she put down the loop and indicated two of the ten cards. “These are the highest values in the batch.”
“What are they?” Cauvel asked.
“One might be an ace.”
“Of which suit?”
“I don’t know.”
He turned them over. An ace of clubs. A queen of hearts.
She relaxed.
He revealed the other cards. The highest value was a jack.
“Incredible,” he said. “This is one of the most difficult tests we’ve tried. But out of ten attempts, you’ve been ninety percent accurate. Ever think of going to Las Vegas?”
“To break the bank at the twenty-one tables?”
“Why not?” he asked.
“The only way I’d have a chance is if they spread out the cards and let me use a wire loop on them before they dealt.”
Like all his movements and expressions, his smile was economical. “Not likely.”
For the past two years her Tuesday and Friday appointments had begun at four-thirty and ended at six o’clock. On these days she was Cauvel’s final patient. During the first three quarters of an hour she participated in some experiments in extra-sensory perception for a series of articles he intended to publish in a professional journal. He devoted the second forty-five minutes to treating her in his capacity as a psychiatrist. In return for her cooperation he waived his fee.
She could afford to pay for treatment. She permitted the current arrangement because the experiments interested her.
“Brandy?” he asked.
“Please.”
He poured Remy Martin for both of them.
They moved from the card table to a pair of armchairs that faced each other across a small round cocktail table.
Cauvel used no standard technique with his patients. His style was very much his own. She liked his quiet, friendly approach.
“Where would you like to begin?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Take your time.”
“I don’t want to begin at all.”
“You always say that, and you always begin.”
“Not today. I’d just like to sit here.”
He nodded, sipped his brandy.
“Why am I always so difficult for you?” she asked.
“I can’t answer that. You can.”
“Why don’t I want to talk to you?”
“Oh, you do want to talk. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
Frowning, she said, “Help me start.”
“What were you thinking about on your way here?”
“That’s no place to start.”
“Try it.”
“Well ... I was thinking about what I am.”
“And what’s that?”
“A clairvoyant.”
“What about it?”
“Why me? Why not someone else?”
“The top researchers in this field believe we all have the same paranormal talents.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But most people don’t have it to the extent that I do.”
“We just don’t recognize our potential,” he said. “Only a handful of people have found a way to use their ESP.”
“So why did I find a way?”
“Haven’t all of the best clairvoyants suffered head injuries at some time prior to the discovery of their psychic powers?”
“Peter Hurkos did,” she said. “And a number of others. But not all of us.”
“Did you?”
“Suffer a head injury? No.”
“Yes, you did.”
She sipped her brandy. “What a wonderful taste.”
“You were injured when you were six years old. You’ve mentioned it a few times, but you’ve never wanted to pursue it.”
“And I don’t want to pursue it now.”
“You should,” Cauvel said. “Your reluctance to discuss it is proof that—”
“You’re talking too much today.” Her voice was hard, too loud. “I pay you to listen.”
“You don’t pay me at all.” As always, he spoke gently.
“I could walk out of here right now.”
He took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief.
“Without me,” she said sharply, disliking his studied calm, “you wouldn’t have the data to write those articles that make you a big man among the other shrinks.”
“The articles aren’t that important. If you want so much
“What are they?” Cauvel asked.
“One might be an ace.”
“Of which suit?”
“I don’t know.”
He turned them over. An ace of clubs. A queen of hearts.
She relaxed.
He revealed the other cards. The highest value was a jack.
“Incredible,” he said. “This is one of the most difficult tests we’ve tried. But out of ten attempts, you’ve been ninety percent accurate. Ever think of going to Las Vegas?”
“To break the bank at the twenty-one tables?”
“Why not?” he asked.
“The only way I’d have a chance is if they spread out the cards and let me use a wire loop on them before they dealt.”
Like all his movements and expressions, his smile was economical. “Not likely.”
For the past two years her Tuesday and Friday appointments had begun at four-thirty and ended at six o’clock. On these days she was Cauvel’s final patient. During the first three quarters of an hour she participated in some experiments in extra-sensory perception for a series of articles he intended to publish in a professional journal. He devoted the second forty-five minutes to treating her in his capacity as a psychiatrist. In return for her cooperation he waived his fee.
She could afford to pay for treatment. She permitted the current arrangement because the experiments interested her.
“Brandy?” he asked.
“Please.”
He poured Remy Martin for both of them.
They moved from the card table to a pair of armchairs that faced each other across a small round cocktail table.
Cauvel used no standard technique with his patients. His style was very much his own. She liked his quiet, friendly approach.
“Where would you like to begin?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Take your time.”
“I don’t want to begin at all.”
“You always say that, and you always begin.”
“Not today. I’d just like to sit here.”
He nodded, sipped his brandy.
“Why am I always so difficult for you?” she asked.
“I can’t answer that. You can.”
“Why don’t I want to talk to you?”
“Oh, you do want to talk. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
Frowning, she said, “Help me start.”
“What were you thinking about on your way here?”
“That’s no place to start.”
“Try it.”
“Well ... I was thinking about what I am.”
“And what’s that?”
“A clairvoyant.”
“What about it?”
“Why me? Why not someone else?”
“The top researchers in this field believe we all have the same paranormal talents.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But most people don’t have it to the extent that I do.”
“We just don’t recognize our potential,” he said. “Only a handful of people have found a way to use their ESP.”
“So why did I find a way?”
“Haven’t all of the best clairvoyants suffered head injuries at some time prior to the discovery of their psychic powers?”
“Peter Hurkos did,” she said. “And a number of others. But not all of us.”
“Did you?”
“Suffer a head injury? No.”
“Yes, you did.”
She sipped her brandy. “What a wonderful taste.”
“You were injured when you were six years old. You’ve mentioned it a few times, but you’ve never wanted to pursue it.”
“And I don’t want to pursue it now.”
“You should,” Cauvel said. “Your reluctance to discuss it is proof that—”
“You’re talking too much today.” Her voice was hard, too loud. “I pay you to listen.”
“You don’t pay me at all.” As always, he spoke gently.
“I could walk out of here right now.”
He took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief.
“Without me,” she said sharply, disliking his studied calm, “you wouldn’t have the data to write those articles that make you a big man among the other shrinks.”
“The articles aren’t that important. If you want so much
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