“You don’t honestly believe we went looking for a dog and provoked him into attacking Michael?”

“It does seem unlikely,” Galen admitted.

“But not impossible?”

“Trite as it may sound…”

“Nothing is impossible. Damn you,” Linda said.

Galen’s fixed smile widened, very slightly, and Linda flung herself out of her chair and began to pace. That was one of the reasons why she hated psychiatrists; she had the feeling that her every action was not only anticipated, but provoked.

“However,” Galen went on calmly, “unless the evidence to the contrary is strong, I generally prefer the simplest hypothesis.”

“A real dog,” Michael said.

“A real dog,” Galen agreed.

Linda turned, to find both of them watching her. For a moment, the open amusement in Galen’s face almost provoked an outburst; then she saw the strained pallor of Michael’s face, and she dropped into her chair.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“You asked me a question,” Galen said. “About the letters. What did you make of them, Michael?”

“Not much. I was hoping you’d have more to say on the subject.”

“I do. But I want your interpretation first.”

“The thing that struck me was the Jonah effect,” Michael said slowly. “The doom and destruction that hit the people closest to Randolph. That, and my father’s inexplicable dislike of him. It was Linda who told me he must have been the head of the witchcraft cult, and thus directly responsible for the death of that boy-”

“Green. The author of The Smoke of Her Burning.” As they both sat speechless, Galen turned to Linda. “Didn’t you suspect, Mrs. Randolph, that your husband never wrote that book?”

“I-I don’t know. I never-” Linda rallied. “I guess I did. But not for a long time, and it was never more than a suspicion. I loved the author of that book before I ever met Gordon; I think it was one of the reasons why I loved him. The external brilliance, the polish-Gordon could have done that. What he lacked, what he never could have produced, was the soul of the book-the compassion, the tenderness.”

Galen nodded. He turned back to Michael.

“That was what your father suspected, knowing both students as he did. That was what he told me, privately. Of course he could prove nothing. Green had told him he was working on a book, but had never showed him any of the manuscript. He said he wanted to have it complete before he submitted it for criticism.”

“I should have known,” Michael said, flushed with self-contempt. “I call myself a writer… But there were other things. The campaign speeches, even Kwame’s songs…For a while I played with the idea that he had stolen them from Gordon.”

“They were not written by the same man; but they were written by the same kind of man,” Galen said. “Despite my reluctance to accept your theories of diabolic possession, I do believe in what you might call mental vampirism-a spiritual blood sucking, a leechlike drain of the intelligence and emotions of others. You’ve met people, I’m sure, who left you feeling drained and depressed after a few hours’ conversation. Usually this is an unconscious demand, but Randolph is quite conscious of what he’s doing. Make no mistake, he was never guilty of ordinary plagiarism. His victims gave him what he wanted, half convinced themselves that it was his work.

“Eventually, however, the vampire goes too far, and destroys the source from which it draws its vitality. It is symptomatic, not only of Randolph’s effect on others, but of their personality weaknesses, that they should resort to suicide, or some other form of escape, rather than attacking Randolph. For it was not only intellectual brilliance he sought, it was brilliance coupled with a sense of insecurity. You might say, if you were mystically inclined-which I am not-that Randolph was drawn, by a kind of spiritual chemistry, to people of this sort, just as they were attracted to him. The stronger souls-pardon the expression-resisted him. As you did, Mrs. Randolph. He miscalculated with you, possibly because his instincts were confused by a more basic desire. But there lay the danger to you. Randolph literally could not let you go. What he fails to fascinate he must destroy. And eventually he destroys even that which he fascinates.”

“Then everything he’s done,” Michael muttered, “all his success-a fraud. A gigantic fraud.”

“Not at all. He has one undeniable talent: Charisma, we call it-the ability to charm and command affection, loyalty. All leaders have it, to some extent, and all of them depend on advisers, speech writers, hired experts, to supply any qualities they may lack. If Randolph had accepted that kind of help, he might have been a successful politician and a good teacher; he is not a stupid man. But he isn’t content with mere competence. A healthy, strong body, and the finest of training, let him excel in the sports he selected-and don’t underestimate the power of that confident personality on his opponents. But he knew that eventually he would lose, when he got into the big leagues, against opponents who were simply better than he was. So he quit.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Michael said. “You’re on our side after all, you old-”

“I am merely presenting what seems to me, at the moment, the most logical hypothesis. I’ve followed Randolph’s career with some interest, since your father told me his suspicions. I respected his judgment, and I was intrigued by Randolph’s behavior. If your father was correct, there were certain alarming tendencies… Well. Candidly, I was relieved when he decided to give up his political career.”

Michael opened his mouth to speak, but Linda forestalled him.

“So you believe in a perfectly materialist, rational explanation.”

“Yes. Given your husband’s personality, and motives, the rest is clear. The dog is a real dog, manipulated and concealed by Randolph in an attempt to play on your nerves. Your erratic behavior is a result of secretly administered drugs and a form of hypnotic control, intensified by your increasing suggestibility as doubts of your own sanity increased.”

“But I thought no one could be hypnotized to do something he wouldn’t consciously do.”

“An error,” Galen said succinctly. “Or, shall we say a great oversimplification.”

“My attack on Michael-”

“Posthypnotic suggestion, conditioning…” Galen paused. The Gray eyes appraised her coldly. “I am not saying that your mental and emotional state is normal, at the present time.”

“I know that,” Linda said. “What I don’t know is how abnormal it is.”

“You mean, are you still a potential threat to Michael?” Galen pondered the problem without visible emotion. “I would guess that you may well be.”

“God damn it!” Michael was on his feet, ignoring Linda’s outstretched hand, and Galen’s un-perturbed smile. “Your theory stinks, Galen. Oh, I know, it all makes sense. It even explains why the dog attacked me, and yet left before it did any serious damage. The storm excited it, so that it broke away from its handlers, and they called it back before it could be killed or captured because they didn’t want their supernatural effect ruined. I’ll even admit to hearing a funny whistling sound that might have been Gordon, calling the dog. But your version doesn’t explain Gordon’s motive. Why the elaborate plot? Why all the hocus-pocus? And why me, for God’s sake?”

“Your theory isn’t strong on motive either,” Galen pointed out. “The mechanism isn’t that complicated, or obscure; Randolph’s original reason for inviting you to his home had nothing to do with plots, supernatural or otherwise. He may have selected you, in preference to others, because of some amorphous idea of getting back at your father, who was one of the few people who never succumbed to the myth; after that, the development of the relationship between you and Mrs. Randolph would give even a balanced mind cause for dislike. What do you consider a motive, anyway? Four million dollars? You’re talking about human behavior, which is difficult enough to comprehend even in so-called normal individuals. People have committed murder over a dirty plate, or a sum as small as three dollars.”