The Dark Door by Kate Wilhelm Read Free Book Online

publicity. Thoreson’s name’s not even linked to any of this, that’s how cautious he is, how careful about his company’s reputation. I’m fronting. Me and the company,” he added. “Not that old man Boyle’s happy about it, but that’s how it is. So you decide, and we send out the contract, except I’m taking off for Bermuda as soon as they unlock my door here. Sick leave,” he added, too smugly. “I have good insurance.”
    Charlie spread his hands and said, “Then there’s no case at this time, not until you’re back in harness.”
    Phil started to shake his head and grunted again. “That’s one of the things I shouldn’t do yet,” he said after a moment. “You’re on, Charlie. If you’ll look into it. God, we’ve got more than forty of those white elephants on our books! We haven’t been hit yet, but I’m afraid we will be.”
    “Usual terms?” Charlie asked.
    “Whatever you say. Sore Thumb complained about the amount, but I said you don’t work cheap. We’ll have a check mailed tomorrow. Give yourself a raise. I’ll initial it. A reasonable raise, that is.”
    Charlie leaned back and surveyed his friend critically. “Must be a hidden head injury, brain fever. Okay. Meanwhile, Bermuda’s a good idea.”
    “Yeah, I know.” Phil closed his eyes. “I’m tired. You talk. What’s this bullshit about apples?”
    Over on Houston Street Constance was regarding her old friend Patrick Morely with affection. “It really is about ten bushels,” she said. “But we couldn’t pack bushels very well, so we scrounged up the liquor boxes instead. “You’ll just have to explain the best you can how you came by ten liquor boxes, my friend.”
    Father Patrick Morley, executive director of the children’s home that occupied most of the block, laughed with delight. “And you say there is no independent good or evil! Come along inside and let me give you a cup of coffee. Where is Charlie?”
    Two adolescent boys appeared and started to unload the boxes of apples. One of them kept looking at Constance with a shy smile. Patrick led the way inside the massively built school. A few more children peered at them from a doorway; the door closed softly when they drew near. A faint grin played on Patrick’s face, the only indication of his awareness of his charges’ interest in the visitor. Everywhere the building needed repairs—paint, new woodwork, a window. … It was scrupulously clean. They went into his study and sat down near a low table that held a few mugs and a thermos. He righted two of the mugs and opened the thermos, inspected the contents, then poured. “I probably could find some sugar and cream,” he said without conviction.
    She shook her head. “Charlie’s visiting an old friend. We’ll meet for lunch. How are you?”
    “Well,” he said, dismissing the subject. He looked dreadful, too thin, pale. He was dying of leukemia. Looking at him, aching for him, Constance could almost admit to the evil that he believed had an independent existence.
    Somewhere a bell rang, and the quiet beyond his study door was broken by young voices, footsteps, doors opening, closing. Patrick’s smile widened. Constance sipped her coffee. It was very bad coffee. Why are you sacrificing your life? she had wanted to ask him many times, though she never had, and never would.
    He was regarding her again, his eyes calm, serene. “Do you remember the game we played in school?” he asked suddenly. “Someone in the back row tapped the person in front of him and whispered, ‘Pass it on.’”
    She nodded, grinning now. “By the time it got to me it was more than just a tap.”
    He laughed. “Exactly. The multiplier effect. Good is like that. A good thing happens to you, you pass it on, bigger, better than you received. It multiplies.” The smile left his face, and with its absence he seemed suddenly very old, very aware. “Evil’s like that, too, Constance. People like you, so basically good, call the