“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable fr om magic.” Arthur C. Clarke MMichael Walker’s team had arranged a fleet of rental cars and vans that were lined up at the south end of the tarmac of Jackson Hole Airport, waiting for the trio of corporate jets to arrive. Judging by the row of private planes and jets parked near the terminal, it was hard to dispute that Teton County has the highest per capita income in the United States. Sitting in a hole, with mountains on three sides and Teton National Park and the National Elk Refuge to the north, land is at a premium in Jackson with the average home costing well into seven fi gures. The airport itself is within the boundaries of Teton National Park and on certain days and weather conditions, is one of the most difficult places in the world to land an airplane. Today the fog had burnt off early and the winds were light. As usual, miles from the nearest industrial center and too early for forest fi re season, the air was a pristine blue that was so intense sunglasses were required. On a clear moonless night the sky can be so clear, that if the angle of the sun is right, you can actually see satellites orbiting the earth. Th e fi rst Gulfstream to land was not from The Washington Post. It had the Walker Industries company logo on the tail fi n. The door opened and after the stairs were extended a tiny woman carrying a baby wrapped in a blanket came down the steps. Frank McCarthy ran across the tarmac to see his infant son for the first time. All 256 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin that was visible of the lad was a shock of bright red hair. Taking the boy in his arms, he motioned toward the main party while he and his wife began marching purposefully in that direction. “Mr. Walker, this is my wife….” Before he could finish his sentence, Cindi McCarthy had slapped Michael Walker hard enough across the face to rattle his fi llings. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, as she walked past the CEO and leading shareholder of a Fortune 50 company. The others in the Hermes Project had to cover their faces or turn away to keep Walker from seeing their laughter. Walker flexed his jaw. “I deserved that.” “Yes, you did,” Penelope agreed, making no attempt to suppress her glee. “Wanted to do that a few times myself,” she muttered to Sally Winters, who nodded her agreement. “What was that?” “Nothing.” Another jet touched down and taxied toward them. This one contained the brass of The Washington Post. Mark Hatchet was fi rst off and greeted Penelope with a hug. He held her at arm’s length and examined her from head to toe. “Wow, you’ve lost some weight.” “Thanks for noticing.” She patted his potbelly and said, “Looks like you found everything I lost.” “Hotel food.” “We need to find you another wife.” “Yeah, you know what they say, the sixth time’s the charm.” Mark Hatchet was nearly seventy pounds heavier than he had been in his college days. Years of living out of a suitcase, covering everything from natural disasters to presidential campaigns, had taken a toll. Moving off the news beat and into the editor’s chair hadn’t helped. He still kept to his four basic food groups of caffeine, nicotine, alcohol, and fast food. Though he was only three months older than Penelope, no one would guess they were nearly the same age. What was left of his thinning hair was more gray than brown and the years had etched canyons in his face. “Mark Hatchet, this is Michael Walker and Dr. Carl Altman.” Aft er a wave of introductions and handshakes, Penelope Spence pulled Hatchet aside and handed him a suggested car assignment sheet. Mark’s boss and the CEO would travel with Dr. Altman; Hatchet would be in the car with her and Walker. 257 The Fourth Awakening The second Gulfstream had landed and The Washington Post’s worker bees were now milling around on the tarmac gawking at the Grand Tetons. “Where do you want Aaron to ride?” Hatchet asked. “Who is Aaron?” Penelope asked. “Aaron Joseph. Our Senior Technology Editor?” Hatchet pulled back with a look of puzzlement that Penelope was drawing a blank. “You specifically asked for him by name.” “Oh, right.” She motioned for Walker to join them and he broke away from another group and headed in their direction. “Where do we want Aaron Joseph?” “It really doesn’t matter. Anywhere is fine. He’ll have plenty of time to catch up with Dr. Altman in the next few days.” Walker read their blank looks. “He was one of Carl’s students at Caltech.” Penelope broke into a wry smile. “If I hadn’t gotten in the car with you in Charleston?” “Yes.” Michael Walker answered calmly. “I would have driven to Washington, instead of to Cincinnati.” “Do you always have a plan B?” Walker smiled at Spence. “And C, and D, and… ” Penelope squeezed Walker’s arm. “I’m glad I got in the car.” Walker nodded. “I’m grateful you did as well.” “What’s going on?” Hatchet asked. “Nothing,” Penelope said, as she held the door open for her old friend. . TThere was a steady din in the large dining room of the main house as the staff and managers from The Washington Post and the members of the Hermes Project mingled. At the north end of the room was a tall, rail thin man dressed in black. He had a mane of golden hair and skin so pale it appeared nearly translucent. Gathered around him were three men and one woman, also dressed in black; none of them taller than Penelope. “Is that James Steerforth?” Mark Hatchet asked. “Yes,” Michael Walker answered after a quick glance over his shoulder. “Who is James Steerforth?” Bill Flickling, the publisher of Th e Washington Post, asked. 258 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin “He’s that famous illusionist who makes tigers and airplanes disappear in Las Vegas,” Hatchet answered. Franklin Mitchell, CEO of The Washington Post Group crossed his arms and glared at Hatchet. “I get the feeling we’re getting set up here.” “He’s much more than that,” Michael Walker said with a smile. “He has made a career out of debunking other illusionists and so called psychics.” “We did a story on him recently,” Hatchet looked around the room and motioned for a reporter to join them. “Jeanette Wilson wrote the piece.” Wilson, concern on her face at being summoned to a private conversation of all of the top brass of The Washington Post and the Hermes Project reluctantly joined them. “Yes, sir?” she said soft ly. “Sir?” A bemused grin covered Hatchet face. “That isn’t what you called me yesterday when I assigned that story you wanted to somebody else.” Jeanette Wilson’s eyes danced from person to person and she appeared on the verge of losing control of her bodily functions. She never for a moment thought telling off the managing editor over a story assignment would merit a dressing down in front of the publisher AND the CEO of The Washington Post Group. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Mark,” Bill Flickling said. “You’re scaring her to death.” Flickling pointed at James Steerforth. “Did you write a story about him recently?” “Yes sir,” Wilson answered soft ly. “Mr. Walker here says he likes to debunk illusions. Is that the case?” A great weight lift ed off of Jeanette Wilson. “Yes sir. He seems to think he’s Harry Houdini and…” “What the hell does Houdini have to do with any of this?” Franklin Mitchell demanded. “Houdini, sir,” Wilson said as she turned to face the CEO. “He made a career out of exposing frauds such as fake mediums and phony séances. James Steerforth has gone one better. He has a standing offer of one million dollars to anyone who can do a magic trick he can’t fi gure out. All of the other magicians hate him with a passion.” “And,” Michael Walker said as all eyes turned to him “I went him one better. I’ve hired his team and offered them a five million dollar bonus if they can prove we staged any of what you’re about to see.” “So,” Mitchell said. “He’s on your payroll.” An unexpected girlish giggle escaped from Jeanette Wilson. “What’s so funny, Ms Wilson?” 259 The Fourth Awakening “Sir,” she answered with a hint of panic in her voice. “James Steerforth is one of the highest paid entertainers in the world with a personal net worth in the hundreds of millions of dollars. He even owns his own island in the Caribbean.” “So?” Mitchell demanded “For him five million dollars would be a slow month. Plus he has an ego that could fill the Grand Canyon.” “Your point?” “What she’s trying to say,” Walker said. “Is that it would be worth much more to him to prove me a fraud than any money I might pay him.” “Exactly,” Wilson added. “I agree with Mr. Walker one hundred percent. His ego would never allow him to think someone was smarter than him. Combine that with all the publicity this story is generating, if he could expose Mr. Walker as a fraud his market value would explode. There is no way he could be bought off.” She shook her head firmly. “Never happen.” Mark Hatchet put his hand on Jeanette Wilson’s shoulder. He could feel her still trembling beneath his touch. “Thanks.” Michael Walker made eye contact with James Steerforth who nodded that he was ready. Walker motioned to the group that they should head to the north end of the dining hall. Everyone had to pass between two rows of tables covered with small boxes. “Please,” one of Steerforth’s male assistances said with a slight German accent. “Place all electronics and metallic items in one of the boxes. Just like the airport, no metal allowed.” The other three assistants were running handheld metal detecting wands over everyone before they were allowed to enter the roped off section of the dining room. In the middle of the space, Steerforth’s people had constructed an elevated platform with a seven-foot high, eighteen-inch thick wall separating it into two equal parts. Suspended above the platform was a shimmering metallic cloth like material that cast a shadow over the platform. On either side of the wall was a small table with a single chair. Positioned around the table were three video crews. One belonged to Walker, one to The Washington Post, and one had been fl own in by James Steerforth. After brief introductions, Walker asked Steerforth, “Are we ready.” He nodded yes. “Why don’t you explain exactly what we have here?” “Of course,” Steerforth answered as he brushed his hair off his face. “We 260 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin constructed this wall to be sure there is no communication between the people on either side.” Steerforth with a flick of his wrist motioned toward the material tenting the area. “This canopy is a special composition of my personal design that will block any video equipment mounted above from…” Steerforth paused for dramatic effect and waited until all eyes in the room were locked on him. “Shall we say assisting the participants?” A confident smile covered his face as his eyes locked on Walker. Walker’s bemused grin caused him the briefest moment of hesitation but it quickly passed as his master showman instincts kicked in. “The platform has special sensors to detect any movement, several additional sensors that we cannot talk about for competitive reasons are also in place, and we are monitoring radio frequencies in the immediate area.” “Who built this thing?” Franklin Mitchell asked. “My staff and I,” he answered softly. “Before you ask, either I or one of my assistants have been here the entire time since we began construction. None of Walker’s people have been allowed near the arena.” “Tell them about the two people we’re using,” Walker suggested. Steerforth had cold gray eyes that seldom blinked. “They have been with us for the past two days. We have taken them to an outside medical facility where they had full body X-rays and no metallic implants were found. We have monitored what they have eaten and they are wearing only clothes which we’ve provided.” “Are you satisfied?” Walker asked Steerforth drew in a deep breath and slowly released it. “Yes. I am satisfied.” The members of the Hermes project fell back and let the people from the newspaper have the best vantage point to watch the show. From the rear of the room, another of Steerforth’s assistants escorted the two Hermes graduates toward either side of the table. Both were barefooted and each wore thin black silk pajamas that clung to them as they walked. In one chair was a wiry woman who appeared to be in her mid-thirties and across from her was a sun baked young man in his late thirties. “To welcome you, what we’re going to do,” Dr. Altman explained as he faced the bank of video cameras, “is give a brief and very minor demonstration of a fraction of the potential in the research we’ve been conducting. As a bit of introduction, the two participants in this demonstration are Laura Banks who has worked for Michael Walker 261 The Fourth Awakening for over a dozen years and Stu Levy who has been associated with me for a similar amount of time. To help us is noted illusionist Mr. James Steerforth.” With a smattering of applause Dr. Altman yielded the fl oor. “Thank you, Dr. Altman.” Steerforth held up a deck of playing cards. “Mr. Walker and Dr. Altman allowed me to select the demonstration to be used and no one here knew what we were going to do until this moment.” Steerforth slowly looked around the room as he flicked the hair from his face. “I decided to make this quite simple.” He paused again for dramatic eff ect. “These cards have been in my constant possession since before our arrival. We will show a single card to one of the participants and ask the other to identify it.” Steerforth covered the deck with his right hand as he selected a card with his left, pressing it to his chest so no one could see it. Leaning in close to the woman on his side of the partition he showed her only the slightest corner of the card. On the other side of the partition he immediately heard, “Jack of Clubs.” Steerforth’s eyes, for the briefest of moments grew large before returning to their normal size. “Well,” demanded Mitchell, “let’s see it.” Steerforth held u............