“Indeed we would. What would it mean for you? Your picture and a short column would appear roughly twelve times a year, when we run one of our All-Psychic issues. Inside View’s Ten Famous Psychics Preview the Second Ford Administration, that sort of thing. We always do a New Year’s issue, and one each Fourth of July on the course of America over the next year—that’s always a very informative issue, lots of chip shots on foreign policy and economic policy in that one—plus assorted other goodies.”
“I don’t think you understand,” Johnny said. He was speaking very slowly, as if to a child. “I’ve had a couple of precognitive bursts—I suppose you could say I ‘saw the future’—but I don’t have any control over it. I could no more come up with a prediction for the second Ford administration—if there ever is one—than I could milk a bull.”
Dees looked horrified. “Who said you could? Staff writers do all those columns.”
“Staff ... ?” Johnny gaped at Dees, finally shocked.
“Of course,” Dees said impatiently. “Look. One of our most popular guys over the last couple of years has been Frank Ross, the guy who specializes in natural disasters. Hell of a nice guy, but Jesus Christ, he quit school in the ninth grade. He did two hitches in the Army and was swamping out Greyhound buses at the Port Authority terminal in New York when we found him. You think we’d let him write his own column? He’d misspell cat.”
“But the predictions ...”
“A free hand, nothing but a free hand. But you’d be surprised how often these guys and gals get stuck for a real whopper.”
“Whopper,” Johnny repeated, bemused. He was a little surprised to find himself getting angry. His mother had bought Inside View for as long as he could remember, all the way back to the days when they had featured pictures of bloody car wrecks, decapitations, and bootlegged execution photos. She had sworn by every word. Presumably the greater part of Inside View’s other 2,999,999 readers did as well. And here sat this fellow with his dyed gray hair and his forty-dollar shoes and his shirt with the store-creases still in it, talking about whoppers.
“But it all works out,” Dees was saying. “If you ever get stuck, all you have to do is call us collect and we all take it into the pro-shop together and come up with something. We have the right to anthologize your columns in our yearly book, Inside Views of Things to Come. You’re perfectly free to sign any contract you can get with a book publisher, however. All we get is first refusal on the magazine rights, and we hardly ever refuse, I can tell you. And we pay very handsomely. That’s over and above whatever figure we contract for. Gravy on your mashed potatoes, you might say.” Dees chuckled.
“And what might that figure be?” Johnny asked slowly. He was gripping the arms of his rocker. A vein in his right temple pulsed rhythmically.
“Thirty thousand dollars per year for two years,” Dees said. “And if you prove popular, that figure would become negotiable. Now, all our psychics have some area of expertise. I understand that you’re good with objects.” Dees’s eyes became half-lidded, dreamy. “I see a regular feature. Twice monthly, maybe—we don’t want to run a good thing into the ground. ‘John Smith invites Inside View-ers to send in personal belongings for psychic examination ...’ Something like that. We’d make it clear, of course, that they should send in inexpensive stuff because nothing could be returned. But you’d be surprised. Some people are crazy as bedbugs, God love em. You’d be surprised at some of the stuff that would come in. Diamonds, gold coins, wedding rings ... and we could attach a rider to the contract specifying that all objects mailed in would become your personal property.”
Now Johnny began to see tones of dull red before his eyes. “People would send things in and I’d just keep them. That’s what you’re saying.”
“Sure, I don’t see any problem with that. It’s just a question of keeping the ground rules clear up front. A little extra gravy for those mashed potatoes.”
“Suppose,” Johnny said, carefully keeping his voice even and modulated, “suppose I got ... stuck for a whopper, as you put it ... and I just called in and said President Ford was going to be assassinated on September 31, 1976? Not because I felt he was, but because I was