A Touch of Infinity Read Online Free PDF

through him. His voice, naturally deep and full timbred, magnified by the public address system, touched with just sufficient trace of a southern accent, battered his audience, grabbed them, held them and used them.
    Frank Blunt observed. He listened as the charge of emotion built up; he nodded with appreciation as the sinners went forward to be saved at the urgent, pleading command of Joe Jerico, and he admired the smoothness and the fine organization of the collection, just at the right moment of emotional completion. He ignored the slotted box as it went down his row, and accepted the hostile glances of those beside him. He sat and watched thoughtfully, and when it was over and the emotionally filled crowd, so many of them in tears, filed out, he remained seated. He remained seated until he was the last person in the huge tent, and then an usher approached him and asked whether he was all right.
    â€œMy name is Frank Blunt,” he said to the usher. “Here is my card. I want to see Mr. Jerico.”
    â€œMr. Jerico sees no one now. He is understandably fatigued. Perhaps—”
    â€œI’m here now and I wish to see Mr. Jerico. Take him my card. I’ll wait here.”
    Frank Blunt was not easy to resist. He had issued orders for so many years and had been obeyed for so many years that people did his will. The usher took the card, walked the length of the tent, disappeared for a few minutes, reappeared, walked the length of the tent, and said to Blunt:
    â€œReverend Jerico will see you. Follow me.”
    Back through the tent, through the black curtain, and then backstage past the curious glances of the ushers, the choir singers, and the rest of the large staff Joe Jerico carried with him; and then to the door of a large, portable dressing room. The usher knocked at the door. The deep voice of Jerico answered, “Come in.” The usher opened the door and Frank Blunt entered the dressing room. The room was an eight-by-fourteen trailer; it had taste, it had class, and it had Joe Jerico in a green silk dressing gown, sipping at a tall glass of orange juice.
    Blunt measured it with a quick glance, as he did the man. There was nothing cheap or modest about Joe Jerico; his work was no work that Blunt had ever encountered before, but the tycoon liked the way he did it.
    â€œSo you’re Frank Blunt.” Jerico nodded at a chair. “Sit down. Tomato juice, orange juice—we have no hard liquor—I can give you some wine.”
    â€œI’m all right.”
    No handshake, neither warmth nor coolness, but two men eyeing each other and measuring each other.
    â€œI’m glad you made it this time,” Joe Jerico said finally.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause it gives you time for repentance.”
    â€œI didn’t come here for repentance.”
    â€œOh?” Jerico’s eyes narrowed. “What then?”
    â€œThe doctors give me a year. They’re liars. It’s in the nature of the profession. If they gave me less, they figure I’d fire them.”
    â€œWhat do you give yourself?”
    â€œThree to six months.”
    â€œThen I’d say you need repentance, Mr. Blunt.”
    â€œNo, sir. I need life, Mr. Jerico.”
    â€œOh? And how do you propose to go about that?”
    â€œWhat do you know about me, Mr. Jerico?”
    â€œWhat’s on the record, more or less.”
    â€œLet me fill in then. I began my career by buying a college dean. I found that if the price is right, you can buy—and there are no exceptions. I have bought judges, city councilmen, district attorneys, jurors, congressmen, and senators. I bought the governors of two states. I have bought men and women and thoroughbred horses. I took a fancy to a princess once, and I bought a night in bed with her. It cost me twenty-five thousand dollars. I bought the dictator of a European country and I once had occasion to buy a member of the Central Committee of the Communist