Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net THE REVEALING PATTERN By Alvin Heiner _The Reamer mansion was on trial. It announced its own verdict--guilty!_ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was a man easily smiled at; a little birdlike individual carrying an umbrella and wearing upon his pink face a look remindful of happy secrets about to be revealed. He came to my desk during the midafternoon lull and said, "I am Professor Jonathan Waits. I have come to avail myself of your facilities." I had never heard it put quite that way before, but from Professor Waits, it did not sound stilted. It was the way you would expect him to put it. He beamed at the ceiling and said, "What a fine old library, my dear. I must bring Nicholas some time." I gave him the smile reserved financial supporters and unknown quantatives and asked, "Could I be of service?" He didn't get to it immediately. "I understand this library is fairly crammed with old records--data on the historical aspects of this area. Personal histories and such." He had a way of radiating his own cheerful mood. "Oh yes," I assured him. "It's an exceptional day when we don't sweep a D.A.R. or two out of the aisles come closing time." This, according to his laugh, was quite good. He said, "I'm sure we'll get on splendidly, Miss--?" "--Hopstead." "Are you a native?" "A New Englander from way back," I assured him. "Some of my ancestors used to drink buttered rum with Captain Rogers." "Then possibly you'd like to know about my work." "I certainly would." And, strangely enough, I did. "I am a researcher into the--well, the unusual." "Psychic research?" I inquired, wanting him to know we New Englanders were not dullards. "No. Nothing to do with the supernatural at all. My work is to prove that all occurrences, however mysterious, are the logical result of previous actions of individuals; that superstitions are the result, not so much of ignorance, but lack of knowledge." While I wrestled with that one, he said, "Maybe I could be a trifle more explicit." "That would help." His bright little eyes got even brighter. "Do you know, by chance, of the Reamer mansion over in Carleton?" I certainly did. It was some thirty miles from Patterson, but as a child, I'd visited the place. All children within the radius had visited the Reamer mansion at least once. It was an ancient fifteen room cockroach trap with such a history of death and violence behind it as to cause the kids to walk on tiptoe through its silent rooms. I told the professor I knew about it. "It has been vacant for fifteen years," he observed. "And will be vacant for twice fifteen more, I imagine."