A Touch of Infinity Read Online Free Page A

saying, and if he wanted something, he never let the cost stand in his way. He had discovered that no matter what he paid for something he desired, his superb instinct for investment covered him and served him.
    Politicians were not the only goods that Frank Blunt acquired. He was a tall, strong, good-looking man, with a fine head of hair and commanding blue eyes, and he never had difficulties with women. But while they were ready to line up and jump through his hoop free of cost, he preferred to purchase what he used. These purchases were temporary; not until he was forty-one years old and worth upward of fifty million dollars did he buy a permanent fixture. She was a current Miss America, and he bought her not only a great mansion on a hill in Dallas, Texas, but also four movies for her to star in. Along that path, he bought six of the most important film critics in America, for he was never one to take action without hedging his bets.
    All of the above is of another era; for by the time Frank Blunt was fifty-six years old, in 1952, he was worth more money than anyone cared to compute; he had purchased a new image for himself via the most brilliant firm of public relations men in America; and he had purchased an ambassadorship to one of the leading western European countries. His cup was full, and it runneth over, so to speak, and then he had his first heart attack.
    Four years later, at the age of sixty, he had his second heart attack; and lying in his bed, the first day out of the oygen tent, he fixed his cold blue eyes on the heart specialist he had imported from Switzerland—who was flanked on either side by several American colleagues—and asked:
    â€œWell, Doc, what’s the verdict?”
    â€œYou are going to recover, Mr. Blunt. You are on the road.”
    â€œAnd just what the hell does that mean?”
    â€œIt is meaning that in a few weeks you will be out of the bed.”
    â€œWhy don’t you come to the point? How long have I got to live after this one?” He had always had the reputation of being as good as his name.
    The Swiss doctor hemmed and hawed until Blunt threw him out of the room. Then he faced the American doctors and specified that there was no one among the four of them who had collected less than twenty thousand in fees from him.
    â€œAnd none of you will ever see a red cent of mine again unless I get the truth. How long?”
    The consensus of opinion was a year, give or take a month or two.
    â€œSurgery?”
    â€œNo, sir. Not in your case. In your case it is contraindicated.”
    â€œTreatment?”
    â€œNone that is more than a sop.”
    â€œThen there is no hope?”
    â€œOnly a miracle, Mr. Blunt.”
    Frank Blunt’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and for a few minutes he lay in bed silent, staring at the four uncomfortable physicians. Then he said to them:
    â€œOut! Get out, the whole lot of you.”
    Five weeks later, Frank Blunt, disdaining a helping hand from wife or butler, walked out of his house and got into his custom-built twenty-two-thousand-dollar sports car, whipped together for him by General Motors—he was a deeply patriotic man and would not have a foreign car in his garage—told his chauffeur to go soak his head, and drove off without a word to anyone.
    Blunt was not a churchgoer—except for weddings and funerals—but his flakmade image described him as a religious man whose religion was personal and fervent, and the wide spectrum of his charities included a number of church organizations. He had been baptized in the Baptist church, and now he drove directly to the nearest Baptist church and used the knocker of the adjacent parsonage. The Reverend Harris, an elderly white-haired and mild-mannered man, answered the door himself, surprised and rather flustered by this unexpected, famous, and very rich caller.
    â€œI had heard you were sick,” he said lamely, not knowing what else to