Annie had too much momentum to capitulate easily. He pleaded and cajoled, and finally he mentally hummed three stanzas of "Rock-a-Bye Baby."
The wail trembled and fell off into a few reluctant sobs. Annie was comforted, reassured. Annie slept.
For all his preoccupation with sports and other manly extroversions, Bertrand Baxter was not unimaginative. His stunning victory on this seventh night was too dramatic to ignore. He said not a word about it to Rolanda, but the following night he deliberately stayed wide awake until Annie sounded off.
Instead of immediately flooding his infant daughter with the warm reassurance and pleading requests that she sleep, Baxter let his mind "feel" of the situation. He spoke softly to her in his unmouthed mind-talk, and for the first time he became aware of a tiny but positive mental response. There was a faint fringe of discomfort-thoughts—a weak hunger pang, a slight thirst, a clammy diaper. But mostly there was the cheerless darkness and a heavy feeling of aloneness, a love-want, an outreaching for assurance.
As his thoughts went out he could sense that Annie did receive them and take comfort from them—and the little physical hungers and discomforts faded from her mind.
She felt reassured now, loved, petted, cosy and warm in the velvety gloom, in the restful quiet.
He sensed the peace that settled through her, and the same peace flooded through him, a rare sensation of security, understanding and blind trust.
Annie slept. Baxter slept.