Highways in Hiding

by George O. Smith

  XIX

  One hour later they pulled my fangs without benefit of anaesthesia.

  Thorndyke came in to inspect the progress of my infection and allowed ashow I'd be about ready for the full treatment in a few days. "We like todelay the full treatment as long as possible," he told me, "because itimmobilizes the patient too long as it is." He pressed a call bell,waited, and soon the door opened to admit a nurses' helper pushing atrundle cart loaded with medical junk. I still don't know what was onthe cart because I was too flabbergasted to notice it.

  I was paying all my attention to Catherine, cheerful in her Gray Ladyuniform, being utterly helpful, bright, gay, and relaxed. I was tonguetied, geflummoxed, beaten down, and--well, just speechless.

  Catherine was quite professional about her help. She loaded theskin-blast hypo and slapped it into Thorndyke's open hand. Her eyeslooked into mine and they smiled reassuringly. Her hand was firm as shetook my arm; she locked her strength on my hand and held it immobilewhile Thorndyke shot me in the second joint. There was a personal touchto her only briefly when she breathed, "Steve, I'm so glad!" and thenwent on about her work. The irony of it escaped me; but later I didrecall the oddity of congratulating someone who's just contracted adisease.

  Then that wave of agony hit me, and the only thing I can rememberthrough it was Catherine folding a towel so that the hem would be on theinside when she wiped the beads of sweat from my face. She cradled myhead between her hands and crooned lightly to me until the depths of thepain was past. Then she got efficient again and waved Thorndyke aside tosee to the little straps on the manipulator herself. She adjusted themdelicately. Then she poured me a glass of ice water and put it where Icould reach it with my other hand. She left after one long searchinglook into my eyes, and I knew that she would be back later to talk to mealone. This seemed all right with Dr. Thorndyke, the wily telepath whowould be able to dig a reconstruction of our private talk with a littleurging on his part.

  After Catherine was gone, Thorndyke smiled down at me with cynicalself-confidence. "There's your lever, Steve," he said.

  The dope helped to kill all but the worst waves of searing pain; betweenthem I managed to grind out, "How did you sell her that bill of goods,Thorndyke?"

  His reply was scornful. "Maybe she likes your hide all in one piece," hegrunted.

  He left me with my mind a-whirl with thoughts and pain. The littlemanipulator was working my second finger joint up and down rhythmically,and with each move came pain. It also exercised the old joint, which hadgrown so rigid that my muscles hadn't been able to move it for severalhours. That added agony, too.

  The dope helped, but it also dimmed my ability to concentrate.

  Up to a certain point everything was quite logical and easy tounderstand. Catherine was here because they had contacted her throughsome channel and said, "Throw in with us and we'll see that your loverdoes not die miserably." So much was reasonable, but after that pointthe whole thing began to take on a mad puzzle-like quality. Given normalcircumstances, Catherine would have come to me as swiftly as I'd havegone to her if I'd known how. Not only that, but I'd probably have sworneternal fealty to them for their service even though I could not standtheir way of thinking.

  But Catherine was smart enough to realize that I, as the only knowncarrier of Mekstrom's Disease, was more valuable live than dead.

  Why, then, had Catherine come here to place herself in their hands?Alone, she might have gone off half-cocked in an emotional tizzy. Butthe Highways had good advisers who should have pointed out that SteveCornell was one man alive who could walk with impunity among friend orfoe. Why, they hadn't even tried to collect me until it became evidentthat I was in line for the Old Treatment. Then they had to take me in,because the Medical Center wanted any information they could get aboveand beyond the fact that I was a carrier. If someone from Homestead hadbeen in that courtroom, I'd now be among friends.

  Then the ugly thought hit me and my mind couldn't face it for some time.

  _Reorientation._

  Catherine's cheerful willingness to help them must be reorientation andnothing else.

  Now, although I've mentioned reorientation before, what I actually knowabout it is meager. It makes Dr. Jekylls out of former Mr. Hydes and thetransformation is complete. It can be done swiftly; the rapidity dependsupon the strength of the mind of the operator compared to the mind ofthe subject. It is slightly harder to reorient a defiant mind than awilling one. It sticks unless someone else begins to tinker again. It iseasier to make a good man out of a bad one than the reverse, althoughthe latter is eminently possible. This is too difficult a problem todiscuss to the satisfaction of everybody, but it seems to go along withthe old theory that "Good" does benefit the tribe of mankind in the longrun, while "Bad" things cause trouble. I'll say no more than to pointout that no culture based upon theft, murder, piracy, and pillage, hasever survived.

  The thought of Catherine's mind being tampered with made me seethe withanger. I forgot my pain and began to probe around wildly, and as Iprobed I began to know the real feeling of helpless futility.

  For here I was, practically immobilized and certainly dependent uponthem for help. This was no time to attempt a rescue of mysweetheart--who would only be taken away kicking and screaming all theway from here to the first place where I could find a haven and have herre-reoriented. The latter would not be hard; among the other things Iknew about reorientation was that it could be negated by some strongemotional ties and a personal background that included worthy objectionto the new personality.

  For my perceptive digging I came up with nothing but those things thatany hospital held. Patients, nurses, interns, orderlies; a couple ofdoctors, a scholar presiding over a sheaf of files. And finallyCatherine puttering over an autoclave. She was setting out a string ofinstruments under the tutelage of a superintendent of nurses who wasexplaining how the job should be done.

  I took a deep, thankful breath. Her mind was occupied enough to keep herfrom reading the dark thoughts that were going through mine. I did noteven want a loved one to know how utterly helpless and angry I felt.

  And then, because I was preoccupied with Catherine and my own thoughts,the door opened without my having taken a dig at the opener beforehand.The arrival was all I needed to crack wide open in a howling fit ofhysteria. It was so pat. I couldn't help but let myself go: "Well! Thislooks like Old Home Week!"

  Miss Gloria Farrow, Registered Nurse, did not respond to my awkwardjoviality. Her face, if anything, was darker than my thoughts. I doubtedthat she had her telepathy working; people who get that wound up find ithard to even see and hear straight, let alone think right. And telepathyor perception goes out of kilter first because the psi is a verydelicate factor.

  She eyed me coldly. "You utter imbecile," she snarled. "You--"

  "Whoa, baby!" I roared. "Slow down. I'm a bit less than bright, but whathave I done now?"

  I'd have slapped her across the face as an anodyne if she hadn't beenMekstrom.

  Farrow cooled visibly, then her face sort of came apart and she sort offlopped forward onto the bed and buried her face in my shoulder. Icouldn't help but make comparisons; she was like a hunk of marble, warmand vibrant. Like having a statue crying on my shoulder. She saggedagainst me like a loose bag of cement and her hands clutched at myshoulder blades like a pair of C-clamps. A big juicy tear dropped fromher cheek to land on my chest, and I was actually surprised to find thata teardrop from a Mekstrom did not land like a drop of mercury. It justsplashed like any other drop of water, spread out, and made my chestwet.

  Eventually I held her up from me, tried to shake her gently, and said,"Now what's the shooting all about, Farrow?"

  She shook her head as if to clear her thinking gear.

  "Steve," she said in a quietly serious tone, "I've been such an utterfool."

  "You're not unique, Farrow," I told her. "People have been doing damfoolstunts since--"

  "I know," she broke in. Then with an effort at light-hearted
ness, sheadded, "There must be a different version of that Garden of Eden story.Eve is always blamed as having tempted Adam. Somewhere, Old Adam musthave been slightly to blame--?"

  I didn't know what she was driving toward, but I stroked her hair andwaited. She was probably right. It still takes two of a kind to make onepair.

  "Steve--get out of here! While you're safe!"

  "Huh?" I blurted. "What cooks, Farrow?"

  "I was a nice patsy," she said. She sat up and wiped her eyes. "I was afool. Steve, if James Thorndyke had asked me to jump off the roof, I'dhave asked him 'what direction?' That's how fat-headed I am."

  "Yes?" Something was beginning to form, now.

  "I--led you on, Steve."

  That blinkoed me. The phrase didn't jell. The half a minute she'd spentbawling on my shoulder with my arms around her had been the firstphysical contact I'd ever had with Nurse Farrow. It didn't seem--

  "No, Steve. Not that way. I couldn't see you for Thorndyke any more thanyou could see me for Catherine." Her telepathy had returned, obviously;she was in better control of herself. "Steve," she said, "I led you on;did everything that Thorndyke told me to. You fell into it like a rock.Oh--it was going to be a big thing. All I had to do was to haul youdeeper into this mess, then I'd disappear strangely. Then we'dbe--tog--ether--we'd be--"

  She started to come unglued again but stopped the dissolving processjust before the wet and gooey stage set in. She seemed to put a set inher shoulders, and then she looked down at me with pity. "Poor esper,"she said softly, "you couldn't really know--"

  "Know what?" I asked harshly.

  "He fooled me--too," she said, in what sounded like a completeirrelevancy.

  "Look, Farrow, try and make a bit of sense to a poor perceptive whocan't read a mind. Keep it running in one direction, please?"

  Again, as apparently irrelevant, she said, "He's a top grade telepath;he knows control--"

  "Control--?" I asked blankly.

  "You don't know," she said. "But a good telepath can think in patternsthat prevent lesser telepaths from really digging deep. Thorndyke isbrilliant, of scholar grade, really. He--"

  "Let's get back to it, Farrow. What's cooking?"

  Sternly she tossed her head. It was an angry motion, one that showed herdisdain for her own tears and her own weakness. "Your own sweetCatherine."

  I eyed her, not coldly but with a growing puzzlement. I tried toformulate my own idea but she went on, briskly, "That accident of yourswas one of the luckiest things that ever happened to you, Steve."

  "How long have I been known to be a Mekstrom Carrier?" I asked bluntly.

  "No more than three weeks before you met Catherine Lewis," she told meas bluntly. "It took the Medical Center that long to work her into aposition to meet you, Steve."

  That put the icing on the cake. If nothing else, it explained whyCatherine was here willingly. I didn't really believe it because no onecan turn one hundred and eighty degrees without effort, but I couldn'tdeny the fact that the evidence fits the claim. If what Farrow said weretrue, my marriage to Catherine would have provided them with the samelever as the little blonde receptionist. The pile-up must have reallyfouled up their plans.

  "It did, Steve," said Farrow, who had been following my mentalramblings. "The Highways had to step in and help. This fouled things upfor both sides."

  "Both sides?" I asked, completely baffled.

  She nodded. "Until the accident, the Medical Center did not know thatthe Highways existed. But when Catherine dropped completely out ofsight, Thorndyke did a fine job of probing you. That's when he came uponthe scant evidence of the Highway Sign and the mental impression of theelder Harrison lifting the car so that Phillip could get you out. Thenhe knew, and--"

  "Farrow," I snapped, "there are a lot of holes in your story. Forinstance--"

  She held up a hand to stop me. "Steve," she said quietly, "you know howdifficult it is for a non-telepath to find someone he can trust. But I'mtrying to convince you that--"

  I stopped Farrow this time. "How can I believe you now?" I asked herpointedly. "You seem to have a part in this side of the quiet warfare."

  Nurse Farrow made a wry face as though she'd just discovered that thestuff she had in her mouth was a ball of wooly centipedes. "I'm awoman," she said simply. "I'm soft and gullible and easily talked intocomplacency. But I've just learned that their willingness to acceptwomen is based upon the fact that no culture can thrive without women topropagate the race. I find that I am--" She paused, swallowed, and hervoice became strained with bitterness, "--useful as a breeding animal.Just one of the peasants whose glory lies in carrying their heirs. But Itell you, Steve--" and here she became strong and her voice rang outwith a vigorous rejection of her future, "I'll be forever damned if Iwill let my child be raised with the cockeyed notion that he has someGod-Granted Right to Rule."

  My vigilant sense of perception had detected a change in thehuman-pattern in the building. People were moving--no, it was one personwho was moving.

  Down in the laboratory below, and at the other end of the building,Catherine was still working over the autoclave and instruments. Thewaspish-looking superintendent had taken off for somewhere else, andwhile Catherine was alone now, she was about to be joined by Dr.Thorndyke. Half afraid that my perception of them would touch off theirown telepathic sense of danger, I watched deliberately.

  The door opened and Thorndyke came in; Catherine turned from her workand said something, which of course I could not possibly catch.

  #What are they saying, Farrow?# I snapped mentally.

  "I don't know. They're too far for my range."

  I swore, but I didn't really have to have a dialog script. Nor did theydo the obvious; what they did was far more telling.

  Catherine turned and patted his cheek. They laughed at one another, andthen Catherine began handing Thorndyke the instruments out of theautoclave, which he proceeded to mix in an unholy mess in the surgicaltray. Catherine saw what he was doing and made some remark; thenthreatened him with a pair of haemostats big enough to clamp off athree-inch fire hose. It was pleasant enough looking horseplay; the sortof intimacy that people have when they've been together for a long time.Thorndyke did not look at all frightened of the haemostats, andCatherine did not really look as though she'd follow through with herthreat. They finally tangled in a wrestle for the instrument, andThorndyke took it away from her. They leaned against a cabinet side byside, their elbows touching, and went on talking as if they hadsomething important to discuss in the midst of their fun. It could havebeen reorientation or it could have been Catherine's real self. I stillcouldn't quite believe that she had played me false. My mind spinnedfrom one side to the other until I came up with a blunt question thatcame to my lips without any mental planning. I snapped, "Farrow, whatgrade of telepath is Catherine?"

  "Doctor grade," she replied flatly. "Might have taken some pre-scholartraining if economics hadn't interfered. I'd not really call her RhineScholar material, but I'm prejudiced against her."

  If what Farrow said was true, Catherine was telepath enough to controland marshall her mind to a faretheewell. She could think and plan toherself in the presence of another telepath without giving her plotsaway.

  She was certainly smart enough to lead one half-trained perceptivearound by a ring in my nose. Me? I was as big a fool as Farrow.