Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  In a world where men flew, he was landbound.

  In a world of telepathic contact, he was reduced to clumsy words at face-to-face distance.

  In a world where artificial light was unnecessary, he could see only when his eyes were stimulated.

  Crippled. Blind, deaf and dumb.

  He walked on, into narrower streets, dingy, damp alleys. His numbed mind started working again. He had one advantage. His blunted mind could no longer broadcast a strong identity-pattern. That would make him more difficult to find.

  What he needed, he decided, was a sanctuary. Some place where he wouldn’t infect anyone, and where the health officers couldn’t find him. Perhaps he could find a Normal boarding house. He could stay there and study, find out what was wrong with him; treat himself. And he wouldn’t be alone. Normals were better than no people at all.

  He came to the end of an alley, where the streets branched off. Automatically he pushed out his location sense, to find out what was ahead.

  Useless. It was paralyzed, as dead as the rest of him. But the right-hand turn seemed the safest. He started for it.

  “Don’t!”

  Ecks whirled, alarmed at the spoken word. A girl had come out of a doorway. She ran to him.

  “They’re waiting for you in there. Don’t go!”

  “Who’s waiting for me?” Ecks asked, his heart pounding like a triphammer.

  “The health officers. They figured you’d take the right turn. Something about your right-hand tropism, I couldn’t hear it all. Take the street on your left.”

  Ecks looked at her closely. At first he thought she was about fifteen years old, but he revised his estimate to twenty. She was small, slender with large dark eyes in a bony face.

  “Why are you helping me?” he asked.

  “My uncle told me to,” the girl said. “Hurry!”

  There was no time to argue. Ecks walked in the alley, following the girl. She ran ahead, and Ecks had trouble keeping up with her.

  She was a Normal, to judge by her sure stride. But how had she overheard the health-officer’s conversation? Almost certainly they had teleped on a tight beam.

  Her uncle, perhaps?

  The alley opened into a courtyard. Ecks raced in, and stopped. From the tops of the buildings men floated down. They dropped quickly, surrounding him.

  The health officers!

  He looked around, but the girl had darted back into the alley. The way was blocked for him. He backed against a building, wondering how he could have been so stupid. Of course! This was how they liked to take people. Quietly, so no one else would become infected.

  That damned girl! He tightened his aching legs, to run for it . . .

  JUST AS Krandall predicted, Marrin thought. “Take his arms and legs.” Hovering fifty feet in the air, he supervised the operation.

  Without pity he watched. The agents moved in cautiously. They didn’t want to use the force of their minds against him if they could help it.

  After all, the man was a cripple.

  They had almost reached him, when—

  Ecks started to fade. Marrin dropped closer, unable to believe his eyes. Ecks was dissolving into the wall, becoming a part of it, disappearing.

  Then he was gone.

  “Look for a door!” Marrin teleped. “Examine the pavement!”

  While his agents were looking, Marrin considered what he had seen. After the initial surprise, he didn’t doubt it. The search for a door was an excuse for his agents. If they thought the man had disappeared through a hidden door, good. It wouldn’t help their confidence—their sanity—to believe what had actually happened.

  The cripple, Ecks, merging with the wall.

  Marrin ordered a search of the building. But there wasn’t a trace of Ecks’ thought pattern. He was gone, as though he had never been.

  But how, Marrin asked himself. Did someone help him? Who?

  Who would help a carrier?

  THE FIRST thing Ecks saw when he returned to consciousness was the cracked, stained plaster wall in front of him. He stared at it for a long time, watching dust motes floating in the sunlight, across the bed’s torn brown blanket.

  The bed! Ecks sat up and looked around. He was in a dingy little room. Long cracks ran across the ceiling. Aside from the bed, the only other piece of furniture was a plain wooden chair, set near the half-open door.

  But what was he doing here? He remembered the events of last night; it must have been last night, he decided. The blank wall, the health officers. He must have been rescued. But how?

  “How do you feel?” A girl’s voice asked from the door. Ecks turned, and recognized the pale, sensitive face. It was the girl who had warned him last night.

  “I feel all right,” Ecks said. “How did I get here?”

  “My uncle brought you,” the girl said, coming into the room. “You must be hungry.”

  “Not especially,” Ecks said.

  “You should eat,” she told him. “My uncle tells me that dematerialization is quite a strain on the nervous system. That’s how he rescued you from the psi’s, you know.” She paused. “I can give you some very nice broth.”

  “He dematerialized me?” Ecks asked.

  “He can do things like that,” the girl said serenely. “The power came to him afterwards.” She walked over and opened the window. “Shall I get the broth?”

  Ecks frowned at her. The situation was becoming unreal, at a time when he needed his fullest grasp on reality. This girl seemed to consider it perfectly normal to have an uncle with the power of dematerialization—although psi science had never discovered it.

  “Shall I get the broth?” she asked again.

  “No,” Ecks said. He wondered what the repeated emphasis on food might mean. There was nothing in the girl’s face to tell him. She was handsome enough, even in a cheap, unbecoming dress. She had unusually dark eyes, and an unusually calm expression. Or lack of expression, really.

  He filed his suspicions for the moment, and asked, “Is your uncle a psi?”

  “No,” the girl said. “My uncle doesn’t hold with psi powers. His strength is spiritual.”

  “I see,” Ecks said, and he thought he had the answer. Throughout history, people had preferred to believe that their natural psi gifts were the product of demon intervention. Strange powers were the devil’s gift until psi regularized and formularized them. And even in this day there were gullible Normals, people who preferred to believe that their occasional flashes of supernormal power were spirit-guided. Evidently the uncle fell into this category.

  “Has your uncle been able to do this sort of thing long?” Ecks asked.

  “Only for about five years,” she said. “Only since he died.”

  “Perfectly correct,” a voice said. Ecks looked around quickly. The voice seemed to come from behind his shoulder.

  “Don’t look for me,” the voice said. “All that there is of me in this room is a voice. I am the spirit of Cari’s Uncle John.”

  Ecks had a quick moment of panic before he realized the trick. It was a teleped voice, of course; cleverly focused and masked to give the effect of speech. A teleped voice meant only one thing; this was a psi passing himself off as a spirit.

  “Mr. Ecks,” the voice said, cleverly simulating the effects of spoken words, “I have rescued you by the intervention of my powers. You are a crippled psi, a carrier. Capture and isolation are, I believe, distasteful to you. Is that not true?”

  “Perfectly,” Ecks said. He probed with his blunted senses for the source of the voice. The imitation was perfect; not a single image leaked, to show the telepathic-human source.

  “You feel, perhaps, a certain gratitude toward me?” the voice asked.

  Ecks looked at the girl. Her face was still expressionless. “Of course I do,” he said.

  “I know your desires,” Uncle John told him. “You wish sanctuary for a sufficient time to restore your powers. And you shall have it, Edward Ecks. You shall have it.”

>   “I’m very grateful,” Ecks said. His mind was working quickly, trying to decide upon a course of action. Was he expected to keep up the pretense of believing in this spirit? Surely the teleping psi knew that no university-trained person was going to accept something like that. On the other hand, he might be dealing with a neurotic, playing spirit for his own reasons. He decided to play along. After all, he wasn’t interested in the man’s pretensions. What mattered was the sanctuary.

  “You would not, I am certain, object to doing me a small favor,” Uncle John said.

  “What do you want me to do?” Ecks asked, immediately on his guard.

  “I sense your thought,” the voice said. “You think there may be danger involved. I assure you, such is not the case. Although I am not omnipotent, I have certain powers unknown to you—or to psi science. Accept that fact. Surely your rescue proves it. And accept that I have your best interests at heart.”

  “When do I find out about this errand?” Ecks asked.

  “When the time is right. For now, goodbye, Edward Ecks.” The voice was gone.

  Ecks sat down in the chair. He had had two possible explanations before; that the “uncle” was a psychotic, or a psi. Now he had another.

  What if the uncle was a mutant psi? The next evolution in the procession. What then?

  Cari left and returned with a bowl of soup.

  “What was your uncle like?” Ecks asked the girl. “What sort of man was he—when he was alive?”

  “Oh, he was a very nice man,” she said, holding the steaming soup carefully. “He was a shoemaker. He raised me when my father died.”

  “Did he ever show any signs of psi power? Or supernatural power?”

  “No,” Cari said. “He led a quiet life. It was only after he died—”

  Ecks looked at the girl with pity. She was the saddest part of the whole thing. The psi had undoubtedly read her mind, found the dead uncle—and the gullibility. And used her as his pawn. A cruel game.

  “Please eat the soup,” she said. He reached for it automatically, glancing at her face. Then he pulled back his hand.

  “You eat it,” he said. The first tinge of color came into her cheeks.

  With an apology, she started on the soup, spilling some in her eagerness.

  THE SAILBOAT heeled sharply, and Marrin let out a foot of mainsail to steady it. His wife, seated on the bow, waved to him, enjoying the plunging motion.

  Below, he could see a bank of thunderheads, a storm in the making.

  “Let’s have our picnic on those clouds over there,” Myra said, pointing to a wispy cirrus formation, bright and sunny above the thunderheads. Marrin changed course. Myra lay back on the bow, her feet propped against the mast.

  Marrin was holding the entire weight of the boat himself, but he scarcely noticed it. The light rig weighed less than two hundred pounds, sail and all. His and Myra’s combined weight added about two hundred and sixty pounds more, but Marrin’s tested levitation capacity was over two tons.

  And the wind did most of the work. All the operator of the boat did was to supply enough power to keep it in the air. The wind drove it, a twisting white feather.

  Marrin couldn’t get his mind off the carrier. How in hell had Ecks disappeared? Dematerialization—impossible! And yet there it was.

  Ecks, into the wall. And gone, without a thought-trace.

  “Stop thinking,” Myra said. “Your doctor told you not to think about anything but me today.” He knew that his thoughts hadn’t leaked; nor had his face changed. But Myra was sensitive to his moods. He didn’t have to grimace for her to know he was happy, or cry to demonstrate sadness.

  Marrin brought the light, flat boat to a stop in the clouds, and, heading into the wind, dropped the sail. They spread their picnic on the bow of the boat. Marrin did most of the levitating, although Myra was trying . . . gallantly.

  As she had been trying for seven years, since her partial infection by a carrier. Although her psi faculties never left her completely, they were spasmodic.

  Another reason for hunting down Ecks.

  The sandwiches Myra made were very like herself; small and decorative. And tasty, Marrin thought, teleping the thought.

  “Beast,” Myra said out loud. The warm sun beat down on them, and Marrin felt wonderfully lazy. The two of them stretched out on the deck of the boat, Marrin holding it up by reflex. He was more relaxed than he had been in weeks.

  “Marrin!”

  Marrin started, awakened out of near-sleep by the teleped voice.

  “Look. I’m awfully sorry, boy.” It was Krandall, embarrassed and apologetic.

  “I hate breaking in on your day, but I’ve got a lead, and a pretty damned good one. Evidently someone doesn’t like our carrier. I’ve just been told where he’ll be in about four hours. Of course, it may be a crank, but I knew you’d want to know—”

  “I’m coming,” Marrin said. “We can’t afford to pass up anything.” He broke contact and turned to his wife. “I’m terribly sorry, dear.”

  She smiled, and her eyes were clear with understanding. She hadn’t been included in Krandall’s tight-beam message, but she knew what it meant.

  “Can you take it down yourself?” Marrin asked.

  “Of course. Good hunting.” Marrin kissed her and jumped off the boat. He watched for a few seconds, to see that she had it under control; then he teleped the rental service.

  “My wife’s bringing it in,” he told them. “I wish you’d keep an eye on her.” They promised. Now, even if she went out of control there’d be no danger.

  Marrin hurled himself down. He was so busy calculating the rate of disease increase that he barely saw the dagger in time.

  It flashed past him, then turned, twenty feet away, and came again. Marrin reached out for it mentally, but the telekineticized knife broke free. He barely deflected it, grappled, and had it in his hand. Quickly he tried to trace the wielder, but he was gone without a trace.

  Not quite without a trace. Marrin was able to catch the tail end of an identity thought, the hardest kind to control. He puzzled over it, trying to place the image. Then he had it.

  Ecks!

  Ecks, the cripple. Blind Ecks, the carrier, who vanished into walls. And who, evidently, could polter a dagger.

  Or had someone do if for him.

  Grimly, with the growing awareness that it was turning into a personal affair, Marrin levitated into the Psi-Health Offices.

  IN THE darkened room, Edward Ecks lay on the tattered brown blanket. His eyes were lightly closed, his body passive. Little muscles in his legs jumped. He willed them to relax.

  “Relaxation is one of the keys to psi power. Complete relaxation calls forth confidence; fears disappear, tensions evaporate. Relaxation is vital to psi.” Ecks told himself this, breathing deeply.

  Don’t think about the disease. There is no disease. There is only rest, and relaxation.

  The leg muscles slackened. Ecks concentrated on his heart, ordering it to pump more easily. He sent orders to his lungs, to breathe deeply and slowly.

  Uncle John? He hadn’t heard from him for almost two days now. But he mustn’t think of him. Not now. An unexplained factor, Uncle John would be resolved in time. The awareness of deception, Ecks told himself, is the first step in finding out what the deception is.

  And what about the pale, hungry, attractive niece? Don’t think about her, either.

  The unsettling memories sponged away as his breathing deepened. Next, the eyes. It was hard to relax the eyes. After-images danced across his retina. Sunlight. Darkness, a building, a disappearance.

  No. Don’t think.

  “My eyes are so heavy,” he told himself. “My eyes are made of lead. They want to sink—to sink—”

  Then his eye-muscles relaxed. His thoughts seemed calm, but just under the surface was a crazy welter of images and impressions.

  A cripple, through dim streets. A ghost that wasn’t. A hungry niece. Hungry for what? A turmoil of sense-impre
ssions, flashes of red and purple, memories of classes in Mycrowsky University, tele-wrestling at the Palladium, a date at Skytop.

  All had to be smoothed down. “Relaxation is the first step toward reintegration.” Ecks told himself that everything was blue. All thoughts were swallowed in a vast blue abyss.

  Slowly, he succeeded in calming his mind. A deep peace started to seep into him, slowly, soothingly—

  “Edward Ecks.”

  “Yes?” Ecks opened his eyes at once; the relaxation had been that superficial. He looked around and realized that it was the uncle’s voice.

  “Take this.” A small sphere darted into the room, and came to rest in front of Ecks. He picked it up and examined it. The sphere seemed to be made of some shiny, solid plastic.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “You will place this sphere inside the Cordeer Building,” the voice of Uncle John told him, ignoring the question. “Leave it on a desk, behind a door, in an ashtray, anywhere. Then return directly here.”

  “What will the sphere do?” Ecks asked.

  “That is not your concern,” the voice told him. “The sphere is the apex of a psychic triangle of forces which you do not understand. Suffice it to say that it will harm no one and will greatly aid me.”

  “Every officer in the city is looking for me,” Ecks said. “I’ll be picked up if I go back to the main part of the city.”

  “You have forgotten my powers, Ecks. You will be safe, if you keep to the route I map out for you.”

  Ecks hesitated. He wanted to know more about the uncle, and his game. Above all, why was he masquerading as a spirit?

  Or was he?

  After all, what would a spirit have to do with Earth? The classic yarns of demons seeking temporal power were just so much muggy anthropomorphizing.

  “Will I be left alone after I get back?” Ecks wanted to know.

  “You have my word. Do this to my satisfaction and you will receive all the sanctuary you need. Now go. Cari has the route drawn up for you. She is waiting at the door.”

  The voice was gone. Even with his blunted senses, Ecks could feel the withdrawn contact.