by C. L. Moore
But true rapport was vital for a complete life. Telepaths were more sensitive than nontelepaths; marriage was more complete; friendship warmer; the race a single living unit. For no thought could be hidden from probing. The average Baldy refrained, from courtesy, when a rapport mind went blurred; yet, ultimately, such blurring should become unnecessary. There need be no secrets.
Both Marian and Alexa knew of McNey's connection with the organization, but it was a tacit understanding. They knew without words when McNey did not want to answer questions. And because of the deep trust that comes from telepathic understanding, they refrained from asking any, even in their thoughts.
Alexa was twenty now. Already she had felt the reaction of being an outsider in a world complete in itself. For Baldies were still intruders, no matter how much rationalization was used. The great majority of humanity was nontelepathic—and fear, distrust, and hatred lay latent in that giant tribunal that daily passed judgment upon the Baldy mutation.
Capital punishment, McNey knew very well, was the sentence contingent upon a thumbs-down verdict. And if the thumbs ever turned down—
If the nontelepaths ever learned what the paranoids were doing—
-
Barton was coming up the path. He walked with the lithe springiness of youth, though he was over sixty. His wig was iron-gray, and McNey could sense the wary alertness of the hunter's thoughts. Technically Barton was a naturalist, a big-game hunter. His quarry was sometimes human, however.
Upstairs, Dave, McNey thought.
Right. Is it here yet?
Callahan's coming soon.
The thoughts did not mesh. The semantic absolute symbol for Callahan was simpler in McNey's mind; in Barton's it was colored by associations from a half-lifetime of conflict with a group he hated, by now, almost pathologically. McNey never knew what lay behind the violence of Barton's hatred. Once or twice he had caught fleeting mental images of a girl, dead now, who had once helped Barton, but such thoughts were always as inchoate as reflections in rippling water.
Barton came up in the dropper. He had a seamed, swarthy face, and a trick of smiling lopsidedly so that the grimace was almost a sneer. He sat down in a relaxer, sliding his dagger forward into a more handy position, and thought for a drink. McNey supplied Scotch and soda. The sun had dropped beyond the mountain, and the wind grew colder. Automatic induction began to warm the room.
Lucky you caught me. On my way north. Trouble.
About Us?
Always.
This time what?
Barton's thoughts broadened.
Peril to Baldies ┌ Wigless Baldy with Hedgehound group
│ Villages being raided
└ Wigless one untrained telepathically
Wigless? Paranoid?
Know little. Can't establish communication.
But—Hedgehounds?
Barton's sneer was reflected by his thought.
Savages. I'll investigate. Can't let the humans connect Us with raiding Hedgehounds.
McNey was silent, pondering. It had been a long time since the Blowup, when hard radiations had first created the mutations, and brought about the decentralization of a culture. But those days had seen the beginnings of the Hedgehounds, the malcontents who had refused to join the village unions, who had fled to the woods and the backlands and lived the savage life of nomads—but always in small groups, for fear of the omnipresent atomic bombs. Hedgehounds weren't seen often. From helicopters you might catch glimpses of furtive figures trailing in single file through the Limberlost country, or in the Florida Everglades, or wherever the old forests stood. But by necessity they lived hidden in the backwoods. Occasionally there were quick raiding parties on isolated villages—so few, however, that no one considered the Hedgehounds a menace. They were nuisances at best, and for the most part they stayed away from towns.
To find a Baldy among them was less singular than amazing. Telepaths formed a racial unit, branching out into family groups. As infants grew, they were assimilated. Might be some sort of paranoid plot. Dunno what sort.
McNey tipped his drink. No use killing Callahan, you know, he pointed out.
Tropism, Barton's thought said grimly. Taxis. When I catch 'em, I kill 'em.
Not—
Certain methods work on Them. I've used adrenalin. They can't foresee a berserker's actions in a fight, because he can't foresee his own. You can't fight Them as you'd play a chess game, Darryl. You've got to force them to limit their powers. I've killed some by making them fight with machines, which don't react as instantly as the mind. In fact—shadow of bitterness—we dare make no plans ahead. The paranoids can read our minds. Why not kill It?
Because we may have to compromise.
The blasting wave of hot, violent fury made McNey wince. Barton's negative was stunningly emphatic.
McNey turned his glass, watching the moisture condense. But the paranoids are expanding.
Find a way of tapping their Power, then!
We're trying. There's no way.
Find a secret wave length for us.
McNey's mind blurred. Barton looked away mentally. But he had caught a scrap of something. He tried not to ask the question burning within him.
McNey said aloud, "Not yet, Dave. I mustn't even think it; you know that."
Barton nodded. He, too, realized the danger of working out a plan in advance. There was no effective barrier that could be erected against the paranoids probing.
Don't kill Callahan, McNey pleaded. Let me lead.
Unwillingly Barton assented. It's coming. Now.
His more disciplined mind, trained to sense the presence of the radiations that meant intelligence, had caught stray fragments from the distance. McNey sighed, put down his glass, and rubbed his forehead.
Barton thought. That Baldy with the Hedgehounds. May I bring him here if necessary?
Of course.
Then a new thought came in, confident, strong, calm. Barton moved uneasily. McNey sent out an answer.
-
After a minute Sergei Callahan stepped out of the dropper and stood waiting, warily eyeing the naturalist. He was a slim, blond, soft-featured man, with hair so long and thick that it was like a mane. Only affectation made paranoids wear wigs of such extreme style—that and their natural maladjustment.
He didn't look dangerous, but McNey felt as though a feral beast had come into the room. What had the medievalists symbolized by the lion? Carnal sin? He couldn't remember. But in Barton's mind he caught the echo of a similar thought: a carnivore, to be butchered!
"How d'you do," Callahan said, and because he spoke aloud, McNey knew that the paranoid had classed his hosts as a lower species, and gave them patronizing contempt. It was characteristic of the paranoids.
McNey rose; Barton didn't. "Will you sit down?"
"Sure." Callahan dropped on a relaxer. "You're McNey. I've heard of Barton."
"I'm sure you have," the hunter said softly. McNey hastily poured drinks. Barton left his untasted.
Despite the silence, there was something in the room that had the quality of fourth-dimensional sound. There was no attempt at direct telepathic communication, but a Baldy is never in complete mental silence, except in the stratosphere. Like half-heard, distant music of toccata and fugue the introspective thoughts beat dimly out. Instinctively one man's mental rhythm sought to move in the same pattern as another's, as soldiers automatically keep step. But Callahan was out of step, and the atmosphere seemed to vibrate faintly with discord.
The man had great self-confidence. Paranoids seldom felt the occasional touches of doubt that beset the straight-line Baldies, the nagging, inevitable question telepaths sometimes asked themselves: Freak or true mutation? Though several generations had passed since the Blowup, it was still too early to tell. Biologists had experimented, sadly handicapped by the lack of possible controls, for animals could not develop the telepathic function. Only the specialized colloid of the human brain had that latent power, a facu
lty that was still a mystery.
By now the situation was beginning to clarify a trifle. In the beginning there had been three distant types, not recognized until after the post-Blowup chaos had subsided into decentralization. There were the true, sane Baldies, typified by McNey and Barton. There were the lunatic offshoots from a cosmic womb raging with fecundity, the teratological creatures that had sprung from radiation-battered germ plasm—two-headed fused twins, cyclops, Siamese freaks. It was a hopeful commentary that such monstrous births had almost ceased.
Between the sane Baldies and the insane telepaths lay the mutation-variant of the paranoids, with their crazy fixation of egotism. In the beginning the paranoids refused to wear wigs, and, if the menace had been recognized then, extermination would have been easy. But not now. They were more cunning. There was, for the most part, nothing to distinguish a paranoid from a true Baldy. They were well camouflaged and safe, except for the occasional slips that gave Barton and his hunters a chance to use the daggers that swung at every man's belt.
A war—completely secret, absolutely underground by necessity—in a world unconscious of the deadly strife blazing in the dark. No nontelepath even suspected what was happening. But the Baldies knew.
McNey knew, and felt a sick shrinking from the responsibility involved. One price the Baldies paid for survival was the deification of the race, the identification of self, family, and friends with the whole mutation of telepaths. That did not include the paranoids, who were predators, menacing the safety of all Baldies on earth.
McNey, watching Callahan, wondered if the man ever felt self-doubt. Probably not. The feeling of inferiority in paranoids made them worship the group because of pure egotism; the watchword was We are supermen! All other species are inferior.
They were not supermen. But it was a serious mistake to underestimate them. They were ruthless, intelligent, and strong. Not as strong as they thought, though. A lion can easily kill a wild hog, but a herd of hogs can destroy a lion.
"Not if they can't find him," Callahan said, smiling.
McNey grimaced. "Even a lion leaves spoor. You can't keep on with your plan indefinitely without the humans suspecting, you know."
Contempt showed in Callahan's thought. "They're not telepaths. Even if they were, we have the Power. And you can't tap that."
"We can read your minds, though," Barton put in. His eyes were glowing. "We've spoiled some of your plans that way."
"Incidents," Callahan said. He waved his hand. "They haven't any effect on the long-term program. Besides, you can read only what's above the conscious threshold of awareness. We think of other things besides the Conquest. And—once we arrange another step—we carry it out as quickly as possible, to minimize the danger of having the details read by one of the traitors."
"So we're traitors now," Barton said.
Callahan looked at him. "You are traitors to the destiny of our race. After the Conquest, we'll deal with you."
McNey said, "Meanwhile, what will the humans be doing?"
"Dying," Callahan said.
McNey rubbed his forehead. "You're blind. If a Baldy kills one human, and that's known, it'll be unfortunate. It might blow over. If two or three such deaths occur, there'll be questions asked and surmises made. It's been a long while since we had Baldy lynchings, but if one smart human ever guesses what's going on, there'll be a worldwide pogrom that will destroy every Baldy on earth. Don't forget, we can be recognized." He touched his wig.
"It won't happen."
"You underestimate humans. You always have."
"No," Callahan said, "that's not true. But you've always underestimated Us. You don't even know your own capabilities."
"The telepathic function doesn't make supermen."
"We think it does."
"All right," McNey said, "we can't agree on that. Maybe we can agree on other things."
Barton made an angry sound. Callahan glanced at him.
"You say you understand our plan. If you do, you know it can't be stopped. The humans you're so afraid of have only two strong points: numbers and technology. If the technology's smashed, We can centralize, and that's all We need. We can't do it now, because of the atomic bombs, of course. The moment we banded together and revealed ourselves—blam! So—"
"The Blowup was the last war," McNey said. "It's got to be the last. This planet couldn't survive another."
"The planet could. And we could. But humanity couldn't."
Barton said, "Galileo doesn't have a secret weapon."
Callahan grinned at him. "So you traced that propaganda, did you? But a lot of people are beginning to believe Galileo's getting to be a menace. One of these days, Modoc or Sierra's going to lay an egg on Galileo. It won't be our affair. Humans will do the bombing, not Baldies."
"Who started the rumor?" Barton asked.
"There'll be more, a lot more. We'll spread distrust among the towns—a long-term program of planned propaganda. It'll culminate in another Blowup. The fact that humans would fall for such stuff shows their intrinsic unfitness to rule. It couldn't happen in a Baldy world."
McNey said, "Another war would mean the development of anticommunication systems. That'd play into your hands. It's the old rule of divide and fall. As long as radio, television, helicopter and fast-plane traffic welds humans together, they're racially centralized."
"You've got it," Callahan said. "When humanity's lowered to a more vulnerable status, we can centralize and step in. There aren't many truly creative technological brains, you know. We're destroying those—carefully. And we can do it, because we can centralize mentally, through the Power, without being vulnerable physically."
"Except to Us," Barton said gently.
Callahan shook his head slowly. "You can't kill us all. If you knifed me now, it wouldn't matter. I happen to be a co-ordinator, but I'm not the only one. You can find some of Us, sure, but you can't find Us all, and you can't break Our code. That's where you're failing, and why you'll always fail."
Barton ground out his cigarette with an angry gesture. "Yeah. We may fail, at that. But you won't win. You can't. I've seen a pogrom coming for a long while. If it comes, it'll be justified, and I won't be sorry, provided it wipes out all of you. We'll go down too, and you'll have the satisfaction of knowing that you've destroyed the entire species through your crazy egotism."
"I'm not offended," Callahan said. "I've always contended that your group was a failure of the mutation. We are the true supermen—unafraid to take our place in the universe, whereas you're content to live on the crumbs the humans drop from their table."
"Callahan," McNey said suddenly, "this is suicidal. We can't—"
Barton sprang out of his chair and stood straddle-legged, glowering furiously. "Darryl! Don't beg the swine! There's a limit to what I'll stand!"
"Please," McNey said, feeling very helpless and impotent. "We've got to remember that we're not supermen, either."
"No compromise," Barton snapped. "There can't be any appeasement with those wolves. Wolves—hyenas!"
"There'll be no compromise," Callahan said. He rose, his leonine head a dark silhouette against the purple sky. "I came to see you, McNey, for just one reason. You know as well as I that the humans musn't suspect our plan. Leave us alone, and they won't suspect. But if you keep trying to hinder us, you'll just increase the danger of discovery. An underground war can't stay underground forever."
"So you see the danger, after all," McNey said.
"You fool," Callahan said, almost tolerantly. "Don't you see we're fighting for you, too? Leave us alone. When the humans are wiped out, this will be a Baldy world. You can find your place in it. Don't tell me you've never thought about a Baldy civilization, complete and perfect."
"I've thought about it," McNey assented. "But it won't come about through your methods. Gradual assimilation is the answer."
"So we'll be assimilated back into the human strain? So our children will be degraded into hairy men? No, McNey. You don't reco
gnize your strength, but you don't seem to recognize your weakness, either. Leave us alone. If you don't, you'll be responsible for any pogrom that may come."
McNey looked at Barton. His shoulders slumped. He sank lower in his relaxer.
"You're right, after all, Dave," he whispered. "There can't be any compromise. They're paranoids."
Barton's sneer deepened. "Get out," he said. "I won't kill you now. But I know who you are. Keep thinking about that. You won't live long—my word on it."
"You may die first," Callahan said softly.
"Get out."
-
The paranoid turned and stepped into the dropper. Presently his figure could be seen below, striding along the path. Barton poured a stiff shot and drank it straight.
"I feel dirty," he said. "Maybe this'll take the taste out of my mouth."
In his relaxer McNey didn't move. Barton looked at the shadowy form sharply.
He thought: What's eating you?
I wish ... I wish we had a Baldy world now. It wouldn't have to be on earth. Venus or even Mars. Callisto—anywhere. A place where we could have peace. Telepaths aren't made for war, Dave.
Maybe it's good for them, though.
You think I'm soft. Well, I am. I'm no hero. No crusader. It's the microcosm that's important, after all. How much loyalty can we have for the race if the family unit, the individual, has to sacrifice all that means home to him?
The vermin must be destroyed. Our children will live in a better world.
Our fathers said that. Where are we?
Not yet lynched, at any rate. Barton laid his hand on McNey's shoulder. Keep working. Find the answer. The paranoid code must be cracked. Then I can wipe them out—all of them!
McNey's thought darkened. I feel there will be a pogrom. I don't know when. But our race hasn't faced its greatest crisis yet. It will come. It will come.
An answer will come too, Barton thought. I'm going now. I've got to locate that Baldy with the Hedgehounds.
Good-bye, Dave.
He watched Barton disappear. The path lay empty thereafter. He waited, now, for Marian and Alexa to return from the town, and for the first time in his life he was not certain that they would return.