by C. L. Moore
Four hundred people, more or less, lived in Sequoia, a tight little semi-independent settlement, bartering its specialized products for shrimps and pompano from Lafitte; books from Modoc; beryllium-steel daggers and motor-plows from American Gun; clothing from Dempsey and Gee Eye. The Boston Textile mills were gone with Boston; that smoking, gray desolation had not changed since 1950, the year of the Blowup. But there was still plenty of room in America, no matter how much the population might increase; war had thinned the population. And as technology advanced so did improvements in reclamation of arid and unfertile land, and the hardier strains of the kudzu plant had already opened vast new tracts for farming. But agriculture was not the only industry. The towns specialized, never expanding into cities, but sending out spores that would grow into new villages—or, rather, reaching out like raspberry canes, to take root whenever they touched earth.
But each town was independent. No empire could grow. Decentralization had been the answer to the atomic bombs that were so easy to make, and of which each village had its cache. One helicopter could dust off a town, quite conclusively, but it had been decades since such a thing had happened. The psychology was simple and ruthlessly accurate. If one man has a sword, his opponent won't provoke a fight. Nit until he has a pistol, and is better armed.
But atomic bombs were the ultimate development. Modoc could dust off Lafitte—but then American Gun could dust off Modoc. And there was no defense possible.
But the towns spread, cell by cell. Only the blasted areas were shunned, the desolation that had been New York and Chicago and a hundred other cities, the lifeless wastes that held only abnormal life. After the Blowup, the fringes of the radioactive areas had caused the mutations of which the telepaths were the only survivors, aside from the occasional monsters—reptiles and harmless beasts—that still lived near the blasted areas. Until lately, there had been human monsters as well, unsuccessful mutations warped physically or mentally by the radiations. But they had died out by now. Only the telepaths had bred true, and even there existed a cleavage; true Bald, and antisocial paranoid-type.
—And some in velvet gown.
But in 1950 no one knew that the beggars were coming to town, or that the Baldys' [sic; not Baldies' as normally] only chance for survival would lie in making themselves the equivalent of Franciscan friars. They were the minority. And minorities can easily arouse hatred, especially when it possess the incalculable wealth of the telepathic function. From generation to generation of Baldies now the indoctrination had gone on: Seek no power. Let no nontelepath envy you. No direct competition.
They worked, had economic security, possessed the luxuries that every other man and woman in America owned. But their heritage was a menace as well as the greatest privilege any race on Earth had ever known.
They were beggars in velvet. And each Baldy knew that, inevitably, the day of the pogrom would come.
-
Burkhalter was deliberately not thinking of the red-haired woman when Duke Heath came in. The priest-medic caught the strained, negative mental picture, and nodded.
"Barbara Pell," he said. "I saw her." Both men blurred the surface of their minds. That couldn't mask their thoughts, but if any other brain began probing, there would be an instant's warning, during which they could take precautions. Necessarily, however, the conversation stayed oral rather than telepathic.
"They can smell trouble coming," Burkhalter said. "They've been infiltrating Sequoia lately, haven't they?"
"Yes. The minute you copped this consulate, they started to come in." Heath nibbled his knuckles. "In forty years the paranoids have built up quite an organization."
"Sixty years," Burkhalter said. "My grandfather saw it coming back in '82. There was a paranoid in Modoc—a lone wolf at the time, but it was one of the first symptoms. And since then—"
"Well, they've grown qualitatively, not quantitatively. There are more true Baldies now than paranoids. Psychologically they're handicapped. They hate to intermarry with non-Baldies. Whereas we do, and the dominant strain goes on—spreads out."
"For a while," Burkhalter said.
Heath frowned. "There's no epidemic at Columbia Crossing. I had to get Selfridge off your neck somehow, and he's got a strongly paternal instinct toward his brother. That did it—but not permanently. With that so-and-so, the part equals the whole. You got the consulate; he had a nice little racket gypping the Hedgehounds; he hates you—so he jumps on your most vulnerable point. Also, he rationalizes. He tells himself that if you didn't have the unfair advantage of being a Baldy, you'd never have landed the consulate."
"It was unfair."
"We had to do it," Heath said. "Non-Baldies mustn't find out what we're building up among the Hedgehounds. Some day the woods folk may be our only safety. If a non-Baldy had got the consulate—"
"I'm working in the dark," Burkhalter said. "All I know is that I've got to do what the Mutes tell me."
"I don't know any more than you do. The paranoids have their Power—that secret band of communication we can't tap—and only the Mutes have a method of fighting that weapon. Don't forget that, while we can't read a Mute's mind, the paranoids can't either. If you knew their secrets, your mind would be an open book—any telepath could read it."
Burkhalter didn't answer. Heath sighed and watched pine needles glittering in the sunlight outside the windows.
"It's not easy for me either," he said. "To be a surrogate. No non-Baldy has to be a priest as well as a medic. But I have to. The doctors up at the hospital feel more strongly about it than I do. They know how many psychotic cases have been cured because we can read minds. Meanwhile—" He shrugged.
Burkhalter was staring northward. "A new land is what we need," he said.
"We need a new world. Some day we'll get it."
-
A shadow fell across the door. Both men turned. A small figure was standing there, a fat little man with close-curling hair and mild blue eyes. The misericordia at his belt seemed incongruous, as though those pudgy fingers would fumble ludicrously with the hilt.
No Baldy will purposely read a nontelepath's mind, but there is an instinctive recognition between Baldies. So Burkhalter and Heath knew instantly that the stranger was a telepath—and then, on the heels of that thought, came sudden, startled recognition of the emptiness where thought should be. It was like stepping on clear ice and finding it clear water instead. Only a few men could guard their minds completely thus. They were the Mutes.
"Hello," said the stranger, coming in and perching himself on the desk's edge. "I see you know me. We'll stay oral, if you don't mind. I can read your thoughts, but you can't read mine." He grinned. "No use wondering why, Burkhalter. If you knew, the paranoids would find out too. Now. My name's Ben Hobson." He paused. "Trouble, eh? Well, we'll kick that around later. First let me get this off my chest."
Burkhalter sent a swift glance at Heath. "There are paranoids in town. Don't tell me too much, unless—"
"Don't worry. I won't," Hobson chuckled. "What do you know about the Hedgehounds?"
"Descendants of the nomad tribes that didn't join the villages after the Blowup. Gypsies. Woods folk. Friendly enough."
"That's right," Hobson said. "Now what I'm telling you is common knowledge, even among the paranoids. You should know it. We've spotted a few cells among the Hedgehounds—Baldies. It started by accident, forty years ago, when a Baldy named Linc Cody was adopted by Hedgehounds and reared without knowing his heritage. Later he found out. He's still living with the Hedgehounds, and so are his sons."
"Cody?" Burkhalter said slowly. "I've heard stories of the Cody—"
"Psychological propaganda. The Hedgehounds are barbarians. But we want 'em friendly and we want to clear the way, for joining them, if that ever becomes necessary. Twenty years ago we started building up a figurehead in the forests, a living symbol who'd be overtly a shaman and really a delegate for us. We used mumbo-jumbo. Linc Cody dressed up in a trick suit, we gave him gadgets, an
d the Hedgehounds finally developed the legend of the Cody—a sort of benevolent woods spirit who acts as supernatural monitor. They like him, they obey him, and they're afraid of him. Especially since he can appear in four places at the same time."
"Eh?" Burkhalter said.
"Cody had three sons," Hobson smiled. "It's one of them you'll see today. Your friend Selfridge has fixed up a little plot. You're due to be murdered by one of the Hedgehound chiefs when that delegation gets here. I can't interfere personally, but the Cody will. It's necessary for you to play along. Don't give any sign that you expect trouble. When the Cody steps in, the chiefs will be plenty impressed."
Heath said, "Wouldn't it have been better not to tell Burkhalter what to expect?"
"No. For two reasons. He can read the Hedgehounds' minds—I give him carte blanche on that—and he must string along with the Cody. O.K., Burkhalter?"
"O.K.," the consul nodded.
"Then I'll push off." Hobson stood up, still smiling. "Good luck."
"Wait a minute," Heath said "What about Selfridge?"
"Don't kill him. Either of you. You know no Baldy must ever duel a non-Baldy."
Burkhalter was scarcely listening. He knew he must mention the thought he had surprised in Barbara Pell's mind, and he had been putting off the moment when he must speak her hateful name, open the gates of his thoughts wide enough to let her image slip back in, beautiful image, beautiful slender body, bright and dangerous and insane mind—
"I saw one of the paranoids in town a while ago," he said. "Barbara Pell. A nasty job, that woman. She let slip something about their plans. Covered up too fast for me to get much, but you might think about it. They're up to something planned for fairly soon, I gathered."
Hobson smiled at him. "Thanks. We're watching them. We'll keep an eye on the woman too. All right, then. Good luck."
He went out. Burkhalter and Heath looked at one another.
-
The Mute walked slowly down the path toward the village. His mouth was pursed as he whistled; his plump cheeks vibrated. As he passed a tall pine he abruptly unsheathed his dagger and sprang around the tree. The man lurking there was caught by surprise. Steel found its mark unerringly. The paranoid had time for only one desperate mental cry before he died.
Hobson wiped his dagger and resumed his journey. Under the close-cropped brown wig a mechanism, shaped like a skullcap, began functioning. Neither Baldy nor telepath could receive the signals Hobson was sending and receiving now.
"They know I'm here."
"Sometimes they do," a soundless voice came back. "They can't catch these modulated frequencies the helmets use, but they can notice the shield. Still, as long as none of 'em know why—"
"I just killed one."
"One less of the bichos," came the coldly satisfied response.
"I think I'd better stay here for a while. Paranoids have been infiltrating. Both Heath and Burkhalter think so. There's some contingent plan I can't read yet; the paranoids are thinking about it only on their own band."
"Then stay. Keep in touch. What about Burkhalter?"
"What we suspected. He's in love with the paranoid Barbara Pell. But he doesn't know it."
Both shocked abhorrence and unwilling sympathy were in the answering thought. "I can't remember anything like this ever happening before. He can read her mind; he knows she's paranoid—"
Hobson smiled. "The realization of his true feelings would upset him plenty, Jerry. Apparently you picked the wrong man for this job."
"Not from Burkhalter's record. He's always lived a pretty secluded life, but his character's above reproach. His empathy standing was high. And he taught sociology for six years at New Yale."
"He taught it, but I think it remained remote. He's known Barbara Pell for six weeks now. He's in love with her."
"But how—even subconsciously? Baldies instinctively hate and distrust the paranoids."
Hobson reached Sequoia's outskirts and kept going, past the terraced square where the blocky, insulated power station sat. "So it's perverse," he told the other Mute. "Some men are attracted only to ugly women. You can't argue with a thing like that. Burkhalter's fallen in love with a paranoid, and I hope to heaven he never realizes it. He might commit suicide. Or anything might happen. This is—" His thought moved with slow emphasis. "This is the most dangerous situation the Baldies have ever faced. Apparently nobody's paid much attention to Selfridge's talk, but the damage has been done. People have listened. And non-Baldies have always mistrusted us. If there's a blowoff, we're automatically the scapegoats."
"Like that, Ben?"
"The pogrom may start in Sequoia."
-
Once the chess game had started, there was no way to stop it. It was cumulative. The paranoids, the warped twin branch of the parallel telepathic mutation, were not insane; there was a psychoneurotic pathology. They had only one basic delusion. They were the super race. On that foundation they built their edifice of planetary sabotage.
Non-Baldies outnumbered them, and they could not fight the technology that flourished in the days of decentralization. But if the culture of the non-Baldies were weakened, wrecked—
Assassinations, deftly disguised as duels or accidents; secret sabotage in a hundred branches, from engineering to publishing; propaganda, carefully sowed in the proper places—and civilization would have headed for a crack-up, except for one check.
The Baldies, the true, nonparanoid mutation, were fighting for the older race. They had to. They knew, as the blinded paranoids could not, that eventually the non-Baldies would learn of the chess game, and then nothing could stop a world-wide pogrom.
One advantage the paranoids had, for a while—a specialized band on which they could communicate telepathically, a wave length which could not be tapped. Then, in 2022, a Baldy technician had perfected the scrambler helmets, with a high-frequency modulation that was equally untappable. As long as a Baldy wore such a helmet under his wig, his mind could be read only by another Mute.
So they came to be called, a small, tight group of exterminators, sworn to destroy the paranoids completely—in effect, a police force, working in secret and never doffing the helmets which shut them out from the complete rapport that played so large a part in the psychic life of the Baldy race.
They had willingly given up a great part of their heritage. It was a curious paradox that only by strictly limiting their telepathic power could these few Baldies utilize their weapon against the paranoids. And what they fought for was the time of ultimate unification when the dominant mutation had become so numerically strong that in all the world, there would be no need for mental barriers or psychic embargoes.
Meanwhile the most powerful of the Baldy race, they could never know, except within a limited scope, the subtle gratification of the mental round-robins, when a hundred or a thousand minds would meet and merge into the deep, eternal peace that only telepaths can know.
They, too, were beggars in velvet.
-
III
Burkhalter said suddenly, "What's the matter with you, Duke?"
Heath didn't move. "Nothing."
"Don't give me that. Your thoughts are on quicksand."
"Maybe they are," Heath said. "The fact is, I need a rest. I love this work, but it does get me down sometimes."
"Well, take a vacation."
"Can't. We're too busy. Our reputation's so good we're getting cases from all over. We're one of the first mental sanitariums to go in for all-out Baldy psychoanalysis. It's been going on, of course, for years but sub rosa, more or less. People don't like the idea of Baldies prying into the minds of their relatives. However, since we started to show results—" His eyes lit up. "Even with psychosomatic illnesses we can help a lot, and mood disorders are our meat. The big question, you know, is why. Why they've been putting poison in the patient's food, why they watch him—and so forth. Once that question's answered fully, it usually gives the necessary clues. And the average patient's apt
to shut up like a clam when the psychiatrist questions him. But—" Heath's excitement mounted, "this is the biggest thing in the history of medicine. There've been Baldies since 1955, and only now are the doctors opening their doors to us. Ultimate empathy. A psychotic locks his mind, so he's hard to treat. But we have the keys—"
"What are you afraid of?" Burkhalter asked quietly.
Heath stopped short. He examined his fingernails.
"It's not fear," he said at last. "It's occupational anxiety. Oh, the devil with that. Four-bit words. It's simpler, really; you can put it in the form of an axiom. You can't touch pitch without getting soiled."
"I see."
"Do you, Harry? It's only this, really. My work consists of visiting abnormal minds. Not the way an ordinary psychiatrist does it. I get into those minds. I see and feel their viewpoints. I know all their terrors. The invisible horror that waits in the dark for them isn't just a word to me. I'm sane, and I see through the eyes of a hundred insane men. Keep out of my mind for a minute, Harry." He turned away. Burkhalter hesitated.
"O.K.," Heath said, looking around. "I'm glad you mentioned this, though. Every so often I find myself geting entirely too empathic. Then I either take my copter up, or get in a round robin." For every Baldy, there was a deep, relaxing calm in the upper air, where the continual subsensory bombardment of thoughts was lessened almost to the vanishing point. "I'll see if I can promote a hook-up tonight. Are you in?"
"Sure," Burkhalter said. Heath nodded casually and went out. His thought came back.
I'd better not be here when the Hedgehounds come. Unless you—