Intervention

by Julian May

  The sky was heavily overcast and the temperature hovered around the freezing point of a saline solution — glorious weather for Poltroyans, who generally hail from wintry planets — and Fred and Willy mingled happily with the mob. In recent weeks they had done extensive field-work in Norway, and they had brought souvenirs with them to New Hampshire — distinctive Samish "caps of the four winds" — which they wore to cover their bald mauve skulls. Otherwise their garb was ordi­nary American winter gear, comfortable enough but skimpy and drab when compared to the gem-studded fish-fur parkas and mukluks of their home world. They told curious natives that they were Lapps. This helped to explain away their shortness and also made them some quick friends, since many of the mushers and fans were of Scandinavian de­scent.

  On Saturday morning Fred and Willy caught the first round of Husky-drawn sled races in the hard-charging sprint classification. When their favorite dog-team did poorly, they went around afterward to offer con­dolences to the driver, a petite lavender-eyed blonde named Marcie Nyberg who reminded them very much of certain girls they had left behind them.

  She was quite ready to commiserate. "Just my luck! I didn't bring the right kind of wax for the runners, and none of the places in Laconia stock it. It's called Totally Mean Extra Green. I don't suppose you guys ever heard of it. "

  "Well, no, " Fred admitted. "In Norway we use another kind. "

  But Willy was rummaging in the kangaroo pouch of his anorak and murmuring, "Wait a minute! Wait a minute!" And then, triumphantly, he pulled out a flat container of pinkish metal with a soft pad at one end. "Marcie, you're not going to believe this, but I remembered that I had this defrictionizer stowed away in here from the last time I was on — from Norway. I think it would be just the thing for snow condi­tions today. Please try it. "

  Marcie examined the container dubiously. "Gee, I never saw this kind of wax before. Is this writing on the side? I thought Norwegians used the same alphabet as we do —"

  Hastily, Willy said, "That's Samish. You know, the Lapp language. The stuff is simple to use. You just stroke it on, using the pad end. It's not like crayon wax. It's — it's new. "

  Marcie grinned. "Okay, Willy. I'll give it a try this afternoon. Thanks a whole bunch. "

  She had to tend to her dogs' feet then, so the Poltroyans said goodbye and went to watch a weight-pulling event. Malamute dogs, much more massive than the rangy Huskies, strained eagerly to move sledges loaded with weights up to a ton per animal. Fred and Willy were overwhelmed at the strength of the furry quadrupeds — and especially interested to note that the handler of the heavyweight Grand Prize winner had un­consciously exercised a telepathic rapport with his dog, aiding its per­formance.

  When the contest was over, Fred went to the man and offered hearty congratulations. But when he offhandedly added a remark about tele­pathic encouragement, the musher let loose a blast of profanity that nearly took off the Poltroyan's quaint four-cornered cap.

  "Use telepathy? Me? You accusing me of being one of them goddam cheating heads? Well, lemme tell you, pipsqueak, I run my dogs honest, and any guy that says different can taste a knuckle sandwich!"

  He was a black-browed bruiser with a stubbly jaw and the number 22 pinned to his down jacket. Several other dog-handlers crowded around, looking none too friendly, and the prize-winning Malamute took a lunge at Willy with its lips curled back from enormous teeth. Fortunately, its owner had a good grip on its chain.

  Fred quickly apologized. "I'm sorry! I didn't understand! We're visi­tors from Norway, you see. We didn't know that — er — that kind of thing was considered improper here. "

  The animosity of the bystanders dwindled and Number 22 seemed slightly mollified. "Well... so long as you're foreigners and don't know better, I won't take offense. But you better watch it, fella. Calling some­body a head won't make you any friends in this part of the U. S. and A. "

  "No, sirree, " the others chimed in. "Damn tootin'!"

  Number 22 squinted at the Poltroyans in suspicion. "You two wouldn't be heads yourself, would you?"

  "Oh, my, no, " Willy said. "We're Samish. You know — Laplanders. The people who used to herd reindeer. "

  "Reindeer!" humphed Number 22, "Mighta known. "

  "Oh, we're very interested in dogs, too, " Fred said. "Ours are called spitz. They're something like small Huskies. "

  The Malamute handler was patently unenthusiastic and his dog, a huge gray and white creature with black eyes, continued to growl. "You see this?" The musher indicated a big round button pinned beside the cloth square with the numerals 22. "You wanta stay outa trouble, you better know what it means. "

  Fred and Willy took a closer look. The button was a depiction of Earth as seen from space, a blue disk splashed with white. "It's very attrac­tive, " Fred said.

  The man gave an unpleasant laugh. "It means I'm one of the Sons of Earth, shorty. A normal human being, and proud of it! You ever heard of us?"

  "Yes, " said Willy, keeping a neutral expression.

  "Well, then you know where I'm comin' from. As far's I'm concerned, God made this Earth for normal human folks — not for freako heads who break the laws of nature and try to lord it over the rest of us like they're some kind of fuckin' master race. "

  "Yeah!" members of the crowd affirmed. "You said it, Jer! Damn right on!"

  Number 22 slackened the dog chain a fraction and the Malamute reared. "I don't know what goes on in Norway, but in this country we're gonna make sure that real people stay in charge of things — not freaks. You get what I'm saying?"

  "Oh, yes, " said Fred, backing away. There were quite a few of the big blue buttons being worn by the crowd. Neither Poltroyan had taken any note of them before.

  "Well, thanks for explaining, " Willy said. "And congratulations again on winning the Golden Bone. You've got a really fine dog there. " And with that, Fred and Willy fled, hurried along by hostile and contemp­tuous aetheric vibrations. They stopped near a refreshment stand to catch their breaths.

  "Half-masticated lumpukit!" Fred swore. "That was a nasty one. "

  "The buttons must be a new fad here in America. I certainly don't recall seeing them in New Hampshire last year at the ski jumps. It seems to me that the Sons of Earth were still a disreputable fringe movement then. Membership was quite furtive. "

  "Not anymore. " Fred was looking about. "Love's Oath — every third or fourth person seems to be wearing one of those buttons. We'll have to send notification to the Oversight Authority. "

  "They're probably aware of the situation. But we'll do it. "

  It was almost time for the next heat of sprints that Marcie was scheduled to participate in, so the Poltroyans decided to get something to eat and go cheer on their new friend. Willy dug in his pocket for a credit card and ordered two hot dogs with sauerkraut and mustard and two Classic Cokes. Then the exotics wandered over to the racecourse, sipping and munching. The beverage's alkaloid was invigorating even if it wasn't quite sweet enough, so they tossed in three or four maple-sugar candies to saccharify it. The delicious sulfur taste of the shredded hot vegetable mingled nicely with the speckled buff condiment's bite. Too bad that the proteinoid was too highly nitrified for really safe metabolization — but an occasional treat wouldn't kill them.

  When the heats began they forgot the unpleasant incident with the Sons of Earth and reveled in the excitement of the racing. Dogs howled, mushers yelled, the spectators cheered on their favorites, and a diamond-dust snow sifted down on everything. It was glorious! And when the final times were posted, Marcie and her team had won.

  Fred and Willy ran to her, shouting their congratulations.

  "Your wax! Your wax!" She swept the pair of them into her arms like a mother embracing her children. "The wax made all the difference! I love you guys, do you know that?"

  She was covered with crusted rime thrown up by the galloping dogs, and one could almost forget she was the wrong color and chromosomally incompatible. Fred and Willy pressed lips with her b
ecause that was what her mind told them she wanted. Then she brushed herself off and untied the vivid Day-Glo racing vest with her number, 16, and pulled it over her head.

  On the jacket underneath was a big blue button.

  Marcie was bubbling over as she began to load her dogs into her truck. "Listen, you guys. Tonight there's a Musher's Ball with beer and chili and a live band. I want you to come. My treat! You can meet the whole gang and tell them about the crazy wax and the whole Laplander thingypop!"

  "We'd love to, " Fred said sadly.

  "But we really have to go now, " Willy concluded. "Please keep the wax. I wish I had more, but — it's in short supply. "

  Marcie's face fell. "Oh, guys. What a shame you can't come. Maybe you could catch me later? The Adirondack's two weeks off —"

  "We're finishing our work in the States very soon, " Fred said.

  "We're really sorry, " Willy added.

  "Well, " Marcie said, "it was awfully nice knowing you. I'll always remember you two."

  The Poltroyans turned and walked away. All around were mushers tinkering with sleds or adjusting harnesses and traces. The loudspeakers announced the start of another event and the dogs began to yelp, eager to be off and away.

  "Let's go home, " Fred said.

  "I wish we could, " Willy muttered.

  "Oh, you know what I mean, " said Fred.

  Together, they headed for the place where they had left their car.

  12

  FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ROGATIEN REMILLARD

  WE WERE NOT yet pariahs, only suspect.

  The terrible murder and instant retribution that had taken place in Alma-Ata were played and replayed on the television screens of the world. The implications — perceived almost instinctively by every nor­mal person — were argued in heat and in cold blood, but then rational­ized away because humanity was not yet prepared to turn upon and repudiate the operants.

  After an investigation that took more than a year, Soviet forensic scientists, assisted by experts from many other countries, determined that the assassinations of the General Secretary and the Grand Mufti were not accomplished by psychocreative energy at all, but by a chemical explosive device that was almost but not quite without traceless residue. That the agent provocateur had been operant himself was verified by the testimony of the delegate-witnesses there in the Lenin Palace of Culture, particularly those who had been on stage. The killer had used a quasi-hypnotic technique to stun and confuse those close to the General Secretary. Only Denis and Tamara had been able to resist the mind-paralysis; but they could not prevent the murder.

  The killer's true identity was never discovered. His image was shown distinctly on the tapes of the video cameras recording the event; but the face was obscured by the large bouquet of flowers at first, and then by the miniature explosion. He had turned away as he started to flee, again hiding his face from the cameras, and his subsequent cremation oblit­erated any other clues to his identity.

  The cremation, not the murder of the Soviet leader, was what really gave the world pause.

  After months of hedging, a special investigatory committee of "blue-ribbon" metapsychologists called by the United Nations issued a lengthy analysis of the so-called Retributory Incident. Its findings can be com­pactly summarized:

  1. The assassin of the Soviet General Secretary met his death through a process of incineration by psychoenergetic projection.

  2. The energy projected came from the brains of the operant delegates who had just witnessed the assassination.

  3. The energy was focused and amplified by means of a maneuver known as "metapsychic concert, " in which numbers of operant brains act as one synergistically, the whole being capable of an output greater than the sum of the parts.

  4. It was not possible to calculate with total accuracy the amount of energy focused upon the assassin, since its characteristics were anom­alous. (For example, there were no auditory manifestations as there had been when the General Secretary's head was vaporized by the explosive device. ) Furthermore, it was not possible to calculate the percentage of psychoenergy generated by individual delegates.

  5. The metafaculty of psychocreativity, which may generate energy, is at present poorly understood. Except for the Weinstein case, there is no previous record of a fatality resulting from the projection of psychic energy. Metapsychic concert is also poorly understood. Its manifestation has been experimentally verified by magnetoenceph­alography; but in no instance have researchers ever encountered an effect even remotely approaching the magnitude of the Retributory Incident.

  6. In the opinion of the investigatory committee, the Incident was the result of an unconscious velleity on the part of the delegate-minds, without true volition. In lay language, the delegates were so shocked and angered by the General Secretary's murder that their mutual loath­ing of the perpetrator generated the blast that killed him.

  7. On the advice of the committee, no action at law against the delegate-perpetrators was contemplated by the Soviet judiciary. It was felt that the principle of diminished responsibility applied to their actions in view of the heinousness of the crime they had just witnessed.

  8. Repetitions of Retributory Incidents could not be ruled out, given similar provocatory circumstances.

  9. The committee recommended strongly that legal scholars, ethi­cists, and moral theologians address themselves to the unique problems of culpability devolving upon metapsychic operancy. The ancient ques­tion of whether the law should take the will for the deed would have to be reopened when, ipso facto, the will was the deed.

  Debate over the philosophical and legal implications of operancy would beget an avalanche of articles, monographs, and books off and on over the next fifteen years, until the topic received its ultimate resolu­tion in the Intervention. Of course Denis did not serve on the investi­gating committee. (The fact of his nonparticipation in the destructive metaconcert was proved when the Simbiari Proctorship reopened the inquiry into the Incident in 2017, at Denis's insistence.) Lucille, who had not attended the Sixth Congress because of her confinement with her first son, Philip, did serve. It should be noted that she laid open her personal psychocreative case history to assist the committee in its de­liberations, an action that required great courage at the time. Fortu­nately for her, the committee decided that it was not necessary to in­clude that history in the public record.

  You, the entity reading these memoirs, should not get the impression that reaction to the Retributory Incident was as reasoned and high-minded as this chapter may have thus far implied. On the contrary, there was a royal rumpus kicked up in the United States, where the media hashed and rehashed the affair ad nauseam, bringing the term "psychozap" into slang usage, together with the pejorative "head, " ap­plied to operants — which was perversely embraced by us and later used as an innocent appellation. As the Third Millennium approached, cranks and fanatics of every sort crept out of the woodwork — most notably the Sons of Earth movement, which claimed worldwide adherents by 1999 and succeeded in disrupting part of the Eighth Metapsychic Con­gress in London.

  The Great California Earthquake gave new life to the prophecies of Nostradamus. Never mind that the prophet's dating for the quake was so ambiguous that it might have referred to any century following the sixteenth, with the locale of the seismic disaster unspecified. Two other pertinent quatrains from Nostradamus were dusted off and presented to the gullible as portents of things to come:

  L'an mil neuf cens nonante neuf sept mois,

  Du ceil viendra un grand Roi deffraieur.

  Resusciter le grand Roi d'Angolmois.

  Avant que Mars regner par bonheur.

  Apres grand troche humaine plus grande s'appreste,

  Le grand moteur des Siecles renouvelle.

  Pluie, sang, laict, famine, fer et peste

  Au feu ciel veu courant longue estincelle.

  Which can be roughly translated:

  In the seventh month of the year 1999,


  A great King of Terror will come.

  He will revive the great King of the Mongols.

  Before that Mars will run riot.

  After great human suffering, even greater comes,

  When the great motive power

  Of the Centuries is renewed.

  Rain, blood, milk, famine, iron [war], and disease

  In the heavens is seen a fire, a long flow of sparks.

  The hysterical could equate the new, bellicose leader of the Soviet Union, Marshal Kumylzhensky, with the King of Terror. By a long stretch of the imagination, the new Genghis Khan could be seen in the insurrections flaring up in Soviet Central Asia. (No one yet had any inkling that the Chinese were watching the accelerating dissolution of the USSR with keen interest. ) The continued fighting throughout the Islamic world was certainly a source of suffering, and the crazy weather that had rotted the crops in some parts of the world while parching others also seemed to fit. As to the milk, there remained the legacy of the Armageddon fallout, poisoning both milk and "blood" in a wide swath of the Middle East and the Balkans for seven years now. The fateful Seventh Month of 1999 came and went without any signal disaster; but in August, the total eclipse of the sun that was visible in Europe, the most embattled regions of the Middle East, and the Indian subcontinent wreaked havoc among the superstitious, who were certain that the end of the world had come. After that crisis had passed, there was another to be endured on 11 November, when Earth passed through the great Leonid meteor "storm, " a Nostradamic fiery flow of sparks if there ever was one. But once again Earth abided, the day of wrath was unaccountably postponed, and the eschatologists went back to their original prediction of doomsday at the actual turn of the Millennium.