Hair Power

by Piers Anthony

  “I—I don’t want that.”

  “We can stay in touch mentally if you wish.”

  “Yes! Roque has done me such a favor, getting me into this experimental program, maybe saving my life. It’s more than I ever deserved. I’d do anything for him.”

  “You have done enough. But we’ll let you know if anything else comes up.”

  Quiti settled in. Days passed. The world took no notice.

  One thing did come up: their marriage. Roque was direct. “I want to marry you, as I said, and not just to have sex with you.”

  Quiti laughed. They had abstained from sex, sharing a certain reservation about the nature of their commitment. “Ditto. Did you know I remain a virgin?”

  “I know. It’s too bad you didn’t give it to that boy.”

  “Speedo. But I will give it to him once, when he’s of age. I promised.”

  “He’s almost of age now.”

  “When I see him again.” She knew Roque would not be jealous. He had had his own experience.

  “It will be an open marriage, in that respect.”

  “We can’t have a formal public ceremony,” Quiti said. “We don’t want to get into the records. The powers that be would be on us in moments.”

  “True,” he said thoughtfully. “But we do want to marry.”

  “We do.”

  “Maybe a small private—very private—ceremony, speaking our vows to each other, no witnesses, only ourselves.”

  “One witness,” Quiti said. “Desiree.”

  He looked at her a moment. “You really have come to terms with her.”

  “I really have. I wrestled my mental state into shape. She’s okay, and I like her. She knows us both, including how we are special. She will do.”

  “As you wish. It means I will be meeting her physically again.”

  “Do that. Hug her. Kiss her. Be her friend. She’ll appreciate it.”

  “You’re a wonder.”

  “I’m a hair suit.” That said it all.

  ****

  “You want me to what?” Desiree exclaimed, astounded.

  “Witness our marriage,” Quiti said. “You’re my friend.”

  “But I can’t see him again!”

  “Why not? You’re his friend too.”

  “You weren’t fooling when you said you had come to terms with what happened before.”

  “I’m not much for fooling,” Quiti agreed.

  Their agreed date arrived. Roque joined Quiti in Desiree’s apartment. He really did hug and kiss her, chastely, and she actually blushed, distinctly not accustomed to such behavior. They sang the Hawaiian Wedding Song together, discovering that their ability was enhanced in this respect too: they had both become excellent singers.

  Desiree even presented them with a small wedding cake she had bought. They exchanged glassy rings that were almost invisible, so as not to raise questions. They spoke their lines and kissed.

  Then Roque’s glance wandered to the bed.

  “Take it!” Desiree said. “You’re married, for Pete’s sake. I’m going for a walk.” She hastily departed.

  They stripped and got on the bed, each brushing the long hair to the rear, where it still acted like a cloak. They did not need its protection from each other. “I’m depending on you to be competent,” she told him, smiling. “It isn’t as if you haven’t been trained.”

  “Slow and easy the first time.”

  “What, no condom?”

  He laughed. “We have no diseases, and you won’t get pregnant unless you want to.”

  But when he made ready to enter, slow and easy, she grabbed him and pulled him violently in. Her vagina clamped hard on his member, milking it. Then a mutual orgasm was upon them, enhanced by their telepathic readings of each other’s sensation. It lasted for several minutes. It seemed they were discovering yet another aspect of the hair. It really knew how to have a good time.

  “Wow,” she said as it finally eased. “I think I’m going to like sex, when we get better at it.” As if it were possible to improve on their performance.

  He laughed. “I’ll try to do better. I felt the hair catching our emotional radiation and bouncing it back into us. I think it likes sex too.”

  “We got a lot of pleasure from such a simple act.”

  When Desiree returned after a suitable interval, she was amused. “You two should have damped your telepathy.” They had remained tuned to her, in case she encountered anything they needed to know about, such as the janitor entering the apartment. “I might as well have been seated ringside at six inches distance with a huge magnifying glass. Sex sure isn’t a dull business for you. I have to change my pants.”

  “Sorry about that,” Roque said. But he was not very sorry.

  Now Quiti spent her nights with Roque in his apartment, careful not to leave any evidence of her presence behind. By day she returned to Desiree’s apartment, being similarly obscure. She had a fair amount of time to herself, and was bored. She mentally contacted Speedo and Gena, catching them up on her marriage. Then she thought of searching for other hair suits. She knew how to orient on Roque’s mind, and adapted that to tune in on any hair-enhanced mind. And found none.

  Well, maybe they weren’t close by. She strengthened her focus and reached out ten miles, then a hundred miles, then a thousand miles, becoming excruciatingly finely tuned. The hair responded, tightening her focus. But there still was nothing.

  Had the hairball enhanced only two people? It was possible, but seemed unlikely. At any rate, the survey was surely worth doing.

  Day by day she reached out, changing her directional orientation slightly each time. She had the feeling that this was in accordance with the hairball’s design.

  Meanwhile Roque completed his courses and got his degree. He was in the lower half of his class, distinctly unspectacular by no accident. Now he could go out and seek gainful employment, the support of his uncle Burke ending. He moved out of his apartment and joined Quiti in Desiree’s apartment; two could be as invisible as one. They were not in financial need; there were ways to unobtrusively make small amounts of money without attracting notice or cheating anyone, and they did. They would have contributed to the rent, but Desiree did not want to let any invisible income cast suspicion on her. She, also, was doing well; the experimental treatment was keeping her in remission and she was healthy in other respects.

  Then Quiti got a nibble. Five hundred miles to the north there was a brain wave with incipient telepathy, typical of a hair suit.

  Roque joined her, and together they amplified the signal. “Definitely something,” he said. “Male.”

  “And young,” she agreed. “A child.”

  “Um. Maybe we should stay clear, so as not to mess up his family situation.”

  “Maybe,” she agreed. “But I am curious as hell. Could we go there and watch without contacting him?”

  “Why not?”

  “We’re going to go check out a possible hair suit,” they told Desiree. “We’ll be back in a few days.”

  “Do come back,” she replied. “I never had much of a social life before, and you guys are it, and I like it, even if no one else knows about it.”

  They caught a bus, traveling inconspicuously as a honeymooning couple. They reached the town and tuned in more competently. The person was indeed young and male, living with his large family in a tenement house, attending fifth grade classes in an inferior local school. He was indeed a hair suit; his hair was a yard long, covering two thirds of his small four and a half foot frame. He was by far the strongest and smartest of his classmates, but he had learned to hide his properties as well as his hair. His name was Tillo.

  Again the question: should they communicate directly with the child? His situation seemed to be stable. All he needed was time to grow his hair to full length. That would be another year. They decided with regret to remain clear. Once Tillo had all his hair, they could reconsider. They caught the bus back.

  A week later the
situation changed dramatically. Tillo was in trouble, and suddenly confined in the children’s ward of the local hospital for the criminally insane. What had happened?

  “We’ve got to get him out, soon,” Quiti said. “He belongs with us, not in that hellhole where they’ll pull him apart trying to fathom what he is made of. They must already have an inkling.”

  Roque agreed. The boy’s secrecy must have been breached. That was real mischief.

  They hastily went to the local small airport and rented a plane and pilot to make the trip. They didn’t have time or background for formal papers, so simply impressed on the pilot’s mind their authenticity. This could be trouble if anyone thought to check on his business, but it was a risk they had to take.

  Then they set up to spring the boy loose. But it would not be easy, as such hospitals were designed to be virtually escape proof. They formulated a plan and set about implementing it.

  Meanwhile Quiti tuned in on the boy’s mind, seeking his personal history. There might be information there that would help. She zeroed in on his encounter with the hairball the year before, which was prominent in his memories.

  ****

  Tillo was not a popular boy, but they needed one more outfielder in their back-lot game, so he got to play, this one time. He had come out every day, hoping for just such a break, and finally it had come. So far he was doing okay; only one ball had come his way, dropping well short of his position, and he had fielded it and thrown it in. He had batted once and grounded out, a respectable performance considering his lack of experience.

  Then a big boy hit a home run. It sailed over Tillo’s head, out of the field, and through a window. The glass shattered.

  Immediately the occupant, a florid middle aged man, charged out. The boys froze in place, knowing there really was no escape. “Who did that?” he demanded.

  The team captain pointed to Tillo. “He did.”

  “Hey, wait!” Tillo protested. “I’m fielding, not hitting!”

  “You hit it,” the captain insisted.

  “True?” the man demanded.

  “It was him,” the other players agreed.

  Tillo realized he was screwed. They were lying to protect one of their own. The blame would stick, and his family would have to pay for the repair. His pa would take it out of his hide.

  What could he do? He ran.

  The others set out after him: the man and the players. Tillo realized as he ran that this must be the real reason they had let him play: to be the scapegoat if anything happened. That additional unfairness stung him worse yet. Nobody liked him; they just wanted to use him as a fall guy.

  Tillo was no athlete, but one thing he could do was run. That came from being bullied by his siblings and peers. The easiest way to handle it was to get away from it. He remembered the saying that whoever said a person couldn’t run from his problems never faced a bully. He had a good eye for deceptive escape routes, and he was familiar with this rundown neighborhood. He ducked into a dark narrow alley, dodged around a corner, angled into a darker alley, and dived under an empty crate. He pulled tattered newspaper over himself. They’d have trouble finding him, and if they did, he’d just run again.

  The search passed him by. They never thought he’d stop running and hide. Soon the hue and cry was well beyond. Not that he’d really get away; they knew who he was, and would tell the occupant, who would demand payment from his father. That would in due course earn Tillo a hiding. He couldn’t hide forever from the hiding.

  So what was he to do? Run away from home? He’d be happy to leave it, but knew that the authorities would soon pick him up and return him there for punishment. If he did get away, where would he go? He knew some of the homeless folk of the neighborhood; bad as his life was, theirs was worse. He didn’t want to join them.

  He came out from the crate and looked around as if foolishly thinking there might be something there to save him. Like maybe a kindly rich old woman looking for a lost grand-kid to adopt and spoil endlessly. But there was nothing except discarded junk, including a yard-thick giant hairball that might have been a stage prop in a failed theater play.

  A greeting, the hairball thought at him.

  Tillo was not afraid of any hairball, because it lacked feet to run on and fists to strike with, but he was surprised. “That’s you?”

  It is I, the hairball agreed. I need your help.

  Tillo laughed. “I can’t help anyone. I’m hiding.”

  Yes. You are good at hiding. I need to hide. Tell me how to do it.

  This was curious indeed. Tillo was flattered to have anyone or anything ask for his advice. “Well, first you have to do what they don’t expect. Like not running far. Changing the way you look so they don’t recognize you. Can you do that?”

  Perhaps. The hairball shimmered and became another empty crate

  “That’s it!” Tillo exclaimed. “No one would know you for a giant hairball now. And you don’t have to be a crate; you can be a brick wall, or a garbage can, or a leftover tire. Anything they don’t expect and don’t need. Then when they are gone, you can change back.”

  I thank you, Tillo. You have been most kind.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, bemused that it knew his name. But it was telepathic, so must have pulled it from his mind.

  I must return the favor. What can I do for you?

  Tillo considered. “Can you make it so I don’t get blamed for something I didn’t do?”

  That is past remedying; the ill word has already been spread. But I can help you handle future situations in a superior manner.

  “Okay.”

  I will need to take your hair.

  Tillo lifted his cap and considered his reddish mop in the dirty reflection of a piece of metal. “Okay.”

  The hairball floated toward him, then landed on his head. It was heavy, but Tillo was able to support its weight. Its body fastened on his head and did something.

  Then it floated off. It will take you time to learn the nuances, but they will come. Meanwhile proceed carefully.

  “Okay.” The odd thing was that Tillo suddenly felt far more positive than he had until this moment. As if he could handle whatever came, no matter how bad. He had a better perspective. He put his cap back on what his brushing hand indicated was now his bald head.

  Until we meet again. The hairball floated away and faded out.

  “Bye,” he called after it.

  Okay, he was due for a hiding. But he could handle that; it was hardly the first time. His butt would be sore, but it was not the end of the world, or even his life. A week from now he would hardly remember it.

  He went home, and it played out exactly as expected. His old man didn’t even notice his loss of hair, partly concealed under the tight cap. Another odd thing was that it really didn’t hurt as much as usual; it was as if his skin had toughened to handle it. But he hollered as loudly as ever it so it sounded as if he were really hurting. He was not a fool.

  His sister Ilsa was home, a year his senior but not a bad sort. “Did you do it?” she asked privately. She knew about false blame.

  “No. I was a patsy.”

  “You shouldn’t try to play with those boys. They’re bad news.”

  “I’ll stay away from them after this. They’ll have to find another patsy.”

  She wandered away, satisfied.

  Then Tillo became aware of something new: he was hungry. In fact he was ravenous. Had the chase and punishment used up that much energy? This was a problem, because the family didn’t have much food to pass around, and if he took more than his share he would be in instant trouble. He had to find food elsewhere. A lot of it.

  What could he do? Compelled by the hunger, he went out into a nearby alley where filled garbage cans lined the narrow drive. He lifted the lid of the nearest. There was a plastic bowl of old chocolate pudding, probably way past its expiration date. But it made his mouth water. He dipped in a hand and scooped out a glob. He bought it to his face and licked it.
It wasn’t spoiled, just old. He gobbled it down, then licked off his coated hand.

  He checked the next can. Nothing but old pillow stuffing there. He checked a third. It had a mess of old chicken bones. Okay. He chewed them carefully to be sure there were no sharp edges and swallowed them whole. He had never been partial to bones before, but now he loved them.

  Soon he had a bellyful. He went home and lay down to rest and think. This new appetite was strange. Was it a fluke? Was it coincidence that it came so soon after his encounter with the hairball?

  He had supper with the family as usual, as hungry as ever. He was required to remove his cap for the meal. That was when the others noticed his loss of hair. “Hey you got caught by the Shavers gang!” a brother chortled.

  “I guess,” Tillo said. The Shavers were a juvenile outfit that liked to catch unprotected boys and shave them bald. Small girls they merely depanted and looked at, as there tended to be too much of an uproar about their heads, and they normally did not talk about their embarrassment. Big girls remained well clear, knowing there were worse things than losing panties.

  “Stay away from their territory,” his mother said. “I thought you knew better.”

  “I will,” Tillo promised. “I do.”

  But next day, hungry again, he found too little in the local garbage cans, and had to explore more widely. He drifted into Shaver territory—and got spied.

  “Whatcha doing?” a big boy demanded, grabbing his arm.

  “Nothing,” Tillo said, mounting a surge of belief.

  “Oh. Okay.” The boy let go, and Tillo zipped away.

  Then he paused to ponder. What had happened? Why had the boy taken his word? It was as if his push of belief had been effective.

  Tillo was thinking far more carefully now than he had before encountering the hairball, and his belief in coincidence was nil. His mind felt supercharged.

  He tested it on Ilsa. “Did the Shavers ever catch you?”

  “Never!” she swore. But her mind had a memory, freshened by his query. They had caught her, taken her panties, held her legs apart, and taken a really good look. They had even poked a couple of fingers in. She hadn’t even dared scream, lest adult neighbors see.