Maybe she should go back to her bed and go to sleep. No. Just once more she would fly like the birds she had seen—and the fireflies. It was wonderful, but it scared her. The first time, she had panicked and sighed herself quickly through distance back into her room. She had not been so scared the next time, and even less scared the time after that. And tonight she loved it, scary or not, and she was going to do it once more before she had to go back to bed.
Jill rose steadily up in the sky. This time Prann was prepared for what was going to happen. He hugged the floor of his room as tightly as he could and got a grip on the leg of his bed with both hands. The lights below Jill became smaller. He could feel the chill of the breeze on her skin. He tried to estimate how high she was going, but there was no reference point. Off on the horizon he noted a flashing beacon but couldn’t make anything of its code. Beyond the flashing beacon were the multiple lights of the town, spread out flat and unwinking. Beyond that— blackness.
Jill’s eyes turned upward. The town lights and the blackness beyond them disappeared and were replaced by the lights of the stars, blinking, brightening, and fading.
Prann wanted to withdraw his mind from Jill’s! But the intensity of the experience would not let him. He gripped the leg of the bed crushingly, expecting what would come soon. It seemed hours before Jill decided to stop rising. When she did, she hung in the sky looking around, curious, marvelling at the ever wonderful night panorama, looking from horizon to horizon. Then she looked down. And—
To Prann the fall to a point just above the willow tree was nightmarish. But to Jill it was a delight.
Prann’s withdrawal, when at last he could accomplish it, was sudden and violent. Looking around his room, he found that he had pulled off the covers from his bed. He was drenched with perspiration and still shaking.
He knew he had missed the birth of a talent by several nights. But he had felt its growth, and it was something he never wanted to do again.
He donned his bathrobe and walked to Jill’s room. Quietly he stood beside her bed. She was in a deep sleep already, the corners of her lips turned up in a little smile, and covered to her chin with the sheet.
“What has God given me?” whispered Prann to himself. “Lusus naturae psionic”
* * * *
VIII
Gordon’s mind returned to his own body again. Gordon stared incredulously at the man named Prann.
“You see?” said Prann conversationally. He might have been pointing out the fact that the sun had, after all, set. “There are no limits for her.”
“No limits,” said Gordon.
Prann sighed and changed position again. In a voice that was tired and very old he said to empty space: “It happens over and over again.”
“What does?” demanded Gordon.
Prann shook his head without looking at him.
After a moment he said, “You can’t reason with a child.” An infant squalls to get what it wants—how can you reason with an infant? A child uses temper tantrums.
“Not Jill, though. Jill doesn’t need temper tantrums. She can get what she wants. She merely takes it.
“Jill can PK a glass of milk out of the refrigerator when she wants it. Or candy. Or—what forbidden thing can a child want? Whatever it is, Jill can get it. Or she can teleport herself where she wishes to go. Or levitate whenever she feels the urge. These powers she uses to get her own way, and the things she wants. She uses them whenever she thinks of it, except when I can control her. And that is becoming more and more difficult. Don’t you see, Gordon, where it is leading? What will she do when she realizes her full powers?”
Prann was silent for a time.
“You are seeing,” he said, “the fantastic rebellion of a psi-trained child. A child who has been brought up in a false environment and who has had false orientation. So far, she is purely on the defensive. There are the startings of many independent thoughts deep in her mind. In time they will surface and she will consider them—and more than likely experiment a little. Gordon, I wish I could take you deep into her mind. But that is impossible without your having been preconditioned—you just wouldn’t be able to take it.”
Gordon shook his head. “Prann, it’s all beyond me. I don’t see how a child can be dangerous and not be aware of it. And I think if a child is dangerous, it would stop at hurting those it loves.”
“No, no, Gordon! A child can be deadly and not know it. This child Jill is dangerous not only to us and to herself but potentially dangerous to everyone with whom she comes in contact. Especially now, because she’s terrified. Fear makes her impossible to control. It’s like a panicky baby with a rattle made of dynamite caps—only much worse, Gordon, much worse! So much worse that—”
He paused.
“Gordon,” he said softly, looking away from him, “I want to show you one more thing. Not about Jill. About me.”
Gordon’s viewpoint shifted—
And the view of the library disappeared abruptly again.
Gordon looked out through Prann’s eyes upon a dead, frozen panorama.
“Poland,” whispered the faint voice of Prann’s mind next to his own.
Poland—where Prann had been born. Prann, with Gordon inside his mind, was walking along a pathway that led through a wide marsh. On each side of the pathway windrows of dead reeds lay thick on the ice-covered surface. The ground underneath was hard and cold. The swamp trees stood low and barren, inert with little wisps of dead summer foliage still clinging obstinately to some of the branches. The trunks and branches were still entwined with parasitic creeping vines, also dead, but still clinging as if ready to continue their strangling action at the first sign of spring.
Prann walked along the pathway as it wound through the swamp trees. His mind was alert, listening. From the silent voice of Prann, Gordon knew that this was at the height of the Polish Rebellion thirty-five years ago. Prann was nineteen, just learning of his talent. He was trying it out, barely able to detect the thoughts of others but as yet unpracticed and unreliable. He was leading a group of twelve refugees across the border to safety. Prann was the only man.
Looking back through Prann’s eyes, thirty-five years later, Gordon approved the plan. The time for the escape from Poland could hardly be more ideal. It was cold, so the patrols would be lazy. The marsh could be traveled with a minimum of danger. Their footprints would not show in the frozen ground, and the marsh itself was not treacherous.
Prann leaned back over his shoulder and whispered to his sister, “Freda, you must be quiet. We are very near the border. There are men ahead.”
His sister, who had lately been awed by her brother’s unexplained ability, turned her face toward him and whispered back, “Wolf, please not so fast. The baby is cold.”
The others were padding up to them on burlap-wrapped feet, their breaths making little clouds in the air that disappeared almost immediately. They were dressed in men’s clothing. Only Prann’s sister had a child.
“There is a border patrol near,” Prann told them. “There must be no sounds, no talking. Don’t even breathe if I tell you not to.”
His sister followed, whispering inaudibly to the baby to keep it from crying.
They went another two kilometers through the marsh. Then Prann halted short, stopping the others, motioning for them to make no sound.
“My God!” he whispered to himself—and, even thirty-five years later and through the filter of another mind, Gordon felt the shock of horror that filled him—”It wasn’t working for a while!”
His flickering, immature sense of telepathy had failed him temporarily. Now—suddenly—he detected a group of men coming toward them. It was too late to turn back— and they couldn’t change their course without taking a longer way to the border.
“Quick!” he whispered harshly. “Six of you get over there. The rest follow me!”
The group split into two parts. The first group left the path and melted into the rushes, suddenly invisible.
> A fallen trunk of a swamp tree lay half buried in the marsh to the left of the path. Those with Prann dispersed themselves beyond the stump; Prann motioned to his sister to follow him. He settled behind the stump, Freda and the baby close beside him. He wished now it were summer so that there would be dense foliage to hide them—and the sounds of frogs and animals and insects that could cover the accidental sounds that any in the group might make. But there were not. The three border guards came clumping along the pathway from around a bend. Twenty meters away one of the guards started a coughing spell. The three men stopped.
That incident saved them—for the moment. For the baby in Freda’s arms began to cry weakly.
“Damn!” whispered Prann to his sister. “Give him to me!”
Prann pressed the baby close to his breast, the heavy coat he wore muffing the cries to a minimum. It was not enough. The three men had continued down the path toward the hidden group, laughing and talking again together loudly. That would help somewhat—but not enough.
And, just abreast of the stump, the three guards decided to stop for a smoke. Prann cursed the gods of fate for their action. His mind radiated a hate which he felt sure the men must be able to feel. He had cupped his hand over the baby’s mouth and pressed tightly so no sound came....
No sound at all.
The guards passed a bottle among them and cursed their duty and the weather. The bottle was passed again....
The baby under Prann’s palm shook and tried to breathe, but could not. Then it was quiet.
When at last the men were gone, Prann tried for a solid hour to breathe life back into the little body. But he knew—all the time he knew—his mind went out into where the tiny mind of the baby should be. And there was nothing.
Like wraiths, the others came out of the reeds to watch.
For a long time, his sister said nothing.
Then she whispered, “Wolf, you could do no more.”
* * * *
IX
Prann said, “So you see, Gordon. Nothing happens only once.”
But his eyes were calm now—and sure. He got up, glanced briefly at Gordon, and moved toward the library.
Gordon stood paralyzed, shaking off the blistering cold of the marsh, the horror of the moment when, with Prann’s mind, he had reached out for Freda’s child—and felt the emptiness there.
Then he heard a tinkle of breaking glass.
Prann had broken a window; already he was climbing into the library.
Gordon broke the spell and hurried after him.
Prann stopped to seek out Jill’s mind to discover if she had heard their entry. She had. At once he felt the sudden increase in tension and fear in her mind. It was not going to be easy to make contact with her.
He whispered to Gordon, “She knows we are here. She’s terrified and will probably use lots of power.”
“Couldn’t you use projection on her,” whispered Gordon, “as you used it on me?”
Prann shook his head. “Her mind is like a steel barrier. And she is stronger than I.”
Prann led Gordon past the main desk, where books were piled up where the librarians had dropped them, then down a dark hallway. Gordon watched him peer cautiously at each room as they came to it. Then he paused, nodded, and entered a room. Gordon followed. When he came to the corner, he peered around it as Prann had done. There were rows of book shelves. Down the central aisle he could see Prann peeking around one of the shelves. He watched the man carefully remove the revolver from his pocket, grasp it barrel-first in his fist so that the butt made it a bludgeon. Prann wanted to knock the girl unconscious if he could.
“Jill,” Prann called softly. “Ji—”
Prann did a full somersault in the air before his head hit the ceiling. There was a loud snap like a piece of wood breaking. Something hit Gordon’s shoulder. It was the revolver. Gordon looked at it dumbly then looked back at Prann. The man’s head was a mess of pulp and blood and broken bone from the force with which he had hit the ceiling. There were bits of plaster imbedded in his head; a red and gray ooze smeared the floor. It happened so quickly that it was over before Gordon realized the full impact of it. He stared down at the gray ooze and the numbness of shock began to sweep over him. He looked at the floor and picked up the revolver. It was slippery with blood. He looked up and saw Jill creeping through the far doorway. Her head turned toward him, her eyes staring straight into his eyes.
Something happened in his mind. He raised the revolver and took careful aim. Down the barrel he saw Jill’s saucer eyes looking fearfully at him over a slim shoulder. Her eyes opened a little wider. His fingers started squeezing the trigger, then every atom in him screamed:
She’s just a child! Just a child! You can’t shoot!
The gun fired.
The revolver dropped from his seared hand and started burning its way through the floor. There was a scatter of explosions from the bursting shells in the clip—Jill’s terrified mind, frantically striking back, had set them off.
The last thing it would ever do on earth.
Though the bullets from the exploding gun lashed all about him, Gordon made no attempt to dodge. He hardly knew they were there. He hardly heard the gun go off, hardly knew he had been in danger.
He didn’t care.
He slumped against a book rack, dazed and numb in mind and body. He bore the stacks over with him and ponderous volumes of Civil War commentaries tumbled down battering his head and arms. He didn’t feel them either; he was past feeling He only saw Jill. He only felt what had happened in his own mind when he pulled that trigger.
Eight years old, with dolls. She still had a doll under each arm. Her dress was dirty but still gay; she lay almost as though asleep on the bare narrow floor of the corridor. And her face, mercifully, was out of his sight.
After a while, Gordon got up and walked out.
He sat on the bench outside the library, waiting—alone in that part of the town except for Prann’s mangled body and the dead girl. That was how the soldiers found him when, cautiously, they began to close in.
<
* * * *
The child of the Great Writer is a familiar stereotype—petulant brat, fattening on his father’s royalties, stomping his miserable adolescent boots over his father’s reputation. It is time to destroy this stereotype with the others. Thomas Mann’s family shows how wrong it is. His daughter Erika has long shown that one child could inherit his talent; that another daughter shares it as well is now demonstrated, with insight and beauty, in-
TWIN’S WAIL
by Elizabeth Mann Borgese
When he first said, “It is not Martha’s fault, why, any Martha would have done it; he got her to be that way; I too had a Martha like that,” people simply thought he was crazy. But after he had pieced the facts together, patiently and humbly, they made sense. People began to wonder about the sense they made and wanted to hope for the best, wish them well, Phil and Martha, whoever they were. Somehow it seemed the toll was paid; what for, no one could quite discern, but a toll was paid. They could go ahead now, Phil and Martha.
* * * *
Vanyambadi, April 24, 1918.
Today James christened them. Willoughby and Theophil. Willoughby, after Dad. “Willy” just suits him, the cute thing. And if one is Willy, it is nice that the other be Philly. We thought of Philip, too; but, come to think of it, it doesn’t make much sense, in our family. “Theophil” augurs well. Let him be dear to God.
* * * *
June 6.
Will always has to be on the left side, Phil always on the right, in the crib and in the buggy too. If you put them the other way, they’ll cry. It’s really easier that way to tell them apart. Dr. Edgecomb says to separate them. They would grow better, he says. But it can’t be done. They’ll cry: Will keeps his left arm under his head, Phil the right one. And when people stare at them—they have never seen a pair of twins here; they stare at them as if they were monsters—they both start crying
at the same time. And when I rock the buggy they are quiet and begin to suck their thumbs: Will the right one, Phil the left. It’s always like that. One is always the mirror image of the other.
* * * *
July 24.
The kind of service you’ve got to put up with! I am frankly scared of Yoshi, but if I fire her the next one may be worse yet. Yoshi says they want to be two but the dasus prevent it. Chewing a parrot feather for a toothpick, she says if they cannot be two they’ll bring on the earthquake, a terrible earthquake.
* * * *
November 11.
They both spat out their spinach. They have the same likes and the same dislikes. They wet their diapers at the same time. Woe, if I changed Phil without changing Will! And Will must always be first.
Star Science Fiction 6 - [Anthology] Page 5