Mutants

by Robert Silverberg

  “Hello,” he said.

  She turned, stared at him b] mkly, flicked the tip of her tongue out for an instant over her lips. “I c on’t believe I—”

  “Tom Niles,” he said. “P* sadena, New Year’s Day, 1955. You sat next to me. Ohio State 20, Southern Cal 7. You don’t remember?”

  “A football game? But I I ardly ever—I mean—I’m sorry, mister. I—”

  Someone else in the line n Dved forward toward him with a tight hard scowl on his face. Niles knew when he was beaten. He smiled apologetically and said, “I’m sorry, miss. I guess I made a mistake. I took you for someone I knew—a Miss Bette Torrance. Excuse me/’

  And he strode rapidly away. He had not gone more than ten feet when he heard the little surprised gasp and the “But I am Bette Torrance! “—but he kept going.

  / should know better after twenty-eight years, he thought bitterly. But I forget the most basic fact—that even though I remember people, they don’t necessarily remember me—

  He walked wearily to the corner, turned right, and started down a new street, one whose shops were totally unfamiliar to him and which, therefore, he had never seen before. His mind stimulated to its normal pitch of activity by the incident outside the theater, spewed up a host of tangential memories like the good machine it was:

  January 1 1955 Rose Bowl Pasadena California Seat G126; warm day, high humidity, arrived in stadium 12:03 p.m., PST. Came alone. Girl in next seat wearing blue cotton dress, white oxfords, carrying Southern Cal pennant. Talked to her. Name Bette Torrance, senior at Southern Cal, government major. Had a date for the game but he came down with flu symptoms night before, insisted she see game anyway. Seat on other side of her empty. Bought her a hot dog, 20$ {no mustard)—

  There was more, much more. Niles forced it back down. There was the virtually stenographic report of their conversation all that day:

  “., . I hope we win. I saw the last Bowl game we won, two years ago …”

  “… Yes, that was 1953. Southern Cal 7, Wisconsin 0 … and two straight wins in 1944-45 over Washington and Tennessee …”

  “… Gosh, you know a lot about football! What did you do, memorize the record book?”)

  And the old memories. The jeering yell of freckled Joe Merritt that warm April day in 1937—Who are you, Einstein? And Buddy Call saying acidly on November 8, 1939, Here comes Tommy Niles, the human adding machine. Get him! And then the bright stinging pain of a snowball landing just below his left clavicle, the pain that he could summon up as easily as any of the other pain-memories he carried with him. He winced and closed his eyes suddenly, as if struck by the icy pellet here on a Los Angeles street on a foggy Tuesday morning.

  They didn’t call him the human adding machine any more. Now it was the human tape recorder; the derisive terms had to keep pace with the passing decades. Only Niles himself remained unchanging, The Boy with the Brain Like a Sponge grown up into The Man with the Brain Like a Sponge, Si:iU cursed with the same terrible gift.

  His data-cluttered mind aclied. He saw a diminutive yellow sports car parked on the far side of the street, recognized it by its make and model and color and license number as the car belonging to Leslie F. Marshall, twenty-six, blond hair, blue eyes, television actor with the following credits-Wincing, Niles applied the cutoff circuit and blotted out the up-welling data. He had met Marshall once, six months ago, at a party given by a mutual friend—an erstwhile mutual friend; Niles found it difficult to keep friends for long. He had spoken with the actor for perhaps ten minutes and had added that much more baggage to his mind.

  It was time to move on, Niles decided. He had been in Los Angeles ten months. The burden of accumulated memories was getting too heavy; he was greeting too many people who had long since forgotten him (curse my John Q. Average build, 5 feet 9, 163 pounds, brownish hair, brownish eyes, no unduly prominent physical features, no distinguishing scars except those inside, he thought). He contemplated returning to San Francisco, and decided against it. He had been there only a year ago; Pasadena, two years ago. The time had come, he realized, for another eastward jaunt.

  Back and forth across the face of America goes Thomas Richard Niles, Der fliegende Hollander, the Wandering Jew, the Ghost of Christmas Past, the Human Tape Recorder. He smiled at a newsboy who had sold him a copy of the Examiner on May 13 past, got the usual blank stare in return, and headed for the nearest bus terminal.

  For Niles the long journey had begun on October 11, 1929, in the small Ohio town of Lowry Bridge. He was third of three children, born of seemingly normal parents, Henry Niles (b. 1896), Mary Niles (b. 1899). His older brother and sister had shown no extraordinary manifestations. Tom had.

  It began as soon as he was old enough to form words; a neighbor woman on the front porch peered into the house where he was playing, and remarked to his mother “Look how big he’s getting, Mary!”

  He was less than a year old. He had replied, in virtually the same tone of voice, “Look how big he’s getting, Mary!” It caused a sensation, even though it was only mimicry, not even speech.

  He spent his first twelve years in Lowry Bridge, Ohio. In later years, he often wondered how he had been able to last there so long.

  He began school at the age of four, because there was no keeping him back; his classmates were five and six, vastly superior to him in physical coordination, vastly inferior in everything else. He could read. He could even write, after a fashion, though his babyish muscles tired easily from holding the pen. And he could remember.

  He remembered everything. He remembered his parents’ quarrels and repeated the exact words of them to anyone who cared to listen, until his father whipped him and threatened to kill him if he ever did that again. He remembered that too. He remembered the lies his brother and sister told, and took great pains to set the record straight. He learned eventually not to do that, either. He remembered things people had said, and corrected them when they later deviated from their earlier statements.

  He remembered everything.

  He read a textbook once and it stayed with him. When the teacher asked a question based on the day’s assignment, Tommy Niles’s skinny arm was in the air long before the others had ever really assimilated the question. After a while, his teacher made it clear to him that he could not answer every question, whether he had the answer first or not; there were twenty other pupils in the class. The other pupils in the class made that abundantly clear to him, after school.

  He won the verse-learning contest in Sunday school. Barry Har-man had studied for weeks in hopes of winning the catcher’s mitt his father had promised him if he finished first—but when it was Tommy Niles’s turn to recite, he began with In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth, continued through Thus the heavens and the earth were finished, and all the host of them, headed on into Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made, and presumably would have continued clear through Genesis, Exodus, and on to Joshua if the dazed proctor hadn’t shut him up and declared him the winner.

  Barry Harman didn’t get his glove; Tommy Niles got a black eye instead.

  He began to realize he was di ferent. It took time to make the discovery that other people were s ways forgetting things, and that instead of admiring him for what he could do they hated him for it. It was difiicult for a boy of eight, even Tommy Niles, to understand why they hated him, but eventv ally he did find it out, and then he started learning how to hide his g ft.

  Through his ninth and tenth years he practiced being normal, and almost succeeded; the after-schDol beatings stopped, and he managed to get a few B’s on his report cards at last, instead of straight rows of A’s. He was growing uf; he was learning to pretend. Neighbors heaved sighs of relief, now that that terrible Niles boy was no longer doing all those crazy things.

  But inwardly he was the same as ever. And he realized he’d have to leave Lowry Bridge soon He knew everyone too well. He would catch them in lies ten times a week, even
Mr. Lawrence, the minister, who once turned down an invitation to pay a social call to the Nileses one night, saying, “I really have to get down to worl: and write my sermon for Sunday,” when only three days before Tommy had heard him say to Miss Emery, the church secretary, that he had had a sudden burst of inspiration and had written three sermons all at one sitting, and now he’d have some free time for the test of the month.

  Even Mr. Lawrence lied, thei. And he was the best of them. As for the others-Tommy waited until he was twelve; he was big for his age by then and figured he could take care of himself. He borrowed twenty dollars from the supposedly seciet cashbox in the back of the kitchen cupboard (his mother had mentioned its existence five years before, in Tommy’s hearing) and tiptoed out of the house at three in the morning. He caught the night fi eight for Chillicothe, and was on his way.

  There were thirty people on ihe bus out of Los Angeles. Niles sat alone in the back, by the seat just over the rear wheel. He knew four of the people in the bus by name—but he was confident they had forgotten who he was by now, and s 3 he kept to himself.

  It was an awkward business. If you said hello to someone who had forgotten you, they thought you were a troublemaker or a panhandler, And if you passed someone by, thinking he had forgotten you, and he hadn’t—well, then you were a snob. Niles swung between both those poles five times a day. He’d see someone, such as that girl Bette Torrance, and get a cold, unrecognizing stare; or he’d go by someone else, believing the other person did not remember him but walking rapidly just in case he did, and there would be the angry, “Well! Who the blazes do you think you are!” floating after him as he retreated.

  Now he sat alone, bouncing up and down with each revolution of the wheel, with the one suitcase containing his property thumping constantly against the baggage rack over his head. That was one advantage of his talent: he could travel light. He didn’t need to keep books, once he had read them, and there wasn’t much point in amassing belongings of any other sort either; they became overfamiliar and dull too soon.

  He eyed the road signs. They were well into Nevada by now. The old, wearisome retreat was on.

  He could never stay in the same city too long. He had to move on to new territory, to some new place where he had no old memories, where no one knew him, where he knew no one. In the sixteen years since he had left home, he’d covered a lot of ground.

  He remembered the jobs he had held.

  He had been a proofreader for a Chicago publishing firm, once. He did the jobs of two men. The way proofreading usually worked, one man read the copy from the manuscript, the other checked it against the galleys. Niles had a simpler method: he would scan the manuscript once, thereby memorizing it, and then merely check the galleys for discrepancies. It brought him fifty dollars a week for a while, before the time came to move along.

  He once held a job as a sideshow freak in a traveling carnie that made a regular Alabama-Mississippi-Georgia circuit. Niles had really been low on cash, then. He remembered how he had gotten the job: by buttonholing the carnie boss and demanding a tryout. “Read me anything—anything at all! I can remember it!” The boss had been skeptical, and didn’t see any use for such an act anyway, but finally gave in when Niles practically fainted of malnutrition in his office. The boss read him an editorial from a Mississippi county weekly, and when he was through, Niles recited it back, word-perfect. He got the job, at fifteen dollars a week plus meals, and sat in a little booth under a sign that said r he Human Tape Recorder. People read or said things to him, an< he repeated them. It was dull work; sometimes the things they said were filthy, and most of the time they couldn’t even remember what they had said to him a minute later. He stayed with the show four eeks, and when he left no one missed him much.

  The bus rolled on into the fo£ 3ound night.

  There had been other jobs: | ood jobs, bad jobs. None of them had lasted very long. There had b< en some girls too, but none of them had lasted too long. They had lII, even those he had tried to conceal it from, found out about his sf ecial ability, and soon after that they had left. No one could stay wit i a man who never forgot, who could always dredge yesterday’s foit es out of the reservoir that was his mind and hurl them unanswen ble into the open. And the man with the perfect memory could nev ix live long among imperfect human beings.

  To forgive is to forget, he th mght. The memory of old insults and quarrels fades, and a relationsh: p starts anew. But for him there could be no forgetting, and hence little forgiving.

  He closed his eyes after a w rile and leaned back against the hard leather cushion of his seat. 1 he steady rhythm of the bus lulled him to sleep. In sleep, his nnnd could rest; he found ease from memory. He never dreamed.

  In Salt Lake City he paid his are, left the bus, suitcase in hand, and set out in the first direction he faced. He had not wanted to go any farther east on that bus. His c ish reserve was only sixty-three dollars now, and he had to make it J 1st.

  He found a job as a dishwz sher in a downtown restaurant, held it long enough to accumulate a mndred dollars, and moved on again, this time hitchhiking to Cheyen te. He stayed there a month and took a night bus to Denver, and ¥ hen he left Denver it was to go to Wichita.

  Wichita to Des Moines, Des Moines to Minneapolis, Minneapolis to Milwaukee, then down throuj h Illinois, carefully avoiding Chicago, and on to Indianapolis. It was an old story for him, this traveling. Gloomily he celebrated his tw mty-ninth birthday alone in an Indianapolis rooming house on a irizzly October day, and for the purpose of brightening the occasi >n, summoned up his old memories of his fourth birthday party, in 1933 … one of the few unalloyedly happy days of his life.

  They were all there, all his playmates, and his parents, and his brother Hank, looking gravely important at the age of eight, and his sister Marian, and there were candles and favors and punch and cake. Mrs. Heinsohn from next door stopped in and said, “He looks like a regular little man,” and his parents beamed at him, and everyone sang and had a good time. And afterward, when the last game had been played, the last present opened, when the boys and girls had waved goodbye and disappeared up the street, the grown-ups sat around and talked of the new President and the many strange things that were happening in the country, and little Tommy sat in the middle of the floor, listening and recording everything and glowing warmly, because somehow during the whole afternoon no one had said or done anything cruel to him. He was happy that day, and he went to bed still happy.

  Niles ran through the party twice, like an old movie he loved well; the print never grew frayed, the registration always remained as clear and shaip as ever. He could taste the sweet tang of the punch, he could relive the warmth of that day when through some accident the others had allowed him a little happiness.

  Finally he let the brightness of the party fade, and once again he was in Indianapolis on a gray, bleak afternoon, alone in an eight-dollar-a-week furnished room.

  Happy birthday to me, he thought bitterly. Happy birthday.

  He stared at the blotchy green wall with the cheap Corot print hung slightly askew. I could have been something special, he brooded, one of the wonders of the world. Instead I’m a skulking freak who lives in dingy third-floor back rooms, and I don’t dare let the world know what I can do.

  He scooped into his memory and came up with the Toscanini performance of Beethoven’s Ninth he had heard in Carnegie Hall once while he was in New York. It was infinitely better than the later performance Toscanini had approved for recording, yet no microphones had taken it down; the blazing performance was as far beyond recapture as a flame five minutes snuffed, except in one man’s mind. Niles had it all: the majestic downcrash of the tympani, the resonant, perspiring basso bringing forth the great melody of the finale, even the French-horn bobble that must have enraged the maestro so, the infuriating cough from the dress circle at the gentlest moment of the adagio, the sharp pinching of Nil ss’s shoes as he leaned forward in his seat-He had it all, in highest fidelity.
<
br />   He arrived in the small town m a moonless night three months later, a cold, crisp January eveni lg, when the wintry wind swept in from the north, cutting through his thin clothing and making the suitcase an almost impossible bu den for his numb, gloveless hand. He had not meant to come to this place, but he had run short of cash in Kentucky, and there had been io helping it. He was on his way to New York, where he could live ir anonymity for months unbothered, and where he knew his rudeness vould go unnoticed if he happened to snub someone on the street < r if he greeted someone who had forgotten him.

  But New York was still hundre:ls of miles away, and it might have been millions on this January nig It. He saw a sign: BAR. He forced himself forward toward the spi ttering neon; he wasn’t ordinarily a drinker, but he needed the wai nth of alcohol inside him now, and perhaps the barkeep would need a man to help out, or could at least rent him a room for what little he lad in his pockets.

  There were five men in the b; Jr when he reached it. They looked like truck drivers. Niles droppe< his valise to the left of the door, rubbed his stiff hands together, e [haled a white cloud. The bartender grinned jovially at him.

  “Cold enough for you out then?”

  Niles managed a grin. “I wasn t sweating much. Let me have something warming. Double shot of be irbon, maybe.”

  That would be ninety cents. He had $7.34.

  He nursed the drink when it c irne, sipped it slowly, let it roll down his gullet. He thought of the sum ner he had been stranded for a week in Washington, a solid week of 97-degree temperature and 97 percent humidity, and the vivid m mory helped to ease away some of the psychological effects of the cc Idness.

  He relaxed; he warmed. Beh nd him came the penetrating sound of argument.

  “—I tell you Joe Louis beat I chmeling to a pulp the second time! Kayoed him in the first round!”

  “You’re nuts! Louis just bar Ay got him down in a fifteen-round decision, the second bout.”