The Chrysalids

by John Wyndham

  'Who is he?' Rosalind asked, uneasily.

  I could tell her that the name on his tag had been Jerome Skinner, but no more. He was a stranger to me, and our names had not seemed to mean much to him. I would have asked Sally but for the barrier that Petra was still putting up. It gave me a strange, muffled feeling to be cut off from the rest like that, and made me wonder at the strength of purpose which had enabled Anne to withdraw herself entirely for those months.

  Rosalind, still with her right arm round Petra, started homewards at a walk. I collected the dead pony's saddle and bridle, pulled the arrows out of the creature, and followed them.

  They put Petra to bed when I brought her in. During the late afternoon and early evening the disturbance she was making fluctuated from time to time, but it kept up naggingly until almost nine o'clock when it diminished steeply and disappeared.

  'Thank goodness for that. She's gone to sleep at last,' came from one of the others.

  'Who was that man Skinner?' Rosalind and I inquired anxiously and simultaneously.

  Sally answered: 'He's fairly new here. My father knows him. He has a farm bordering on the woods near where you were. It was just bad luck his seeing us, and of course he wondered why we were making for the trees at a gallop.'

  'He seemed very suspicious. Why?' asked Rosalind. 'Does he know anything about thought-shapes? I didn't think any of them did.'

  'He can't make them, or receive them himself — I tried him hard,' Sally told her.

  Michael's distinctive pattern came in, inquiring what it was all about. We explained. He commented:

  'Some of them do have an idea that something of the kind may be possible — but only very roughly of the kind — a sort of emotional transfer of mental impressions. They call it telepathy — at least, those who believe in it do. Most of them are pretty doubtful whether it exists at all.'

  'Do they think it's deviational, those who do believe it exists, I mean?' I asked.

  'It's difficult to say. I don't know that the question has ever been straightly put. But academically, there's the point that since God is able to read men's minds, the true image ought to be able to do so, too. It might be argued that it is a power that men have temporarily lost as a punishment, part of Tribulation — but I'd not like to risk myself on that argument in front of a tribunal.'

  'This man had the air of smelling a rat,' Rosalind told him. 'Has anybody else been inquisitive?'

  They all gave her a 'No' to that.

  'Good,' she replied. 'But we must be careful this doesn't happen again. David will have to explain to Petra in words and try to teach her to use some self-control. If this distress of hers does occur, you must all of you ignore it, or, anyway, not answer it. Just leave it to David and me. If it is compulsive, like it was the first time, whoever reaches her first will have to try to make her unconscious somehow, and the moment the compulsion breaks you must turn back and cover up as best you can. We have to make sure we are not drawn together into a group again. We could easily be a lot less lucky than we were today. Does everybody understand and agree?'

  Their assents came in, then presently the rest of them withdrew, leaving Rosalind and me to discuss how I could best tackle Petra.

  I woke early the next morning, and the first thing I was aware of was Petra's distress once more. But it was different in quality now; her alarm had quite subsided, but given way to a lament for the dead pony. Nor did it have anything like the intensity of the previous day.

  I tried to make contact with her, and, though she did not understand, there was a perceptible check and a trace of puzzlement for some seconds. I got out of bed, and went along to her room. She was glad to have company; the distress-pattern faded a lot as we chatted. Before I left I promised to take her fishing that afternoon.

  It is not at all easy to explain in words how one can make intelligible thought-shapes. All of us had first found out for ourselves; a very crude fumbling to begin with, but then more skilful when we had discovered one another and begun to learn by practice. With Petra it was different. Already, at six and a half, she had had a power of projection in a different class from ours, and quite overwhelming — but without realization, and therefore with no control whatever. I did my best to explain to her, but even at her present age of almost eight the necessity of putting it in words that were simple enough presented a difficulty. After an hour of trying to make it clear to her while we sat on the river-bank watching our floats, I still had not got anywhere much, and she was growing too bored to try to understand what I said. Another kind of approach seemed to be required.

  'Let's play a game,' I suggested. 'You shut your eyes. Keep them shut tight, and pretend you're looking down a deep, deep well. There's nothing but dark to see. Right?'

  'Yes,' she said, eyelids tightly clenched.

  'Good. Now, don't think of anything at all except how dark it is and how far, far away the bottom is. Just think of that, but look at the dark. Understand that?'

  'Yes,' she said again.

  'Now, watch,' I told her.

  I thought a rabbit for her, and made it twitch its nose. She chuckled. Well, that was one good thing: at least, it made sure that she could receive. I abolished the rabbit, and thought a puppy, then some chickens, and then a horse and cart. After a minute or two she opened her eyes, and looked bewildered.

  "Where are they?' she asked, looking round.

  'They aren't anywhere. They were just think-things,' I told her. 'That's the game. Now I'll shut my eyes, too. We'll both look down the well and think of nothing but how dark it is. Then it's your turn to think a picture at the bottom of the well, so that I can see it.'

  I played my part conscientiously and opened my mind to its most sensitive. That was a mistake. There was a flash and a glare and a general impression that I had been struck by a thunderbolt. I staggered in a mental daze, with no idea what her picture had been. The others came in, protesting bitterly. I explained what was going on.

  'Well, for heaven's sake be careful, and don't let her do it again. I damned near put an axe through my foot,' came aggrievedly from Michael.

  'I've scalded my hand with the kettle,' from Katherine.

  'Lull her. Soothe her down somehow,' advised Rosalind.

  'She isn't unsoothed. She's perfectly tranquil. That seems to be just the way it is with her,' I told them.

  'Maybe, but it's a way it can't stay,' Michael answered. 'She must cut it down.'

  'I know — I'm doing my best. Perhaps you've got some ideas on how to tackle it?' I suggested.

  'Well, next time warn us before she tries,' Rosalind told me.

  I pulled myself together and turned my attention to Petra again.

  'You're too rough,' I said. 'This time make a little think-picture; a really little one ever so far away, in soft pretty colours. Do it slowly and gently, as if you were making it out of cobwebs.'

  Petra nodded, and closed her eyes again.

  'Here it comes!' I warned the others, and waited, wishing it were the kind of thing one could take cover from.

  It was not much worse than a minor explosion this time. It was dazzling, but I did manage to catch the shape of it.

  'A fish!' I said. 'A fish with a droopy tail.'

  Petra chuckled delightedly.

  'Undoubtedly a fish,' came from Michael. 'You're doing fine. All you want to do now is to cut her down to about one per cent of the power in that last one before she burns our brains out.'

  'Now you show me,' demanded Petra, and the lesson proceeded.

  The following afternoon we had another session. It was a rather violent and exhausting business, but there was progress. Petra was beginning to grasp the idea of forming thought-shapes — in a childish way, as was only to be expected — but frequently recognizable in spite of distortions. The main trouble still was to keep the strength down: when she became excited one was almost stunned by the impact. The rest complained that they could get no work done while we were at it: it was like trying to ignore
sudden hammer-bangs inside one's head. Towards the end of the lesson I told Petra:

  'Now I'm going to tell Rosalind to give you a think-picture. Just shut your eyes, like before.'

  'Where's Rosalind?' she asked, looking round. 'She's not here, but that doesn't matter with think-pictures. Now, look at the dark and think of nothing.'

  'And you others,' I added mentally for the benefit of the rest, 'just lay off, will you? Keep it all clear for Rosalind, and don't interrupt. Go ahead, Rosalind, strong and clear.' We sat silent and receptive.

  Rosalind made a pond with reeds round it. She put in several ducks, friendly, humorous-looking ducks of various colours. They swam a kind of ballet, except for one chunky, earnestly-trying duck who was always a little late and a little wrong. Petra loved it. She gurgled with enjoyment. Then, abruptly, she projected her delight; it wiped out the whole thing and dazed us all again. It was wearing for everyone, but her progress was encouraging.

  In the fourth lesson she learnt the trick of clearing one's mind without closing one's eyes, which was quite a step. By the end of the week we were really getting on. Her thought-shapes were still crude and unstable, but they would improve with practice; her reception of simple forms was good, though as yet she could catch little of our projections to one another.

  'Too difficult to see all at once and too quick,' she said. 'But I can tell whether it's you, or Rosalind, or Michael, or Sally doing it, but going so fast it gets muddled. The other ones are much more muddled, though.'

  'What other ones — Katherine and Mark?' I asked her.

  'Oh, no. I can tell them. It's the other other ones. The long-way-away ones,' she said, impatiently.

  I decided to take it calmly.

  'I don't think I know them. Who are they?'

  'I don't know,' she said, 'Can't you hear them? They're over there, but a long, long way.' She pointed to the south-west.

  I thought that over for a few moments.

  'Are they there now?' I asked.

  'Yes, but not much,' she said.

  I tried my best to detect anything, and failed.

  'Suppose you try to copy for me what you're getting from them?' I suggested.

  She tried. There was something there, and with a quality in it which none of us had. It was not comprehensible and it was very blurred — possibly, I thought, because Petra was trying to relay something she could not understand herself. I could make nothing of it, and called Rosalind in, but she could do no better. Petra was evidently finding it an effort, so after a few minutes we decided to let it rest for the present.

  In spite of Petra's continued propensity to slip at any moment into what, in terms of sound, would be a deafening bellow, we all felt a proprietorial pride in her progress. There was a sense of excitement, too — rather as if we had discovered an unknown who we knew was destined to become a great singer: only it was something more important than that. . . .

  'This,' Michael said, 'is going to be very interesting indeed — provided she doesn't break us all up before she gets control of it.'

  At supper, some ten days after the loss of Petra's pony, Uncle Axel asked me to come and give him a hand with truing-up a wheel, while there was still light enough. Superficially the request was casual, but there was something in his eyes which made me agree without hesitation. I followed him out, and we went over behind the rick where we should neither be seen nor overheard. He put a straw between his teeth, and looked at me seriously.

  'You been careless, Davie boy?' he asked.

  There are plenty of ways of being careless, but only one he'd ask me about with the manner he was using.

  'I don't think so,' I told him.

  'One of the others, maybe?' he suggested.

  Again, I did not think so.

  'H'm,' he grunted. 'Then why, would you say, has Joe Darley been asking questions about you? Any idea?'

  I had no idea why, and told him so. He shook his head.

  'I don't like it, boy.'

  'Just me — or the others, as well?' I asked.

  'You — and Rosalind Morton.'

  'Oh,' I said, uneasily. 'Still, if it's only Joe Darley... Could it be he's heard a rumour about us, and is out to do a bit of scandal-raising?'

  'Might be,' Uncle Axel agreed, but reservedly. 'On the other hand, Joe is a fellow that the inspector has used before now when he wants a few inquiries made on the quiet. I don't like it.'

  I did not care for it either. But he had not approached either of us directly, and I did not see where else he was going to get any incriminating information. There was, I pointed out, nothing he could pin on us that brought us within any category of the Scheduled Deviations.

  Uncle Axel shook his head. 'Those lists are inclusive, not exclusive,' he said. 'You can't schedule all the million things that may happen — only the more frequent ones. There have to be test cases for new ones when they crop up. It's part of the inspector's job to keep watch and call an inquiry if the information he gets seems to warrant it.'

  'We've thought about what might happen,' I told him. 'If there should be any questions they'll not be sure what they're looking for. All we'll have to do is act bewildered, just as a norm would be. If Joe or anybody has anything it can't be more than suspicion, no solid evidence.'

  He did not seem reassured.

  'There's Rachel,' he suggested. 'She was pretty much knocked by her sister's suicide. Do you think she—?'

  'No,' I said confidently. 'Quite apart from the fact that she couldn't do it without involving herself, we should have known if she were hiding anything.'

  'Well, then, there's young Petra,' he said.

  I stared at him.

  'How did you know about Petra?' I asked.' I never told you.'

  He nodded in a satisfied way. 'So she is. I reckoned so.'

  'How did you find out?' I repeated anxiously, wondering who else might have had a similar idea. 'Did she tell you?'

  'Oh, no, I kind of came across it.' He paused, then he added:

  'Indirectly it came from Anne. I told you it was a bad thing to let her marry that fellow. There's a type of woman who isn't content until she's made herself some man's slave and doormat — put herself completely in his power. That's the kind she was.'

  'You're not — you don't mean she told Alan about herself?' I protested.

  'She did,' he nodded. 'She did more than that. She told him about all of you.'

  I stared at him incredulously.

  'You can't be sure of that, Uncle Axel!'

  'I am, Davie boy. Maybe she didn't intend to. Maybe it was only herself she told him about, being the kind who can't keep secrets in bed. And maybe he had to beat the names of the rest of you out of her, but he knew all right. He knew.'

  'But even if he did, how did you know he knew?' I asked, with rising anxiety.

  He said, reminiscently:

  'A while ago there used to be a dive down on the waterfront in Rigo. It was run by a fellow called Grouth, and very profitably, too. He had a staff of three girls and two men, and they did as he said — just as he said. If he'd liked to tell what he knew one of the men would have been strung up for mutiny on the high seas, and two of the girls for murder. I don't know what the others had done, but he had the lot of them cold. It was as neat a set-up for blackmail as you could find. If the men got any tips he had them. He saw to it that the girls were nice to the sailors who used the place, and whatever they got out of the sailors he had, too. I used to see the way he treated them, and the expression on his face when he watched them; kind of gloating because he'd got them, and he knew it, and they knew it. He'd only got to frown, and they danced.' Uncle Axel paused reflectively. 'You'd never think you'd come across just that expression on a man's face again in Waknuk church, of all places, would you? It made me feel a bit queer when I did. But there it was. It was on his face while he studied first Rosalind, then Rachel, then you, then young Petra. He wasn't interested in anybody else. Just the four of you.'

  'You could have
been mistaken — just an expression...' I said.

  'Not that expression. Oh, no, I knew that expression, it jerked me right back to the dive in Rigo. Besides, if I wasn't right, how do I come to know about Petra?'

  'What did you do?'

  'I came home and thought a bit about Grouth, and what a comfortable life he'd been able to lead, and about one or two other things. Then I put a new string on my bow.'

  'So it was you!' I exclaimed.

  'It was the only thing to do, Davie. Of course, I knew Anne would reckon it was one of you that had done it. But she couldn't denounce you without giving herself away and her sister, too. There was a risk there, but I had to take it.'

  'There certainly was a risk — and it nearly didn't come off,' I said, and told him about the letter that Anne had left for the inspector.

  He shook his head. 'I hadn't reckoned she'd go as far as that, poor girl,' he said. 'All the same, it had to be done — and quickly. Alan wasn't a fool. He'd see to it that he was covered. Before he actually began on you he'd have had a written deposition somewhere to be opened in the event of his death, and he'd see that you knew about it, too. It'd have been a pretty nasty situation for all of you.'

  The more I considered it, the more I realized how nasty it could have been.

  'You took a big risk for us yourself, Uncle Axel,' I told him.

  He shrugged.

  'Very little risk for me against a great deal for you,' he said.

  Presently we came back to the matter in hand.

  'But these inquiries can't have anything to do with Alan. That was weeks ago,' I pointed out.

  'What's more, it's not the kind of information Alan'd share with anyone if he wanted to cash in on it,' agreed Uncle Axel. 'There's one thing,' he went on, 'they can't know much, or they'd have called an inquiry already, and they'll have to be pretty damn sure of themselves before they do call one. The inspector isn't going to put himself in a weak spot with your father if he can help it — nor with Angus Morton either, for the matter of that. But that still doesn't get us any nearer to knowing what started it.'

  I was pressed back again into thinking it must have something to do with the affair of Petra's pony. Uncle Axel knew of its death, of course, but not much more. It would have involved telling him about Petra herself, and we had had a tacit understanding that the less he knew about us the less he would have to hide in case of trouble. However, now that he did know about Petra, I described the event more fully. It did not look to us to be a likely source, but for lack of any other lead he made a note of the man's name.