The League of Grey-Eyed Women

by Julius Fast

  "No, because I haven't decided to go through with it yet."

  "They stopped me from seeing you today, or was it yesterday? They were afraid I'd warn you."

  "Didn't you call me and speak to Rhoda? Didn't you have an assignment? A last minute thing?"

  "No."

  "But Rhoda said you did."

  "Well, she lied. And doesn't that tell you something? Why was it so necessary that they get you up here without my seeing you first?''

  He thought of Rhoda's kisses. Had the test already started without the bother of consent? What was the force needed to make him change? Hadn't he once tried to sort out the ground rules. Was it simply stress, or what?

  As it reading his mind Clifford said, "You changed to save your life. Suppose they put you into a situation where you had to either change into a telepath or die?"

  "They wouldn't!"

  "Wouldn't they? Two of them held guns to me yesterday and they were playing for keeps. They meant it."

  Abruptly he thought of the fire door, the meaningless combination lock. We all know it, Rhoda had said, and even if we forget, we can broadcast it to each other telepathically. Had there been a peculiar intensity in the way she had said that, in the way she had repeated it?

  He groaned abruptly, less because of his safety, the threat to his own life, than because of the betrayal the whole thing implied. Then all the talk of a telepath's inability to deceive— but of course, they had been careful to say another telepath.

  "I didn't think they'd let you know that," Clifford was saying. "Their plan couldn't work unless they kept it from you, and I don't think your death matters that much."

  He shook his head. "They're not like that," he protested stubbornly. "I don't believe they'd risk my life." But even as he protested he knew he wasn't sure. There was still that terrible doubt, and what was the combination door for? They were desperate and this was quite possibly their only chance.

  "You've got to get out of here, Jack. This whole house isn't right. I can just sense it. I don't even like the way 1 was able to reach you, none of the doors even locked. It's all too easy." He stood up and walked to the porthole windows, pulling the curtains aside to look out at the moon-swept hills. "They might be out there now for all we know." He frowned at the windows. "Why are these so small? A man couldn't fit through them."

  Jack stared at him. "A man couldn't fit through them," he whispered slowly, and he remembered the long hallway and the fire door, this room at the end and the only exit the door with the combination lock. This wing of the building was a trap. A specially constructed trap. He had seen a pile of raw wood outside today. Had they just built this wing?

  He jumped out of bed and started pulling on his pants. "We're going to have it out right now," he said. "We'll wake up Steve and Rhoda and find out what's at the bottom of this."

  Clifford didn't answer him. He had lifted his head, his nostrils spread, sniffing the air. "Jack! I smell smoke!"

  Buttoning his pants Jack ran to the door and pulled it open, then fell back coughing as a cloud of smoke billowed into the room. "God damn it, we're too late! Shut the window quick. The house is on fire!"

  "Let's get out of here." Clifford stared around the room frantically. "The windows are too small. We'll be trapped in a minute. Come on. The corridor!"

  Jack opened the door again and they ran out into the corridor. The fire was down the hall, between them and the other bedrooms and stairway. A sheet of flame engulfed the entire corridor, sealing them effectively into this wing. Behind them was the steel door with the combination lock.

  Clifford grabbed two washcloths and soaked them with water at the tiny sink while Jack stood hypnotized by the flames. Shoving one at Jack he said, "Wake up! Don't be a fool. Hold it over your nose. Can we make a run for it?"

  He shuddered. "Through that? Never." He turned and stared at the door. "That's the only way."

  "Well, come on. We'll break it down if we have to." Holding the wet cloth to his mouth, choking and coughing, Clifford stumbled down the hall to the door and pushed against it.

  Jack came up behind him, looking over his shoulder at the fire. He should be worried about Rhoda. If not Steve and Allie, at least Rhoda. Had the fire sealed them off too? But that was still pretending, pretending that this was not all deliberate, not a trap cunningly contrived to force the issue—change or die!

  Clifford had been right. He had been a stupid dupe all along, and now this! And Clifford caught along with him. That must be part of the plan, added pressure. He felt a wave of fury and anger. Damn them! Let him just get out of here and he'd show them, oh, Christ!

  He pushed Clifford aside and tugged at the door, then threw himself against it with all his force. It held rigid and he bounced back with a stinging pain in his shoulder. Clifford, staring at him wildly over the wet cloth cried, "Let's both try." Knowing the futility of it they both flung themselves against the door, again and again, but outside of bruising their bodies they made no impact. The door was locked. The steel wouldn't give.

  Jack spun the dial, cursing savagely. They couldn't do this. They'd have to open it from outside. They couldn't risk two deaths! Clifford had darted back to the room and he staggered out with a chair and pushing Jack aside started slamming it against the steel.

  Why hadn't he gotten the combination from Rhoda, he thought frantically. But she would never have given it to him. Then why had he stayed, why? Why?

  We all know it. If one forgets we can broadcast it to her.

  All right, accept the trap, become telepathic or die! He saw Clifford sink to his knees, coughing desperately as the smoke ate at his lungs. It was billowing along the ceiling, great clouds of it, and behind them they could hear the sharp crackling of the fire.

  "Pound the door," Clifford gasped. Jack grabbed the chair and slammed it against the door till it smashed in his hands.

  The acrid smoke bit at his eyes and raw, terrible, animal fear filled him and anger, a raging flood of anger. Change to what? What animal could survive fire? But change, change or die! And he felt the slipping of his flesh, the lengthening of his bones, sprouting feathers.

  From the floor Clifford stared up in growing horror and screamed, "No, No!" as realization struck him. "For Christ's sake, not a phoenix!"

  Clifford pulled at him desperately, screaming in his ear above the roar of the fire. "A telepath, you stupid bastard, a telepath, not a goddamned phoenix!"

  It was Clifford's life too that was at stake, Jack realized dimly, through his altered brain. He must change so that they could both survive or it was no good, no good at all. Abruptly, as realization sank in, the bones shifted, grew solid again and the feathers drew in on themselves, some falling off. The fantastic, birdlike form he had started to become resolved itself back to a man and he knew that he was changing again, a man and yet more than a man.

  And then, even as a searing wave of flame reached out to them, he broke through, his mind pushing aside the curtains of soft webbing that separated him from the others, the three women waiting so desperately on the balcony behind the door. Forward three, back twelve, forward two. It pushed in on his raw, newly changed mind, over and over, behind a desperate sobbing and pleading. Hear us, oh, hear us!

  His fingers turned the dial, already warm from the fire, turned it again and then a third time, and with a thrust of his shoulders the door swung open and he stumbled out on the balcony, then turned back to pull Clifford's unconscious form after him.

  In the darkness he heard their voices, and yet not voices, so soft, so much a part of his mind. Here, this way, darling. Oh, thank heaven, thank heaven! The gentle, tender touch of Rhoda's fear, anxiety and love, such loving solicitude and gratitude, and Steve's strength, iron-hard strength and blind, driving will, and Allie, motherly tears reaching out to comfort and hold...

  And his own anger and fury at the betrayal, at the falseness of their deceit blazed out of him as he lifted Clifford gently and started down the metal steps to the ground. If h
e's hurt...

  No, no. It's only the smoke. He'll be all right. Reassurance. Comfort.

  But he might have died! What kind of monsters are you?

  And you might have died too. Steve's thoughts, the quiet pride of accomplishment. Was this Steve, this incredibly calm, strong mind, a will that was implacable and yet just, a firm, unswerving conviction of her own right? In war there are risks.

  We were never your soldiers. Liars. Cheats.

  And from Rhoda an assurance if he had died, she would have died too, that night, a knife in her belt, against her heart. She couldn't lie, not on this level. He knew and accepted her statement. But what right did they have to dare do this?

  Clifford was sitting up, gulping fresh air in deep breaths. Behind them the house billowed clouds of smoke from the open door while yellow tongues of flame licked up the white siding.

  Jack pulled him to his feet. "Let's get away from here. Can you walk?"

  "Yes." He took a few steps and winced. "I'm not too steady."

  "Where's your car? I want to get you to a hospital."

  Behind them, with a crash, the end of the corridor fell out. The rest of the house was still untouched, but this wing was a mass of flames. Steve touched his arm and handed him the key to her MG. "Take my car. It's right here in the driveway."

  They stood watching as he helped Clifford into the car, ignoring the fire behind them, stood silently as he turned on the ignition, shifted into gear and raced down the driveway and into the road. In the distance he heard the whine of fire sirens, and mentally questioned, 77 was all prepared?

  Necessity, absolute. We knew it would happen. Regret. The courage and strength to go through with it from Steve, and from Rhoda, Come back, Jack. I love you. Implicit truth. Sincerity. Honesty. And Allie, God bless you! How typical, like a slice of thick apple pie, like roast turkey and buttered carrots. Allie would always be that homely, that warm and simple, telepathic or not. And he answered them savagely, with a mental blaze of resentment, anger, disillusionment, bitterness.

  Beside him Clifford shook himself like a wet dog and wound down the window, gulping in great mouthfuls of the night air. "I'm all right, Jack. I don't need any hospital."

  "Still, we ought to have you checked." They were on Route 23 now, headed for the city. "We can stop off at the first town."

  "No, believe me. Let's go back and get my car."

  Savagely, "I don't want to go back. I'll take you to the city in this. I can get the car tomorrow, today... .what time is it?"

  "All right." He was too weak to protest. "I think it's almost four." He shivered. "Has this car got a heater?"

  By the light of the dashboard Jack fiddled with the dials. "There. It's on."

  Clifford caught his hand as he drew it back, then in a tight voice said, "Can you turn on the overhead light?"

  "Sure. Why?" He flicked the switch and turned to face Clifford. "What is it?"

  Clifford stared at him for a moment, then wet his lips. "Your eyes are grey."

  Jack looked ahead at the road, and after a moment he smiled. "I thought they would be."

  "And your skin is gold."

  "Gold!" Startled, he looked at his hand. "My God, you're right." What had Steve said about linked genes, those few extra on the Y chromosome? Steve? On the mental waveband he called out, Can you hear me?

  Very faint her voice answered, "Is Clifford all right?"

  He sent a picture of Clifford sitting beside him. From Steve gratitude, relief, pleasure. He thought of the house and a picture of it came back, the wing gulfed, the fire out and the rest still standing.

  You were right about linked genes on the Y chromosome. Golden skin, grey eyes.

  Faintly, they were almost at the limits of transmission, Steve's surprise, question. Other changes? Ears?

  He reached up to feel their pointed tops, like a double lobe. A picture of a complicated DNA molecule came from Steve, and suddenly he understood the genetic mechanics, the section of DNA, of double helix affected by the mutant gene, his own changed Y chromosome.

  Beside him Clifford stirred and coughed. "Are you all right?" Jack asked.

  "Yes. Just shaken up, and cold. Christ, I'm cold."

  He pulled his head over and touched his own cheek to Clifford's forehead. A sudden memory of years ago, lifetimes ago, raced unbidden through his mind. He had sat on the edge of his daughter's bed and he had felt her forehead this way, had sat with her in the dimly lit bedroom while she tossed and whimpered with a childhood fever. He thought of Anita, his wife. It had been all wrong, so wrong, and now he suddenly knew, with a frightening clarity, just where and how it had gone wrong, what he had never known how to do.

  "You're all right, Cliff." He ran his hand affectionately over Clifford's bald head. "I never thanked you for getting into this."

  Clifford laughed, but with a faint undercurrent of hysteria. "If I hadn't been with you, do you know what you would have turned into?"

  "What?"

  "A phoenix, a goddamned mythical phoenix! What a laugh that would have been, a myth instead of their new man. What a way to start a civilization, with a ready-made myth."

  "Cliff, stop it."

  "All right." He was silent for a long time and they raced down Route 23 to the Hawthorne Circle and then on towards the city. "What I don't understand," he said finally, "is how you could have changed into a phoenix. There's no such thing. There just isn't."

  What had Steve told him? There are blueprints for every life form that ever was or will be—was that true or was that only part of the truth? For every life form that man has ever conceived of, griffins and hippogriffs and centaurs and sphinxes! Oh, God!

  Steve! He cried out on the mental band, and dimly, sleepily, a voice answered. Not Steve. A girl in bed in Riverdale, stirred out of dreams by his call, turned, stretched luxuriantly silky legs, switched on a light, and he saw her image in the mirror beside her bed. Black hair in a soft cloud over a delicate mulatto face, grey eyes and a pink tongue touching her teeth. Greetings, hello. Affection tinged with lazy desire. You're Jack Freeman.

  Sony I woke you.

  Stretching yawning, sleep clouded with curiosity, interest. Not at all. So it worked. Oh great, great! Excitement cutting through the languor. I want to see you, Jack!

  To his surprise he answered with a flood of warmth, sexual warmth, affection, a promise, sometime soon.

  My name is Marie Wilson. Desire, affection, interest, sexual interest.

  None of it could be hidden, he realized with a mixture of delight and fear. Were the last barriers down? And yet how quickly they had understood each other, how little need for subterfuge or deception. He would sleep with her someday. They both knew it and she had turned off the light, gone back to sleep.

  Was it always to be like this? With a rush of foreboding he whispered, "I can't be expected to give up every defense!"

  Clifford, dozing next to him, sat up suddenly. "What?"

  "Nothing." He slowed to pay the toll, and then entered Manhattan. At Clifford's building he helped him out of the car. "Are you all right?" The city was grey with the promise of dawn.

  "Tired, exhausted. I feel as if I've been wallowing in smoke and soot and as if I've been through a wringer, but I'm all right. Oh, sure!"

  "I'm sorry, Cliff." He followed him inside and up to his apartment. "Have you got a cup of coffee? I'm going to take the car back now."

  "I'll go with you."

  He shook his head. "No. Just give me the car keys. Cliff, I've got to go alone." His anger, his fury had died away. "There are too many unsettled problems."

  Clifford started a pot of coffee while Jack walked to the mirror and studied his face. His features hadn't changed, but the skin was gold, a light gold. Could he pass for mulatto? Probably. He didn't have the features to be oriental, but the skin color wasn't oriental either, or Negro, or anything he had ever seen before. Looking at himself he realized that he was without a shirt and barefoot. He'd have to borrow clothes from Clif
ford.

  A touch of color on his pants caught his eye, and he picked it off. It was a tiny feather, green and gold and red, a phoenix feather, the only one in the world!

  "They're monsters, Jack," Clifford came up behind him. "You can't go back there. They're capable of anything. They want a stud for their children, that's all."

  "A stud? Oh, no, no!" The warmth of their minds, the honesty, the tragedy behind Steve's iron will, Rhoda's tenderness and love, the girl in Riverdale. "They want much more, Cliff. You can't begin to understand."

  "You're the one who doesn't understand. They have you bulldozed."

  "No. You see, we can't lie to each other, none of us. That's what you don't understand. I left full of anger and hate, but I have to go back. I have to work that out. You see, I belong with them."

  Clifford, staring at him, reached out and touched his ears. "They're pointed," he said irrelevantly. "Phoenixes and leprechauns, Jesus Christ!" He shook his head and went into the kitchen, returning with two cups of coffee. "At least stay over. If you're as exhausted as I am, you shouldn't drive."

  Jack gulped the coffee. "Get some sleep and I'll see you when I bring the car back. I want to check out what Steve told me about the cancer with some doctor at Sloan-Kettering. I think she's right, that I'm cured, but I want a checkup."

  Staring at him, Clifford said, "There's no telling what else they'll find. Grey eyes, gold skin and pointy ears. Are you still human, Jack?"

  "The male of the species." He grinned. "Homo telepathens!"

  Clifford sipped his coffee, then sighed. "I'll get you a shirt and shoes. A goddamned Phoenix, how about that?"

  "Here." Jack handed him the feather.

  "What is it?"

  "The only phoenix feather in the world."

  Cliff took it and turned it slowly in his hands. "I'll hold onto it. Goodbye, Jack."

  Downstairs Jack stood for a moment alongside the car and looked up the silent, deserted street. Suddenly on the mental band he cried out with a wild eager soundless shout, Hello all of you. Hello. Greetings. Good morning. Awake.