But by our next meeting I’ll hope to prove true, And change the green lilacs for the red, white and blue.
There were no minstrels among’the Hedgehounds-they were all minstrels, which is how folk songs are kept alive. Singing, they came down the path, and fell silent at sight of the consul’s house.
Burkhalter watched. It was a chapter of the past come alive before his eyes. He had read of the Hedgehounds, but not until six weeks ago had he encountered any of the new pioneers. Their bizarre costumes still had power to intrigue him.
Those costumes combined functionalism with decoration. The buckskin shirts, that could blend into a pattern of forest light and shade, were fringed with knotted tassels; Alvers had a coonskin cap, and all three men wore sandals, made of soft, tough kidskin. Sheathed knives were at their belts, hunting knives, plainer and shorter than the misericordias of the townsfolk. And their faces showed a rakehell vigor, a lean, brown independence of spirit that made them brothers. For generations now the Hedgehounds had been wresting their living from the wilderness with such rude weapons as the bow one of them had slung across his shoulder, and the ethics of dueling had never developed among them. They didn’t duel. They killed, when killing seemed necessary-for survival.
Burkhalter came to the threshold. “Come in,” he said. “I’m the consul-Harry Burkhalter.”
“You got our message?” asked a tall, Scottish-looking chief with a bushy red beard. “That thing you got rigged up in the woods looked tetchy.”
“The message conveyor? It works, all right.”
“Fair enough. I’m Cobb Mattoon. This here’s Kit Carson Alvers, and this un’s Umpire Vine.” Vine was clean-shaven, a barrel of a man who looked like a bear, his sharp brown eyes slanting wary glances all around. He gave a taciturn grunt and shook hands with Burkhalter. So did the others. As the Baldy gripped Alvers’ palm, he knew that this was the man who intended to kill him.
He made no sign. “Glad you’re here. Sit down and have a drink. What’ll you have?”
“Whiskey,” Vine grunted. His enormous hands smothered the glass. He grinned at the siphon, shook his head, and gulped a quantity of whiskey that made Burkhalter’s throat smart in sympathy.
Alvers, too, took whiskey; Mattoon drank gin, with lemon. “You got a smart lot of drinks here,” he said, staring at the bar Burkhalter had swung out. “I can make out to spell some of the labels, but-what’s that?” “Drambuie. Try it?”
“Sure,” Mattoon said, and his red-haired throat worked. “Nice stuff. Better than the corn we cook up in the woods.” “If you walked far, you’ll be hungry,” Burkhalter said. He pulled out the oval table, selected covered dishes from the conveyor belt, and let his guests help themselves. They fell to without ceremony.
Alvers looked across the table. “You one of them Baldies?” he asked suddenly.
Burkhalter nodded. “Yes, I am. Why?” Mattoon said, “So you’re one of “em.” He was frankly staring. “I never seen a Baldy right close up. Maybe I have at that, but with the wigs you can’t tell, of course.”
Burkhalter grinned as he repressed a familiar feeling of sick distaste. He had been stared at before, and for the same reason.
“Do I look like a freak, Mr. Mattoon?” “How long you been consul?” Mattoon asked. “Six weeks.”
“O.K.,” the big man said, and his voice was friendly enough, though the tone was harsh. “You oughta remember there ain’t no Mistering with the Hedgehounds. I’m Cobb Mattoon. Cobb to my friends, Mattoon to the rest. Nope, you don’t look like no freak. Do people figger you Baldies are all sports?”
“A good many of them,” Burkhalter said. “One thing,” Mattoon said, picking up a chop bone, “in the woods, we pay no heed to such things. If a guy’s born funny, we don’t mock him for that. No so long as he sticks to the tribe and plays square. We got no Baldies among us, but if we did, I kind of think they might get a better deal than they do here.”
Vine grunted and poured more whiskey. Alvers’ black eyes were fixed steadily on Burkhalter.
“You readin’ my mind?” Mattoon demanded. Alvers drew in his breath sharply.
Without looking at him, Burkhalter said, “No. Baldies don’t It isn’t healthy.”
“True enough. Minding your own business is a plenty good rule. I can see how you’d have to play it. Look. This is the first time we come down here, Alvers and Vine and me. You ain’t seen us before. We heard rumors about this consulate-” He stumbled over the unfamiliar word. “Up to now, we traded with Selfridge sometimes, but we didn’t have contact with townsfolk. You know why.”
Burkhalter knew. The Hedgehounds had been outcasts, shunning the villages, and sometimes raiding them. They were outlaws.
“But now a new time’s coming. We can’t live in the towns; we don’t want to. But there’s room enough for everybody. We still don’t see why they set up these con-consulates; still, we’ll string along. We got a word.”
Burkhalter knew about that, too. It was the Cody’s word, whispered through the Hedgehound tribes-a word they would not disobey.
He said, “Some of the Hedgehound tribes ought to be wiped out. Not many. You kill them yourselves, whenever you find them-“
“Th’ cannibals,” Mattoon said. “Yeah. We kill them.”
“But they’re a minority. The main group of Hedgehounds have no quarrel with the townsfolk. And vice versa. We want to stop the raids.”
“How do you figger on doin’ that?”
“If a tribe has a bad winter, it needn’t starve. We’ve methods of making foods. It’s a cheap method. We can afford to let you have grub when you’re hungry.”
Vine slammed his whiskey glass down on the table and snarled something. Mattoon patted the air with a large palm.
“Easy, Umpire. He don’t know… listen, Burkhalter. The Hedgehounds raid sometimes, sure. They hunt, and they fight for what they get. But they don’t beg.”
“I’m talking about barter,” Burkhalter said. “Fair exchange. We can’t set up force shields around every village. And we can’t use Eggs on nomads. A lot of raids would be a nuisance, that’s all. There haven’t been many raids so far; they’ve been lessening every year. But why should there be any at all? Get rid of the motivation, and the effect’s gone too.”
Unconsciously he probed at Alvers’ mind. There. was a thought there, a sly crooked hungry thought, the avid alertness of a carnivore-and the concept of a hidden weapon.
Burkhalter jerked back. He didn’t want to know. He had to wait for the Cody to move though the temptation to provoke an open battle with Alvers was dangerously strong. Yet that would only antagonize the other Hedgehounds; they couldn’t read Vine’s mind as Burkhalter could.
“Barter what?” Vine grunted.
Burkhalter had the answer ready. “Pelts. There’s a demand for them. They’re fashionable.” He didn’t mention that it was an artificially created fad. “Furs, for one thing. And-“
“We ain’t Red Indians,” Mattoon said. “Look what happened to them! There ain’t nothing we need from townsfolk, except when we’re starving. Then-well, maybe we can barter.”
“If the Hedgehounds unified-“
Alvers grinned. “In the old days,” he said in a high, thin voice, “the tribes that unified got dusted off with the Eggs. We ain’t unifying, brother!”
“He speaks fair, though,” Mattoon said. “It makes sense. It was our granddaddies who had a feud with the villages. We’ve shaken down pretty well. My tribe ain’t gone hungry for seven winters now. We migrate, we go where the pickin’s are good and we get along.”
“My tribe don’t raid,” Vine growled. He poured more whiskey.
Mattoon and Alvers had taken only two drinks; Vine kept pouring it down, but his capacity seemed unlimited. Now Alvers said, “It seems on the level. One thing I don’t like. This guy’s a baldy.”
Vine turned his enormous barrel of a torso and regarded Alvers steadily. “What you got against Baldies?” he demanded.
&
nbsp; “We don’t know nothing about’ em. I heard stories-“
Vine said something rude. Mattoon laughed.
“You ain’t polite, Kit Carson. Burkhalter’s playin’ host. Don’t go throwing words around.”
Alvers shrugged, glanced away, and stretched. He reached into his shirt to scratch himself-and suddenly the thought of murder hit Burkhalter like a stone from a slingshot. It took every ounce of his will power to remain motionless as Alvers’ hand slid back into view, a pistol coming into sight with it.
There was time for the other Hedgehounds to see the weapon, but no time for them to interfere. The death-thought anticipated the bullet. A flare of blinding, crimson light blazed through the room. Something, moving like an invisible whirlwind, flashed among them; then, as their eyes adjusted, they stood where they had leaped from their chairs, staring at the figure who confronted them.
He wore a tight-fitting suit of scarlet, with a wide black belt, and an expressionless mask of silver covered his face. A blue-black beard emerged from under it and rippled down his chest. Enormous muscular development showed beneath the skin-tight garments.
He tossed Alvers’ pistol into the air and caught it. Then, with a deep, chuckling laugh, he gripped the weapon in both hands and broke the gun into a twisted jumble of warped metal.
“Break a truce, will you?” he said. “You little pipsqueak. What you need is the livin’ daylights whaled outa you, Alvers.”
He stepped forward and smashed the flat of his palm against Alvers’ side. The sound of the blow rang through the room. Alvers was lifted into the air and slammed against the further wall. He screamed once, dropped into a huddle, and lay there motionless.
“Git up,” the Cody said. “You ain’t hurt. Mebbe a rib cracked, that’s all. If’n I’d smacked your head, I’d have broke your neck clean. Git up!”
Alvers dragged himself upright, his face dead white and sweating. The other two Hedgehounds watched, impassive and alert.
“Deal with you later on. Mattoon. Vine. What you got to do with this?”
“Nuthin’,” Mattoon said. “Nuthin’, Cody. You know that.”
The silver mask was impassive. “Lucky fer you I do. Now listen. What I say goes. Tell Alvers’ tribe they’ll haVe to find a new boss. That’s all.”
He stepped forward. His arms closed about Alvers, and the Hedgehound yelled in sudden panic. Then the red blaze flared out again. When it had died, both figures were gone.
“Got any more whiskey, Burkhalter?” Vine said.
The Cody was in telepathic communication with the Mute, Hobson. Like the other three Codys, this one wore the same modulated-frequency helmet as the Mutes; it was impossible for any Baldy or paranoid to tune in on that scrambled, camouflaged wave length.
It was two hours after sundown.
Alvers is dead, Hobson. Telepathy has no colloquialisms that can be expressed in language-symbols.
Necessary?
Yes. Absolute obedience to the Cody-a curiously mingled four-in-one concept-is vital. Nobody can be allowed to defy the Cody and get away with it.
Any repercussions?
None. Mattoon and Vine are agreeable. They got along with Burkhalter. What’s wrong with him, Hobson?
The moment the question was asked, the Cody knew the answer. Telepaths have no secrets but subconscious ones-and the Mute helmet can even delve a little into the secret mind.
In love with a paranoid? The Cody was shocked.
He doesn’t know it. He mustn’t realize it yet. He’d have to reorient; that would take time; we can’t afford to have him in the side lines just now. Trouble’s bound to pop.
What?
Fred Selfridge. He’s drunk. He found out the Hedgehound chief visited Burkhalter today. He’s afraid his trading racket is being cut from under him. I’ve told Burkhalter to stay out of sight.
I’ll stay near here, then, in case I’m needed. I won’t go home yet. Briefly Hobson caught sight of what home meant to the Cody; a secret valley in the Canadian wilderness, its whereabouts known only to wearers of the helmets, who could never betray it inadvertently. It was there that the technicians among the Baldies sent their specialized products-via the Mutes. Products which had managed to build up a fully equipped headquarters in the heart of the forest, a centralization, it was true, but one whose whereabouts were guarded very thoroughly from the danger of discovery by either friend or enemy. From that valley laboratory in the woods came the devices that made the Cody the legendary figure he was among the Hedgehounds-a Paul Bunyan who combined incredible physical prowess with pure magic. Only such a figure could have commanded the respect and obedience of the woods runners.
Is Burkhalter safely hidden, Hobson? Or can I—
He’s hidden. There’s a round robin on, but Selfridge can’t trace him through that.
O.K. I’ll wait.
The Cody broke off. Hobson sent his thought probing out, across the dark miles, to a dozen other Mutes, scattered across the continent from Niagara to Salton. Each one of them was ready for the underground mobilization that might be necessary at any moment now.
It had taken ninety years for the storm to gather; its breaking would be cataclysmic.
Within the circle of the round robin was quiet, complete peace that only a Baldy can know. Burkhalter let his mind slip into place among the others, briefly touching and recognizing friends as he settled into that telepathic closed circuit. He caught the faintly troubled unrest from Duke Heath’s thoughts; then the deep calm of rapport swallowed them both.
At first, on the outer fringes of the psychic pool, there were ripples and currents of mild disturbance, the casual distresses that are inevitable in any gregarious society, and especially among hypersensitive Baldies. But the purge of the ancient custom of the confessional quickly began to be effective. There can be no barriers between Baldies. The basic unit of the family is far more complete than among nontelepaths, and by extension, the entire Baldy group was bound together with ties no less strong because of their intangible subtlety.
Trust and friendship: these things were certain. There could be no distrust when the tariff wall of language was eliminated. The ancient loneliness of any highly specialized, intelligent organism was mitigated in the only possible way; by a kinship closer even than marriage, and transcending it.
Any minority group as long as it maintains its specialized integrity, is automatically handicapped. It is suspect. Only the Baldies, in all social history, had been able to mingle on equal terms with the majority group and still retain the close bond of kinship. Which was paradoxical, for the Baldies, perhaps, were the only ones who desired racial assimilation. They could afford to, for the telepathic mutation was dominant: the children of Baldy father and nontelepathic mother -or vice versa-are Baldies.
But the reassurance of the round robins was needed; they were a symbol of the passive battle the Baldies had been fighting for generations. In them the telepaths found complete unity. It did not, and never would, destroy the vital competitive instinct; rather, it encouraged it. There was give and take. And, too, it was religion of the purest kind.
In the beginning, with no senses that non-Baldies can quite understand, you touched the minds of your friends, delicately, sensitively. There was a place for you, and you were welcomed. Slowly, as the peace spread, you approached the center, that quite indescribable position in space time that was a synthesis of intelligent, vital minds. Only by analogy can that locus even be suggested.
It is half-sleep. It is like the moment during which consciousness returns sufficiently so that you know you are not awake, and can appreciate the complete calm relaxation of slumber. If you could retain consciousness while you slept-that might be it.
For there was no drugging. The sixth sense is tuned to its highest pitch, and it intermingles with and draws from the other senses. Each Baldy contributes. At first the troubles and disturbances, the emotional unbalances and problems, are cast into the pool, examined, and dissolved in the cr
ystal water of the rapport. Then, cleansed and strengthened, the Baldies ap-approach the center, where the minds blend into a single symphony. Nuances of color one member has appreciated, shadings of sound and light and feeling, each one is a grace note in orchestration. And each note is three-dimensional, for it carries with it the Baldy’s personal, individual reaction to the stimulus.
Here a woman remembered the sensuous feel of soft velvet against her palm, with its corresponding mental impact. Here a man gave the crystal-sharp pleasure of solving a difficult mathematical equation, an intellectual counterpoint to the lower-keyed feeling of velvet. Step by step the rapport built up, until there seemed but a single mind, working in perfect cohesion, a harmony without false notes.
Then this single mind began building. It began to think. It was a psychic colloid, in effect, an intellectual giant given strength and sanity by very human emotions and senses and desires.
Then into that pellucid unity crashed a thought-message that for an instant made the minds cling together in a final desperate embrace in which fear and hope and friendliness intermingled. The round robin dissolved. Each Baldy waited now, remembering Hobson’s thought that said:
The pogrom’s started.
He hadn’t broadcast the message directly. The mind of a Mute, wearing his helmet, cannot be read except by another Mute. It was Duke Heath, sitting with Hobson in the moonlit grounds outside the hospital, who had taken the oral warning and conveyed it to the other Baldies. Now his thoughts continued to flash through Sequoia.
Come to the hospital. Avoid non-Baldies. If you’re seen, you may be lynched.
In dozens of homes, eyes met in which the terror had leaped instantly to full flower. All over the world, in that moment, something electric sparked with unendurable tension from mind to sensitive mind. No non-Baldy noticed. But, with the speed of thought, the knowledge girdled the planet.
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