by Kris Neville
But in a very short time she realized what had happened. She altered the pressure sharply. A split second later he joined it again. The advantage was still his. She altered once more. He followed suit. Check.
He could almost feel her angry confusion. Then after a moment she let the pressure fall into a rhythmic pattern. A lullaby of montony that was the result of concentration rather than of the distance variations. He knew what to expect and after fifteen minutes it happened. She broke the rhythm suddenly and tried to plunge inward, to center on him before he could counter. He had not been lulled, however, and she accomplished nothing. He met the assault easily.
The rhythmic pattern returned. Every few minutes she broke the pattern and tried to plunge in again. But his mental screen absorbed the shock.
She was persistent.
Finally Parr grew weary of it—then vaguely annoyed—then exasperated.
When he was thoroughly uncomfortable she tried another swift change of tactics. She began to increase the pressure, slowly, inexorably—stronger and stronger against his defense. He blocked her, held, retreated, held again, keeping the shield in readiness. Shortly, perspiration stood on his forehead. Abandoning the defensive he fought back against her.
But she blocked him; they locked in a deadly mental tension of spiraling energy That weakened Parr with each passing second.
SHE held the tension longer than he would have thought possible. And when it eased, it vanished, leaving his mind uncontacted. Instead of relaxing, he formed his shielding, expecting a sudden assault.
None came. Instead, the gentle insistent pressure returned, undiminished by her efforts. She was stationary now; the pressure was steady.
His body had been tense for a long time. It ached, and he was physically exhausted. His hand shook a little as he brushed at his leg, waiting for the space variations to begin again.
They did not.
But the initial confidence—generated by the realization of her inexperience—was no longer so bright.
The very pressure itself now was an emotional drain and he wanted to lower the mind shield and relax completely. But even at a distance a mental assault would sting like a slap, like a cut, like disinfectant in a raw wound.
Under the strain, sleep was lost. Instead there was uneasiness.
He tried to ignore it. He forced himself to remember his home village. It had been a long time since he had thought of it, and at first it was difficult. But after a while, memories began to open up with nostalgia: the clumsy citizens with their mute opposition to the Empire, a jehi farmer who had once addressed his class on planetism and afterwards been shot, the smell of the air, the look in people’s eyes, night . . . the stars . . .
The stars were cold and bright and far away. Imposing symbols of Empire.
His mind turned comfortingly on that, and his planet seemed dwarfed and unimportant. The Empire, with its glittering capital system, the sleek trade arteries . . . the purposeful masses of citizens . . . the strength and power of it, the essential rightness of it. Something you could feel in the air about you and smell and see. It was a thing to be believed in, to be lost in, to surrender yourself to.
It was strong, crushing opposition, rolling magnificently down the stream of time—splintering, shattering, destroying, absorbing, growing hungry and eternal. He was part of it, and its strength protected him. It was stronger than everything. There could be no doubt about Empire.
But a single Oholo was strong, too.
He stirred restlessly on the bed, unable to dissect out the thing that bothered him when he thought of the Empire. His thoughts had run the full cycle, and they were back where they had started.
It seemed for a moment as if his mind were a shiny polished surface, like an egg floating beneath his skull, hanging on invisible threads of sensation that ran to the outside world.
The room was full of moonlight.
WITH fascination he studied the wall paper, a flower design scrawled repetitiously between slightly diagonal lines of blue. He concentrated on the rough texture of the paper, let his eyes drift down to where the paper met the cream siding, revealing twin rifts of plaster. A thin line of chalk-like dust had fallen on the wood of the floor. The edge of the rug, futilely stretching for contact with the wall, curled fuzzily.
A faint breeze fluttered the half drawn blinds, puffed the lace curtains, rippled into his bed and body.
He was guilty of something.
He wrinkled his face, puzzled. What was he guilty of?
No answer, and the moon went behind a cloud, bringing depression and acute loneliness, sharp and bitter. A depression bleak in its namelessness, and terrifying.
Then suddenly his mind jerked away from the thoughts.
He realized he was not countering the Oholo’s movements. The steady pressure was a compensated pressure, varying as her distance. A projection requiring mental ability he could never hope to equal. She had learned fast. She had neatly sidestepped his defense. Terrified, he probed beyond his shield, and for an instant received an impression of her distance. He sat upright, shivering. She had worked much nearer. In desperation, he launched an assault, closing his eyes, forgetting everything else.
Lightly she parried him and slapped back strongly enough to make him wince.
Then for two long hours they fought. He grappled with the pressure, working on the theory that it was a burden no mind could carry indefinitely.
But she did not concede. Instead she continued, giving up trying to come closer, intent on breaking down his will to resist. He checked her with all his energy. He countered, stared at the scattered moonlight on the rug.
Energy drained from him until he wanted to scream, to plead with her. And beyond the bleak reality of concentration he knew that she was using twice as much energy as he was.
Then she began to weaken. The pressure steadied, and he could feel her exhaustion. She was through for the night.
The sheets of the bed were damp. His body trembled. He wanted to whimper pathetically in fancied defeat.
Sleep slowly came, and the long pervasive influence of Empire, the influence visible in concrete form on conquered planets, swept over him.
But somehow he was guilty of something, he knew . . .
HE was still tired when he awoke, instantly alert, wary. She apparently still slept, although she held the pressure against his mind.
Dawn ushered in a cloudy day, and street noises—cars, trolleys, movement—came into the room with the utmost clarity.
He would have to change hotels. That alone had an urgency to it. Wearily he fumbled with his shield. It was still solid. He ran a hand over his forehead, pressing against the temples.
He thought of the sleeping Oholo. He dropped the shield completely, knowing she would realize its absence. He stretched mentally for a long, precious second, and it was with infinite relief.
“Hello,” he leered in the direction of Lauri. “Hello,” he snarled suddenly, tingling with excitement.
No answer.
“Hello! Hello! Hello!”
He shielded, and hatred of her and of all Oholos—inbred hate, overcame him. It brought an almost pathological bravado with it. The destructive drive for revenge was a surge within him. He dropped the shield and thought to her, slow and gloatingly, of the things in store for her when she was safely disarmed and helpless. And he permitted his hate to leap and caress her, and the details of the torture were etched in passion acid.
After a while, he could feel her shudder at the thoughts, and he simpered. She seemed to lie helpless, stunned under him, spurring him to greater imaginative excesses.
Then she struck out blindly, a shivering blow that caught him unaware between the eyes like a swung club.
HE shielded. Instantly he felt the guilt of last night. He was angry at himself, as if he had acted without really wanting to, as a Knoug was supposed to act. And he snarled a curse.
The maddening, uncompromising pressure returned. Implacable. Patient. Unans
werable. Pressure that would drive him insane if he had no eventual hope of release. He shuddered, and the sense of depression—the night sense—was even more dark and terrible in daylight.
He got out of bed, reported to the Advanceship, keeping his voice low and even.
“Parr. Scheduling.”
“Check.”
The voice from the Ship was a stabbing, accusing voice. A voice that knew, that had made, overnight, a secret and awful discovery about him. He wanted to grovel before it and plead for forgiveness . . .
Nonsense!
He licked his lips nervously.
“That damned female!” he shrieked.
“Eh?”
“That damned female, don’t you see!”
“Parr, what’s wrong? Listen, Parr, are you all right down there?”
Suddenly he relaxed. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m just a little nervous.”
HE ordered the driver to stop. The building was columned, red brick, decayed. The sidewalk before it was grimy, littered, cracked, chipped. Listlessly, people shuffled down the street, flecks from the vortex of humanity farther uptown drifting in the backwater of the city. Faded overalls, jeans, thin unpressed cheap suits, frayed shirts and crumpled soggy collars. Faces—lean, hollow, blotched; eyes that were harried, red, tired. The women, still trying to retain the snap of movement, were like wind up. toys, almost run down.
Parr grunted at the smells of the area, and straightening up to pay the driver, noticed distastefully the slack faces, defeated eyes and shuffling steps.
Then he knew: here, pressing in from all sides was reassurance. He watched a haggered face, felt pity, shook off the emotion as unworthy but still felt it. He could understand the haggered lace. But distaste returned again, for he was superior to the face. He blocked off his mind, refusing to consider the natives any longer . . .
He took a room inside the dingy, wasted building. He hung his extra suit in the closet. The wall was greyish with cracking plaster and water stains, half hidden by the dim light; the rug underfoot was threadbare and stale. On the dresser, a Gideon Bible, nearly new.
The sheets, he discovered upon turning back the bed, were dingy and yellowish. The mattress sagged in the middle and the metal bedstead was chipped and dented.
After lie was settled he reported to the Advanceship, told of his new location and the reason for it.
On his way out of the hotel he was conscious of the guilt again, and in the street, he stopped an o d man who wore a tobacco stained shirt and gave him several of the bill:; from his wallet. Bribing helplessness made him feel better.
Back in the hotel that evening, renewed confidence came is he thought how clever he had been to choose such a location; he thought of the Oholo searching across town, her mind automatically rejecting this location. It would take her more than one night to find him.
But her mind did not seek contact with his; instead, the pressure remained annoyingly general.
She was making no attempt to locate him.
He stared out the window at the pale reflection of neon from the sidewalk. She was not even moving yet.
He waited, suddenly nervous.
When she finally began to move she still kept the pressure general.
He checked her position and after an instant met opposition that scattered his thoughts. But in that space, of contact he knew she had moved closer.
In terror he drew his shield in tight.
SUSPENSE mounted in his mind. He counted his pulse beats quieting himself. He tried to relax. Then fearfully checked her position again. That involved receiving, a sharp slap of assault, for she had been ready with an almost trigger response.
And she was closer. She seemed to be advancing confidently.
In nervous haste he began to dress.
And then she struck with her full hellish power from very near at hand.
Amazement and abject fear flamed in his mind. He fought to strengthen the shield. She forced it back, got a single hot tentacle of thought through into his mind proper, and it lashed about like a living thing before he could force it out.
Gradually he came to realize that she was not near enough for the kill.
He staggered to the door, his mind numbed and spinning as if a giant explosion had gone off by his ear.
And then, somehow, he was in the street, half dressed. Somehow he managed to find a cab. It was all a blur to him that might have taken two minutes, five minutes, or twenty minutes. She had abandoned the assault. She was moving closer.
Then, before the cab began to move he saw her. Two blocks away. Coming toward him. Her face was impassive, but even at a distance, the eyes . . . or was it his imagination? The focus gun . . . in his pocket . . .” The cab drew away. He leaned out the window, twisting back, tried to aim at her. The shot, silent and lethal, sped away. The distance was too great.
Then a new assault, but it was too late. He held it until the cab outdistanced it. She renewed the pressure and he could think again. And he knew, in the back of his mind, that soon now they would meet. And he shuddered, wondering of the outcome.
HE was sick. Unbelievably, she had outguessed him. She had guessed he would flee away from the obvious to the other extreme.
His breathing was hoarse and painful, and he thought comfortingly of his home planet; a small planet with a low sky; incredibly blue, a trading station far removed from Earth, satisfyingly deep in the Empire. As a boy he had often gone to the space port to watch the ships. He remembered how he had stood watching their silvery beauty and their naked violence. He had always been very excited by them. Always. And they were a symbol of Empire.
After the cab driver had spoken to him several times he roused himself to say, “A hotel, any hotel.”
It was luck he knew, that he had been beyond effective range. She might have guessed the correct slum hotel and stood below his window.
His mind was foggy and befuddled.
And he had been hurt. Much more than mentally hurt. More than physically hurt. He wanted to hurt something in return. Only now he was too tired.
He relaxed in the seat, listened to the hiss of tires. He would be able to sleep tonight. She could not figure out his next move, predicted on random selection.
In his new hotel room he found that his body stung and itched.
And she began to search for him.
He had to fight her for more than an hour, and after that he slept, subconsciously keeping his shield on a delicate balance.
CHAPTER VI
THE next day Parr went first to the post office and from there immediately to the warehouse. He brought with him three manila envelopes containing three city directories, the first responses to his requests. He took them to the roof, checked the three cities off his list, placed the directories at the base of the chute. Later the helicopter would come swishing down from the night sky, collect them, and return tomorrow evening with the compressed and labeled parcels, one to a family, stamped with the requisite postage. The parcels, spilling out of the compressor, would expand to a huge jumbled heap for the natives to handle. And Parr knew he was only one of many advancemen. The cargos would nightly spew to all points of the Earth from the Advanceship slowly circling the globe behind the sun.
Complete coverage was what the Knougs were aiming at. Here advancemen were using the government postal system for distribution; there, making arrangements for private delivery; elsewhere, setting up booths. Earth had been scouted very thoroughly by four prior Intelligence expeditions. It was an inconceivably complex network of planning, possible only through extreme specialization in an organization and made frictionless by obedience.
THAT night Lauri’s pressure increased—or seemed to—and he shook his head like a hooked fish. He began to walk faster, mumbling under his breath.
The solution, he knew, was distance. A partial solution only for he was bound by assignment to commuting range, not great enou
gh to permit him to lose her completely.
The jangle and clank of a city train roused him. An interurban trolley. It was stopped at the next corner accepting passengers.
He turned and ran the quarter block to board it.
As he rode toward the ocean he could feel the gradual lessening of the pressure; it was a lessening not nearly as pronounced as he would have felt were she trying to center on him as he fled, but sufficient to relax him. He could feel a puzzled pressure shift after a few miles as she checked him briefly, then an over excessive spurt of questing thought which he countered automatically. Even if he only remained shielded it would take her at least a week to localize him except in a very general direction.
He began to feel all of the overcharged tenseness drain out of his muscles. He even began to take an interest again in his surroundings, studying the buildings with appreciation. The incongruity of the architecture was more apparent than before, due to his greater acquaintance with the thought patterns of the natives.
A bizarre sight: a temple in the style of the Spanish, low-roofed, unpretentious, comfortingly utilitarian with no nonsense except for the gleaming gold minaret atop it, its coiled surface outlined with neon tubing.
It drifted away, behind.
Here a huddled shop, antique-filled and sedate, less than a block from a brilliant drive-in in disk form, radially extending like a somnolent spider.
And most paradoxical of all, the false glamor of signs encouraging the spectator to rub shoulders with excitement that was supposed to be inside the door, but wasn’t. For people who were incapable of finding it anywhere. Parr felt suddenly sad.
Odd natives, he thought. But even odder thoughts for a Knoug, he knew. Then he felt the savage stirrings inside of him again. It brushed away sadness. The numbered days until the invasion excited him. The emotional surge of danger and trial and obedience were the preludes to the necessary relief.