Collected Fiction

by Kris Neville

  “Seven, please.”

  “Yes, ma’m.”

  The elevator stopped. Julia dragged Walt out.

  “You mind what I say!” the operator called after her. “You be careful, now, and stay out of bars. You never can tell . . .”

  Once she got Walt inside her room, she breathed a sigh of relief. She released the distortion field. He was visible again.

  She removed the top sheet from the bed. She wrestled his body onto the bed.

  She ripped the sheet into strips. She worked rapidly. She was still able to hold off fatigue; she felt no need of sleep. She was ravenously hungry.

  With the strips of sheet, she tied Walt securely. She used a knot that would require cutting to be undone. She pulled the strips tight. They did not interfere with free circulation, but there was no possibility of them being slipped. She had no intention of not finding Walt there when she came back.

  She surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction.

  WHISTLING softly she left the room and walked down the corridor. She stopped whistling abruptly and glanced around in embarrassment. She had remembered the old adage: ‘A whistling girl and a crowing hen are sure to come to some bad end’.

  There seemed to be something indecent about whistling in public.

  The fact that she had, colored her emotions with uneasiness.

  She realized that there might be a million such superstitions—many of them not recognized as superstitions at all—buried in her personality. Her brain might be highly efficient, but was it efficient enough to overcome all the emotional biases implanted by twenty-four years of environment? Was even her knowledge of the real nature of the world—was mankind’s—sufficient to overcome such biases?

  Perhaps, she thought, I’m not as smart as I thought I was. There may be deep and illogical currents in me. Perhaps I’m not, not mature enough for such power as I’ve been given.

  Annoyed, she took out a cigarette, and in defiance of cultural tradition, lit it there in the corridor while she waited for the elevator.

  The operator did not approve of women smoking in public. He said so.

  She ate in the coffee shop.

  After the meal, she took a cab to the offices of the morning paper.

  In the entranceway to the building, sure that no one was watching, she became invisible.

  Half an hour later, possessed of the information she had come after (harvested from the back files of the paper) she was once again in the street.

  In her room, she went to the telephone. She placed a long distance call to a Boston hospital.

  The news had not been widely reported. She found most of the names in brief paragraphs stating that Mr. and Mrs. such and such had settled their suit against the so and so hospital out of court. In the three cases where the confinements had been in private homes, there had been kidnapping stories in the paper. In one of the cases, a man had later been convicted and executed—although the body of the child had never been recovered from the pond into which the prosecution contended it had been thrown.

  She talked to the switch board operator at the Boston hospital. She was given the superintendent. He—impressed by the fact that she was calling from the Pacific coast—sent his secretary to rummage the files for the hospital’s copy of the birth certificate.

  Julia waited.

  “Yes, I have it.”

  “It’s on the child of Mr. and Mrs. George Temple?”

  “That’s right.”

  Julia concentrated as hard as she could.

  “You have it in your hand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you look at it closely?”

  “. . . what?”

  “Look at it closely, please.”

  “Young lady—”

  “Please, sir.”

  “All right. I am. Now what information did you want? It reads—What the hell! Where did that go? Say, how did you—”

  Julia hung up. She looked at the birth certificate lying by the telephone. She picked it up. It was none the worse for teleportation.

  She put it on the dresser and returned to the phone.

  By the time Tuesday was well into the afternoon, when the cool rays of the winter sun lay slanting upon the murmuring crest outside, she had nine birth certificates on the dresser. Nine times the bell boy had come to her room to collect for the telephone charges. The last time, she forgot to make Walt invisible. The bell boy said nothing.

  JULIA was annoyed by her carelessness. The bell boy’s foot-falls died in the carpet of the corridor. She went to the door and looked out. He was gone.

  She closed the door and crossed to the bed. She had exhausted her list of names. She set about rousing Walt.

  He’s handsome, she thought.

  His eyelids flickered.

  He opened his eyes. Memory slowly darkened his irises. He glared up at her.

  He surged at his bonds, striving to rip free and throw himself upon her. He tugged at his right hand. His fingers writhed. A frown passed over his face. He jerked his right hand savagely.

  “You have been deprived of your power,” Julia said.

  Stunned, he lay back. “I, I don’t understand.”

  “You thought you were a Lyrian,” Julia said. “You were wrong. You’re an earthman. I am an earthwoman.”

  “That’s a lie! I’m not an earthman!”

  “You are now. How are you different?”

  “That’s a lie. I’m, I’m . . .” He fought against the tentacle-like strips of sheet.

  “Is it a lie, Walt?”

  He continued to struggle.

  Smiling, she taunted him: “When I was a little girl, I used to get mad and throw rocks . . . It never did any good. Lie still.”

  I shouldn’t tease him, she thought contritely.

  She felt very sorry for him. How frustrated he must feel! How hurt and puzzled and helpless and betrayed!

  He’s like Samson shorn.

  “I know how you feel,” she said softly. “I felt that way when you were chasing me. You’re going to listen to me. After I’m through talking to you, maybe I’ll let you up.”

  Glaring hotly, he relaxed.

  “I saved your life,” Julia said. “Don’t forget that. You could thank me.”

  “You had a reason then. You’re a traitor. You had your reasons to.”

  She slipped to the end of the bed. Gently she unlaced his shoes and slipped them off.

  His face purpled with impotent anger.

  She peeled off his socks.

  Then, one by one, Julia compared the footprints on the birth certificates with Walt’s feet.

  Hot tears of defeat brimmed up within Walt; indignant rage filled his eyes.

  Julia turned to put the birth certificates back on the dresser.

  None of them corresponded to his prints.

  WALT wanted to bite down on something. He gritted his teeth. Then, as Julia was turning away from him, he felt once again the weird blending of his mind with Calvin’s. He realized that it was some exclusive power given to Calvin that caused the blending: he was not even any longer a, a Lyrian!

  Joy vibrated in his body. Drawing on the new power in his mind, he hurled a picture from the wall at the back of Julia’s unprotected head.

  She half turned. The heavy wooden frame hit her in the temple. With a little despairing sigh of surprise she sank to the carpet.

  I’ll kill her this time, Walt thought. He displaced the binding from his right hand.

  And Calvin’s mind withdrew.

  Walt tried desperately to tear loose his other hand; the knot would not yield. He tried to reach Julia. He tried to reach something to throw at Julia. He could not. He let out a roar of baffled rage.

  Julia was struggling to her feet.

  Standing uncertainly, she shook her head. Her eyes cleared. She let out her breath. The recuperative powers of a mutant were in action. “That was an awful wallop,” she said calmly. “How did you manage it?”

  Walt said nothin
g.

  Julia wrinkled her forehead. Her mind was steady and alert. “I felt another mind just before I turned. Someone called Calvin, wasn’t it?”

  Walt was sweating. How smart is she? Can she guess everything?

  “Somehow he gains rapport with you.” Her fingers tapped restlessly on the dresser top. “If you could maintain contact with his mind all the time, you would; that’s obvious, isn’t it? He must make contact with yours, then. You don’t know just when he’s going to contact you, do you?”

  Walt licked his lips.

  “He must be abnormal. A normal mutant couldn’t do that. I’ll have to find some way to seal his mind off from yours, I guess. I’ll have to interfere with that sort of thing. In the meantime, I’ll have to keep a sharp eye on you.”

  Walt glared at her. “Damn you,” he said.

  “Why don’t the aliens do the fighting for themselves?”

  The question was unexpected. “You got it wrong,” he said automatically. “They are helping Lyrians out of the goodness of their hearts.” It was as if he were speaking to Calvin; it made him feel, momentarily, superior to her. He grasped the opportunity with pathetic gratefulness. “They’re afraid!” he cried triumphantly. “We’re not that far advanced yet!”

  Julia paused to consider this. “Yes, that figures,” she said. “But suppose for a minute that you’re not a Lyrian. Suppose they’re using you to fight for them.”

  “No,” Walt said.

  “But why not?”

  “No,” he repeated. He tried to keep doubt out of his voice. His anger was gone. He felt uncertain and confused. He could not think clearly.

  “You’re a mutant,” Julia said. “Like I am. Our parents were earthlings. The aliens are using mutants. The aliens changed our parents’ genes—”

  “I don’t understand that word.”

  Julia smiled twistedly. “Think how ignorant they kept you, Walt. Isn’t that proof enough for you?”

  Walt said nothing.

  “. . . Genes are the substances which transmit characteristics from generation to generation. If you wish to change hereditary characteristics, you must change the genes. The aliens changed our genes so we would be able to use all of our brains. The normal earthling is just like you are right now: unable to use more than one sixth of his brain. The aliens collected all the mutants; all of them but me. They overlooked me.”

  Walt twisted uncomfortably.

  “But they still control us,” Julia said. “There is a bridge that is held closed by a special frequency. That’s why we’ve just recently been able to use our full powers. They just recently turned the frequency on.”

  “But—”

  “The frequency that controls my bridge is different from the one controlling yours. There are two groups of mutants on the ship. The female you saw, the one you thought was a Lyrian, was a mutant from the other group. I’m on the frequency of that group. It’s the group that’s going to attack Earth first. They are the ones that are going to cause the war your Forential told you about.”

  WALT’S mouth was dry. Stop! he wanted to cry to her. Please, stop!

  “. . . keep birth records,” Julia continued. Walt had missed some of it. “No two sets of prints can be identical. A group of babies vanished during the last big flying saucer scare. You were one of them. I was trying to find your birth certificate. If I could find it . . .”

  Julia talked on. Her voice was sincere and intense and compelling. As he listened, Walt felt the case against the aliens grow stronger.

  Can’t think clearly, he told himself. Trust Forential.

  No.

  He did lie about the war.

  Forential lied about that.

  He’d lie about . . . about other things?

  They kept me in ignorance, he thought. Perhaps they really were afraid I’d discover my real nature.

  I don’t know; I can’t think; I can’t think!

  As he watched Julia, the female who had (the truth of this slowly dawned on him) actually saved his life, he felt the first stirrings of an emotion he was not prepared to cope with. How pretty she looked, standing before him, her eyes serious and her face intent. He wanted to nestle her.

  The footprints, he thought. She couldn’t find mine among the birth certificates she had. She could have faked a set if she’d wanted to. Does the fact she didn’t mean she’s not lying?

  I think I’m sorry I threw the picture at her.

  “If you could have heard Mrs. Savage on the phone,” Julia said, “you’d understand better. She lost her son—had him stolen—and she was still saving the birth certificate, after this long. She told me she knew she’d find him some day.”

  Mrs. Savage sounds just like Forential, Walt thought.

  “She’s been waiting all these years,” Julia said. “She’s never given up hope.”

  Still waiting for her . . . son, Walt thought. Still waiting, still needing her son.

  Walt had never thought much of his parents until now. They were obscured by Forential; they existed somewhere on Lyria. But suppose Julia were telling the truth? Would they have been more fond of him than Forential? Could they have been?

  There were so many things he did not understand. He must ask Forential about the process by which babies are created; what was the connection between parent and child? It was all so puzzling.

  . . . why not ask Julia?

  “Wait a minute,” Walt interrupted. “I understand so very little. How are babies made?”

  And there was a harsh, peremptory knock on the door. The manager’s angry voice came booming through the paneling:

  “The bell boy tells me you’ve got a man tied to the bed in there! We can’t have that sort of thing in this hotel! Open the door, you hear me? Open the door!”

  CHAPTER X

  “OH, oh,” Julia whispered. “You keep your mouth shut, Walt.”

  She projected a distortion field around him.

  The bed now appeared untenanted.

  Walt was silent.

  Julia opened the door. The manager stormed in.

  “You, you creature!” he cried. “Tying a defenseless man on the bed for God knows what evil pur—oh. Hummm,” he stared at the bed.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “There’s no one here but me.”

  “The bell boy—”

  The manager searched the room. He looked in the closet. He looked in the shower. His face slowly began to take on color.

  Foolishly he got down on his knees and peered under the bed.

  “Well,” he said, dusting off his trousers as he stood up, “well . . . oh . . . Is the service all right, Miss? Do you have any complaints? Plenty of towels? Soap? Did the bell boy raise the window—yes, I see he did. There’s enough heat? I, I seemed to have—I was on the wrong floor entirely. You see—”

  His face grew even more puzzled. “There’s a woman on the, on the ninth floor I guess it is—how could I ever have made such a mistake? this is the seventh floor, isn’t it?—has a man in her bed.” His face got redder. He waved his hands. “Tied to the bed.”

  “Oh, my,” Julia said.

  “Yes, isn’t it. Now, if you want anything, don’t hesitate to ring. I’m sorry about this mistake. Silly of me. This is the seventh floor . . . isn’t it?”

  “Yes, this is the seventh floor.”

  The manager left.

  Julia locked the door behind him.

  She dissolved the distortion field.

  “Whew!” she said. “He was mad, wasn’t he?”

  Walt tried to sit up.

  “No—wait. I think I’ll take a chance. I’m going to leave you alone to think over what I’ve said. Then I’m going to come back and untie you. You’re going to help me, Walt.”

  “I, I don’t know what to think.”

  “Here’s one thing I want you to remember when you’re thinking everything out. People can be convinced of anything as long as they have no way of checking beliefs against facts. Remember that. Forent
ial had complete control over you. You believed what he told you to. Now you’ve had a chance to see for yourself. You’re just like an earthling. There is no war. Things like that. Think for yourself, Walt.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  Julia gathered up her handbag. She folded the birth certificates and stored them in it. “I don’t know. I’ve got to convince someone of some facts that are going to be very hard to believe.” She paused at the door. “I won’t forget you, Walt. I’ll be back soon.” She smiled almost shyly. “If Calvin contacts you again, don’t go away. I’ll just have to hunt you down.”

  AFTER she had gone, Walt relaxed. His body was still weak. He lay staring at the ceiling. Outside, the sun’s rays slanted even more. A breeze, chill with approaching night, rustled the curtain.

  There were shadows along the far wall.

  I’ve been an instrument, Walt thought, a piece of metal, to be used as Forential saw fit: if she were not lying. My parents are somewhere down here on this planet, the third from the sun. They are not on Lyria. I might have killed them during the invasion. That would be worse than killing Forential, even. If Julia weren’t lying to me. Forential has been raising me to fight my own people!

  Forential. Saucer eyed. Tentacled. Moist and slippery. Breathing in labored gasps under high gravity. Air bubbling in his throat. Tentacles caressing, fondling—not with affection (if Julia is right) but with calculating design: to fashion my personality to his purpose . . .

  Walt closed his eyes.

  Forential, he thought.

  Forential was far away in space; every second he was growing farther away in time. I’ve lost him, Walt thought. So much has happened, so much, so fast, since last I saw him, that I’m changing away from him every minute.

  Earthlings aren’t so bad. They’re—they’re not too much different from Lyrians, from . . . mutants.

  I’m a mutant?

  I’m not a Lyrian?

  FORENTIAL!

  But Forential could not hear him.

  I’ll have to think for myself, Walt decided. Julia said I couldn’t be fooled if I just looked at the facts.