Psi-High And Others

by Alan Edward Nourse

  I

  The alien’s ship skimmed down like a shadow from the outer atmosphere and settled gently and silently in the tangled underbrush of a hillside overlooking a bend in the broad river. There was the hiss of scorched leaves, the piping of a small, trapped animal—then silence. It was dusk, with the sunlight just departing the hilltops around; here in the cut leading down to the river the gloom of darkness was settling.

  Somewhere across the hills a dog howled mournfully. Night birds made small rustling sounds through the scrub and underbrush. The alien waited, alert and tense, but he was not listening for audible sounds. If his race had ever possessed hearing, it was long since lost; they had no need to hear. Instead he sat with his cold yellow eyes half closed, waiting to feel any flickering touch deep in his mind, any whisper of surprise or wonder or fear that his powerful thought-receptors might pick up from the dark hills around the ship. Because that, above all, was critical: that his arrival here be entirely undetected. Everything depended on that.

  He waited and waited as no thought-fingers came to touch him. At last he relaxed, grunted his satisfaction and scorn. Foolish of him to worry. On his world, any unidentified ship approaching within two light years of their sun would be detected and destroyed without hesitation or mercy. No such technology here, and even if the stupid cattle- people who lived here had seen his ship, they wouldn’t believe it. The alien stretched back against the couch, allowing his long, tight muscles to relax. Scouts had landed here a dozen times before, and always the reports were the same: the natives thought ships such as his were a delusion, figments of their own imaginations! No, there would be no problem here when his work was finished and the full-scale invasion began. Already the preliminary studies were completed, the plans worked out in the finest detail; and then, soon, his people would be rich with food and slaves once again, and he would even be allowed to touch the robe of the leader himself! He gloated in anticipation. There was no possible flaw, no way these dull, cowering Man-things could detect or hinder the secret, silent invasion that would come, except for one thing—

  The thing he was here, alone, to evaluate.

  A people without psi-presence were helpless to defend themselves against a race of powerful telepaths such as his. They would not even know they were being invaded until they were overwhelmed. This planet was a primitive world, indeed, with a ludicrously primitive people, but some few of them had psi-presence already developing. Crude, rudimentary, feeble, but just possibly enough to throw invasion plans awry.

  That was what the alien had to find opt: how much, how strong, the power to enter other minds might be, in these people. For psi-presence could detect other psi-presence, always, anywhere, despite any disguise. The alien knew that. It was the one universal denominator in all the ages of conquest, plundering and enslavement that had made his people the cruel masters of half a galaxy. Before they dared to come in force, they must know the strength of the psi-presence on this world, the one weapon that could possibly defeat them.

  The alien moved, finally, beginning his preparations. In the center of the cabin an image flickered, swarming flecks of light and shadow that filled out a three-dimensional form, a complete and detailed model of one of the Man-things that populated this planet. The alien sat down and studied the image carefully through hooded yellow eyes. There must be no mistake, not here, not now. The scouts had been here and returned, bringing back the necessary data and a dozen or more specimens of the Man-things that lived long enough for the laboratories to dissect their minds and bodies and work out satisfactory models for disguise. Now as he stared at the image, studying the bone structure and muscle contour, the alien marveled at the skill of the lab stuff—an almost perfect replica! Slowly, following the model, he began to work with die plastiflesh, molding the sharp angles of his members into puffy Man-like curves, skillfully laying the folds of skin, forming muscle bulges and jointed fingers, always studying the image of the strange, clumsy creature flickering in the cabin before him.

  The image of a Man. That was what they called themselves. There were many of them, and somewhere among them there was psi-presence, feeble and underdeveloped, but there, somewhere. He eyed the image again, and pressed a stud on the control panel. Another image met his eyes, an electronic reflection of himself. He studied it, then carefully superimposed the two, adding contours here and there, quick eyes seeking out imperfections as he worked. There must be no mistake. He knew what failure would mean for him—the ultimate disgrace and then slow, painful death by dissociation and destruction of his psi-power neuron by neuron. The leader did not tolerate failures.

  At last, satisfied, he stared again at the image, and then at himself. Not quite right—the skin tone was wrong, the yellow came through too clearly in places, and the scouts had reported that that color seemed to carry unpleasant connotations in this culture, for some reason. Any shade of sickly pink, shading into brown and on to black, was fine. He worked more brownish-pink pigment into his soft, wrinkle- free skin, then further molded out the cheeks and forehead. Hair would be a problem of course, but then there would be many small imperfections. He smiled grimly to himself. No problem there—in dealing with these stupid minds, there would be other ways to mask imperfections.

  Finally the task was done. He had no way to bring a reddish color into his pale green lips, nor to create the myriad wrinkles and creases that criss-crossed the skin of the Man- things, but with his psi-power it did not matter, he would simply project those things into their minds. Rising, the alien struggled into the tight, restricting clothes that lay in a bundle, carefully folded and pressed, at his feet. The boardlike shoes cut into his flesh—he had nothing to correspond to a moveable human ankle—and the hairy fabric of the red-and-white checked skirt made him writhe in discomfort, but once outside the ship he was glad for the warmth. He stepped out onto the ground, and listened again, carefully. Then he made certain arrangements with wires, and threw a switch on a small black panel near the entry port, and began walking stiffly down the hill away from the- ship.

  He would no longer need the ship. Not now.

  It was quite dark. The underbrush grew thicker, and he fought his way through the scrub until he reached a roadway. It was not even paved—incredible I To think some of the scouts had feared such simple, primitive barbarians might actually attempt to oppose them! Yet the reports insisted that far to the east there were great stone and steel cities, the places-of-madness, the scouts had called them. Well, perhaps. He certainly saw no stone or steel, only dust and the ruts of wagon wheels. He was aware only of darkness, and a light wind coming up, and the howling of some night beast somewhere over the hill.

  The alien trudged on for almost an hour, trying to acclimate his legs to the fierce tug of gravity that pulled at him. And then he stopped short, and listened . . . .

  He heard them, then, in the depths of his mind, somewhere very near on the other side of the hill—two Man-things, beyond doubt. No psi-presence there, but at least a contact, perhaps weak and isolated enough to be killed for food. Other mental whispers, too—dull, stupid, vagrant half-thoughts flickering through his mind. Lower life forms, no doubt. Possibly this was a farm, with work animals. The scouts had said there were such. He turned off the road, and almost cried out when the sharp barbs of a fence cut through his tender skin. A trickle of green dripped down his arm, until he rubbed a poultice across it, and it became smooth and sickly pink again. In a burst of rage he pulled the fence out, post and all, and left it on the ground, moving through the woods in the direction of the Man-things he had heard.

  Soon the woods ended and he saw the dwelling across a broad clearing. Black dirt lay open in the moonlight. He started across. There was light inside the dwelling, and the dull, babbling flow of uncontrolled Man-thought struck his mind like a vapor. There were other buildings, too—dark buildings, and one tall one with a spoked wheel on top that creaked and rustled in the darkness.

  He had almost reached the dwelling when a sma
ll, four- legged creature leaped out of the darkness at him, crying out in a horrible discordant barrage. The creature came running swiftly, and the alien’s mind caught the sharp whine, of fear and hate emanating from the thing. It stopped before him, baring its fangs and snarling. The alien lashed his foot out savagely; it crunched into flesh and bone, and the creature lay flopping helplessly, spurting dark wet stuff, its cry cut off in mid-yelp. The alien stepped onto the porch as the door opened, suddenly, framing a tall,thin Man-thing in a box of yellow light. “Brownie?” a voice called. “Come here, Brownie! What’s the matter—” His words trailed off as he saw the alien. “Who are you?”

  “A traveler,” said the alien, his voice grating harshly in the darkness. “I need lodging and food.”

  The farmer’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he peered from the doorway. “Where are you from? Come into the light, here, let me get a look at you.”

  The alien stepped closer, concentrating all his psi-power on the farmer’s mind, blurring his perception of the minute imperfections of his disguise. It was far harder than he had expected, it required all his concentration, and he had none left to probe the farmer’s mind. No problem, though, he thought as he waited, trembling. That would come later.

  The farmer blinked, and nodded, finally. “Well, all right then,” he grumbled. “I suppose we can find some food for you. Come on in.” And he stepped back for the alien to enter.

  II

  Secretary of Medical Affairs Benjamin Towne slammed his cane down on the floor with a snarl, and eased himself back in his seat, staring angrily around the small Federal Security Commission anteroom. His aide, a Cabinet attache standing near the door, retrieved the cane and handed it back to Towne with a polite murmur, then regretted his action instantly when the secretary began whacking it against his palm, short staccato slaps that rang out ominously in the small room. The secretary was not in the habit of waiting; he did not like it in the least, and made no effort to conceal his feelings. His little green cat eyes roved around the. room in sharp disapproval, resting momentarily on the neat auto- desk, on the cool gray walls, on the vaguely disturbing watercolor on the wall—one of those nauseating Psi-High experimentals that the snob critics seemed to think were so wonderful. The secretary growled and blinked at the morning sunlight streaming through the muted glass panels of the northeast wall. Far below, the second morning rush hour traffic buzzed through the city with frantic nervousness.

  The secretary tapped his cane on the floor, glancing up at his aide. “That Sanders girl,” he snapped. “Give me her file again.”

  The aide opened a large briefcase, produced a thick bundle of papers in a manila folder. Towne took them, and glanced through the papers, chewing his lower lip. “How about Dr. Abrams and the rest of the Hoffman Center crowd that are involved? Were they questioned?”

  The aide nodded in embarrassment. “We tried, but they ran us around in circles.”

  Towne’s scowl deepened. “Did you give him the treatment?”

  “Dr. Abrams just didn’t scare. He said if you wanted to call a full-scale Congressional investigation of his work with the Psi-Highs, and then serve him with a subpoena, he’ll testify; otherwise, he said, you’d better stay off the Hoffman Center’s back.”

  “Stubborn old goat,” Ben Towne grumbled. “He knows I haven’t got anything that would stand up in a Congressional probe.” The secretary went back to the Sanders file, still tapping the floor with the cane. “Where is that Roberts? I can’t wait here all day!”

  The aide glanced down at Benjamin Towne with some curiosity. It was easy to see how the man had gained and held a Cabinet seat, and a powerful voice in the government, even though he opposed the President’s views in regard to the training of Psi-High citizens. There was something overwhelming about his appearance—the heavy jaw and grim mouth line, the shock of sandy hair that fell over his forehead, the burning green eyes, the stout, well-muscled withered left leg and the grotesque twisted foot, and he looked away in embarrassment. What was so awe-inspiring about a crippled man who accumulated great power? Towne certainly had done that. Some said that Ben Towne was the most powerful politician in the country since Senator Dan Fowler had died. Some even said that he was the greatest man, but that was something quite different indeed. And some said he was the most dangerous man in the Western Hemisphere, bar none. The aide shivered. That was none of his business. If he went probing that line too far, they’d be calling him Psi-High, and he liked his job too much to risk that.

  The inner door opened, and a tall man with prematurely gray hair strode in, followed by a girl in her early twenties. “Sorry to hold you up, Mr. Secretary,” the man said. “No, no, don’t get up—we can talk right here.”

  Towne had made no effort to rise. He glared at the Federal Security chief, and then his eyes drifted angrily to the girl. “I said I wanted a private conference, Roberts. I don’t want one of these brain-picking snoopers in the same room with me.”

  Bob Roberts shook his head as the girl turned to leave. “Sit down, Jean. Mr. Secretary, this is Jean Sanders. If you want to talk to me about the search for this alien, I want her to sit in.”

  Ben Towne slowly set the papers down on the floor. “Record this, if you please,” he said to his aide. His eyes turned to Roberts. “I understand the alien slipped out of your hands again yesterday,” he said with vicious smoothness. “A pity.”

  Roberts reddened. “That’s right. He slipped away clean.”

  “No pictures, no identifications, no nothing, eh?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Towne’s voice was deadly. “Mr. Roberts, we both know that an unidentified creature totally alien to this planet made a landing three weeks ago and has been at large in this country, completely at large, ever since, and your Federal Security people haven’t even gotten near him. I want to know why.”

  “I’d suggest that if you read our reports—”

  “Look, man, I didn’t come here for insolence!” Towne slammed the cane down with a clatter.

  “You’re answerable to the Congress and Cabinet of the North American States for every wretched thing you do, and I’m ready to bring charges of criminal negligence!”

  “Criminal negligence!”

  The Security chief stared at him. “Mr. Secretary, we’ve thrown everything we have into this search. The creature has played us for fools, every step of the way! We didn’t even, get a look at his ship; it blew up right in our faces! Do you realize what we’re fighting here?”

  “I realize quite well,” said Towne, frostily.

  “You’re fighting an alien creature who has slipped into our population, somehow, and just vanished. There’s no guessing why he’s here, what he wants, or what he’s doing; there’s no guessing anything about him, what powers he might have, what nature of beast he might be, or anything else. The very fact that he has sneaked in like a thief in the night suggests that his intentions are not benign, and until he is caught and interrogated, somehow, the potential threat of his presence is simply staggering. So what have you guardians of the nation done? For three weeks you’ve fumbled and alibied without even turning up a warm trail. You don’t even have a coherent description of him.”

  “We’re fighting a telepath,” Roberts said softly.

  “An alien with telepathic powers such as we’ve never dreamed of. That’s what we’re fighting. And we’re not winning, either.”

  The girl across the room stirred uneasily. Ben Towne’s green eyes shot over to her viciously. “And you’re using freaks like her to help hunt for him, I suppose. Or to help hide him, for all I know. If he’s a telepath, then he’s one of their kind.”

  “Jean Sanders is not a freak,” Roberts said coldly. “She’s an ordinary, intelligent human being who happens to have been born with a certain rudimentary degree of extrasensory perception which makes her Psi-High according to the Jim Crow laws you railroaded through Congress a few years ago. She’s had intensive Hoffman Center training to
help her develop her psi-potential, in spite of your efforts to get that training program killed. She is also a loyal citizen, and when it comes to tracking down and trapping a telepathic alien, she’s about the most valuable asset we’ve got at the present moment. If not the only one. I just wish there were more Psi-Highs around with the training she’s had.”

  Benjamin Towne glanced at his aide in triumph. “So! You openly admit that you’ve been using Psi-Highs in an investigation as critical as this!”

  “Of course I have to, to some extent! How do you think—”

  “Then you’re admitting criminal negligence right there, as far as I’m concerned,” Towne cut him off.

  Roberts sighed in disgust “Mr. Towne, you don’t have any idea what you’re saying.”

  “I beg to differ,” Towne said with heat. “I happen to believe that there are a group of individuals wandering around loose who will have the rest of this country in chains in a hundred years if they’re allowed to develop and use their freak powers the way they want to. Psi-Highs are a vicious menace, nothing more or less. We can’t help it that we have them; the fools in the government two hundred years ago must have been blind when they first started turning up, but nobody realized then that the psi-factor was a straight Mendelian dominant inheritable trait, and by the time we found that out it was too late to have them all sterilized. Of course, they couldn’t use their extrasensory powers without special training, so even then drastic measures didn’t seem necessary.” He picked up his cane and leaned forward toward Roberts. “Didn’t seem necessary, that is. But now the good Dr. Reuben Abrams and his meddling crowd at the Hoffman Center are busy training them, teaching some of them to use their psi-faculties, providing them with a treacherous power that has no place in civilized society. Well, I’m going to get that stopped, don’t worry. And meanwhile, I don’t want them working in Security! Is that clear enough?”

  Roberts sighed tiredly, and leaned back in his chair. “You’re a little confused, Mr. Secretary. This is not a Rotary Club luncheon. It’s not a Federal Isolationist rally, and it’s not a meeting of the Cabinet. It’s just me you’re talking to. And so far, to my knowledge, you haven’t succeeded in robbing Psi-High citizens of all their rights. You’ve passed laws forcing them to take psychiatric tests and submit to Federal registration, just like drug addicts. They have to report to your Medical Affairs Department underlings every month like paroled convicts. You’ve passed laws to prevent them from marrying, you’ve blocked their education and hamstrung their training and development, you’ve done your level best to poison the minds of the general psi-negative public against them, but you haven’t as yet been able to strip them of their citizenship.”