by Mari Wolf
pressed his nose to the glass,watching the butterflies. It had been a long time.
"I've got to get going," he said. "I want to be back at the museum bydark."
"Well, if you're sure you won't stay...."
They said goodbye and he went out and got into the aircar and startedback. He flew slowly, close to the ground, because he really had plentyof time and he felt lazy. He skimmed along over a valley and heardlaughter and dipped lower. A group of children was playing. Youngones--they even talked aloud sometimes as they played. Children....There were so many children, always in groups, laughing....
He flew on, quickly, until he was in a part of the country where hedidn't see any houses. Just a stream and a grove of trees and brightflowers. He dropped lower, stopped, got out and walked down to thestream.
It was by another stream that he'd met the children who had laughed athim, years ago. He smiled, sadly.
He felt alone, but in a different sense from his usual isolation. Hefelt free, away from people, away even from the books and their unspokeninsistence that their writers were dead and almost forgotten. He stoodby the edge of the stream, watching water spiders scoot across therippled surface.
This was the same. This stream had probably been here when the old racewas here, maybe even before the old race had even come into existence.
Water spiders. Compared to man, their race was immortal....
The sun was low when he turned away from the stream and walked back towhere he had parked the aircar. He scarcely looked about him as hewalked. He was sure he was alone, and he felt no caution, no need towatch and listen.
But as he turned toward the car he saw the people. Two. Young, about hisown age. A boy and a girl, smiling at each other, holding hands.
They weren't a dozen feet in front of him. But they didn't notice him.They were conscious of no one but each other. As Eric watched, standingfrozen, unwilling to draw attention to himself by even moving or backingup, the two leaned closer together. Their arms went around each other,tightly, and they kissed.
They said nothing. They kissed, and then stood apart and went on lookingat each other. Even without being able to perceive, Eric could feeltheir emotion.
Then they turned, slowly, toward him. In a moment they would be aware ofhim. He didn't want them to think he was spying on them, so he wenttoward them, making no effort to be quiet, and as he moved they steppedstill farther apart and looked at him, startled.
They looked at each other as he passed, even more startled, and thegirl's hand went up to her mouth in surprise.
They know, Eric thought bitterly. They know I'm different.
He didn't want to go back to the museum. He flew blindly, not lookingdown at the neat domed houses and the gardens and the people, but ahead,to the eastern sky and the upthrust scarp of the hills. The hills, wherepeople like him had fled, for a little while.
The occasional aircars disappeared. The gardens dropped away, and theordered color, and there was grass and bare dirt and, ahead, thescraggly trees and out-thrust rocks of the foothills. No people. Onlythe birds circling, crying to each other, curious about the car. Onlythe scurrying animals of the underbrush below.
A little of the tension drained from him as he climbed. Perhaps in thesevery hills men like him had walked, not many generations ago. Perhapsthey would walk there again, amid the disorder of tree and canyon andtumbled rock. Amid the wildness, the beauty that was neither that of thegardens nor that of the old race's cities, but older, more enduring thaneither.
Below him were other streams, but these were swift-flowing, violent,sparkling like prismed sunlight as they cascaded over the rocks. Theirwildness called to him, soothed him as the starship soothed him, as thegardens and the neat domed houses never could.
He knew why his kind had fled to the hills, for whatever little timethey had. He knew too that he would come again.
Searching. Looking for his own kind.
That was what he was doing. That was what he had always intended to do,ever since he had heard of the others like himself, the men who had comehere before him. He realized his motive suddenly, and realized too thefutility of it. But futile or not, he would come again.
For he was of the old race. He shared their hungering.
* * * * *
Walden was reading in his study when the council members arrived. Theycame without advance warning and filed in ceremoniously, respondingrather coolly to his greeting.
"We're here about the boy," Abbot began abruptly. "He's at the museumnow, isn't he?"
Walden nodded. "He's been spending most of his time there lately."
"Do you think it's wise, letting him wander around alone?"
Trouble. Always trouble. Just because there was one young boy, Eric,asking only to be let alone. And the old council members wouldn't restuntil they had managed to find an excuse to put him in an institutionsomewhere, where his actions could be watched, where there wouldn't beany more uncertainty.
"Eric's all right."
"Is he? Prior tells me he leaves the museum every day. He doesn't comehere. He doesn't visit his family."
The thin man, Drew, broke in. "He goes to the hills. Just like theothers did. Did you know that, Walden?"
Walden's mouth tightened. It wouldn't do to let them read his hostilityto their prying. It would be even worse to let them know that theyworried him.
"Besides," Drew added, "he's old enough to be thinking about women now.There's always a chance he'll--"
"Are you crazy?" Walden shouted the words aloud. "Eric's not an animal."
"Isn't he?" Abbot answered quietly. "Weren't all the old race justanimals?"
Walden turned away from them, closing his mind to their thoughts. Hemustn't show anger. If he did, they'd probably decide he was tooemotional, not to be trusted. They'd take Eric away, to someinstitution. Cage him....
"What do you want to do with the boy?" Walden forced his thoughts tocome quietly. "Do you want to put him in a zoo with the other animals?"
The sarcasm hurt them. They wanted to be fair. Abbot especially pridedhimself on his fairness.
"Of course not."
They hesitated. They weren't going to do anything. Not this time. Theystood around and made a little polite conversation, about other things,and then Abbot turned toward the door.
"We just wanted to be sure you knew what was going on." Abbot paused."You'll keep an eye on the boy, won't you?"
"Am I his keeper?" Walden asked softly.
They didn't answer him. Their thoughts were confused and a bit irritatedas they went out to the aircar that had brought them. But he knew they'dbe back. And they would keep track of Eric. Prior, the caretaker, wouldhelp them. Prior was old too, and worried....
Walden walked back into his study, slowly. His legs were trembling. Hehadn't realized how upset he had been. He smiled at the intensity of hisemotions, realizing something he'd always kept hidden, even fromhimself.
He was as fond of Eric as if the boy had been his own son.
* * * * *
Eric pushed the books away, impatiently. He didn't feel like studying.The equations were meaningless. He was tired of books, and history, andall the facts about the old race.
He wanted to be outdoors, exploring, walking along the hillsides,looking for his own kind.
But he had already explored the hills. He had flown for miles, andwalked for miles, and searched dozens of caves in dozens of gorges. Hehad found no one. He was sure that if there had been anyone he wouldhave discovered some sign.
He opened the book again, but he couldn't concentrate on it.
Beyond those hills, across another valley, there were even highermountains. He had often looked across at them, wondering what they held.They were probably as desolate as the ones he'd searched. Still, hewould rather be out in them, looking, than sitting here, fretting,almost hating the old race because it had somehow bequeathed him aheritage of loneliness.
He got up ab
ruptly and went outside to the aircar.
It was a long way to the second range of mountains. He flew theredirectly, skimming over the nearer hills, the ones he had spent weeksexploring. He dropped low over the intervening valley, passing over thehouses and towns, looking down at the gardens. The new race filled allthe valleys.
He came into the foothills and swung the car upward, climbing over thesteep mountainsides. Within a mile from the valley's edge he was in wildcountry. He'd thought the other hills were wild, but here the terrainwas jagged and rock-strewn, with boulders flung about as if by somegiant hand. There were a hundred narrow canyons, opening into eachother, steep-sloped, overgrown with brambles and almost impenetrable, amaze with the hills rising around them and cutting off all view of thesurrounding country.
Eric dropped down into one of the larger canyons. Immediately herealized how easy it would be to get lost in those hills. There were nolandmarks that were not like a hundred jutting others. Without theaircar he would be lost in a few minutes. He wondered suddenly ifanyone, old race or new, had ever been here before him.
He set the aircar down on the valley floor and got out and walked awayfrom it, upstream, following the little creek that tumbled past him overthe rocks. By the time he had gone a hundred paces the car was out ofsight.
It was quiet. Far away birds called to each other, and insects buzzedaround him, but other than these sounds there was nothing but his ownfootsteps and the creek rapids. He relaxed, walking more slowly, lookingabout him idly, no longer searching for anything.
He rounded another bend, climbed up over a rock that blocked his pathand dropped down on the other side of it. Then he froze, staring.
Not ten feet ahead of him lay the ashes of a campfire, still smoldering,still sending a thin wisp of smoke up into the air.
He saw no one. Nothing moved. No tracks showed in the rocky ground.Except for the fire, the gorge looked as uninhabited as any of theothers.
Slowly Eric walked toward the campfire and knelt down and held his handover the embers. Heat rose about him. The fire hadn't been out for verylong.
He turned quickly, glancing about him, but there was no sudden motionanywhere, no indication that anyone was hiding nearby. Perhaps there wasnobody near. Perhaps whoever had built the fire had left it some timebefore, and was miles away by now....
He didn't think so. He had a feeling that eyes were watching him. It wasa strange feeling, almost as if he could perceive. Wishful thinking, hetold himself. Unreal, untrue....
But _someone_ had been here. Someone had built the fire. And it wasprobably, almost certainly, someone without perception. Someone likehimself.
His knees were shaking. His hands trembled, and sweat broke out on thepalms. Yet his thoughts seemed calm, icily calm. It was just a nervousreaction, he knew that. A reaction to the sudden knowledge that people_were_ here, out in these hills where he had searched for them butnever, deep down, expected to find them. They were probably watching himright now, hidden up among the trees somewhere, afraid to move becausethen he would see them and start out to capture them.
If there were people here, they must think that he was one of the normalones. That he could perceive. So they would keep quiet, because a personwith perception couldn't possibly perceive a person who lacked it. Theywould remain motionless, hoping to stay hidden, waiting for him to leaveso that they could flee deeper into the hills.
They couldn't know that he was one of them.
He felt helpless, suddenly. So near, so near--and yet he couldn't reachthem. The people who lived here in the wild mountain gorges could eludehim forever.
No motion. No sound. Only the embers, smoking....
"Listen," he called aloud. "Can you hear me?"
The canyon walls caught his voice, sent it echoing back, fainter andfainter. "... can you hear me can you hear me can you...."
No one answered.
"I'm your friend," he called. "I can't perceive. I'm one of you."
Over and over it echoed. "... one of you one of you one of you...."
"Answer me. I've run away from them too. Answer me!"
"Answer me answer me answer me...."
The echoes died away and it was quiet, too quiet. No sound. Even if theyheard him, they wouldn't answer.
He couldn't track them. If they had homes that were easy to find theywould have left them by now. He was helpless.
The heat from the fire rose about him, and he tasted smoke and coughed.Nothing moved. Finally he stood up, turned away from the fire and walkedon past it, up the stream.
No one. No tracks. No sign. Only the feeling that other eyes watched himas he walked along, other ears listened for the sound of his passing.
He turned back, retraced his steps to the fire. The embers hadblackened. The wisp of smoke that curled upward was very thin now.Otherwise everything was the same as it had been.
He couldn't give up and fly back to the museum. If he did he might neverfind them again. But even if he didn't, he might never find them.
"Listen!" He screamed the word, so loudly that they could have heard itmiles away. "I'm one of you. I can't perceive. Believe me! You've got tobelieve me!"
"Believe me believe me believe me...."
Nothing. The tension went out of him suddenly and he began to trembleagain, and his throat choked up, wanting to cry. He stumbled away fromthe embers, back in the direction of the aircar.
"Believe me...." This time the words were little more than a whisper,and there was no echo.
"I believe you," a voice said quietly.
* * * * *
He swung about, trying to place it, and saw the woman. She stood at theedge of the trees, above the campfire, half hidden in the undergrowth.She looked down at him warily, a rock clenched in her hand. She wasn'tan attractive sight.
She looked old, with a leathery skin and gnarled arms and legs. Hergrey-white hair was matted, pulled back into a snarled bun behind herhead. She wore a shapeless dress of some roughwoven material that hunglimply from her shoulders, torn, dirty, ancient. He'd never seen ananimal as dirty as she.
"So you can't perceive," the woman cackled. "I believe it, boy. Youdon't have that look about you."
"I didn't know," Eric said softly. "I never knew until today that therewere any others."
She laughed, a high-pitched laugh that broke off into a choking cough."There aren't many of us, boy. Not many. Me and Nell--but she's an old,old woman. And Lisa, of course...."
She cackled again, nodding. "I always told Lisa to wait," she saidfirmly. "I told her that there'd be another young one along."
"Who are you?" Eric said.
"Me? Call me Mag. Come on, boy. Come on. What are you waiting for?"
She turned and started off up the hill, walking so fast that she wasalmost out of sight among the trees before Eric recovered enough tofollow her. He stumbled after her, clawing his way up the steep slope,slipping and grabbing the branches with his hands and hauling himself upthe rocks.
"You're a slow one." The old woman paused and waited for him to catchup. "Where've you been all your life? You don't act like a mountainboy."
"I'm not," Eric said. "I'm from the valley...."
He stopped talking. He realized, suddenly, the futility of trying toexplain his life to her. If she had ever known the towns, it would havebeen years ago. She was too old, and tattered, and so dirty that hersmell wasn't even a good clean animal smell.
"Hurry up, boy!"
He felt unreal, as if this were a dream, as if he would awaken suddenlyand be back at the museum. He almost wished that he would. He couldn'tbelieve that he had found another like himself and was now followingher, scrambling up a mountain as if he were a goat.
A goat. Smells. The dirty old woman in front of him. He wrinkled hisnose in disgust and then was furious with himself, with his reactions,with the sudden knowledge that he had glamorized his kind and had hopedto find them noble and brilliant.
This tattered old woman
with her cackling laugh and leathery, toothlessface and dirt encrusted clothing couldn't be like him. He couldn'taccept it....
Mag led him up the slope and then over some heaped boulders, andsuddenly they were on level ground again. They had come out into a tinycanyon, a blind pocket recessed into the mountain, almost completelysurrounded by walls that rose sharply upward. Back across the gorge,huddled against the face of the mountain, was a tiny hut.
It was primitive, like those in the prehistoric sections of the oldhistory books. It was made of branches lashed together, with sides thatleaned crookedly against each other and a matted roof that looked as ifit would slide off at any minute. It was like a twig house that a childmight make with sticks and grass.
"Our home," Mag said. Her voice was proud.
He didn't answer. He followed her across toward it, past the mounds ofrefuse, the fruit rinds and bones and skins that were flung carelesslybeside the trail. He smelled the scent of decay and rottenness andturned his head away, feeling sick.
"Lisa! Lisa!" Mag shouted, the words echoing and re-echoing.
A figure moved just inside the hut doorway. "She's not here," a voicecalled. "She's out hunting."
"Well, come on out, Nell, and see what I've found."
The figure moved slowly out from the gloom of the hut, bending to getthrough the low door, half straightening up outside, and Eric saw thatit was an old, old woman. She couldn't straighten very far. She was tooold, bent and twisted and brittle, feebler looking than anyone Eric hadever