Collected fiction, p.436
Collected Fiction, page 436
“All right,” he said audibly. “Come in and sit down.” The thought of contempt was there. Speaking audibly to another Baldy when caution was unnecessary was insultingly patronizing, but Barton was not surprised. Paranoid, he thought, and Vargan’s mind responded: Which means super!
The kitchen valve opened and Bertram Smith came in, a handsome, blond giant, with pale-blue eyes and an expressionless face. Smith carried a tray with bottles, glasses, and ice. He nodded at Barton.
“Vargan wanted to talk to you,” he said. “I see no reason, but—”
“What happened to Faxe?” Vargan asked. “Never mind. Have a drink first.”
Poison?
Sincere denial. We are stronger than you—
Barton accepted a glass and sat down in an uncomfortable table chair; he did not want to be too relaxed. His mind was wary, though he knew the uselessness of putting up guards. Vargan hunched his dwarfish form into a relaxer and gulped the liquor. His eyes were steady.
“Now what about Faxe?”
“I killed him,” Barton said.
“He was the weakest of us all—”
All?
Three of us—
Good. Only two left now.
Vargan grinned. “You’re convinced you can kill us, and we’re convinced we can kill you. And since our secret weapons are intangible—self-confidence that can’t be measured arbitrarily—we can talk on equal ground. How did you know about our means of communication?”
He could not hide the thought of Melissa. The mind has too much free will at times.
Smith said, “We’ll have to kill her too. And that other woman—Sue Connaught, that he was thinking of.”
No point in keeping up useless concealment. Barton touched Melissa’s mind. They know. Listen. If they use their secret wave length, tell me instantly.
“Immediately is pretty fast,” Vargan said.
“Thoughts are fast.”
“All right. You’re underestimating us. Faxe was the newest of our band; he wasn’t fast-minded, and he was a push-over for you. Our brains are highly trained and faster than yours.” That was a guess; he couldn’t know, really. Egotism influenced him.
“Do you think,” Barton said, “that you can get away with whatever you’re trying to do?”
“Yes,” Smith said, in his mind a blazing, fanatical conviction that glared like a shining light. “We must.”
“All right. What are you trying to do?”
“Preserve the race,” Vargan said. “But actively, not passively. We non-Baldies”—He still used the term, though he wore a wig—“aren’t willing to bow down before an inferior race, homo sapiens.”
“The old quibble. Who says Baldies are homo superior? They simply have an additional sense.”
“That’s all that keeps man from being a beast. An additional sense. Intelligence. Now there’s a new race. It’s telepathic. Eventually the next race may have—prescience. I don’t know. But I do know that Baldies are the future of the world. God wouldn’t have given us our power if He hadn’t intended us to use it.”
This was merely duelling, but it was something more as well. Barton was intensely curious, for more than one reason.
“You’re trying to convince me?”
“Certainly. The more who join us, the faster we’ll grow. If you say no, we’ll kill you.” Only on these intangibles was there the possibility of mental secrecy. Semantics could never alter the divergence of absolute opinions.
“What’s your plan?”
“Expansion.” Vargan ruffled his untidy brown wig. “And complete secrecy, of course. The sabotage angle—we’re just beginning that. Eventually it’ll be a big thing. Right now we’re concentrating on what we can do—”
“Sabotage—and what can you offer in exchange?”
A wave of tremendous self-confidence thrust out at Barton. “Ourselves. We are homo superior. When our race is free, no longer enslaved by mere humans, we can—go to the stars if we want!”
“Enslaved. I don’t see it that way.”
“You don’t. You’ve been conditioned to accept the pap cowards feed you. It isn’t logical. It isn’t just or natural. When a new race appears, it’s destined to rule.”
Barton said, “Remember the lynchings in the old days?”
“Certainly,” Vargan nodded. “Humans have one thing we haven’t: numerical superiority. And they’re organized. The trick is to destroy that organization. How is it maintained?”
“By communication.”
“Which goes back to technology. The world’s a smoothly running machine, with humanity in the driver’s seat. If the machine cracks up—
Barton laughed. “Are you that good?”
Again the fanatical self-belief flamed in Smith’s mind. A hundred—a thousand mere humans—cannot equal one of us!
“Well,” Vargan said more sanely, “ten men could still lynch a Baldy, provided they weren’t disorganized and in social chaos. That, of course, is what we’re after. Ultimate social chaos. We’re aiming at a bust-up. Then we can take over—after humans go to pot.”
“How long will that take? A million years?”
“Perhaps,” Vargan said, “if we weren’t telepaths, and if we didn’t have the secret wave length. That, by the way, takes time to learn, but almost any Baldy can learn it. But we’re careful; there’ll be no traitors among us. How can there be?”
There couldn’t. A thought of hesitancy, of betrayal, could be read. It would be a foolproof organization.
Vargan nodded. “You see? Thousands of Baldies, working secretly for a bust-up, sabotaging, killing where necessary—and always, always avoiding even a hint of suspicion.”
“You’ve sense enough for that, anyway,” Barton said. “Even that hint would be fatal.”
“I know it.” Anger. “Humans tolerate us, and we let them. We let them. It’s time we took our rightful place.”
“We’re getting it anyway, slowly. After all, we’re intruders in a non-Baldy world. Humans have come to accept us. Eventually we’ll get their complete trust and tolerance.”
“And—forever—live on tolerance, a helpless minority? Eating the crumbs our lessers are willing to throw us—if we lick their boots?”
“How many Baldies are maladjusted?”
“Plenty.”
“All right. They’d be maladjusted in Heaven. The vast majority adjust. I’ve got the job I want—”
“Have you? You never feel even a little irritated when people know you’re a Baldy, and—look at you?”
“Nobody’s ever completely happy. Certainly a Baldy world would be rather more pleasant, but that’ll come. There are plenty of worlds that will be available eventually. Venus, for one.”
“So we sit and wait for interplanetary travel,” Vargan mocked. “And what then? There’ll be slogans. Earth for humans. No Baldies on Venus. You’re a fool. Has it never occurred to you that Baldies are the new race?” He looked at Barton. “I see it has. Every one of us has thought the same thing. But we’ve been conditioned to submerge the thought. Listen. What’s the test of a dominant new race? It must be able to dominate. And we can; we’ve a power that no non-Baldy can ever hope to match. We’re like gods pretending to be human because it’ll please humans.”
“We aren’t gods.”
“Compared to humans—we are gods. Do you feel pleased at the thought of rearing your children in fear, training them never to offend their inferiors, forcing them to wear—wigs?” Vargan’s hand went up to his head, fingers clawed. “This is the stigma of our cowardice. The: day when we can walk hairless in at hairless world—then we’ll have come into our heritage. All right. Ask yourself—can you say that I’m wrong?”
“No,” Barton said. “You may be right. But we’re a small minority; the risk’s too great. Since you speak of children, you can add a postscript about lynchings. That isn’t pretty. Maybe you could get away with this, but you’re certain you won’t fail. And that’s just crazy. You’re refusing to admit arguments that might weaken your plan. If even a whisper of this ever got out, every Baldy in the world, wigless or not, would be destroyed. The—humans—could do nothing less, for their own protection. And I couldn’t blame them. I admit you’re logical—to some extent. And you’re dangerous, because you’ve got the secret telepathic band. But you’re paranoid, and that means you’re blind. We are getting what we want, on the whole, and because a few paranoid Baldies are malcontent, you set yourselves up as saviors for the whole race. If your idea should spread—”
“That would mean fertile ground, wouldn’t it?”
“There are other malajusted Baldies,” Barton admitted. “I might have been one myself, maybe, if I hadn’t found my pattern for living.” He wondered for a moment. His jungle work was fascinating, but what would it be like to return from it to a completely Baldy culture? A world in which he belonged, as no telepath could belong, really, in this day and age.
Barton turned from the mirage. And simultaneously Melissa’s warning thought struck violently into his mind, faster than a shouted word could be; and with equal speed Barton reacted, spinning to his feet and heaving up his chair as a shield. He had not caught Vargan’s command; it had been on the secret wave length, but Smith’s thrown knife clattered against the plastic chair seat and bounced off against one of the walls.
Vargan will attack while Smith recovers his weapon. Melissa was afraid; she shrank from the idea of violence, and the emotions surging unchecked in the room, but her thought struck unwaveringly into Barton’s mind. He sprang toward the fallen dagger as Vargan ran at him. Then the two were back on the ordinary telepathic wave length, but with a difference.
One man Barton could have guarded against. Or two men, acting together. But this had been prearranged. Smith was fighting independently, and so was Vargan. Two thought-patterns struck into Barton’s mind. Vargan was concentrating on the druello, left, right, feint, and feint again. Barton was skilled enough to be a match for his single opponent, but now Smith had picked up the fallen chair and was coming in with it. His mind was confused, too.
Drive the chair forward low—no, high—no—
In a feint, there are two mental patterns; dominant and recessive.
One has the ring of truth. But Vargan and Smith were attempting to act completely on impulse, purposely confusing their minds in order to confuse Barton, They were succeeding. And more than once they flashed up to the secret band, so Melissa’s thought-warning was added to the confusion.
Smith had his dagger back now. A table went crashing over. Barton had taken it fatally for granted that his enemies would act together, and so a sharp point ripped his sleeve and brought blood from a deep cut. In the jungle, where emotion, tropism, instinct, are stronger than intelligence, Barton had been confused in much the same way, but then his own mental power had been the turning factor. Here his opponents were not mindless beasts; they were highly intelligent predators.
The heavy, choking smell of blood was nauseating in the back of his throat. Cat-footed, wary, Barton kept retreating, not daring to be pinned between his enemies. Abruptly Melissa warned:
A rush!
and both Smith and Vargan came at him, blades gleaming where they were not crimson.
Heart—clavicle—up-stroke—feint—
Confused and chaotic, the furious thoughts caught him in a whirlwind. He spun to face Smith, knew his mistake, and ducked not quite in time. Vargan’s dagger ripped his left biceps. And with that blow Barton knew that he had failed; he was no match for the two paranoids.
He ran for the chair, thinking of it as a shield, but at the last moment, before his mind could be read, he sent it hurtling toward the fluorescent. With a tinkle of glass the tube broke. In the dark, Barton dived for the door. They knew what he intended and anticipated him; they knew he would depend on impetus to carry him through. But they could not stop him. He got a knee hard on the point of his jaw, and, dazed, slashed right and left half-mindlessly. Perhaps that saved him.
He broke through, thinking of his copter. Escape and help now. He felt Vargan’s thought: the short cut.
Thanks, he sent back mockingly.
The short cut saved time, and he was long-legged. As yet there were no plans. He did not try to think of any. Escape and help; details later. The paranoids came after him for a short distance.
No use; he’ll make it. Get my copter.
Right. We’ll trail him.
They went elsewhere. Barton felt their brief questions touching his mind, though, and concentrated on running. He could not easily escape the paranoids, now that they knew him. Nor would they again lose touch with his mind.
The landing field was still vacant, except for his own helicopter. He got in and sent the plane southwest, a vague thought of Sue Connaught guiding him. Melissa could not help; he didn’t even knew where she was. But Sue was in Conestoga, and between the two of them—
Also, she had to be warned. He reached for her mind across the dark miles.
What’s wrong?
He told her. Get a weapon. Protect yourself. I’m coming in.
Plan—
Don’t try to think of any. They’ll know.
And Melissa, frightened, the psychic scent of fear strong in her thought. How can I help?
Don’t reveal where you are. If we fail, tell the truth to other Baldies. These paranoids must be destroyed.
Sue: Can I intercept their copter?
No. Don’t try. They’re following, but not overtaking.
A grotesque silver shape in the moonlight, the pursuing helicopter raced in Barton’s track. He improvised a bandage for his wounded arm. After consideration, he wound many heavy strips of cloth around his left forearm. A shield, if—
He could not plan his tactics; that would be fatal. Telepaths could not play chess or any war game, because they would automatically betray themselves. They could play skip-handball, but that had a viariable factor, the movable backboard. If a random factor could be introduced—
Vargan’s eager question touched him. Such as?
Barton shivered. He must, somehow, manage to act on impulse, without any preconceived plan. Otherwise he would inevitably fail.
He called Melissa. Are they using the secret band?
No.
If we fail, it’s your job. Vargan and Smith must die. This is more important than merely killing three men. If other paranoids get the idea, if they, too, learn the secret wave length, this suicidal movement will grow. And non-Baldies will inevitably find out about it, sometime. That will mean the annihilation of every Baldy on earth. For the humans can’t afford to take chances. If we fail to check the paranoids—it means the end of our whole race.
The lights of Conestoga glowed. No plan yet. Don’t try to think of one.
There must be a way, Vargan urged. What?
Sue broke in. I’m coming up in my coper.
The zoo was below, dark now, except for the silvering moonlight. Another plane, gleaming bright, lifted into view to intercept them. Sue thought: I’ll ram them—
Fool, Barton thought. Don’t warn them! But it was a new idea, thrust suddenly into his own mind, and he reacted instantly. Mechanical controls are not instantaneous. By Vargan’s sudden decision to drop to a lower level, where a collision with Sue’s plane would not be fatal, he had put himself too close to Barton. And Barton’s hands stabbed at the controls.
Vargan read the thought as fast as it was conceived. But his copter could not respond with the speed of thought. The flying vanes meshed and crackled; with a scream of tortured alloys the two ships sideslipped. The automatic safety devices took over—the ones that were not smashed—but only low altitude saved Barton and his enemies from death.
They crashed down in the central zoo area, near the shark’s tank. Vargan read the thought in Barton’s mind and telepathed to Smith urgently: Kill him! Fast!
Barton scrambled free of the wreckage. He sensed Sue hovering above, ready to land, and told her: Turn your lights on—the spots. Top illumination. Wake the animals.
He dodged away from the two figures closing in on him. He ripped the bandage from his upper arm and let the smell of fresh blood scent the air. And—he yelled.
From Sue’s copter beams of light glared down, flaring into cages, dazzling bright.
Kill him, Vargan thought. Quick!
The asthmatic cough of a lion sounded. Barton dodged by the tank and tossed his blood-stained bandage over the railing. There was a flurry of water slashed into foam as the great shark woke to life.
And, from cage and tank, from the beasts waked into a turmoil of light and sound and blood-smell—came the variable.
Sue had got her siren working, and its shattering blast bellowed through the night. Patterns of light blazed erratically here and there. Barton saw Smith pause and shake his head. Vargan, teeth bared, ran forward, but he, too, was shaken.
Their thoughts were—confused now. For this wasn’t chess any more. It was skip-handball, with a variable gone wild.
For beasts are not intelligent, in the true meaning of the word. They have instinct, tropism, a terrible passion that is primevally powerful. Even nontelepaths find the hunger-roar of a lion disturbing. To a Baldy—
What blasted up from the great tank was worst of all. It shook even Barton. The paranoid minds could not communicate, could scarcely think, against that beast-torrent of mental hunger and fury that poured through the night.
Nor could they—now—read Barton’s mind. They were like men caught in the blazing rays of a searchlight. Telepathically, they were blinded.
But Barton, a trained naturalist, had better control. It wasn’t pleasant even for him. Yet his familiarity with tiger and shark, wolf and lion, gave him some sort of protection against the predatory thoughts. He sensed Melissa’s terrified, panic-stricken withdrawal, and knew that Sue was biting her lips and trying desperately to keep control. But for half a mile around that mental Niagara, telepathic communication was impossible except for a very special type of mind.
