Mutant, page 15
It’s necessary for you to play along. Don’t give any sign that you
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expect trouble. When the Cody steps in, the chiefs will be plenty impressed.”
Heath said, “Wouldn’t it have been better not to tell Burkhalter what to expect?”
“No. For two reasons. He can read the Hedgehounds’ minds—I give him carte blanche on that—and he must string along with the Cody. O.K., Burkhalter?”
“O.K.” the consul nodded.
“Then I’ll push off.” Hobson stood up, still smiling. “Good luck.”
“Wait a minute,” Heath said “What about Selfridge?”
“Don’t kill him. Either of you. You know no Baldy must ever duel a non-Baldy.”
Burkhalter was scarcely listening. He knew he must mention the thought he had surprised in Barbara Pell’s mind, and he had been putting off the moment when he must speak her hateful name, open the gates of his thoughts wide enough to let her image slip back in, beautiful image, beautiful slender body, bright and dangerous and insane mind—
“I saw one of the paranoids in town a while ago,” he said. “Barbara Pell. A nasty job, that woman. She let slip something about their plans. Covered up too fast for me to get much, but you might think about it. They’re up to something planned for fairly soon, I gathered.”
Hobson smiled at him. “Thanks. We’re watching them. We’ll keep an eye on the woman too. All right, then. Good luck.”
He went out. Burkhalter and Heath looked at one another.
The Mute walked slowly down the path toward the village. His mouth was pursed as he whistled; his plump cheeks vibrated. As he passed a tall pine he abruptly unsheathed his dagger and sprang around the tree. The man lurking there was caught by
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surprise. Steel found its mark unerringly. The paranoid had time for only one desperate mental cry before he died.
Hobson wiped his dagger and resumed his journey. Under the close-cropped brown wig a mechanism, shaped like a skull-cap, began functioning. Neither Baldy nor telepath could receive the signals Hobson was sending and receiving now.
“They know I’m here.”
“Sometimes they do,” a soundless voice came back. “They can’t catch these modulated frequencies the helmets use, but they can notice the shield. Still, as long as none of ‘em know why—”
“I just killed one.”
“One less of the bichos,” came the coldly satisfied response. “I think I’d better stay here for a while. Paranoids have been infiltrating.
Both Heath and Burkhalter think so. There’s some contingent plan I can’t read yet; the paranoids are thinking about it only on their own band.”
“Then stay. Keep in touch. What about Burkhalter?”
“What we suspected. He’s in love with the paranoid Barbara Pell.
But he doesn’t know it.”
Both shocked abhorrence and unwilling sympathy were in the answering thought. “I can’t remember anything like this ever happening before. He can read her mind; he knows she’s paranoid—”
Hobson smiled. “The realization of his true feelings would upset him plenty, Jerry. Apparently you picked the wrong man for this job.”
“Not from Burkhalter’s record. He’s always lived a pretty secluded life, but his character’s above reproach. His empathy standing was high. And he taught sociology for six years at New Yale.”
“He taught it, but I think it remained remote. He’s known Barbara Pell for six weeks now. He’s in love with her.”
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“But how—even subconsciously? Baldies instinctively hate and distrust the paranoids.”
Hobson reached Sequoia’s outskirts and kept going, past the terraced square where the blocky, insulated power station sat. “So it’s perverse,” he told the other Mute. “Some men are attracted only to ugly women. You can’t argue with a thing like that. Burkhalter’s fallen in love with a paranoid, and I hope to heaven he never realizes it. He might commit suicide. Or anything might happen.
This is—” His thought moved with slow emphasis. “This is the most dangerous situation the Baldies have ever faced. Apparently nobody’s paid much attention to Selfridge’s talk, but the damage has been done. People have listened. And non-Baldies have always mistrusted us. If there’s a blowoff, we’re automatically the scapegoats.”
“Like that, Ben?”
“The pogrom may start in Sequoia.”
Once the chess game had started, there was no way to stop it. It was cumulative. The paranoids, the warped twin branch of the parallel telepathic mutation, were not insane; there was a psychoneurotic pathology. They had only one basic delusion. They were the super race. On that foundation they built their edifice of planetary sabotage.
Non-Baldies outnumbered them, and they could not fight the technology that flourished in the days of decentralization. But if the culture of the non-Baldies were weakened, wrecked—
Assassinations, deftly disguised as duels or accidents; secret sabotage in a hundred branches, from engineering to publishing; propaganda, carefully sowed in the proper places—and civilization would have headed for a crack-up, except for one check.
The Baldies, the true, non-paranoid mutation, were fighting for the older race. They had to. They knew, as the blinded paranoids could not, that eventually the non-Baldies would learn of the chess game, and then nothing could stop a worldwide pogrom.
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One advantage the paranoids had, for a while—a specialized band on which they could communicate telepathically, a wave length which could not be tapped. Then a Baldy technician had perfected the scrambler helmets, with a high-frequency modulation that was equally untappable. As long as a Baldy wore such a helmet under his wig, his mind could be read only by another Mute.
So they came to be called, a small, tight group of exterminators, sworn to destroy the paranoids completely—in effect, a police force, working in secret and never doffing the helmets which shut them out from the complete rapport that played so large a part in the psychic life of the Baldy race.
They had willingly given up a great part of their heritage. It was a curious paradox that only by strictly limiting their telepathic power could these few Baldies utilize their weapon against the paranoids.
And what they fought for was the time of ultimate unification when the dominant mutation had become so numerically strong that in all the world, there would be no need for mental barriers or psychic embargoes.
Meanwhile the most powerful of the Baldy race, they could never know, except within a limited scope, the subtle gratification of the mental round-robins, when a hundred or a thousand minds would meet and merge into the deep, eternal peace that only telepaths can know.
They, too, were beggars in velvet.
III
Burkhalter said suddenly, “What’s the matter with you, Duke?”
Heath didn’t move. “Nothing.”
“Don’t give me that. Your thoughts are on quicksand.”
“Maybe they are,” Heath said. “The fact is, I need a rest. I love this work, but it does get me down sometimes.”
“Well, take a vacation.”
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“Can’t. We’re too busy. Our reputation’s so good we’re getting cases from all over. We’re one of the first mental sanitariums to go in for all-out Baldy psychoanalysis. It’s been going on, of course, for years but sub rosa, more or less. People don’t like the idea of Baldies prying into the minds of their relatives. However, since we started to show results—” His eyes lit up. “Even with psychosomatic illnesses we can help a lot, and mood disorders are our meat. The big question, you know, is why. Why they’ve been putting poison in the patient’s food, why they watch him—and so forth. Once that question’s answered fully, it usually gives the necessary clues. And the average patient’s apt to shut up like a clam when the psychiatrist questions him. But—” Heath’s excitement mounted,
“this is the biggest thing in the history of medicine. There’ve been Baldies since the Blowup, and only now are the doctors opening their doors to us. Ultimate empathy. A psychotic locks his mind, so he’s hard to treat. But we have the keys—”
“What are you afraid of?” Burkhalter asked quietly.
Heath stopped short. He examined his fingernails.
“It’s not fear,” he said at last. “It’s occupational anxiety. Oh, the devil with that. Four-bit words. It’s simpler, really; you can put it in the form of an axiom. You can’t touch pitch without getting soiled.”
“I see.”
“Do you, Harry? It’s only this, really. My work consists of visiting abnormal minds. Not the way an ordinary psychiatrist does it. I get into those minds. I see and feel their viewpoints. I know all their terrors. The invisible horror that waits in the dark for them isn’t just a word to me. I’m sane, and I see through the eyes of a hundred insane men. Keep out of my mind for a minute, Harry.” He turned away. Burkhalter hesitated.
“O.K.,” Heath said, looking around. “I’m glad you mentioned this, though. Every so often I find myself geting entirely too empathic.
Then I either take my copter up, or get in a round robin. I’ll see if I can promote a hook-up tonight. Are you in?”
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“Sure,” Burkhalter said. Heath nodded casually and went out. His thought came back.
I’d better not be here when the Hedgehounds come. Unless you—
No, Burkhalter thought, I’ll be all right.
O.K. Here’s a delivery for you.
Burkhalter opened the door in time to admit the grocer’s boy, who had parked his trail car outside. He helped put the supplies away, saw that the beer would be sufficiently refrigerated, and pressed a few buttons that would insure a supply of pressure-cooked refreshments. The Hedgehounds were hearty eaters.
After that, he left the door open and relaxed behind his desk, waiting. It was hot in the office; he opened his collar and made the walls transparent. Air conditioning began to cool the room, but sight of the broad valley below was equally refreshing. Tall pines rippled their branches in the wind.
It was not like New Yale, one of the larger towns, that was intensely specialized in education. Sequoia, with its great hospital and its cellulose industry, was more of a complete, rounded unit. Isolated from the rest of the world except by air and television, it lay clean and attractive, sprawling in white and green and pastel plastics around the swift waters of the river that raced down seaward.
Burkhalter locked his hands behind his neck and yawned. He felt inexplicably fatigued, as he had felt from time to time for several weeks. Not that this work was hard; on the contrary. But reorientation to his new job wouldn’t be quite as easy as he had expected. In the beginning he hadn’t anticipated these wheels within wheels.
Barbara Pell, for example. She was dangerous. She, more than any of the others, perhaps, was the guiding spirit of the Sequoia paranoids. Not in the sense of planned action, no. But she ignited, like a flame. She is a born leader. And there were uncomfortably many paranoids here now. They had infiltrated—superficially with good reason, on jobs or errands or vacations; but the town was
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crammed with them, comparatively speaking. The nontelepaths still outnumbered both Baldies and paranoids as they did on a larger scale all over the world—
He remembered his grandfather, Ed Burkhalter. If any Baldy had ever hated the paranoids, Ed Burkhalter had. And presumably with good reason, since one of the first paranoid plots—a purely individual attempt then—had indirectly tried to indoctrinate the mind of Ed’s son, Harry Burkhalter’s father. Oddly, Burkhalter remembered his grandfather’s thin, harsh face more vividly than his father’s gentler one.
He yawned again, trying to immerse himself in the calm of the vista beyond the windows. Another world? Perhaps only in deep space could a Baldy ever be completely free from those troubling half-fragments of thoughts that he sensed even now. And without that continual distraction, with one’s mind utterly unhampered—he stretched luxiously, trying to imagine the feeling of his body without gravity, and extending that parallel to his mind. But it was impossible.
The Baldies had been born before their time, of course—an artificially hastened mutation caused by radioactivity acting on human genes and chromosomes. Thus their present environment was wrong. Burkhalter toyed idly with the concept of a deep-space race, each individual mind so delicately attuned that even the nearest of any alien personality would interfere with the smooth processes of perfect thought. Pleasant, but impractical. It would be a dead end. The telepaths weren’t supermen, as the paranoids contended; at best they had only one fatally miraculous sense—
fatal, because it had been mingled with common clay. With a genuine superman, telepathy would be merely one sense among a dozen other inconceivable ones.
Whereas Barbara Pell—the name and the face slid into his thoughts again, and the beautiful body, as dangerous and as fascinating as fire—whereas Barbara Pell, for instance, undoubtedly considered herself strictly super, like all the warped telepaths of her kind.
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He thought of her bright, narrow gaze, and the red mouth with its sneering smile. He thought of the red curls moving like snakes upon her shoulders, and the red thoughts moving like snakes through her mind. He stopped thinking of her.
He was very tired. The sense of fatigue, all out of proportion to the energy he had expended, swelled and engulfed him. If the Hedgehound chiefs weren’t coming, it would be pleasant to take a copter up. The inclosing walls of the mountains would fall away as the plane lifted into the empty blue, higher and higher, till it hung in space above a blurred featureless landscape, half-erased by drifting clouds. Burkhalter thought of how the ground would look, a misty, dreamy Sime illustration, and, in his daydream, he reached out slowly to touch the controls. The copter slanted down, more and more steeply, till it was flashing suicidally toward a world that spread hypnotically, like a magically expanding carpet.
Someone was coming. Burkhalter blurred his mind instantly and stood up. Beyond the open door was only the empty forest, but now he could hear the faint, rising overtones of a song. The Hedgehounds, being a nation of nomads, sang as they marched, old tunes and ballads of memorable simplicity that had come down unchanged from before the Blowup, though the original meanings had been forgotten.
Green grow the lilacs, all sparkling with dew; I’m lonely, my darling, since parting from you—
Ancestors of the Hedgehounds had hummed that song along the borders of Old Mexico, long before war had been anything but distantly romantic. The grandfather of one of the current singers had been a Mexican, drifting up the California coast, dodging the villages and following a lazy wanderlust that led him into the Canadian forests at last. His name had been Ramon Alvarez but his grandson’s name was Kit Carson Alvers, and his black beard rippled as he sang.
But by our next meeting I’ll hope to prove true, And change the green lilacs for the red, white and blue.
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There were no minstrels among the Hedgehounds—they were all minstrels, which is how folk songs are kept alive. Singing, they came down the path, and fell silent at sight of the consul’s house.
Burkhalter watched. It was a chapter of the past come alive before his eyes. He had read of the Hedgehounds, but not until six weeks ago had he encountered any of the new pioneers. Their bizarre costumes still had power to intrigue him.
Those costumes combined functionalism with decoration. The buckskin shirts, that could blend into a pattern of forest light and shade, were fringed with knotted tassels; Alvers had a coonskin cap, and all three men wore sandals, made of soft, tough kidskin.
Sheathed knives were at their belts, hunting knives, plainer and shorter than the misericordias of the townsfolk. And their faces showed a rakehell vigor, a lean, brown independence of spirit that made them brothers. For generations now the Hedgehounds had been wresting their living from the wilderness with such rude weapons as the bow one of them had slung across his shoulder, and the ethics of dueling had never developed among them. They didn’t duel. They killed, when killing seemed necessary—for survival.
Burkhalter came to the threshold. “Come in,” he said. “I’m the consul—Harry Burkhalter.”
“You got our message?” asked a tall, Scottish-looking chief with a bushy red beard. “That thing you got rigged up in the woods looked tetchy.”
“The message conveyor? It works, all right.”
“Fair enough. I’m Cobb Mattoon. This here’s Kit Carson Alvers, and this un’s Umpire Vine.” Vine was clean-shaven, a barrel of a man who looked like a bear, his sharp brown eyes slanting wary glances all around. He gave a taciturn grunt and shook hands with Burkhalter. So did the others. As the Baldy gripped Alvers’ palm, he knew that this was the man who intended to kill him.
He made no sign. “Glad you’re here. Sit down and have a drink.
What’ll you have?”
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“Whiskey,” Vine grunted. His enormous hands smothered the glass.
He grinned at the siphon, shook his head, and gulped a quantity of whiskey that made Burkhalter’s throat smart in sympathy.
Alvers, too, took whiskey; Mattoon drank gin, with lemon. “You got a smart lot of drinks here,” he said, staring at the bar Burkhalter had swung out. “I can make out to spell some of the labels, but—what’s that?”
“Drambuie. Try it?”
“Sure,” Mattoon said, and his red-haired throat worked. “Nice stuff.
Better than the corn we cook up in the woods.”
“If you walked far, you’ll be hungry,” Burkhalter said. He pulled out the oval table, selected covered dishes from the conveyor belt, and let his guests help themselves. They fell to without ceremony.
Alvers looked across the table. “You one of them Baldies?” he asked suddenly.
Burkhalter nodded. “Yes, I am. Why?”
Mattoon said, “So you’re one of ‘em.” He was frankly staring. “I never seen a Baldy right close up. Maybe I have at that, but with the wigs you can’t tell, of course.”
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expect trouble. When the Cody steps in, the chiefs will be plenty impressed.”
Heath said, “Wouldn’t it have been better not to tell Burkhalter what to expect?”
“No. For two reasons. He can read the Hedgehounds’ minds—I give him carte blanche on that—and he must string along with the Cody. O.K., Burkhalter?”
“O.K.” the consul nodded.
“Then I’ll push off.” Hobson stood up, still smiling. “Good luck.”
“Wait a minute,” Heath said “What about Selfridge?”
“Don’t kill him. Either of you. You know no Baldy must ever duel a non-Baldy.”
Burkhalter was scarcely listening. He knew he must mention the thought he had surprised in Barbara Pell’s mind, and he had been putting off the moment when he must speak her hateful name, open the gates of his thoughts wide enough to let her image slip back in, beautiful image, beautiful slender body, bright and dangerous and insane mind—
“I saw one of the paranoids in town a while ago,” he said. “Barbara Pell. A nasty job, that woman. She let slip something about their plans. Covered up too fast for me to get much, but you might think about it. They’re up to something planned for fairly soon, I gathered.”
Hobson smiled at him. “Thanks. We’re watching them. We’ll keep an eye on the woman too. All right, then. Good luck.”
He went out. Burkhalter and Heath looked at one another.
The Mute walked slowly down the path toward the village. His mouth was pursed as he whistled; his plump cheeks vibrated. As he passed a tall pine he abruptly unsheathed his dagger and sprang around the tree. The man lurking there was caught by
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surprise. Steel found its mark unerringly. The paranoid had time for only one desperate mental cry before he died.
Hobson wiped his dagger and resumed his journey. Under the close-cropped brown wig a mechanism, shaped like a skull-cap, began functioning. Neither Baldy nor telepath could receive the signals Hobson was sending and receiving now.
“They know I’m here.”
“Sometimes they do,” a soundless voice came back. “They can’t catch these modulated frequencies the helmets use, but they can notice the shield. Still, as long as none of ‘em know why—”
“I just killed one.”
“One less of the bichos,” came the coldly satisfied response. “I think I’d better stay here for a while. Paranoids have been infiltrating.
Both Heath and Burkhalter think so. There’s some contingent plan I can’t read yet; the paranoids are thinking about it only on their own band.”
“Then stay. Keep in touch. What about Burkhalter?”
“What we suspected. He’s in love with the paranoid Barbara Pell.
But he doesn’t know it.”
Both shocked abhorrence and unwilling sympathy were in the answering thought. “I can’t remember anything like this ever happening before. He can read her mind; he knows she’s paranoid—”
Hobson smiled. “The realization of his true feelings would upset him plenty, Jerry. Apparently you picked the wrong man for this job.”
“Not from Burkhalter’s record. He’s always lived a pretty secluded life, but his character’s above reproach. His empathy standing was high. And he taught sociology for six years at New Yale.”
“He taught it, but I think it remained remote. He’s known Barbara Pell for six weeks now. He’s in love with her.”
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“But how—even subconsciously? Baldies instinctively hate and distrust the paranoids.”
Hobson reached Sequoia’s outskirts and kept going, past the terraced square where the blocky, insulated power station sat. “So it’s perverse,” he told the other Mute. “Some men are attracted only to ugly women. You can’t argue with a thing like that. Burkhalter’s fallen in love with a paranoid, and I hope to heaven he never realizes it. He might commit suicide. Or anything might happen.
This is—” His thought moved with slow emphasis. “This is the most dangerous situation the Baldies have ever faced. Apparently nobody’s paid much attention to Selfridge’s talk, but the damage has been done. People have listened. And non-Baldies have always mistrusted us. If there’s a blowoff, we’re automatically the scapegoats.”
“Like that, Ben?”
“The pogrom may start in Sequoia.”
Once the chess game had started, there was no way to stop it. It was cumulative. The paranoids, the warped twin branch of the parallel telepathic mutation, were not insane; there was a psychoneurotic pathology. They had only one basic delusion. They were the super race. On that foundation they built their edifice of planetary sabotage.
Non-Baldies outnumbered them, and they could not fight the technology that flourished in the days of decentralization. But if the culture of the non-Baldies were weakened, wrecked—
Assassinations, deftly disguised as duels or accidents; secret sabotage in a hundred branches, from engineering to publishing; propaganda, carefully sowed in the proper places—and civilization would have headed for a crack-up, except for one check.
The Baldies, the true, non-paranoid mutation, were fighting for the older race. They had to. They knew, as the blinded paranoids could not, that eventually the non-Baldies would learn of the chess game, and then nothing could stop a worldwide pogrom.
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One advantage the paranoids had, for a while—a specialized band on which they could communicate telepathically, a wave length which could not be tapped. Then a Baldy technician had perfected the scrambler helmets, with a high-frequency modulation that was equally untappable. As long as a Baldy wore such a helmet under his wig, his mind could be read only by another Mute.
So they came to be called, a small, tight group of exterminators, sworn to destroy the paranoids completely—in effect, a police force, working in secret and never doffing the helmets which shut them out from the complete rapport that played so large a part in the psychic life of the Baldy race.
They had willingly given up a great part of their heritage. It was a curious paradox that only by strictly limiting their telepathic power could these few Baldies utilize their weapon against the paranoids.
And what they fought for was the time of ultimate unification when the dominant mutation had become so numerically strong that in all the world, there would be no need for mental barriers or psychic embargoes.
Meanwhile the most powerful of the Baldy race, they could never know, except within a limited scope, the subtle gratification of the mental round-robins, when a hundred or a thousand minds would meet and merge into the deep, eternal peace that only telepaths can know.
They, too, were beggars in velvet.
III
Burkhalter said suddenly, “What’s the matter with you, Duke?”
Heath didn’t move. “Nothing.”
“Don’t give me that. Your thoughts are on quicksand.”
“Maybe they are,” Heath said. “The fact is, I need a rest. I love this work, but it does get me down sometimes.”
“Well, take a vacation.”
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“Can’t. We’re too busy. Our reputation’s so good we’re getting cases from all over. We’re one of the first mental sanitariums to go in for all-out Baldy psychoanalysis. It’s been going on, of course, for years but sub rosa, more or less. People don’t like the idea of Baldies prying into the minds of their relatives. However, since we started to show results—” His eyes lit up. “Even with psychosomatic illnesses we can help a lot, and mood disorders are our meat. The big question, you know, is why. Why they’ve been putting poison in the patient’s food, why they watch him—and so forth. Once that question’s answered fully, it usually gives the necessary clues. And the average patient’s apt to shut up like a clam when the psychiatrist questions him. But—” Heath’s excitement mounted,
“this is the biggest thing in the history of medicine. There’ve been Baldies since the Blowup, and only now are the doctors opening their doors to us. Ultimate empathy. A psychotic locks his mind, so he’s hard to treat. But we have the keys—”
“What are you afraid of?” Burkhalter asked quietly.
Heath stopped short. He examined his fingernails.
“It’s not fear,” he said at last. “It’s occupational anxiety. Oh, the devil with that. Four-bit words. It’s simpler, really; you can put it in the form of an axiom. You can’t touch pitch without getting soiled.”
“I see.”
“Do you, Harry? It’s only this, really. My work consists of visiting abnormal minds. Not the way an ordinary psychiatrist does it. I get into those minds. I see and feel their viewpoints. I know all their terrors. The invisible horror that waits in the dark for them isn’t just a word to me. I’m sane, and I see through the eyes of a hundred insane men. Keep out of my mind for a minute, Harry.” He turned away. Burkhalter hesitated.
“O.K.,” Heath said, looking around. “I’m glad you mentioned this, though. Every so often I find myself geting entirely too empathic.
Then I either take my copter up, or get in a round robin. I’ll see if I can promote a hook-up tonight. Are you in?”
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“Sure,” Burkhalter said. Heath nodded casually and went out. His thought came back.
I’d better not be here when the Hedgehounds come. Unless you—
No, Burkhalter thought, I’ll be all right.
O.K. Here’s a delivery for you.
Burkhalter opened the door in time to admit the grocer’s boy, who had parked his trail car outside. He helped put the supplies away, saw that the beer would be sufficiently refrigerated, and pressed a few buttons that would insure a supply of pressure-cooked refreshments. The Hedgehounds were hearty eaters.
After that, he left the door open and relaxed behind his desk, waiting. It was hot in the office; he opened his collar and made the walls transparent. Air conditioning began to cool the room, but sight of the broad valley below was equally refreshing. Tall pines rippled their branches in the wind.
It was not like New Yale, one of the larger towns, that was intensely specialized in education. Sequoia, with its great hospital and its cellulose industry, was more of a complete, rounded unit. Isolated from the rest of the world except by air and television, it lay clean and attractive, sprawling in white and green and pastel plastics around the swift waters of the river that raced down seaward.
Burkhalter locked his hands behind his neck and yawned. He felt inexplicably fatigued, as he had felt from time to time for several weeks. Not that this work was hard; on the contrary. But reorientation to his new job wouldn’t be quite as easy as he had expected. In the beginning he hadn’t anticipated these wheels within wheels.
Barbara Pell, for example. She was dangerous. She, more than any of the others, perhaps, was the guiding spirit of the Sequoia paranoids. Not in the sense of planned action, no. But she ignited, like a flame. She is a born leader. And there were uncomfortably many paranoids here now. They had infiltrated—superficially with good reason, on jobs or errands or vacations; but the town was
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crammed with them, comparatively speaking. The nontelepaths still outnumbered both Baldies and paranoids as they did on a larger scale all over the world—
He remembered his grandfather, Ed Burkhalter. If any Baldy had ever hated the paranoids, Ed Burkhalter had. And presumably with good reason, since one of the first paranoid plots—a purely individual attempt then—had indirectly tried to indoctrinate the mind of Ed’s son, Harry Burkhalter’s father. Oddly, Burkhalter remembered his grandfather’s thin, harsh face more vividly than his father’s gentler one.
He yawned again, trying to immerse himself in the calm of the vista beyond the windows. Another world? Perhaps only in deep space could a Baldy ever be completely free from those troubling half-fragments of thoughts that he sensed even now. And without that continual distraction, with one’s mind utterly unhampered—he stretched luxiously, trying to imagine the feeling of his body without gravity, and extending that parallel to his mind. But it was impossible.
The Baldies had been born before their time, of course—an artificially hastened mutation caused by radioactivity acting on human genes and chromosomes. Thus their present environment was wrong. Burkhalter toyed idly with the concept of a deep-space race, each individual mind so delicately attuned that even the nearest of any alien personality would interfere with the smooth processes of perfect thought. Pleasant, but impractical. It would be a dead end. The telepaths weren’t supermen, as the paranoids contended; at best they had only one fatally miraculous sense—
fatal, because it had been mingled with common clay. With a genuine superman, telepathy would be merely one sense among a dozen other inconceivable ones.
Whereas Barbara Pell—the name and the face slid into his thoughts again, and the beautiful body, as dangerous and as fascinating as fire—whereas Barbara Pell, for instance, undoubtedly considered herself strictly super, like all the warped telepaths of her kind.
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He thought of her bright, narrow gaze, and the red mouth with its sneering smile. He thought of the red curls moving like snakes upon her shoulders, and the red thoughts moving like snakes through her mind. He stopped thinking of her.
He was very tired. The sense of fatigue, all out of proportion to the energy he had expended, swelled and engulfed him. If the Hedgehound chiefs weren’t coming, it would be pleasant to take a copter up. The inclosing walls of the mountains would fall away as the plane lifted into the empty blue, higher and higher, till it hung in space above a blurred featureless landscape, half-erased by drifting clouds. Burkhalter thought of how the ground would look, a misty, dreamy Sime illustration, and, in his daydream, he reached out slowly to touch the controls. The copter slanted down, more and more steeply, till it was flashing suicidally toward a world that spread hypnotically, like a magically expanding carpet.
Someone was coming. Burkhalter blurred his mind instantly and stood up. Beyond the open door was only the empty forest, but now he could hear the faint, rising overtones of a song. The Hedgehounds, being a nation of nomads, sang as they marched, old tunes and ballads of memorable simplicity that had come down unchanged from before the Blowup, though the original meanings had been forgotten.
Green grow the lilacs, all sparkling with dew; I’m lonely, my darling, since parting from you—
Ancestors of the Hedgehounds had hummed that song along the borders of Old Mexico, long before war had been anything but distantly romantic. The grandfather of one of the current singers had been a Mexican, drifting up the California coast, dodging the villages and following a lazy wanderlust that led him into the Canadian forests at last. His name had been Ramon Alvarez but his grandson’s name was Kit Carson Alvers, and his black beard rippled as he sang.
But by our next meeting I’ll hope to prove true, And change the green lilacs for the red, white and blue.
Mutant
153
There were no minstrels among the Hedgehounds—they were all minstrels, which is how folk songs are kept alive. Singing, they came down the path, and fell silent at sight of the consul’s house.
Burkhalter watched. It was a chapter of the past come alive before his eyes. He had read of the Hedgehounds, but not until six weeks ago had he encountered any of the new pioneers. Their bizarre costumes still had power to intrigue him.
Those costumes combined functionalism with decoration. The buckskin shirts, that could blend into a pattern of forest light and shade, were fringed with knotted tassels; Alvers had a coonskin cap, and all three men wore sandals, made of soft, tough kidskin.
Sheathed knives were at their belts, hunting knives, plainer and shorter than the misericordias of the townsfolk. And their faces showed a rakehell vigor, a lean, brown independence of spirit that made them brothers. For generations now the Hedgehounds had been wresting their living from the wilderness with such rude weapons as the bow one of them had slung across his shoulder, and the ethics of dueling had never developed among them. They didn’t duel. They killed, when killing seemed necessary—for survival.
Burkhalter came to the threshold. “Come in,” he said. “I’m the consul—Harry Burkhalter.”
“You got our message?” asked a tall, Scottish-looking chief with a bushy red beard. “That thing you got rigged up in the woods looked tetchy.”
“The message conveyor? It works, all right.”
“Fair enough. I’m Cobb Mattoon. This here’s Kit Carson Alvers, and this un’s Umpire Vine.” Vine was clean-shaven, a barrel of a man who looked like a bear, his sharp brown eyes slanting wary glances all around. He gave a taciturn grunt and shook hands with Burkhalter. So did the others. As the Baldy gripped Alvers’ palm, he knew that this was the man who intended to kill him.
He made no sign. “Glad you’re here. Sit down and have a drink.
What’ll you have?”
Mutant
154
“Whiskey,” Vine grunted. His enormous hands smothered the glass.
He grinned at the siphon, shook his head, and gulped a quantity of whiskey that made Burkhalter’s throat smart in sympathy.
Alvers, too, took whiskey; Mattoon drank gin, with lemon. “You got a smart lot of drinks here,” he said, staring at the bar Burkhalter had swung out. “I can make out to spell some of the labels, but—what’s that?”
“Drambuie. Try it?”
“Sure,” Mattoon said, and his red-haired throat worked. “Nice stuff.
Better than the corn we cook up in the woods.”
“If you walked far, you’ll be hungry,” Burkhalter said. He pulled out the oval table, selected covered dishes from the conveyor belt, and let his guests help themselves. They fell to without ceremony.
Alvers looked across the table. “You one of them Baldies?” he asked suddenly.
Burkhalter nodded. “Yes, I am. Why?”
Mattoon said, “So you’re one of ‘em.” He was frankly staring. “I never seen a Baldy right close up. Maybe I have at that, but with the wigs you can’t tell, of course.”
