by C. L. Moore
They were among enemies now, potential enemies who at a word might turn to noose and fire. The security the Baldies had fought for peacefully for generations was slipping away from underfoot. Before long Baldies might find themselves as homeless and friendless as Hedgehounds—
A too-elastic civilization leads to anarchy, while a too-rigid one will fall before the hurricane winds of change. The human norm is arbitrary; so there are arbitrary lines of demarcation. In the decentralized culture, the social animal was better able to find his rightful place than he had been in thousands of years. The monetary system was founded on barter, which in turn was founded on skill, genius, and man-hours. One individual enjoyed the casual life of a fisherman on the California coast; his catch could bring him a televisor set designed by a Galileo man who enjoyed electronics—and who also liked fish.
It was an elastic culture, but it had its rigidities. There were misfits. After the Blowup, those antisocials had fled the growing pattern of towns spreading over America and taken to the woods, where individualism could be indulged. Many types gathered. There were bindle stiffs and hobos, Cajuns and crackers, paisanos and Bowery bums—malcontents, antisocials, and those who simply could not be assimilated by any sort of urban life, not even the semirural conditions of the towns. Some had ridden the rods, some had walked the highways of a world that still depended on surface travel, and some were trappers and hunters—for even at the time of the Blowup there had been vast forest tracts on the North American continent.
They took to the woods. Those who had originally been woodsmen knew well enough how to survive, how to set birdsnares and lay traps for deer and rabbit. They knew what berries to pick and what roots to dig. The others—
In the end they learned, or they died. But at first they sought what they thought to be an easier way. They became brigands, swooping down in raids on the unifying towns and carrying off booty—food, liquor and women. They mistook the rebirth of civilization for its collapse. They grouped together in bands, and the atomic bombs found targets, and they died.
After a while there were no large groups of Hedgehounds. Unity became unsafe. A few score at most might integrate, following the seasons in the north temperate zones, staying in the backland country in more tropical areas.
Their life became a combination of the American pioneer's and the American Indian's. They migrated constantly. They re-learned the use of bow and javelin, for they kept no contact with the towns, and could not easily secure firearms. They drifted in the shallows of the stream of progress, hardy, brown woodmen and their squaws, proud of their independence and their ability to wrest a living from the wild.
They wrote little. But they talked much, and by night, around campfires, they sang old songs—"Barbara Allen," "The Twa Corbies," "Oh Susanna," and the folk ballads that last longer than Senates and Parliaments. Had they ridden horse-back, they would have known the songs based on the rhythm-patterns of equine gait; as it was, they walked, and knew marching songs.
-
Jesse James Hartwell, leader of his little band of Hedgehounds, was superintending the cooking of bear steaks over the campfire, and his bass voice rolled out now, muffled and softened by the pines that screened camp from brook. His squaw, Mary, was singing too, and presently others joined in, hunters and their wives—for squaw no longer carried the derogatory shade of meaning it once had. The attitude the Hedgehounds had toward their wives was a more realistic version of the attitudes of medieval chivalry.
-
"Bring the good old bugle, boys,
we'll sing another song—"
-
It was dark by the stream. They had been late in finding a camping place tonight; the hunt for the bear had delayed them, and after that it had been difficult to find fresh water. As always when the tribe was irritable, there had been half-serious raillery at Lincoln Cody's expense. It was, perhaps, natural for any group to sense the mental difference—or superiority—of a Baldy, and compensate by jeering at his obvious physical difference.
Yet they had never connected Linc with the town Baldies. For generations now telepaths had worn wigs. And not even Linc himself knew that he was a telepath. He knew that he was different, that was all. He had no memory of the helicopter wreck from which his infant body had been taken by Jesse James Hartwell's mother; adopted into the tribe, he had grown up as a Hedgehound, and had been accepted as one. But though they considered him one of theirs, they were too ready to call him "skinhead"—not quite in jest.
-
"Sing it as we used to sing it, fifty thousand strong
While we were marching through Georgia ..."
-
There were twenty-three in Hartwell's band. A good many generations ago, one of his ancestors had fought with the Grand Army of the Republic, and had been with Sherman on his march. And a contemporary of that soldier, whose blood also ran in Hartwell's veins, had worn Confederate gray and died on the Potomac. Now twenty-three outcast Hedgehounds, discards of civilization, huddled about the fire and cooked the bear they had killed with spear and arrow.
The chorus burst out vigorously.
-
"Hurrah! Hurrah! We bring the jubilee,
Hurrah! Hurrah! The flag that makes men free,
So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea
While we were marching through Georgia."
-
There was a gray scar of desolation where Atlanta had been. The bright, clean new towns dotted Georgia, and helicopters hummed to the sea and back again now. The great War between the States was a memory, shadowed by the greater conflicts that had followed. Yet in that still northern forest, vigorous voices woke the past again.
-
Linc rubbed his shoulders against the rough, bark of the tree and yawned. He was chewing the bit of a battered pipe and grateful for the momentary solitude. But he could sense—feel—understand stray fragments of thoughts that came to him from around the campfire. He did not know they were thoughts, since, for all he knew, Hartwell and the others might feel exactly the same reactions. Yet, as always, the rapport made him faintly unhappy, and he was grateful for the—something—that told him Cassie was coming.
She walked softly out of the shadow and dropped beside him, a slim, pretty girl a year younger than his seventeen years. They had been married less than a year; Linc was still amazed that Cassie could have loved him in spite of his bald, gleaming cranium. He ran his fingers through Cassie's glossy, black hair, delighting in the sensuous feel of it, and the way it ran rippling across his palm.
"Tired, hon?"
"Nope. You feeling bad, Linc?"
"It's nothing," he said.
"You been acting funny ever since we raided that town," Cassie murmured, taking his brown hand and tracing a pattern with her forefinger across the calloused palm. "You figure that wasn't on the beam for us to do, maybe."
"I dunno, Cassie," he sighed, his arm circling her waist. "It's the third raid this year—"
"You ain't questioning Jesse James Hartwell?"
"S'pose I am?"
"Well, then," Cassie said demurely, "you better start considering a quick drift for the two of us. Jesse don't like no arguments."
"No more do I," Linc said. "Maybe there won't be no more raids now we're southering."
"We got full bellies, anyhow, and that's more than we had across the Canada line. I never saw a winter like this, Linc."
"It's been cold," he acknowledged. "We can make out. Only thing is—"
"What?"
"I kinda wish you'd been along on the raids. I can't talk to nobody else about it. I felt funny. There was voices inside my head, like."
"That's crazy. Or else conjure."
"I'm no hex man. You know that, Cassie."
"And you ain't been smoking crazy weed." She meant the marijuana that grew wild in the backlands. Her gaze sought his. "Tell me what it's like, Linc. Bad?"
"It ain't bad and it ain't good. It's mixed up, that's all. It's sort o
f like a dream, only I'm awake. I see pictures."
"What pictures, Linc?"
"I don't know," he said, looking into the darkness where the brook chuckled and splashed. "Because half the time it ain't me when that happens. I get hot and cold inside. Sometimes it's like a music in my head. But when we raided that town it was plain bad, Cassie hon." He seized a bit of wood and tossed it away. "I was like that chip tossed around in the water. Everything was pulling at me every which way."
Cassie kissed him gently. "Don't pay no mind to it. Everybody gets mixed up once in a while. Once we get more south, and the hunting's good, you'll forget your vapors."
"I can forget 'em now. You make me feel better, just being with you. I love the smell of your hair, sweet." Linc pressed his face against the cool, cloudly darkness of the girl's braids.
"Well, I won't cut it, then."
"You better not. You got to have enough hair for both of us."
"You think that matters to me, Linc? Boone Curzon's bald, and he's plenty handsome."
"Boone's old, near forty. That's why. He had hair when he was young."
Cassie pulled up some moss and patted it into shape on Linc's head. She smiled at him half-mockingly. "How's that? Ain't nobody anywhere that's got green hair. Feel better now?"
He wiped his scalp clean, pulled Cassie closer and kissed her. "Wish I never had to leave you. I ain't troubled when you're around. Only these raids stir me up."
"Won't be no more of 'em, I guess."
Linc looked into the dimness. His young face, seamed and bronzed by his rugged life, was suddenly gloomy. Abruptly he stood up.
"I got a hunch Jesse James Hartwell's planning another."
"Hunch?" She watched him, troubled. "Maybe it ain't so."
"Maybe," Linc said doubtfully. "Only my hunches work pretty good most times." He glanced toward the fire. His shoulders squared.
"Linc?"
"He's figgering on it, Cassie. Sitting there thinking about the chow we got at that last town. It's his belly working on him. I ain't going to string along with him."
"You better not start nothing."
"I'm gonna ... talk to him," Linc said almost inaudibly, and moved into the gloom of the trees. From the circle of firelight a man sent out a questioning challenge; the eerie hoot of an owl, mournful and sobbing. Linc understood the inflection and answered with the caw of a raincrow. Hedgehounds had a language of their own that they used in dangerous territory, for there was no unity among the tribes, and some Hedgehounds were scalpers. There were a few cannibal groups, too, but these degenerates were hated and killed by the rest whenever opportunity offered.
-
Linc walked into camp. He was a big, sturdy, muscular figure, his strong chest arched under the fringed buckskin shirt he wore, his baldness concealed now by a squirrelhide cap. Temporary shelters had been rigged up, lean-tos, thatched with leaves, gave a minimum of privacy, and several squaws were busily sewing. At the cookpot Bethsheba Hartwell was passing out bear steaks. Jesse James Hartwell, an oxlike giant with a hook nose and a scarred cheek that had whitened half of his beard, ate meat and biscuits with relish, washing them down with green turtle soup—part of the raid's loot. On an immaculate white cloth before him was spread caviar, sardines, snails, chow chow, antipasto, and other dainties that he sampled with a tiny silver fork that was lost in his big, hairy hand.
"C'mon and eat, skinhead," Hartwell rumbled. "Where's your squaw? She'll get mighty hungry."
"She's coming," Linc said. He didn't know that Cassie was crouching in the underbrush, a bared throwing-knife in her hand. His thoughts were focused on the chief, and he could still sense what he had called his hunch, and which was actually undeveloped telepathy. Yes, Hartwell was thinking about another raid.
Linc took a steak from Bethsheba. It didn't burn his calloused hands. He squatted near Hartwell and bit into the juicy, succulent meat. His eyes never left the bearded man's face.
"We're out of Canada now," he said at last. "It's warming up some. We still heading south?"
Hartwell nodded. "You bet. I don't figure on losing another toe with frostbite. It's too cold even here."
"There'll be hunting, then. And the wild corn's due soon. We'll have a-plenty to eat."
"Pass the biscuits, Bethsheba. Urp. More we eat, Linc, the fatter we'll get for next winter."
Linc pointed to the white cloth. "Them don't fatten you up none."
"They're good anyhow. Try some of these here fish eggs."
"Yeah—pfui. Where's the water?"
Hartwell laughed. Linc said, "We going north come summer?"
"We ain't voted on it yet. I'd say no. Me, I'd rather head south."
"More towns. It ain't safe to go on raiding, Jesse."
"Nobody can't find us once we get back in the woods."
"They got gun."
"You scared?"
"I ain't scared of nothing," Linc said. "Only I sort of know you're thinking about another raid. And I'm telling you to count me out."
Hartwell's heavy shoulders hunched. He reached for a sardine, ate it slowly, and then turned his head toward the boy. His lids were half-lowered.
"Yaller?" But he made it a question, so a fight wasn't obligatory.
"You seen me fight a grizzly with a knife."
"I know," Hartwell said, rubbing the white streak in his beard. "A guy can turn yaller, though. I ain't saying that's it, understand. Just the same, nobody else is trying to back out."
"On that first raid we was starving. The second—well, that might pass too. But I don't see no percentage in raiding just so you can eat fish eggs and worms."
"That ain't all of it, Linc. We got blankets, too. Things like that we needed. Once we lay our hands on a few guns—"
"Getting too lazy to pull a bow?"
"If you're spoiling for a fight," Hartwell said slowly, "I can oblige you. Otherwise shut up."
Linc said, "O.K. But I'm serving notice to count me out on any more raids."
In the shadows Cassie's hand tightened on the dagger's hilt. But Hartwell suddenly laughed and threw his steakbone at Linc's head. The boy ducked and glowered.
"Come the day your belt starts pinching, you'll change your mind," Hartwell said. "Forget about it now. Git that squaw of yours and make her eat; she's too skinny." He swung toward the woods. "Cassie! C'mon and have some of this fish soup."
Linc had turned away, readjusting his cap. His face was less somber now, though it was still thoughtful. Cassie holstered her knife and came out into the firelight. Hartwell beckoned to her.
"Come and get it," he said.
-
The air was peaceful again. No more friction developed, though Linc, Cassie knew, was in a quarrelsome mood. But Hartwell's good humor was proof against any but direct insults. He passed around the whiskey bottle he had looted—a rare treat, since the tribe could distill smoke only when they settled for a while, which wasn't often. Linc didn't drink much. Long after the fire had been smothered and snores came from the lean-tos around him, he lay awake, troubled and tense.
Something—someone—was calling him.
It was like one of his hunches. It was like what he had felt during the raids. It was like Cassie's nearness, and yet there was a queer, exciting difference. There was a friendliness to that strange call that he had never felt before.
Dim and indefinable, a dweller hidden deep in his mind woke and responded to that call of a kindred being.
After a while he rose on one elbow and looked down at Cassie. Her face was partly veiled by the deeper blackness of her hair. He touched its soft, living warmth gently. Then he slipped noiselessly out of the shelter and stood up, staring around.
There was a rustling of leaves, and the chuckling of the brooklet. Nothing else. Moonlight dappled the ground here and there. A woodrat rustled softly through the wild grasses. The air was very cold and crisp, with a freshness that stung Linc's cheeks and eyes.
And suddenly he was frightened. Old folktales tr
oubled him. He remembered his foster mother's stories of men who could turn to wolves, of the Wendigo that swept like a vast wind above the lonely forests, of a Black Man who bought souls—the formless, dark fears of childhood rose up in nightmare reality. He had killed a grizzly with his knife, but he had never stood alone at night in the woods, while a Call murmured in his mind—silently—and made his blood leap up in fiery response.
He was afraid, but the bait was too strong. He turned south, and walked out of the camp. Instinctive training made his progress noiseless. He crossed the brook, his sandals inaudible on the stones, and mounted a slope. And there, sitting on a stump waiting for him, was a man.
His back was toward Linc, and nothing could be seen but the hunched torso and the bald, gleaming head. Linc had a momentary horrible fear that when the man turned, he might see his own face. He touched his knife. The confused stirring in his brain grew chaotic.
"Hello, Linc," a low voice said.
Linc had made no sound, and he knew it. But, somehow, that dark figure had sensed his approach. The Black Man—?
"Do I look black?" the voice asked. The man stood up, turning. He was sneering—no, smiling—and his face was dark and seamed. He wore town clothes.
But he wasn't the Black Man. He didn't have a cloven hoof. And the warm, sincere friendliness subtly radiating from his presence was reassuring to Linc in spite of his suspicions.
"You called me," Linc said. "I'm trying to figure it out." His eyes dwelt on the bald cranium.
"My name's Barton," the man said. "Dave Barton." He lifted something gray—a scalp?—and fitted it carefully on his head. The sneer indicated amusement.
"I feel naked without my wig. But I had to show you I was a ... a—" He sought for the word that would fit the telepathic symbol. "That you were one of us," he finished.
"I ain't—"
"You're a Baldy," Barton said, "but you don't know it. I can read that from your mind."
"Read my mind?" Linc took a backward step.
"You know what Baldies are? Telepaths?"
