"Then you still live in touch of Earth. At Home we seldom ever-" Her words faded and I caught a capsuled feeling that might have been real cozy if you were born to it, but…
"How come?" I asked. "What's with your world that you have to shield all the time?" I felt a pang for my pictured Eden ….
"We don't have to. At least not any more. When we arrived at the new Home we
had to do a pretty thorough renovating job. We-of course this was my grandparents-wanted it as nearly like the old Home as possible. We've done wonderfully well copying the vegetation and hills and valleys and streams, but-" guilt tinged her words, "it's still a copy-nothing casual and-and thoughtless. By the time the new Home was livable we'd got into the habit of shielding. It was just what one did automatically. I don't believe Mother has gone unshielded outside her own sleep-room in all her life. You just-don't-"
I sprawled my arm across the sand, feeling it grit against my skin. Real cozy, but…
She sighed. "One time-I was old enough to know better, they told me-one time I walked in the sun unshielded. I got muddy and got my hands dirty and tore my dress." She brought out the untidy words with an effort, as though using extreme slang at a very prim gathering. "And I tangled my hair so completely in a tree that I had to pull some of it out to get free." There was no bravado in her voice now. Now she was sharing with me one of the most precious of her memories-one not quite socially acceptable among her own.
I touched her hand lightly, since I do not communicate too freely without contact, and saw her.
She was stealing out of the house before dawn-strange house, strange landscape, strange world-easing the door shut, lifting quickly out into the grove below the house. Her flame of rebellion wasn't strange to me, though. I knew it too well myself. Then she dropped her shield. I gasped with her because I was feeling, as newly as though I were the First in a brand-new Home, the movement of wind on my face, on my arms. I was even conscious of it streaming like tiny rivers between my fingers. I felt the soil beneath my hesitant feet, the soft packed clay, the outline of a leaf, the harsh stab of gravel, the granular sandiness of the water's edge. The splash of water against my legs was as sharp as a bite into lemon. And wetness! I had no idea that wetness was such an individual feeling. I can't remember when first I waded in water, or whether I ever felt wetness to know consciously, "This is wetness." The newness! It was like nothing I'd felt before.
Then suddenly there was the smell of crushed manzanita again, and Salla's hand had moved from beneath mine.
"Mother's questing for me," she whispered. "She has no idea I'm here. She'd have a quanic if she knew. I must go before she gets no answer from my room."
"When are you all coming out?"
"Tomorrow, I think, Laam will have to rest longer. He's our Motiver, you know. It was exhausting bringing the ship into the atmosphere. More so than the whole rest of the trip. But the rest of us-"
"How many?" I whispered as she glided away from me and up the curve of the ship.
"Oh," she whispered back, "there's-" The door opened and she slid inside and it closed.
"Dream sweetly," I heard soundlessly, then astonishingly, the touch of a soft cheek against one of my cheeks, and the warm movement of lips against the other. I was startled and confused, though pleased, until with a laugh I realized that I had been caught between the mother's questing and Salla's reply.
"Dream sweetly," I thought, and rolled myself in my blankets.
Something wakened me in the empty hours before dawn. I lay there feeling snatched out of sleep like a fish out of water, shivering in the interval between putting off sleep and putting on awakeness.
"I'm supposed to think," I thought dully. "Concentrated thinking."
So I thought. I thought of my People, biding their time, biding their time, waiting, waiting, walking when they could be flying. Think, think what we could do if we stopped waiting and really got going. Think of Bethie, our Sensitive, in a medical center, reading the illnesses and ailments to the doctors. No more chance for patients to hide behind imaginary illnesses. No wrong diagnoses, no delay in identification of conditions. Of course there are only one Bethie and the few Sorters we have who could serve a little less
effectively, but it would be a beginning.
Think of our Sorters, helping to straighten people out, able to search their deepest beings and pry the scabs off ancient cankers and wounds and let healing into the suffering intricacies of the mind.
Think of our ability to lift, to transport, to communicate, to use Earth instead of submitting to it. Hadn't Man been given dominion over Earth? Hadn't he forfeited it somewhere along the way? Couldn't we help point him back to the path again?
I twisted with this concentrated restatement of all my questions. Why couldn't this all be so now, now!
But, "No," say the Old Ones. "Wait," says Jemmy. "Not now," says Valancy.
"But look!" I wanted to yell. "They're headed for space! Trying to get there on a Pogo stick. Look at Laam! He brought that ship to us from some far Homeland without lifting his hand, without gadgets in his comfortable motive-room. Take any of us. I myself could lift our pickup high enough to need my shield to keep me breathing. I'll bet even I in one of those sealed high-flying planes could take it to the verge of space, just this side of the escape rim. And any Motiver could take it over the rim and the hard part is over. Of course, though all of us can lift we have only two Motivers, but it would be a start!"
But, "No," say the Old Ones. "Wait," says Jemmy. "Not now," says Valancy.
All right, so it would be doing violence to the scheme of things, grafting a third arm onto an organism designed for two. So the Earth ones will develop along our line someday-look at Peter and Dita and that Francher kid and Bethie. So someday when it is earned they will have it. So-let's go, then! Let's find another Home. Let's take to space and leave them their Earth. Let's let them have their time-if they don't die of it first. Let's leave. Let's get out of this crummy joint. Let's go somewhere where we can be ourselves all the time, openly unashamed!
I pounded my fists on the blanket, then ruefully wiped the flecks of sand from my lips and tongue and grunted a laugh at myself. I caught my breath, then relaxed.
"Okay, Davy," I said, "what are you doing out so early?"
"I haven't been to bed," Davy said. drifting out of the shadows. "Dad said I could try my scriber tonight. I just got it finished."
"That thing?" I laughed up at him. "What could you scribe at night?"
"Well-" Davy sat down in the air above my blanket, rubbing his thumbs on the tiny box he was holding. "I thought it might be able to scribe dreams, but it won't. Not enough verbalizing in them. I checked my whole family and used up half my scribe tape. Gotta make some more today!"
"Nasty break," I said. "Back to the drawing boards, boy."
"Oh, I don't know," Davy said. "I tried it on your dreams-" He flipped up out of my casual swipe at him. "But I couldn't get anything. So I ran a chill down your spine-"
"You rat," I said, too lazy to resent it very much. "That's why I woke up so hard and quick."
"Yup," he said, drifting back over me. "So I tried it on you awake. More concentrated thought patterns."
"Hey!" I sat up slowly. "Concentrated thought?"
"Take this last part." Davy drifted up again. There was a quacking gabble. "Ope!" he said. "Forgot the slowdown. Thoughts are fast. Now-"
And clearly and minutely, the way a voice sometimes sounds from a telephone receiver, I heard myself yelling, "Let's leave, let's get out of this crummy joint-"
"Davy!" ! yelled, hunching myself upward, encumbered as I was with blankets.
"Watch it! Watch it!" he cried, holding the scriber away from me as we tumbled in the air. "Group interest! I claim Group interest! With the ship here now-"
"Group interest, nothing!" I said as I finally got my hands on the scriber.
"You're forgetting privacy of thought-and the penalty for violation thereof." I caught his
flying thought and pushed the right area on the box to erase the record.
Dagnab!" said Davy, disgruntled. "My first invention and you erase my first recording on it."
"Nasty break!" I said. Then I tossed the box to him. "But say!" I reached up and pulled him down to me. "Obla! Think about Obla and this screwy gadget!"
"Yeah!" His face lighted up, then blanked as he was snatched along by the train of thought. "Yeah! Obla-no audible voice –" He had already forgotten me before the trees received him.
It wasn't that I had been ashamed of my thoughts. It was only that they sounded so-so naked, made audible. I stood there, my hands flattened against the beautiful ship and felt my conviction solidify. "Let's go. Let's leave. If there isn't room for us on this ship we can build others. Let's find a real Home somewhere. Either find one or build one."
I think it was at that moment that I began to say good-by to Earth, almost subconsciously beginning to sever the ties that bound me to it. Like the slow out-fanning of a lifting wing, the direction of my thoughts turned skyward. I lifted my eyes.
"This time next year," I thought, "I won't be watching morning lighting up Old Baldy."
By midmorning the whole of the Group, including the whole Group from Bendo, which had been notified, was waiting on the hillside near the ship. There was very little audible speech and not much gaiety. The ship brought back too much of the past, and the dark streams of memory were coursing through the Group. I latched onto one stream and found only the shadows of the Crossing in it. "But the Home," I interjected, "the Home before!"
Just then a glitter against the bulk of the ship drew our attention. The door was opening. There was a pause, and then there were the four of them, Salla and her parents and another older fellow. The slight glintings of their personal shields were securely about them, and, as they winced against the downpouring sun, their shields thickened above their heads and took on a deep blue tint.
The Oldest, his blind face turned to the ship, spoke on a Group stream.
"Welcome to the Group." His thought was organ-toned and cordial "Thrice welcome among us. You are the first from the Home to follow us to Earth. We are eager for the news of our friends."
There was a sudden babble of thoughts. "Is Anna with you? Is Mark? Is Santhy? Is Bediah?"
"Wait, wait-" The Father lifted his arms imploringly. "I cannot answer all of you at once except by saying-there are only the four of us in the ship." "Four!" The astonished thought almost lifted an echo from Baldy.
"Why, yes," answered-he gave us his name-Shua. "My family and I and our Motiver here, Laam."
"Then all the rest-?" Several of us slipped to our knees with the Sign trembling on our fingers.
"Oh no! No!" Shun was shocked. "No, we fared very well in our new Home. Almost all your friends await you eagerly. As you remember, ours was the group living adjacent to yours on the Home. Our Group and two others reached our new Home. Why, we brought this ship empty so we could take you all Home!"
"Home?" For a stunned moment the word hung almost visibly in the air above us.
Then, "Home!" The cry rose and swelled and broke to audibility as the whole Group took to the sky as one. It was such a jubilant ecstatic cry that it shook an echo sufficient to frighten a pair of blue jays from a clump of pines on the flat.
"Why they must all think the way I do!" I thought, astonished, as I joined in the upsurge and the jubilant chorus of the wordless Homeward song. Then I flatted a little as I wondered if any of them shared with me the sudden pang I had felt before. I tucked it quickly away, deep enough so that only a Sorter
would be able to find it, and quickly cradled the Francher kid in my lifting-he hadn't learned to go much beyond the treetops yet, and the Group was leaving him behind ….
"There's four of them," I thought breathlessly at Obla. "Only four. They brought the ship to take us Home."
Obla turned her blind face to me. "To take us all? Just like that?"
"Well, yes," I replied, frowning a little. "I guess just like that-whatever that means."
"After all I suppose castaways are always eager for rescue," Obla said. Then, gently mocking, "I suppose you're all packed?"
"I've been packed almost since I was born. Haven't I always been talking about getting out of this bind that holds us back?"
"You have," Obla thought. "Exhaustively talked about it. Put your hand out the window, Bram. Take a handful of sun." I did, filling my palm with the tingling brightness. "Pour it out." I tilted my hand and felt the warm flow of escaping light. "No more Earth sun ever again," she said. "Not ever!"
"Darn you, Obla, cut it out!" ! cried.
"You weren't so entirely sure yourself, were you? Even after all your protestations. Even in spite of that big warm wonder growing inside you."
"Warm wonder?" Then I felt my face heat up. "Oh," I said awkwardly. "That's only natural interest in a stranger-a stranger from Home!" I felt excitement mounting. "Just think, Obla! From Home!"
"A stranger from Home." Obla's thought was a little sad.
"Listen to your words, Brain. A stranger from Home. Whenever have People been strangers to one another?"
"You're playing with words now. Let me tell you the whole thing-"
I have used Obla for a sounding board ever since I can remember. I have no memory of her physically complete. I became conscious of her only after her disaster and mine. The same explosion that maimed her took my parents. They were trying to get some Outsiders out of a crashed plane and didn't quite make it. Some of my most grandiose schemes have echoed hollow and empty against the listening receptiveness of Obla. And some of my shyest thoughts have grown to monumental strength with her uncritical acceptance of them. Somehow, when you hear your own ideas, crisply cut for transmission, they are stripped of anything extraneous and stand naked of pretensions, and then you can get a decent perspective on them.
"Poor child," she cut in when I told her of Salla's hair being caught. "Poor child, to feel that pain is a privilege-"
"Better that than having pain a way of life!" I flashed. "Who should know better than you?"
"Perhaps, perhaps. Who is to say which is better-to hunger and be fed, or to be fed so continuously that you never know hunger? Sometimes a little fasting is good for the soul. Think of a cold drink of water after an afternoon in the hayfield."
I shivered at the delicious recollection. "Well, anyway . . ." and I finished the account for her. I was almost out of the door before I suddenly realized that I hadn't mentioned Davy at all! I went back and told her. Before I was half through her face twisted and her hair swirled protectively over it. When I finished I stood there awkwardly, not knowing exactly what to do. Then I caught a faint echo of her thought. "A voice again…." I think a little of my contempt for gadgets died at the moment. Anything that could pleasure Obla . . .
I thought I was troubled about whether we should go or stay, until the afternoon I found all the Blends and In-gathereds sitting together on the boulders above Cougar Creek. Dita was trailing the water from her bare toes, and all the rest were concentrating on the falling of the drops as though there were some answer in them. The Francher kid was making a sharp crystal scale out of their falling. I came openly so there was no thought of
eavesdropping, but I don't think they were fully aware that I was there.
"But for me-" Dita drew her knees up to her chest and clasped her wet feet in her hands, "for me it's different. You're Blends, or all of the People. But I'm all of Earth. My roots are anchored in this old rock. Think what it would mean to me to say good-by to my world. Think back to the Crossing-" A ripple of discomfort moved through the Group. "You see? And yet, to stay-to watch the People go, to know them gone-" She laid her cheek against her knees.
The quick comfort of the others enveloped her, and Low moved to the boulder beside her.
"It'd be as bad for us to leave," he said. "Sure, we're of the People, but this is the only Home we've known. I didn't grow up in a Group. None of us did.
All of our roots are firmly set here, too. To leave-"
"What has the New Home to offer that we don't have here?" Peter started a little whirlpool in the shallow stream below.
"Well-" Low stilled the whirlpool and spoke into a lengthening silence, "ask Bram. He's all afire to blast off." He grinned over his shoulder at me.
"The new Home is our world," I said, drifting over to them, gathering my scattered thoughts. "We would be among our own. No more concealment. No more trying to fit in where we don't fit. No more holding back, holding back, when we could be doing so much."
I could feel the surge and swirl of thoughts around me-each person aligning himself to the vision of the Home. Without any further word they all left the creek, absorbed in the problem. As they slowly scattered there was not an echo of a thought. Everyone was shutting himself up with his own reactions.
All the peace and tranquility of Cougar Canyon was gone. Oh, sure, the light still slanted brightly through the trees at dawn, the wind still stirred the branches in the hot quiet afternoons and occasionally whipped up little whirlwinds to dance the dried leaves in a brief flurry of action, and the slender new moon was cleanly bright in the evening sky-but it was all overlaid with a big question mark.
I couldn't settle to anything. Halfway through ripping a plank at the mill I'd think, "Why bother? We'll be gone soon." And then the spasm of acute pleasure and anticipation would somehow turn to the pain of bereavement and I'd feel like clutching a handful of sawdust and-well-sobbing into it.
And late at night, changing the headgates to irrigate another alfalfa field, I'd kick the moss-slick wet boards and think exultantly, "When we get there we won't have to go through this mumbo-jumbo. We'll rain the water where and when we want it!"
Then again, I'd lie in the edge of the hot sun, my head in the shade of the cottonwoods, and feel the deep soaking warmth to my very bone, smell the waiting dusty smell of the afternoon, feel sleep wrapping itself around my thoughts and hear the sudden creaking cries of the red-winged blackbirds in the far fields, and suddenly know that I couldn't leave it. Couldn't give up Earth for any thing or any place.
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