Irelle flung herself at Court, clawing, kicking, her hair a bright flame against the dark.
Court had no time. He had a job to do.
He slammed a solid blow against her jaw, and heard her body fall. Then he turned on Hardony.
Hardony tried to dodge, to double back into the tower room, but Court was too quick. Court went in relentlessly, no expression on his face, no light in his steady eyes.
His hands found their goal—Hardony’s throat.
Fists battered at his face. A leg hooked itself behind Court’s and tripped him. But he did not loosen his grip when he fell. His fingers only closed the tighter.
Sudden panic filled the red fox. He tried to scream but could not. Frantically he attempted to wrench free.
“Court!” he wheezed. “Don’t—don’t!”
“You wanted war,” Court said. “Well, this is war.”
Finally Court let the body drop from his fingers. Already reaction was making him feel cold and sick. He went back to the man who had been run through by Hardony’s sword . . .
But the man was not yet dead. It was Farr. He looked up at Court, his fat face twisted in pain.
“Followed you,” he gasped. “Thought some way—I could help. Well—there was!” His chuckling laugh ended in a groan.
Farr’s gross hand reached up and took Court’s. The tiny eyes were steady and questioning.
“Court,” he said. “Court. Can you save Lyra?”
“Yes,” Court said. “There will be no weapons made. I’ll tell the truth and the treaty with Decca will be signed.”
“But—Irelle—will not sign?”
“There will be peace,” Court said. “I promise you that.” Farr nodded contendedly—and died . . .
* * *
She lay still and lovely on the couch in the tiny room beneath Farr’s castle. Her silver gown had been arranged, and her unbound hair, cloudy as spun red gold, draped the pillow. On her brow the metal circlet of the Throne took the light and gave it back in a dull glitter.
Court looked down at her. His throat hurt.
“I suppose there’ll always be people like you, Irelle,” he said. “There’s a madness in your blood. You can’t be convinced. But you’ve got to be stopped. So Lyra will have a new ruler tomorrow. It won’t be Ethan Court, but it’ll be somebody who wants peace.”
The long lashes did not stir on the ivory cheeks. Court dug his nails into his palms. “Can you hear me, Irelle?” he said softly. “You’re going into your own worlds now. You can dream whatever dreams you want, and they’ll be true. But you won’t be able to hurt anybody now. You’ll never waken from your dreams. I must make sure of that. No, you’ll never waken. Forty years from now, fifty, maybe, I’ll come down here and look at you, and you won’t know I’m here. You’ll grow old and die some time, but you won’t know that. Irelle—my darling!”
ETHAN COURT bent and touched his lips, for the last time, to the soft crimson ones of the sleeping girl.
“I should have killed you, Irelle,” he whispered. “But this death is easier for you. I wonder if you ever knew that I loved you?” Her blue eyes were veiled. Court turned and went out of the room, staggering as he walked like a drunken man. He closed the heavy door and locked it with Farr’s key. He pressed his forehead against the cool metal.
There was so much to do now, so much to do, lest all that had been gained be lost for want of a man who would speak the truth freely. But the road ahead was clear, and peace, not war, lay it its end.
The elevator lifted Court steadily toward a world of life and promise. Beneath him, in a bare little room of Farr’s castle, Irelle lay in the sleep from which she would not wake again. He left her nothing . . . except dreams!
BEGGARS IN VELVET
The Baldies lived always in the shadow of danger; mutations such as they were naturally hated by the normal humans—and to make matters worse, the paranoid members of their own type were on the warpath! And no one could know when they would be betrayed—
I.
It was like stepping on a snake. The thing, concealed in fresh, green grass, squirmed underfoot and turned and struck venomously. But the thought was not that of reptile or beast; only man was capable of the malignance that was. really, a perversion of intellect.
Burkhalter’s dark face die? not change; his easy stride did not alter.
But his mind had instantly drawn back from that blind malevolence, alert and ready, while all through the village Baldies paused imperceptibly in their work or conversation as their minds touched Burkhalter’s.
No human noticed.
Under bright morning sunlight Redwood Street curved cheerful and friendly before Burkhalter, But a breath of uneasiness slipped along it, the same cool, dangerous wind that had been blowing for days through the thoughts of every telepath in Sequoia. Ahead were a few early shoppers, some children on their way to school, a group gathered outside the barber shop, one of the doctors from the hospital.
Where is he?
The answer came swiftly. Can’t locate him. Near you, though—
Someone—a woman, the overtones of her thought showed—sent a message tinged with emotional confusion, almost hysterical. One of the patients from the hospital—
Instantly the thoughts of the others closed reassuringly around her, warm with friendliness and comfort. Even Burkhalter took time to send a clear thought of unity. He recognized among the others the cool, competent personality of Duke Heath, the Baldy priest-medic, with its subtle psychological shadings that only another telepath could sense.
It’s Selfridge, Heath told the woman, while the other Baldies listened. He’s just drunk. I think I’m nearest, Burkhalter. I’m coming.
A helicopter curved overhead, its freight-gliders swinging behind it, stabilized by their gyroscopes. It swept over the western ridge and was gone toward the Pacific. As its humming died, Burkhalter could hear the muffled roar of the cataract up the valley. He was vividly conscious of the waterfall’s feathery whiteness plunging down the cliff, of the slopes of pine and fir and redwood around Sequoia, of the distant noise of the cellulose mills. He focused on these clean, familiar things to shut out the sickly foulness that blew from Selfridge’s mind to his own. Sensibility and sensitivity had gone hand in hand with the Baldies, and Burkhalter had wondered more than once how Duke Heath managed to maintain his balance in view of the man’s work among the psychiatric patients at the hospital. The race of Baldies had come too soon; they were not aggressive; but race-survival depended on competition.
He’s in the tavern, a woman’s thought said. Burkhalter automatically jerked away from the message; he knew the mind from which it came. Logic told him instantly that the source didn’t matter—in this instance. Barbara Pell was a paranoid; therefore an enemy. But both paranoids and Baldies were desperately anxious to avoid any open break. Though their ultimate goals lay worlds apart, yet their paths sometimes paralleled.
But already it was too late, Fred Selfridge came out of the tavern, blinked against the sunlight, and saw Burkhalter. The trader’s thin, hollow-cheeked face twisted into a sour grin. The blurred malignance of his thought drove before him as he walked toward Burkhalter, and one hand kept making little darts toward the misericordia swung at his belt.
He stopped before Burkhalter, blocking the Baldy’s progress. His grin broadened.
Burkhalter had paused. A dry panic tightened his throat. He was afraid, not for himself, but for his race, and every Baldy in Sequoia knew that—and watched.
He said “Morning, Fred.”
Selfridge hadn’t shaved that morning. Now he rubbed his stubbled chin and let his eyelids droop. “Mr. Burkhalter,” he said. “Consul Burkhalter. Good thing you remembered to wear a cap this morning. Skinheads catch cold pretty easy.”
Play for time, Duke Heath ordered. I’m coming. I’ll fix it.
“I didn’t pull any wires to get this job, Fred,” Burkhalter said. “The Towns made me consul. Why blame me for it?”
“You pulle
d wires, all right,” Selfridge said. “I know graft when I see it. You were a schoolteacher from Modoc or some hick town. What the devil do you know about Hedgehounds?”
“Not as much as you do,” Burkhalter admitted. “You’ve had the experience.”
“Sure. Sure I have. So they take a half-baked teacher and make him consul to the Hedgehounds. A greenhorn who doesn’t even know those bichos have got cannibal tribes. I traded with the woodsmen for thirty years, and I know how to handle ’em. Are you going to read ’em pretty little stories out of books?”
“I’ll do what I’m told. I’m not the boss.”
“No. But maybe your friends are. Connections! If I’d had the same connections you’ve got, I’d be sitting on my tail like you, pulling in credits for the same work. Only I’d do that work better—a lot better.”
“I’m not interfering with your business,” Burkhalter said. “You’ve still trading, aren’t you? I’m minding my own affairs.”
“Are you? How do I know what you tell the Hedgehounds?”
“My records are open to anybody.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. My job’s just to promote peaceful relations with the Hedgehounds. Not to do any trading, except what they want—and then I refer ’em to you.”
“It sounds fine,” Selfridge said, “Except for one thing. You can read my mind and tell the Hedgehounds all about my private business.”
Burkhalter’s guard slipped; he couldn’t have helped it. He had stood the man’s mental nearness as long as he could, though it was like breathing foul air. “Afraid of that?” he asked, and regretted the words instantly. The voices in his mind cried: Careful!
Selfridge flushed. “So you do it after all, eh? All that fine talk about you skinheads respecting people’s privacy—sure! No wonder you got the consulate! Reading minds—”
“Hold on,” Burkhalter said. “I’ve never read a non-Baldy’s mind in my life. That’s the truth.”
“Is it?” the trader sneered. “How the devil do I know if you’re lying? But you can look inside my head and see if I’m telling the truth. What you Baldies need is to be taught your place, and for two coins I’d—”
Burkhalter’s mouth felt stiff. “I don’t duel,” he said, with an effort. “I won’t duel.”
“Yellow,” Selfridge said, and waited, his hand hovering over the misericordia’s hilt.
And there was the usual quandary. No telepath could possibly lose a duel with a non-Baldy, unless he wanted to commit suicide. But be dared not win, either. The Baldies baked their own humble pie; a minority that lives on sufferance must not reveal its superiority, or it won’t survive. One such incident might have breached the dyke the telepaths had painfully erected against the rising tide of intolerance.
For the dyke was too long. It embraced all of mankind. And it was impossible to watch every inch of that incredible levee of custom, orientation and propaganda, though the basic tenets were instilled in each Baldy from infancy. Some day the dyke would collapse, but each hour of postponement meant the gathering of a little more strength—
Duke Heath’s voice said “A guy like you, Selfridge, would be better off dead.”
Sudden shock touched Burkhalter. He shifted his gaze to the priest-medic, remembering the subtle tension he had recently sensed under Heath’s deep calm, and wondering if this was the blowoff. Then he caught the thought in Heath’s mind and relaxed, though warily.
Beside the Baldy was Ralph Selfridge, a smaller, slighter edition of Fred. He was smiling rather sheepishly.
Fred Selfridge showed his teeth. “Listen, Heath,” he snapped. “Don’t try to stand on your position. You haven’t got one. You’re a surrogate. No skinhead can be a real priest or a medic.”
“Sure they can,” Heath said. “But they don’t.” His round, youthful face twisted into a scowl. “Listen to me—”
“I’m not listening to—”
“Shut up!”
Selfridge gasped in surprise. He was caught flat-footed, undecided whether to use his misericordia or his fists, and while he hesitated, Heath went on angrily.
“I said you’d be better off dead and I meant it! This kid brother of yours thinks you’re such a hot-shot he imitates everything you do. Now look at him! If the epidemic hits Sequoia, he won’t have enough resistance to work up antibodies, and the young idiot won’t let me give him preventive shots. I suppose he thinks he can live on whiskey like you!”
Fred Selfridge frowned at Heath, stared at his younger brother, and looked back at the priest-medic. He shook his head, trying to clear it.
“Leave Ralph alone. He’s all right.”
“Well, start saving for his funeral expenses,” Heath said callously. “As a surrogate medic, I’ll make a prognosis right now—rigor mortis.” Selfridge licked his lips. “Wait a minute. The kid isn’t sick, is he?”
“There’s an epidemic down toward Columbia Crossing,” Heath said. “One of the new virus mutations. If it hits us here, there’ll be trouble. It’s a bit like tetanus, but avertin’s no good. Once the nerve centers are hit, nothing can be done. Preventive shots will help a lot, especially when a man’s got the susceptible blood-type—as Ralph has.”
Burkhalter caught a command from Heath’s mind.
“You could use some shots yourself, Fred,” the priest-medic went on. “Still, your blood type is B, isn’t it? And you’re tough enough to throw off an infection. This virus is something new, a mutation of the old flu bug—”
He went on. Across the street someone called Burkhalter’s name, and the consul slipped away, unnoticed except for a parting glare from Selfridge.
A slim, red-haired girl was waiting under a tree at the corner. Burkhalter grimaced inwardly as he saw he could not avoid her. He was never quite able to control the turmoil of feeling which the very sight or thought of Barbara Pell stirred up within him. He met her bright narrow eyes, full of pinpoints of light. He saw her round slimness that looked so soft and would, he thought, be as hard to the touch as her mind was hard to the thought’s touch. Pier bright red wig, almost too luxuriant, spilled heavy curls down about the square, alert face to move like red Medusa-locks upon her shoulders when she turned her head. Curiously, she had a redhead’s typical face, highcheekboned, dangerously alive. There is a quality of the red-haired that goes deeper than the hair, for Barbara Pell had, of course, been born as hairless as any Baldy.
“You’re a fool,” she said softly as he came up beside her. “Why don’t you get rid of Selfridge?” Burkhalter shook his head. “No. And don’t you try anything.”
“I tipped you off that he was in the tavern. And I got here before anybody else, except Heath. If we could work together—”
“We can’t.”
“Dozens of times we’ve saved you traitors,” the woman said bitterly. “Will you wait until the humans stamp out your lives—” Burkhalter walked past her and turned toward the pathway that climbed the steep ascent leading out of Sequoia. He was vividly aware of Barbara Pell looking after him. He could see her as clearly as if he had eyes in the back of his head, her bright, dangerous face, her beautiful body, her bright, beautiful, insane thoughts—
For behind all their hatefulness, the paranoids’ vision was as beautiful and tempting as the beauty of Barbara Pell. Perilously tempting. A free world, where Baldies could walk and live and think in safety, no longer bending the scope of their minds into artificial, cramping limits as once men bent their backs in subservience to their masters. A bent back is a humiliating thing, but even a serf’s mind is free to range. To cramp the mind is to cramp the soul, and no humiliation could surpass the humiliation of that.
But there was no such world as the paranoids dreamed of. The price would be too high. What shall it profit a man, thought Burkhalter wryly, if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul? The words might first have been spoken in this connection and no other, so perfectly did they apply to it. The price must be murder, and whoever paid that price would automatica
lly sully the world he bought with it until, if he were a normal creature, he could never enjoy what he had paid so high to earn. Burkhalter called up a bit. of verse into his mind and savored again the bitter melancholy of the poet who wrote it, perhaps more completely than the poet himself ever dreamed.
I see the country, far away,
Where I shall never stand.
The heart goes where no foot
step may,
Into the promised land.
Barbara Pell’s mind shot after him an angry, evil shaft of scorn and hatred. “You’re a fool, you’re all fools you don’t deserve telepathy if you degrade it. If you’d only join us in—” The thought ceased to be articulate and ran suddenly, gloatingly red with spilled blood, reeking saltily of it, as if her whole mind bathed deliciously in the blood of all humans.
Burkhalter jerked his thoughts away from contact with hers, sickened. It isn’t the end of free living they want any more, he told himself in sudden realization—it’s the means they’re lusting after now. They’ve lost sight of a free world. All they want is killing.
“Fool, fool, fool!” Barbara Pell’s thoughts screamed after him. “Wait and see! Wait until—one times two is two, two times two is four three times two—”
Burkhalter thought grimly, “They’re up to something,” and sent his mind probing gingerly past the sudden artificial barrier with which she had sought to blank out a thought even she realized was indiscreet. She fought the probing viciously. He sensed only vague, bloody visions stirring behind the barrier. They she laughed without a sound and hurled a clear, terrible, paranoid thought at him, a picture of sickening clarity that all but splashed in his face with its overrunning redness.
He drew his mind back with swiftness that was pure reflex. As safe to touch fire as thoughts like hers. It was the one way any paranoid could shut out the inquisitive thoughts of a nonparanoid when need arose. And of course, normally no Baldy would dream of probing uninvited into another mind. Burkhalter shuddered.
They were up to something, certainly. He must pass the episode on to those whose business it was to know about the paranoids. Barbara Pell’s mind was not, in any case, likely to yield much information on secret plans. She was an executioner, not a planner. He withdrew his thoughts from her, fastidiously, shaking off the contamination as a cat shakes water from its feet.
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