The People

by Зенна Гендерсон

  "No, it isn't." I closed my eyes and concentrated again, Sensing diagonally up through the hill and into the Selkirk Carefully I detailed it to Remy contour by contour.

  "Hey!" I sat up, startled at Remy's cry. "Look what we've made!" I leaned over his sketch, puzzling over the lines in the crumbly soil.

  "It looks a little like a shell." I said. "A rifle shell. Oh, my gosh! Do you suppose that's what it is? That we've spent all of this time over a rifle shell?"

  "If only we had some idea of relative size." Remy deepened one of the lines.

  "Well, it fills the hole it's in," I said. "The hole felt like a mine shaft and that thing fills it."

  "A rifle shell that big?" Remy flicked a leaf away with his twig. "Why that'd be big enough to climb into-"

  Remy stiffened as though he had been jabbed. Rising to his knees, he grabbed my arm, his mouth opening wordlessly. He jabbed his twig repeatedly at the railings dump, yanking my arm at the same time.

  "Remy!" I cried, alarmed at his antics. "What on earth's the matter?"

  "It's-" he gasped. "It's a rocket! A rocket! A spaceship! That guy's building a spaceship and he's got it down in the shaft of the Selkirk!"

  Remy babbled in my ear all the way home, telling again and again why it had to be a spaceship and, by the time we got home, I began to believe him. The sight of the house acted as an effective silencer for Remy.

  "This is a secret," he hissed as we paused on the porch before going into the house. "Don't you dare say a word to anyone!"

  I promised and kept my promise but I was afraid for Remy all evening. He's as transparent as a baby when he gets excited and I was afraid he'd give it away any minute. Both Mother and Father watched him and exchanged worried looks-he acted feverish. But somehow we made it through the evening.

  His arguments weren't nearly so logical by the cold light of early morning and his own conviction and enthusiasms were thinned by the hard work he had to put in before noon at the campsites.

  Armed with half a cake and a half-dozen oranges, we cautiously approached the Selkirk that afternoon. My shoulders felt rigid as we approached the old shack and I Sensed apprehensively around for the shotgun barrel-I knew that shape! But nothing happened. No one was home.

  "Well, dern!" Remy sat down by me on a boulder near the door. "Where d'you suppose he went?"

  "Fishing, maybe," I suggested. "Or to town." "We would have seen him if he were fishing on the Cayuse. And he's an Outsider-he'd have to use the road to go to town, and that goes by our place."

  "He could have hiked across the hills instead,"

  "That'd be silly. He'd just parallel the road that way."

  "Well, since he isn't here-" I paused, lifting an inquiring eyebrow.

  "Yeah! Let's do. Let's go take a look in the shaft!" Remy's eyes were bright with excitement. "Put this stuff somewhere where the ants won't get into the cake. We'll eat it later, if he doesn't turn up."

  We scrambled across the jumble of broken rock that was the top of the dump, but when we arrived where the mouth of the shaft should be, there was nothing but more broken rock. We stumbled and slipped back and forth a couple of times before I perched up on a boulder and, closing my eyes, Sensed for metal.

  It was like being in a shiny, smooth flood. No matter on which side of me I turned, the metal was there and, with that odd illusion that happens visually sometimes, the metal under me suddenly seemed to cup upward and contain me instead of my perching over it. It was frightening and I opened my eyes.

  "Well?" asked Remy, impatiently.

  "It's there," I said. "It's covered over, but it's there. We're too close, now, though. I can't get any idea of shape at all. It could be a barn door or

  a sheet of foil or a solid cube. All I know is that it's metal, it's under us,

  and there's lots of it."

  "That's not much help." Remy sagged with disappointment.

  "No, it's not," I said.

  "Let's lift," said Remy. "You did better from the air."

  "Lift? With him around?"

  "He's not around now," said Remy.

  "He might be and we just don't Sense him."

  "How could we keep from it?" asked Remy. "We can always Sense Outsiders. He has no way to shield-"

  "But if that thing’s a rocket and he's in it, that means he'd be shielded-and that means there's some way to get in it-"

  We looked at each other and then scrambled down the dump. It was pretty steep and rugged and we lifted part of the way. Otherwise we might have ended up at the bottom of a good-sized rockslide-us under. We searched the base of the hill, trying to find an entrance. We searched all afternoon, stopping only a few minutes to shake the ants off of and out of the cake and eat it and the oranges, burying the peels carefully before we went back to work. We finally gave up, just before sunset, and sprawled in the aspen thicket at the base of the dump, catching our breath before heading home.

  I raised up on one elbow, peering upward to the heights 1 couldn't see. "He's there now," I said, exasperated. "He's back. How'd he get past us?"

  "I'm too tired to care," said Remy, rubbing the elbow he'd banged against a rock-and that's pretty tired for Remy.

  "He's crying," I said softly. "He's crying like a child."

  "Is he hurt?" Remy asked, straightening.

  "No-o-o, I don't think so," I said, trying to reach him more fully. "It's sorrow and loneliness-that's why he's crying."

  We went back the next day. This time I took a deep-dish apple pie along. Most men have a sweet tooth and miss desserts the most when they're camping. It was a juicy pie and, after I had dribbled juice down the front of me and down onto Remy where he lifted below, I put it into a nice, level inanimate lift and let it trail behind me.

  I don't know exactly what we expected, but it was rather an anticlimax to be welcomed casually at the Selkirk-no surprise, no shotgun, no questions, but plenty of thanks for the pie. Between gulps and through muffling mouthfuls, we learned that the old man's name was Thomas.

  "Should have been Doubting Thomas," he told us unhappily. "Didn't believe a word my son said. And when he used up all our money buying-" He swallowed hard and blinked and changed the subject.

  We never did find out much about him and, of course, ignored completely whatever it was in the shaft of the Selkirk. At least we did that trip and for many more that followed. Remy was learning patience the hard way, but I must admit he was doing wonderfully well for Remy. One thing we didn't find out was the whereabouts of his son. Most of the time for Thomas his son had no other name except My Son. Sometimes he talked as though his son were just over the hill. Other times he was so long gone that he was half forgotten.

  Not long after we got on visiting terms with Tom, I felt I'd better alert Remy. "He's not completely sane," I told him.

  "Sometimes he's as clear as can be. Other times his thoughts are as tangled as baling wire."

  "Old age," suggested Remy. "He's almost eighty."

  "It might be," I said. "But he's carrying a burden of some kind. If I were a Sorter, I could Go-In to him and tell what it is, hut every time he thinks of whatever is troubling him, his thoughts hurt him and get all tangled up."

  "Harmless, though," said Remy.

  "Yes?" I brought back to his mind the shotgun blast we had been greeted with. Remy moved uneasily. "We startled him then," he said.

  "No telling what will startle him. Remember, he's not always tracking logically. We'd better tread lightly for a while."

  One day about a week later, a most impatient week for Remy, we were visiting with Tom again-or rather watching him devour half a lemon pie at one sitting-when we got off onto mines and mining towns.

  "Father said the Selkirk was quite a mine when it was new. They took over a million dollars' worth of silver out of her. Are you working her any?" Remy held his breath as he waited Tom's response to this obvious fishing.

  "No," said Tom. "I'm not a miner. Don't know anything about mines and ores and stuff. I was a sh
eet metal man before I retired." He frowned and stirred uneasily. "I can't remember much of what I used to do. My memory isn't so good any more. Not since my son filled me up with this idea of getting to the moon." I felt Remy freeze beside me. "He's talked it so much and worked at it so hard and sunk everything we ever owned into it that I can't think of anything else any more either. It's like a horn blaring in my ears all the time. Gets so bad sometimes-" He pressed his hands to his ears and shook his head.

  "How soon will you be blasting off?" Remy asked carefully casually.

  "My son says there's only a little left to do. I ought to be able to figure it out from the plans."

  "Where is your son?" asked Remy softly.

  "My son's-" Tom stopped and frowned, "My sons-" His eyes clouded over and his face set woodenly. "My son said no one was to come around. My son said everyone had to stay away." His voice was rising and he came to his feet.

  "My son said they'd come and try to stop us!" The voice went up another notch. "He said they'd come snooping and take the ship away!" He was yelling now. "He said to keep them away! Keep them away until he-until he-" His voice broke and he grabbed for the nearest chunk of rock. I reached out quickly with my mind and opened his hand so it dropped the rock and, while he was groping for another, Remy and I took off down the hill, wordless and shaken. We clutched each other at the foot of the slope.

  "It is a rocket!" stuttered Remy, shaken with delight. "I told you sol A real rocket! A moon rocket!"

  "He kept saying 'my son said,'" I shivered. "Something's wrong about that son of his."

  "Why worry about that?" exulted Remy. "He's got a spacecraft of some kind and it's supposed to go to the moon."

  "I worry about that," I said, "because every time he says 'my son' his mind tangles more. That's what triggered this madness."

  Well, when we got back home, almost bursting with the news we couldn't share, Mother was brisking around gathering up some essential things. "It's an emergency," she said.

  "Word came from the Group. Dr'. Curtis is bringing a patient out to us and he needs me. Shadow, you're to Come with me. This will be a good chance for you to begin on real diagnosis. You're old enough now. Remy, you be good and take care of your father. You'd better be the cook and no more than two meals a day of fried eggs!"

  "But, Mother-" Remy looked at me and frowned.

  "Shadow-"

  "Yes?" Mother turned from the case she was packing.

  "Oh, nothing," he said, his bottom lip pushing forward in his disappointment.

  "Well, this'll have to be your exclusive little red wagon, now," I murmured as he reached down a case for me from the top shelf of the closet. "But drag it mighty carefully. If in doubt-lift !"

  "I'll wave to you as we go by, headed for the moon!" he teased.

  "Rainy," I paused with a handful of nightgown poised above the case. "It might still be all a mad dream of Tom's. We've never seen the rocket. We've never seen the son. I could be misreading the metal completely. It'll be fun if you can find out for sure, but don't get your heart set on it too much. And be careful!"

  Mother and I decided to take the pickup truck because Father had the forestry

  jeep and we might need transportation if we went among Outsiders. So we loaded in our cases. Mother got in touch with Father and told him good-by. As the pickup lifted out of the yard and drifted upward and away over the treetops, I leaned out and waved at Remy, who was standing forlornly on the front porch.

  It was a wonderful two weeks-in a solemn sort of way. We have a very small hospital. The People are pretty healthy, but Dr. Curtis, who is an Outsider friend of ours, brings patients out every so often for Mother to help him diagnose. That's her Gift-to put her hands on the suffering and read what the trouble is. So when he's completely puzzled with a case, he brings it out to Mother. She's too shy to go Outside. Besides, the People function more efficiently when they are among their own.

  It wasn't an easy two weeks because a Sensitive must experience whatever the patient is experiencing. Even if it is vicarious, it's still very real and very uncomfortable, especially for a beginner such as I am. One evening I thought I was going to die when I got so caught up in the smothering agony of a seizure that I forgot to Channel and lost my way in the suffering. Mother had to rescue me and give me back my breath.

  When we finally finished at the hospital, we headed home again. I felt as though I were ten years older-as though I had left home as a child and returned as an adult. I bad forgotten completely about Tom and the rocket and had to grope for memory when Remy hissed to me, "It's real!" Then memory went off like a veritable rocket of its own and I nearly burst with excitement.

  There was no opportunity that night to find out any details, but it made pleasant speculation before I fell asleep. Next morning we left right after breakfast, lifting into the shivery morning chill, above the small mists that curled up from the cienega where antelope grazed, ankle-deep in the pooling water or belly-deep in dew-heavy wild flowers.

  "No campsites?" I asked, as we left the flats behind us.

  "I finished them last week," said Remy. "Father said I could have some time off. Which is a real deal because Tom needs so much help now." Remy frowned down at me as he lifted above me. "I'm worried, Shadow. He's sick. I mean more than a wandery mind. I'm afraid he'll be Called before-"

  "Before the ship is done?" I asked with a squeeze in my heart that he should be still so preoccupied with his own dream.

  "Exactly!" flashed Remy. "But I'm not thinking of myself alone. Sure I want the ship finished, and I want in it and out into Space. But I know Tom now and I know he's only living for this flight and it's bigger to him than his hope of Heaven or fear of Hell. You see, I've met his son-"

  "You have!" I reached for his arm. "Oh, Remy! Really! Is he as-uh-eccentric as Tom? Do you like him? Is he-" I stopped. Remy was close to me. I should have been able to read his "yes" or "no" from the plainest outer edges of his thinking, but he was closed to me.

  "What's wrong, Remy?" I asked in a subdued voice. "Is he worse than Tom? Won't he let you-"

  "Wait and ask Tom," said Remy. "He tells me every day. He's like a child and he's decided he can trust me so he talks and talks and talks and always the same thing." Remy swallowed visibly. "It takes some getting used to-at least for me. Maybe for you-"

  "Remy!" I interrupted. "We're almost there and we're still airborne. We'd better-"

  "Not necessary," he said. "Tom's seen me lift lots of times and use lots of our Signs and Persuasions." Remy laughed at my astonishment. "Don't worry. It's no betrayal. He just thinks I've gone to a newfangled school. He marvels at what they teach nowadays and is quite sure I can't spell for sour apples or tell which is the longest river in South America. I told you he's like a child. He'll accept anything except the fact-" We were slanting down to the Selkirk.

  "'The fact-" I prompted. Then instinctively looked for a hiding place. Tom was waiting for us.

  "Hi!" His husky, unsurprised voice greeted us as we landed. "So the sister

  got back? She's almost as good in the air as you are, isn't she? You two must have got an early start this morning. I haven't had breakfast yet."

  I was shocked by his haggard face and the slow weakness of his movements. I could read illness in his eyes, but I winced away from the idea of touching his fragile shoulders or cramped chest to read the illness that was filling him to exhaustion. We sat quietly on the doorstep and smelled the coffee he brewed for breakfast and waited while he worried down a crumbly slice of bread. And that was his breakfast.

  "'I told my sister about the ship," Remy said gently.

  "The ship-" His eyes brightened. "Don't trust many people to show them the ship, but if she's your sister, I trust her. But first-" His eyes closed under the weight of sorrow that flowed almost visibly down over his face. "First I want her to meet my son. Come on in." He stepped back and Remy followed him into the shack. I bundled up my astonishment and followed them. "Remember how we looked
for an entrance?" grinned Remy. "Tom's not so stupid!"

  I don't know what all Tom did with things that clanked and pulleys that whined and boards that parted in half, but the end result was a big black square in the middle of the floor of the shack. It led down into a dark nothingness, "He goes down a ladder," whispered Remy as Tom's tousled head disappeared. "But I've been having to help him hold on. He's getting awfully weak."

  So, as we dropped down through the trapdoor, I lent my help along with Remy's and held the trembling old hands around the ladder rungs and steadied the feeble old knees as Tom descended. At the bottom of the ladder, Tom threw a switch and the subdued glow of a string of lights lead off along a drift.

  "My son rigged up the lights," Tom said, "The generator's over by the ship." There was a series of thuds and clanks and a shower of dust sprinkled us liberally as the door above swung shut again.

  We walked without talking along the drift behind Tom as he scurried along the floor that had been worn smooth in spots by countless comings and goings.

  The drift angled off to one side and when I rounded the corner I cried out softly. The roof had collapsed and the jaggedy tumble of fallen rock almost blocked the drift. There was just about edging-through space between the wall and the heaped-up debris.

  "You'd better Channel," whispered Rainy.

  "You mean when we have to scrape past-" I began.

  "Not that kind of Channeling," said Rainy.

  The rest of his words were blotted out in the sudden wave of agony and sorrow that swept from Tom and engulfed me-not physical agony, but mental agony. I gasped and Channeled as fast as I could, but the wet beads from that agony formed across my forehead before I could get myself guarded against it.

  Tom was kneeling by the heaped-up stones, his eyes intent upon the floor beside them. I moved closer. There was a small heap of soil beside a huge jagged boulder. There was a tiny American flag standing in the soil, and, above it on the boulder, was painted a white cross, inexpertly, so that the excess paint wept down like tears.

  "This," mourned Tom almost inaudibly, "is my son-"

  "Your son!" I gasped. "Your son!"