Baldy

by Henry Kuttner

  But it hadn't, really. For Barton saw clearly now that an era had finally ended in the life of the Baldy race. Till yesterday the path had seemed clear before them. But yesterday an evil had been unveiled in the very heart of their own race, and it was an evil which would menace the peace of the world until one race or the other was wiped wholly off the face of the earth. For what a few telepaths had stumbled upon already, others would discover in the future. Had, perhaps, already discovered. And must not be allowed to retain.

  Thou, O son of man, I have set a watchman unto the house of Israel.

  We must be on guard now, he thought. Always on guard. And he knew suddenly that his maturation had taken one long forward step in the past few hours. First he had been aimless, open to any possibility that knocked loudest at the doors of his mind. Then he had found the job he was suited for, and in its comfortable adjustment thought himself adult at last. Until yesterday--until today.

  It was not enough to hunt animals. His work was laid out before him on a scale so vast he could not see it clearly yet. but its outlines were very clear. He could not do the job alone. It would take many others. It would take constant watchfulness from this hour on, over the whole world. Today, perhaps for the first time in nearly two thousand years, the Crusaders were born again.

  Strange, he thought, that it had taken a madwoman to give them their first warning. So that not even the mad were useless in the progress of the race. Strange that the threefold divisions of the mutants had so closely interwoven in the conflict just passed. Mad, sane, sane-paranoid. And typical that even in deadly combat the three lines wove together interdependently..

  He looked at Sue. Their minds reached out and touched, and in the deep, warm assurance of meeting was no room for doubt or regret. This, at least, was their heritage. And it was worth any price the future demanded of them-this knowledge of confident unity, through any darkness, across any miles. The fire on the hearth would not burn out until the last Baldy died.

  The Lion and the Unicorn

  By Henry Kuttner and C.L. Moore

  The best way of keeping a secret is to avoid even the appearance of secrecy. McNey whistled a few bars of Grieg, and the vibrations set delicate machinery in operation. The dull amber of the walls and ceiling changed to a cool transparency. Polaroid crystal did tricks with the red glare of the sunset above the Catskills. The deep, cloudless blue sky hung empty overhead. But Barton's helicopter had already arrived, and soon Callahan would be here, too.

  That Callahan would dare to come, and alone, gave a horrible clarity to the danger. Twenty years ago a dagger would have ended the matter. But not permanently. Barton had used steel, and, while he had not completely failed, he had not succeeded either. The menace had grown.

  McNey, standing by his desk, brushed a hand across his forehead and looked at his wet palm curiously. Hypertension. The result of this desperate, straining attempt to get in contact with Callahan, and the surprise of finding it far too easy. And now Barton as the catalyst-mongoose and snake.

  There must be no clash-not yet. Somehow Barton must be kept from killing Callahan. The hydra had more than a hundred heads, and the Power as well. There lay -the chief peril, the tremendous secret weapon of the mad telepaths.

  But they weren't mad. They were paranoid types, coldly logical, insane in one regard only, their blind warped hatred for nontelepaths. In twenty years, thirty, forty perhaps, they had-not grown-but organized, until today the cancerous cells were spotted throughout the towns of America, from Modoc and American Gun to Roxy and Florida End.

  I'm old, McNey thought. Forty-two, but I feel old. The bright dream I grew up with-it's fading, blotted out by a nightmare.

  He glanced in a mirror. He was big-boned, large-framed, but soft. His eyes were too gentle, not suited for battle. His hair-the wig all telepathic Baldies wore-was still dark, but he'd buy a graying one soon.

  He was tired.

  He was on leave of absence from Niagara, one of the science towns; but there were no furloughs from his secret job. That was a job many Baldies held, and one no nontelepaths suspected-a combination of policing and extermination. For paranoid Baldies could not be allowed to survive. That was axiomatic.

  Over the ridge lay the town. McNey let his gaze travel downward, across pine and sumac groves, to the pool in the brook, where trout hid under shadowed overhangs. He opened part of the wall and let the cool air enter. Absently he whistled the phrase that would start the supersonics and keep mosquitoes at a respectful distance. On the flagged walk below he saw a slim figure, trim in light slacks and blouse, and recognized Alexa, his adopted daughter. The strong family instinct of Baldies had made adoption a commonplace.

  The fading sunlight burnished her glossy wig. He sent a thought down.

  Thought you were in the village. Marian's at the show.

  She caught the hint of disappointment in his mind. Intrusion, Darryl?

  For an hour or two--

  O.K. There's an apple-blossom sequence in the pic, and I can't stand the smell of the stuff. Marian asked me--I'll catch a dance or two at the Garden.

  He felt wretched as he watched her go off. In the perfect telepathic world there would be no need for secrecy or evasion. That, indeed, was one of the drawbacks of the paranoid system-the mysterious, untappable wave length on which they could communicate. The thing called the Power. It was, McNey thought, a secondary characteristic of the mutation itself, like baldness, and yet more strictly limited. It seemed that only the paranoid Baldies could develop the Power. Which implied two separate and distinct mutations. Considering the delicate balance of the mental machine, that was not improbable.

  But true rapport was vital for a complete life. Telepaths were more sensitive than nontelepaths; marriage was more complete; friendship warmer; the race a single living unit. For no thought could be hidden from probing. The average Baldy refrained, from courtesy, when a rapport mind went blurred; yet, ultimately, such blurring should become unnecessary. There need be no secrets.

  Both Marian and Alexa knew of McNey's connection with the organization, but it was a tacit understanding. They knew without words when McNey did not want to answer questions. And because of the deep trust that comes from telepathic understanding, they refrained from asking any, even in their thoughts.

  Alexa was twenty now. Already she had felt the reaction of being an outsider in a world complete in itself. For Baldies were still intruders, no matter how much rationalization was used. The great majority of humanity was nontelepathic-and fear, distrust, and hatred lay latent in that giant tribunal that daily passed judgment upon the Baldy mutation.

  Capital punishment, McNey knew very well, was the sentence contingent upon a thumbs-down verdict. And if the thumbs ever turned down--

  If the nontelepaths ever learned what the paranoids were doing--

  Barton was coming up the path. He walked with the lithe springiness of youth, though he was over sixty. His wig was iron-gray, and McNey could sense the wary alertness of the hunter's thoughts. Technically Barton was a naturalist, a big-game hunter. His quarry was sometimes human, however.

  Upstairs, Dave, McNey thought.

  Right. Is it here yet?

  Callahan's coming soon.

  The thoughts did not mesh. The semantic absolute symbol for Callahan was simpler in McNey's mind; in Barton's it was colored by associations from a half-lifetime of conflict with a group he hated, by now, almost pathologically. McNey never knew what lay behind the violence of Barton's hatred. Once or twice he had caught fleeting mental images of a girl, dead now, who had once helped Barton, but such thoughts were always as inchoate as reflections in rippling water.

  Barton came up in the dropper. He had a seamed, swarthy face, and a trick of smiling lopsidedly so that the grimace was almost a sneer. He sat down in a relaxer, sliding his dagger forward into a more handy position, and thought for a drink. McNey supplied Scotch and soda. The sun had dropped beyond the mountain, and the wind grew colder. Automatic indu
ction began to warm the room.

  Lucky you caught me. On my way north. Trouble.

  About us?

  Always.

  This time what?

  Barton's thoughts broadened.

  Wigless Baldy with Hedgehound group Peril to Baldies-- Villages being raided

  Wigless one untrained telepathic ally

  Wigless? Paranoid?

  Know little. Can't establish communication.

  But--Hedgehounds?

  Barton's sneer was reflected by his thought.

  Savages. I'll investigate. Can't let the humans connect Us with raiding Hedgehounds.

  McNey was silent, pondering. It had been a long time since the Blowup, when hard radiations had first created the mutations, and brought about the decentralization of a culture. But those days had seen the beginnings of the Hedgehounds, the malcontents who had refused to join the village unions, who had fled to the woods and the backlands and lived the

  savage life of nomads-but always in small groups, for fear of the omnipresent atomic bombs. Hedgehounds weren't seen often. From helicopters you might catch glimpses of furtive figures trailing in single file through the Limberlost country, or in the Florida Everglades, or wherever the old forests stood. But by necessity they lived hidden in the backwoods. Occasionally there were quick raiding parties on isolated villages--so few, however, that no one considered the Hedgehounds a menace. They were nuisances at best, and for the most part they stayed away from towns.

  To find a Baldy among them was less singular than amazing. Telepaths formed a racial unit, branching out into family groups. As infants grew, they were assimilated. Might be some sort of paranoid plot. Dunno what sort.

  McNey tipped his drink. No use killing Callahan, you know, he pointed out.

  Tropism, Barton's thought said grimly. Taxis. When I catch 'em, I kill 'em. Not certain methods work on Them. I've used adrenalin. They can't foresee a berserker's actions in a fight, because he can't foresee his own. You can't fight Them as you'd play a chess game, Darryl. You've got to force them to limit their powers. I've killed some by making them fight with machines, which don't react as instantly as the mind. In fact-shadow of bitterness--we dare make no plans ahead. The paranoids can read our minds. Why not kill It?

  Because we may have to compromise. The blasting wave of hot, violent fury made McNey wince. Barton's negative was stunningly emphatic.

  McNey turned his glass, watching the moisture condense. But the paranoids are expanding.

  Find a way of tapping their power, then! We're trying. There's no way. Find a secret wave length for us.

  McNey's mind blurred. Barton looked away mentally. But he had caught a scrap of something. He tried not to ask the question burning within him.

  McNey said aloud, "Not yet, Dave. I mustn't even think it; you know that."

  Barton nodded. He, too, realized the danger of working out a plan in advance. There was no effective barrier that could be erected against the paranoids probing.

  Don't kill Callahan, McNey pleaded. Let me lead.

  Unwillingly Barton assented. It's coming. Now.

  His more disciplined mind, trained to sense the presence of the radiations that meant intelligence, had caught stray fragments from the distance. McNey sighed, put down his glass, and rubbed his forehead.

  Barton thought. That Baldy with the Hedgehounds. MayI bring him here if necessary?

  Of course.

  Then a new thought came in, confident, strong, calm. Barton moved uneasily. McNey sent out an answer.

  After a minute Sergei Callahan stepped out of the dropper and stood waiting, warily eyeing the naturalist. He was a slim, blond, soft-featured man, with hair so long and thick that it was like a mane. Only affectation made paranoids wear wigs of such extreme style-that and their natural maladjustment.

  He didn't look dangerous, but McNey felt as though a feral beast had come into the room. What had the medievalists symbolized by the lion? Carnal sin? He couldn't remember. But in Barton's mind he caught the echo of a similar thought: a carnivore, to be butchered!

  "How d'you do," Callahan said, and because he spoke aloud, McNey knew that the paranoid had classed his hosts as a lower species, and gave them patronizing contempt. It was characteristic of the paranoids.

  McNey rose; Barton didn't. "Will you sit down?" "Sure." Callahan dropped on a relaxer. "You're McNey. I've heard of Barton."

  "I'm sure you have," the hunter said softly. McNey hastily poured drinks. Barton left his untasted.

  Despite the silence, there was something in the room that had the quality of fourth-dimensional sound. There was no attempt at direct telepathic communication, but a Baldy is never in complete mental silence, except in the stratosphere. Like half-heard, distant music of toccata and fugue the introspective thoughts beat dimly out. Instinctively one man's mental rhythm sought to move in the same pattern as another's, as soldiers automatically keep step. But Callahan was out of step, and the atmosphere seemed to vibrate faintly with discord.

  The man had great self-confidence. Paranoids seldom felt the occasional touches of doubt that beset the straight-line Baldies, the nagging, inevitable question telepaths sometimes

  -- asked themselves: Freak or true mutation? Though several generations had passed since the Blowup, it was still too early to tell. Biologists had experimented, sadly handicapped by the lack of possible controls, for animals could not develop the telepathic function. Only the specialized colloid of the human brain had that latent power, a faculty that was still a mystery.

  By now the situation was beginning to clarify a trifle. In the beginning there had been three distinct types, not recognized until after the post-Blowup chaos had subsided into decentralization. There were the true, sane Baldies, typified by McNey and Barton. There were the lunatic offshoots from a cosmic womb raging with fecundity, the terato-logical creatures that had sprung from radiation-battered germ plasm-two-headed fused twins, cyclops, Siamese freaks. It was a hopeful commentary that such monstrous births had almost ceased.

  Between the sane Baldies and the insane telepaths lay the mutation-variant of the paranoids, with their crazy fixation of egotism. In the beginning the paranoids refused to wear wigs, and, if the menace had been recognized then, extermination would have been easy. But not now. They were more cunning. There was, for the most part, nothing to distinguish a paranoid from a true Baldy. They were well camouflaged and safe, except for the occasional slips that gave Barton and his hunters a chance to use the daggers that swung at every man's belt.

  A war-completely secret, absolutely underground by necessity-in a world unconscious of the deadly strife blazing in the dark. No nontelepath even suspected what was happening. But the Baldies knew.

  McNey knew, and felt a sick shrinking from the responsibility involved. One price the Baldies paid for survival was the deification of the race, the identification of self, family, and friends with the whole mutation of telepaths. That did not include the paranoids, who were predators, menacing the safety of all Baldies on earth.

  McNey, watching Callahan, wondered if the man ever felt self-doubt. Probably not. The feeling of inferiority in paranoids made them worship the group because of pure egotism; the watchword was We are supermen! All other species are inferior.

  They were not supermen. But it was a serious mistake to underestimate them. They were ruthless, intelligent, and strong.

  Not as strong as they thought, though. A lion can easily kill a wild hog, but a herd of hogs can destroy a lion.

  "Not if they can't find him," Callahan said, smiling.

  McNey grimaced. "Even a lion leaves spoor. You can't keep on with your plan indefinitely without the humans suspecting, you know."

  Contempt showed in Callahan's thought. "They're not telepaths. Even if they were, we have the Power. And you can't tap that."

  "We can read your minds, though," Barton put in. His eyes were glowing. "We've spoiled some of your plans that way."

  "Incidents," Callahan sai
d. He waved his hand. "They haven't any effect on the long-term program. Besides, you can read only what's above the conscious threshold of awareness. We think of other things besides the Conquest. And--once we arrange another step--we carry it out as quickly as possible, to minimize the danger of having the details read by one of the traitors."

  "So we're traitors now," Barton said. Callahan looked at him. "You are traitors to the destiny of our race. After the Conquest, we'll deal with you."

  McNey said, "Meanwhile, what will the humans be doing?" "Dying," Callahan said.

  McNey rubbed his forehead. "You're blind. If a Baldy kills one human, and that's known, it'll be unfortunate. It might blow over. If two or three such deaths occur, there'll be questions asked and surmises made. It's been a long while since we had Baldy lynchings, but if one smart human ever guesses what's going on, there'll be a worldwide program that will destroy every Baldy on earth. Don't forget, we can be recognized." He touched his wig. "It won't happen."

  "You underestimate humans. You always have." "No," Callahan said, "that's not true. But you've always underestimated Us. You don't even know your own capabilities."

  "The telepathic function doesn't make supermen." "We think it does."

  "All right," McNey said, "we can't agree on that. Maybe we can agree on other things."

  Barton made an angry sound. Callahan glanced at him. "You say you understand our plan. If you do, you know it can't be stopped. The humans you're so afraid of have only two strong points: numbers and technology. If the technology's smashed, We can centralize, and that's all We need. We can't do it now, because of the atomic bombs, of course. The moment we banded together and revealed ourselves-blam! So--"

  "The Blowup was the last war," McNey said. "It's got to be the last. This planet couldn't survive another."

  "The planet could. And we could. But humanity couldn't."

  Barton said, "Galileo doesn't have a secret weapon."