“I don’t think he’ll want me. You took care of that.”
“Oh, no.” He fell into a secretive whispering tone that tickled her ear. “You don’t have to worry about that. Abraham uses drugs. He swallows them like a big fish after minnows. His favorite is Blank—that’s a drug where you take it and it erases your memory like a big brush. Among other things. Every night Abraham takes a huge dose of Blank. In the morning he wakes up and the only thing he knows is his own name. He’s got that tattooed on his wrist. Everything else, I have to come in and tell him. What he is and why he is and what all he’s up to.”
“But that can’t be true,” she said. Hungry opened the glass door of the booth and went inside. She waited, watching him play with various dials and buttons upon the farthest wall. She saw a street map of the Free City and a beeping red dot that roamed through the streets as Hungry manipulated the dials. “He told me so much about his life,” Rodelphia said. “Even his childhood. And I could tell it was true.”
“Sure,” said Hungry. “He thinks it’s true. Why not? But I’m the one who makes it all up. That story he told you—about his mother—that’s my basic story. But I’ve got plenty more. I used to really let my imagination run wild but I’ve had to curb that tendency lately. A couple of weeks ago, I told Abraham he was the legitimate eldest son of the old Chief of Police. You should have seen him. He stalked straight down to City Hall and demanded his job and uniform. It got embarrassing. They locked him up as screwy, and it took days to get him set free.”
“But isn’t he? Screwy, I mean?”
Hungry came out to explain to her about the booth. It was a public device to be used for getting from one place to another. No fee. Within the limits of the city and county, meaning the dome. He had already set the coordinates for where they wanted to go, so when he was gone, she was to open the door, then close it tightly behind. “And make sure it’s closed or it won’t work. Then hit the big red button and you’ll come right after me.”
She said, “Sure.”
Jumping through the transport booth was no different from jumping through her own powers except that she didn’t know where she was going. But she got there in any event. At the end of the line was another booth identical to the one from which she had jumped. Stepping out, she wasn’t even positive she had gone anywhere. Looking around, she was instantly assaulted by the most gorgeous colors. It took a moment for her to realize she was seeing the sky. It had to be the dome, she knew, painted in bursts of swirling red and orange and violet and green and every imaginable shade in between—all constantly shifting, weaving into one another, flowing like water, mingling fantastically, then bursting apart, shattering. Then she noticed there were pictures up there too—faces—for here an eye blinked between clouds of blue and gold, and here in another place was a big round red nose, and then suddenly an Indian chief came riding across a blank portion of the sky mounted upon the back of a huge palomino stallion. The chief threw back his arm and cocked his elbow and then heaved a brilliantly feathered lance straight across the middle of the sky. For a moment the lance burned savagely, and then it plunged into the middle of a churning mass of color and was gone. When Rodelphia looked back, the chief too had disappeared.
‘That’s not so much,” said Hungry, taking her arm.
“Now look at that,” he told her.
The dome had gone mysteriously dark. Rodelphia held her breath, anticipating. Then a series of block letters, bright yellow in color, began to appear, one blinking into existence, then another. Softly to herself, she read:
what did the deer say when
the archer’s arrow
missed him by half an inch?
Not amused, Hungry said, “That was an arrow escape. You know,” he said, “I wish the guy that writes that stuff would think up something new for a change.”
For the first time—so totally involved had she been with the formations on the dome—Rodelphia took a look at the street. It was literally jammed with people. It was impossible to tell where the street ended and the sidewalk began. Grabbing Hungry’s hand tightly, she allowed him to draw her deeply into the middle of the mob. So many separate bristling thoughts hammered at her mind that she had to close it down entirely. Walking within the mob, she saw that the whole was actually only the sum of many component parts. A dozen men and women streamed past, holding hands, whipping in a snakelike dance. Moments later, the snake himself appeared: a huge fat python ridden by a naked yellow-haired girl who was only slightly longer than the snake was wide. Some people simply stood aside and watched the various processions. Among the performers was a bald-headed juggler who, while balancing a stick on the tip of his nose, tossed and caught six bottles, a tin cup, and one live puppy. A toothless, shriveled man crawled up to Rodelphia and asked if she might want to purchase the services of a mutie.
“He’s a good one. Four legs on him. Various other deviations from the norm. And he can read your mind like a book.”
Hungry gave her a warning look and she politely refused the offer.
Continuing on, they seemed to be moving against the general flow of traffic. Not once did they see the same person twice. Above, the colors had returned to the dome, and tilting back her head Rodelphia watched transfixed while Hungry gave her a rundown on the street. He first warned her to be especially careful, apparently referring back to the toothless man, because these people here were first and they hated muties. “I saw one burned to death—he was hardly a baby—a month ago. And that was nothing. There’s been much worse. I can tell you.” She promised to be good. The rest of what he said she hardly heard; the colors were so gorgeous. He said, “This street is the true heart of the Free City. Nobody actually lives here, but every night when the sun is closed down this whole street comes alive. I really don’t know where some of them come from, but I’ve heard that many sleep down in the sewers and come up only at night. That way they never have to see the sun, which they hate. I guess you could call it a big party, with the Free City itself serving as host. The party runs nightly from sunset to sunup, and anything can happen and usually does. Come dawn, everybody runs home or down to the sewers or wherever. I thought you’d like it.”
She did like it well enough. The whole thing—especially with her mind closed down so that she couldn’t really see—was something absolutely beyond her powers to comprehend. It was those things she could not understand that she always liked the best. There really weren’t that many.
“In here,” said Hungry.
He jumped through a doorway and she went right after him. After the noise of the street, the silence here was dreadful. Rodelphia opened her mind tentatively and catching a thought from Hungry felt much better. A whiff of cooking food caught her nose and she laughed gleefully. At last they would eat. Turning to Hungry, she allowed him to glimpse a smile of complete gratitude.
Then someone caught her hand and gave it a tug. Turning, she saw a happy, smiling man of about thirty-five. With a start she realized he was amazingly handsome: hard as she looked, she couldn’t find a flaw; his features were as perfect as chiseled marble. Except for a narrow band around his waist and a leather pouch attached there, he was quite naked.
“My name is Epson,” he said. “I wanted to ask if you’d care to accompany me home.”
Hungry tried to pull her away, but she stood her ground firmly. Taking a peep into Epson’s mind, she discovered that he was someone rich and famous and powerful. This made her pause. Grandfather had suggested she seek out the rich and famous and powerful, for only they could protect her. She had violated so many of his dictums today; wasn’t it about time she said yes for a change?
But there was something she had to find out first. “Do you have food at your home?” she asked. “I’m really starved.”
“At my home,” said Epson, “the food is natural and constantly in readiness.”
‘Then let’s go,” she said, taking his hand. Hungry, who was weeping openly now and protesting his love, tried to s
top her. She got past him, but then he fell to his knees and clawed at her dress. Another man, going for food, stopped long enough to boot Hungry in the rear. He fell over, hitting his face. When he got himself up again, Rodelphia saw that his nose had turned red and shiny as a beet. She was glad he wasn’t badly hurt.
Epson took her back to the street, then darted around an abrupt corner. As if by magic, they were alone; the mob had gone. Epson asked her to stop, then put both arms around her waist. He said, “It is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest.”
Rodelphia was a quick thinker. Picturing an image of the street in front of Abraham’s basement, she prepared to jump.
Only she didn’t jump. Nothing happened. Opening her eyes, there was Epson.
Still thinking quickly, she turned to run.
Only he held her firmly and her feet never moved an inch.
Then something hard and cold snapped around her wrist.
Peering into his mind, she ran smack into an impenetrable stone wall.
Epson said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to come along with me, Rodelphia.”
* * * *
The interview took place in Epson’s office. The room seemed big since the only furniture was a small wooden desk and a tiny chair. Epson sat on the edge of the desk while Rodelphia took possession of the chair. The ceiling and walls were painted a dingy, ugly shade of gray; the carpet was torn and frayed.
The office was located on the first floor of the Free City Police Headquarters. Rodelphia asked Epson if he was a policeman.
“No, not exactly,” he said. “We have only two policemen in this entire city. And I’m not one of them.”
“Then who are you?”
He favored her with a bright smile which dripped with kindness. “I’m the same as you,” he said. “A mutation. A telepath. I read minds, leap through space in violation of ancient rigid laws of physics. We—you and I—brother and sister.” He crossed his first two fingers to illustrate the closeness of their relationship.
“Then why did you go and arrest me?”
“If I were given to dramatics—and I’m not—I would say: Rodelphia, I did it to save your life. It happens to be true.”
“Nobody can kill me,” she said, with deliberate smugness.
“I can. Now I want you to listen to what I say. Will you?”
“Sure.” Later she prided herself upon the fact that she had listened to every word he said.
He started out by telling her that she had been in the Free City long enough to know that the social stability of the city was based upon a strict system dividing the entire population into three caste groups. “However,” he said, “nature has a way of playing havoc with the best-laid plans. Thus—presto—you and I. Little jokes from Mother Nature. We are not, I can assure you, at all unique. Estimates”—he dug some papers out of his desk drawer and sprinkled them randomly across the floor—”show that one of every fifty births in this city is a mutation of some kind. Most— those with the eight heads and fourteen arms—die at once, though a few survive and then are killed.” He drew a sharp forefinger across his Adam’s apple. “An even smaller number—maybe one in a hundred—escape detection entirely. These are almost always mental mutations such as you and I. Three hundred or so years ago, a massive nuclear bomb exploded near here, spraying radiation upon the city like a rainstorm. The city itself survived, but the people haven’t been the same since. It’s even worse in America, but that doesn’t concern us. Thus the mutations, physical and mental, the most highly developed of which are the telepaths.”
She started to ask him about her grandfather, but then noticed that his tongue—purple as a grape—was dangling from one corner of his mouth. The gesture startled her and she forgot what she wanted to say. Then the tongue withdrew and he continued.
“As for you, I’m afraid dear nature has granted you a power. An ability. But—and this is the question—what are you supposed to do with it? Bet you don’t know. So far today, I have to tell you, you have used your abilities most unwisely. You have, in fact, revealed yourself in a dangerous fashion. You have been frivolous— the most ugly of sins. Mutations are disliked within the general population of the city. It’s the old story of fear becoming hatred. Those that are discovered are invariably murdered. They are by definition unhuman, and to kill one is not a crime. A few derelicts, such as those you chanced to meet today, are tolerated. We pity them deeply. But not mutants. A mutant is both a deviation and a danger. So—” He drew his finger across his throat again, but this time the long nail caught in the puckered flesh, making a tiny cut. Rodelphia watched the gentle trickling of blood.
“Let me tell you a story,” Epson said. “I promise you a moral. I guarantee it.” He smiled. “Once there was a man—shall we call him Edgar Tuttle?—who was born a mutant. We’ll say that this birth occurred shortly after the bomb, when the Free City was still in the process of finding its feet once more. Tuttle was an intelligent man but not, alas, a wise one. He used his powers frivolously. He inserted thoughts into the minds of others. Beautiful women—often the wives of the rich or powerful—fell constantly in love with him. Handed an insult, Tuttle returned it in kind. His favored enemies paraded the streets of the city, quacking like ducks or mooing like cows. He enjoyed telling people their innermost thoughts and desires when these things happened to be personally embarrassing to them. At the first sign of potential danger, Tuttle leaped through time and space. Does this sound familiar?”
“It does,” Rodelphia admitted.
“It should. Well, Tuttle died. He was murdered as he slept. The people of the city caught him and nailed him to a tree or shot him full of holes or cut off his head. Not a pleasant story, no.” A tear caught in his eye; he coughed daintily to clear his throat of grief. “But I promised you a moral, and here it is: No matter how strong a man may be, he will never be stronger than all other men put together.
“Now for a second story, a thematic sequel to the first. Our protagonist this time carries the name of Norman Daniels. As a matter of form, let’s make him a maternal grandfather of mine, several generations removed. Born shortly after the death of Tuttle, but not realizing the scope of his powers till relatively late in life. When he does, fear grips his heart like an iron vest. He races to city hall and there falls on his knees. He begs the authorities for permission for an immediate operation. He wants the offending portion of his brain excised. Above all, Norman Daniels wishes to be normal again. Wisely, his request is refused. Instead, he is offered an opportunity of putting his talents to good use. He is authorized to visit and inspect all the city’s hospitals, specifically the maternity wards. Nothing like setting a mutant to catch a mutant. On his first day, Norman detects ten previously undiscovered mutants. A medal is awarded to him. Mayor Dempsey kisses his cheek. The job becomes his work for life. He performs his assigned tasks with pride and pleasure and dignity. The worse conceivable deviant from the social order, Norman Daniels ensures the continued survival of this same order. And he is successful. When he dies—a satisfied and richly honored man—his replacement is one of the children he himself has discovered. A full circle.
“So you see my point, Rodelphia? This city is an island, surrounded on all sides by hostile, turbulent forces. Our survival is based upon order, decency, regularity, and sanity. We mutants must surrender the capricious possibilities of our powers to the greater good of everyone. If this city falls, civilization falls as well. Kerplop. Not a pleasant sound, no. But it happens to include us, Rodelphia dear. You and I.”
Suddenly he stopped talking and started laughing hysterically. Falling off the edge of the desk, he hit the floor with a kerplop. Down there, he continued to giggle, holding his stomach. Then he stopped, jumped to his feet, and dived for her. She darted away, taking refuge in a corner. “So what do you expect me to do? You don’t expect me to start going around to hospitals, do you?”
He shook his head, bringing a lace handkerchief from somewhere and making it flutter benea
th his nose. “No, no, of course not. As a matter of fact, there are innumerable tasks you may perform. My personal duties consist primarily of crime detection and prevention. I roam the city night and day like a wandering dog, detecting the presence of criminal thoughts in criminal minds before they can be transformed into criminal deeds. Others operate the dome—the artistically inclined among us. You witnessed the North Beach demonstration tonight. I tell you no two people saw exactly the same thing. Wouldn’t you like to have a hand—or is it a mind?—in that? Or you may, if you wish, work among the wayward. Do social work in the third-degree wards. Implanting proper attitudes into youthful half-formed minds. The choice,” he said, waving his arms expansively, tottering on his feet, “is yours.”
“I’ll give it a thought,” she pledged.
“Divine!” He clapped his hands fiercely. “Now I want you to come home with me.” A nasty smile creased his face, and he came toward her on soundless feet. “Come,” he said.
“Will you feed me?” she asked, slipping past his initial assault.
Universe 03 - [Anthology] Page 21
