Kuttner, Henry - Mutant

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BY HENRY KUTTNER

RETURN TO OTHERNESS

BYPASS TO OTHERNESS

FURY

MAN DROWNING

AHEAD OF TIME

THE BRASS RING

THE DAY HE DIED

A GNOME THERE WAS

ROBOTS HAVE NO TAILS

TOMORROW AND TOMORROW

AND THE FAIRY CHESSMEN MUTANT

by HENRY KUTTNER

Baliantine Books

New York

MUTANT

IS based upon published material originally copyrighted by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., 1945

& 1953

Alt Rights Reserved

Only short passages from this book for editorial usage may be

reproduced without prior permission. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 53-12601

Printed in the United States of America

BALIANTINE BOOKS, INC. 101 Fifth Avenue, New York 3, N.Y.

CONTENTS

One 7 THE PIPER'S SON

Two 34 THREE BLIND MICE

Three 68 THE LION AND THE UNICORN

Four 105 BEGGARS IN VELVET

Five 150 HUMPTY DUMPTY

Six 190

One

Somehow I had to stay alive until they found me. They would be hunting for the wreck of my plane,

and eventually they'd find it, and then they'd find me, too. But it was hard to wait.

Empty blue day stretched over the white peaks; then the blazing night you get at this altitude,

and that was empty too. There was no sound or sight of a jet plane or a helicopter. I was

completely alone.

That was the real trouble.

A few hundred years ago, when there were no telepaths, men were used to being alone. But I

couldn't remember a time when I'd been locked in the bony prison of my skull, utterly and

absolutely cut off from all other men. Deafness or blindness wouldn't have mattered as much. They

wouldn't have mattered at all, to a telepath.

Since my plane crashed behind the barrier of mountain peaks, I had been amputated from my species.

And there is something in the constant communication of minds that keeps -a man alive. An

amputated limb dies for lack of oxygen. I was dying for lack of... there's never been any word to

express what it is that makes all telepaths one. But without it, a man is alone, and men do not

live long, alone.

I listened, with the part of the mind that listens for the soundless voices of other minds. I

heard the hollow wind. I saw snow lifting in feathery, pouring ruffles. I saw the blue shadows

deepening. I looked up, and the eastern peak was scarlet. It was sunset, and I was alone.

I reached out, listening, while the sky darkened. A star wavered, glimmered, and stood steadily

overhead. Other stars came, while the air grew colder, until the sky blazed with their westward

march.

Now it was dark. In the darkness, there were the stars, and there was I. I lay back, not even

listening. My people were gone.

I watched the emptiness beyond the stars.

Nothing around me or above me was alive. Why should I be alive, after all? It would be easy, very

easy, to sink down into that quiet where there was no loneliness, because there was no life. I

reached out around me, and my mind found no other thinking mind. I reached back into my memory,

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and that was a little better.

A telepath's memories go back a long way. A good long way, far earlier than his birth.

I can see clearly nearly two hundred years into the past, before the sharp, clear telepathically-

transmitted memories begin to fray and fade into secondary memories, drawn from books. Books go

back to Egypt and Babylon. But they are not the primary memories, complete with sensory overtones,

which an old man gives telepathically to a young one, and which are passed on in turn through the

generations. Our biographies are not written in books. They are written in our minds and memories,

especially the Key Lives which are handed down as fresh as they were once lived by our greatest

leaders....

But they are dead, and I am alone.

No. Not quite alone. The memories remain, Burkhalter and Barton, McNey and Line Cody and Jeff Cody-

a long time dead, but still vibrantly alive in my memory. I can summon up every thought, every

emotion, the musty smell of grass- where?-the yielding of a rubbery walk beneath hurrying feet-

whose?

It would be so easy to relax and die.

No. Wait. Watch. They're alive, Burkhalter and Barton, the Key Lives are still real, though the

men who once lived them have died. They are your people. You're not alone.

Burkhalter and Barton, McNey and Line and Jeff aren't dead. Remember them. You lived their lives

telepathically as you learned them, the way they once lived them, and you can live them again. You

are not alone.

So watch. Start the film unreeling. Then you won't be alone at all, you'll be Ed Burkhalter, two

hundred years ago, feeling the cool wind blow against your face from the Sierra peaks, smelling

the timothy grass, reaching out mentally to glance into the mind of your son... the piper's

son....

It began.

I was Ed Burkhalter.

It was two hundred years ago-

THE PIPER'S SON

THE Green Man was climbing the glass mountains, and hairy, gnomish faces peered at him from

crevices. This was only another step in the Green Man's endless, exciting odyssey. He'd had a

great many adventures already-in the Flame Country, among the Dimension Changers, with the City

Apes 'who sneered endlessly while their blunt, clumsy fingers fumbled at deathrays. The trolls,

however, were masters of magic, and were trying to stop the Green Man with spells. Little

whirlwinds of force spun underfoot, trying to trip the Green Man, a figure of marvelous muscular

development, handsome as a god, and hairless from head to foot, glistening pale green. The

whirlwinds formed a fascinating pattern. If you could thread a precarious path among them-avoiding

the pale yellow ones especially-you could get through.

And the hairy gnomes watched malignantly, jealously, from their crannies in the glass crags.

Al Burkhalter, having recently achieved the mature status of eight full years, lounged under a

tree and masticated a grass blade. He was so immersed in his daydreams that his father had to

nudge his side gently to bring comprehension into the half-closed eyes. It was a good day for

dreaming, anyway-a hot sun and a cool wind blowing down from the white Sierra peaks to the east.

Timothy grass sent its faintly musty fragrance along the channels of air, and Ed Burkhalter was

glad that his son was second-generation since the Blowup. He himself had been born ten years after

the last bomb had been dropped, but secondhand memories can be pretty bad too.

"Hello, Al," he said, and the youth vouchsafed a half-lidded glance of tolerant acceptance.

"Hi, Dad."

"Want to come downtown with me?"

"Nope," Al said, relaxing instantly into his stupor.

Burkhalter raised a figurative eyebrow and half turned. On an impulse, then, he did something he

rarely did without the tacit permission of the other party; he used his telepathic

power to reach into Al's mind. There was, he admitted to himself, a certain hesitancy, a

subconscious unwillingness on his part, to do this, even though Al had pretty well outgrown the

nasty, inhuman formlessness of mental babyhood. There had been a time when Al's mind had been

quite shocking in its alienage. Burkhalter remembered a few abortive experiments he had made

before Al's birth; few fathers-to-be could resist the temptation to experiment with embryonic

brains, and that had brought back nightmares Burkhalter had not had since his youth. There had

been enormous rolling masses, and an appalling vastness, and other things. Prenatal memories were

ticklish, and should be left to .qualified mnemonic psychologists.

But now Al was maturing, and daydreaming, as usual, in bright colors. Burkhalter, reassured, felt

that he had fulfilled his duty as a monitor and left his son still eating grass and ruminating.

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Just the same there was a sudden softness inside of him, and the aching, futile pity he was apt to

feel for helpless things that were as yet unqualified for conflict with that extraordinarily

complicated business of living. Conflict, competition, had not died out when war abolished itself;

the business of adjustment even to one's surroundings was a conflict, " and conversation a duel.

With Al, too, there was a double problem. Yes, language was in effect a tariff wall, and a Baldy

could appreciate that thoroughly, since the wall didn't exist between Baldies.

Walking down the rubbery walk that led to town center, Burkhalter grinned wryly and ran lean

fingers through his well-kept wig. Strangers were very often surprised to know that he was a

Baldy, a telepath. They looked at him with wondering eyes, too courteous to ask how it felt to be

a freak, but obviously avid. Burkhalter, who knew diplomacy, would be quite willing to lead the

conversation.

"My folks lived near Chicago after the Blowup. That was why."

"Oh." Stare. "I'd heard that was why so many-" Startled pause.

"Freaks or mutations. There were both. I still don't know which class I belong to," he'd add

disarmingly.

"You're no freak!" They did protest too much.

"Well, some mighty queer specimens came out of the radio-active-affected areas around the bomb-

targets. Funny things happened to the germ plasm. Most of 'em died out; they

couldn't reproduce; but you'll still find a few creatures in sanitariums-two heads, you know. And

so on."

Nevertheless they were always ill-at-ease. "You mean you can read my mind-now?"

"I could, but I'm not. It's hard work, except with another telepath. And we Baldies-well, we

don't, that's all." A man with abnormal muscle development wouldn't go around knocking people

down. Not unless he wanted to be mobbed. Baldies were always sneakingly conscious of a hidden

peril: lynch law. And wise Baldies didn't even imply that they had an... extra sense. They just

said they were different, and let it go at that.

But one question was always implied, though not always mentioned. "If I were a telepath, I'd...

how much do you make a year?"

They were surprised at the answer. A mindreader certainly could make a fortune, if he wanted. So

why did Ed Burkhalter stay a semantics expert in Modoc Publishing Town, when a trip to one of the

science towns would enable him to get hold of secrets that would get him a fortune?

There was a good reason. Self-preservation was part of it. For which reason Burkhalter, and many

like him, wore toupees. Though there were many Baldies who did not.

Modoc was a twin town with Pueblo, across the mountain barrier south of the waste that had been

Denver. Pueblo held the presses, photolinotypes, and the machines that turned scripts into books,

after Modoc had dealt with them. There was a helicopter distribution fleet at Pueblo, and for the

last week Oldfield, the manager, had been demanding the manuscript of "Psychohistory," turned out

by a New Yale man who had got tremendously involved in past emotional problems, to the detriment

of literary clarity. The truth was that he distrusted Burkhalter. And Burkhalter, neither a priest

nor a psychologist, had to become both without admitting it to the confused author of

"Psychohistory."

The sprawling buildings of the publishing house lay ahead and below, more like a resort than

anything more utilitarian. That had been necessary. Authors were peculiar people, and often it was

necessary to induce them to take hydrotherapic treatments before they were in shape to work out

their books with the semantic experts. Nobody was going to bite them, but they didn't realize

that, and either cowered in corners, terrified, or else blustered their way around, using

language few could understand. Jem Quayle, author of "Psy-chohistory," fitted into neither group;

he was simply baffled by the intensity of his own research. His personal history had qualified him

too well for emotional involvements with the past-and that was a serious matter when a thesis of

this particular type was in progress. *

Dr. Moon, who was on the Board, sat near the south entrance, eating an apple which he peeled

carefully with his silver-hilted dagger. Moon was fat, short, and shapeless; he didn't have much

hair, but he wasn't a telepath; Baldies were entirely hairless. He gulped and waved at Burkhalter.

"Ed ... urp... want to talk to you."

"Sure," Burkhalter said, agreeably coming to a standstill and rocking on his heels. Ingrained

habit made him sit down beside the Boardman; Baldies, for obvious reasons, never stood up when non-

telepaths were sitting. Their eyes met now on the same level. Burkhalter said, "What's up?"

"The store got some Shasta apples flown in yesterday. Better tell Ethel to get some before they're

sold out. Here." Moon watched his companion eat a chunk, and nod.

"Good. I'll have her get some. The copter's laid up for today, though; Ethel pulled the wrong

gadget."

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"Foolproof," Moon said bitterly. "Huron's turning out some sweet models these days; I'm getting my

new one from Michigan. Listen, Pueblo called me this morning on Quayle's book."

"Oldfield?"

"Our boy," Moon nodded. "He says can't you send over even a few chapters."

Burkhalter shook his head. "I don't think so. There are some abstracts right in the beginning that

just have to be clarified, and Quayle is-" He hesitated.

"What?"

Burkhalter thought about the Oedipus complex he'd uncovered in Quayle's mind, but that was

sacrosanct, even though it kept Quayle from interpreting Darius with cold logic. "He's got muddy

thinking in there. I can't pass it; I tried it on three readers yesterday, and got different

reactions from all of them. So far 'Psychohistory' is all things to all men. The critics would

lambaste us if we released the book as is. Can't you string Oldfield along for a while longer?"

"Maybe," Moon said doubtfully. "I've got a subjective novella I could rush over. It's light

vicarious eroticism, and that's harmless; besides, it's semantically O.K.'d. We've been

holding it up for an artist, but I can put Duman on it. I'll do that, yeah. I'll shoot the script

over to Pueblo and he can make the plates later. A merry life we lead, Ed."

"A little too merry sometimes," Burkhalter said. He got up, nodded, and went in search of Quayle,

who was relaxing on one of the sun decks.

Quayle was a thin, tall man with a worried face and the abstract air of an unshelled tortoise. He

lay on his flexiglass couch, direct sunlight toasting him from above, while the reflected rays

sneaked up on him from below, through the transparent crystal. Burkhalter pulled off his shirt and

dropped on a sunner beside Quayle. The author glanced at Burkhalter's hairless chest and half-

formed revulsion rose in him: A Baldy ... no privacy ... none of his business ... fake eyebrows

and lashes; he's still a-

Something ugly, at that point.

Diplomatically Burkhalter touched a button, and on a screen overhead a page of "Psychohistory"

appeared, enlarged and easily readable. Quayle scanned the sheet. It had code notations on it,

made by the readers, recognized by Burkhalter as varied reactions to what should have been

straight-line explanations. If three readers had got three different meanings out of that

paragraph-well, what did Quayle mean? He reached delicately into the mind, conscious of useless

guards erected against intrusion, * mud barricades over which his mental eye stole like a

searching, quiet wind. No ordinary man could guard his mind against a Baldy. But Baldies could

guard their privacy against intrusion by other telepaths -adults, that is. There was a psychic

selector band, a-

Here it came. But muddled a bit. Darius: that wasn't simply a word; it wasn't a picture, either;

it was really a second life. But scattered, fragmentary. Scraps of scent and sound, and memories,

and emotional reactions. Admiration and hatred. A burning impotence. A black tornado, smelling of

pine, roaring across a map of Europe and Asia. Pine scent stronger now, and horrible humiliation,

and remembered pain ... eyes ... Get out!

Burkhalter put down the dictograph mouthpiece and lay looking up through the darkened eye-shells

he had donned. "I got out as soon as you wanted me to," he said. "I'm still out."

Quayle lay there, breathing hard. "Thanks," he said. "Apologies. Why you don't ask a duello-"

"I don't want to duel with you," Burkhalter said. "I've

never put blood on my dagger in my life. Besides, I can see your side of it. Remember, this is my

job, Mr. Quayle, and I've learned a lot of things-that I've forgotten again."

"It's intrusion, I suppose. I tell myself that it doesn't matter, but my privacy-is important."

Burkhalter said patiently, "We can keep trying it from different angles until we find one that

isn't too private. Suppose, for example, I asked you if you admired Darius."

Admiration ... and pine scent... and Burkhalter said quickly, "I'm out. O.K.?"

"Thanks," Quayle muttered. He turned on his side, away from the other man. After a moment he said,

"That's silly- turning over, I mean. You don't have to see my face to know what I'm thinking."

"You have to put out the welcome mat before I walk in," Burkhalter told him.

"I guess I believe that. I've met some Baldies, though, that were... that I didn't like."

"There's a lot on that order, sure. I know the type. The ones who don't wear wigs."

Quayle said, "They'll read your mind and embarrass you just for the fun of it. They ought to be-

taught better."

Burkhalter blinked in the sunlight. "Well, Mr. Quayle, it's this way. A Baldy's got his problems,

too. He's got to orient himself to a world that isn't telepathic; and I suppose a lot of Baldies

rather feel that they're letting their specialization go to waste. There are jobs a man like me is

suited for-"

"Man!" He caught the scrap of thought from Quayle. He ignored it, his face as always a mobile

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mask, and went on.

"Semantics have always been a problem, even in countries speaking only one tongue. A qualified

Baldy is a swell interpreter. And, though there aren't any Baldies on the detective forces, they

often work with the police. It's rather like being a machine that can do only a few things."

"A few things more than humans can," Quayle said.

Sure, Burkhalter thought, if we could compete on equal footing with nontelepathic humanity. But

would blind men trust one who could see? Would they play poker with him? A sudden, deep bitterness

put an unpleasant taste in Burk-halter's mouth. What was the answer? Reservations for Baldies?

Isolation? And would a nation of blind men trust those with vision enough for that? Or would they

be dusted

off-the sure cure, the check-and-balance system that made war an impossibility.

He remembered when Red Bank had been dusted off, and maybe that had been justified. The town was

getting too big for its boots, and personal dignity was a vital factor; you weren't willing to

lose face as long as a dagger swung at your belt. Similarly, the thousands upon thousands of

little towns that covered America, each with its pecular specialty -helicopter manufacture for

Huron and Michigan, vegetable farming for Conoy and Diego, textiles and education and art and

machines-each little town had a wary eye on all the others. The science and research centers were

a little larger; nobody objected to that, for technicians never made war except under pressure;

but few of the towns held more than a few hundred families. It was check-and-balance in most

efficient degree; whenever a town showed signs of wanting to become a city-thence, a capital,

thence, an imperialistic empire-it was dusted off. Though that had not- happened for a long while.

And Red Bank might have been a mistake.

Geopolitically it was a fine set-up; sociologically it was acceptable, but brought necessary

changes. There was subconscious swashbuckling. The rights of the individual had become more highly

regarded as decentralization took place. And men learned.

They learned a monetary system based primarily upon barter. They learned to fly; nobody drove

surface cars. They learned new things, but they did not forget the Blowup, and in secret places

near every town were hidden the bombs that could utterly and fantastically exterminate a town, as

such bombs had exterminated the cities during the Blowup.

And everybody knew how to make those bombs. They were beautifully, terribly simple. You could find

the ingredients anywhere and prepare them easily. Then you could take your helicopter over a town,

drop an egg overside-and perform an erasure.

Outside of the wilderness malcontents, the maladjusted people found in every race, nobody kicked.

And the roaming tribes never raided and never banded together in large groups-for fear of an

erasure.

The artisans were maladjusted too, to some degree, but they weren't antisocial, so they lived

where they wanted and painted, wrote, composed, and retreated into their own private worlds. The

scientists, equally maladjusted in other lines, retreated to their slightly larger towns, banding

together in

small universes, and turned out remarkable technical achievements.

And the Baldies-found jobs where they could.

No nontelepath would have viewed the world environment quite as Burkhalter did: He was abnormally

conscious of the human element, attaching a deeper, more profound significance to those human

values, undoubtedly because he saw men in more than the ordinary dimensions. And also, in a way-

and inevitably-he looked at humanity from outside.

Yet he was human. The barrier that telepathy had raised made men suspicious of him, more so than

if he had had two heads-then they could have pitied. As it was-

As it was, he adjusted the scanner until new pages of the typescript came flickering into view

above. "Say when," he told Quayle.

Quayle brushed back his gray hair. "I feel sensitive all over," he objected. "After all, I've been

under a considerable strain correlating my material."

"Well, we can always postpone publication." Burkhalter threw out the suggestion casually, and was

pleased when Quayle didn't nibble. He didn't like to fail, either.

"No. No, I want to get the thing done now."

"Mental catharsis-" •>•

"Well, by a psychologist, perhaps. But not by-"

"-a Baldy. You know that a lot of psychologists have Baldy helpers. They get good results, too."

Quayle turned on the tobacco smoke, inhaling slowly. "I suppose... I've not had much contact with

Baldies. Or too much-without selectivity. I saw some in an asylum once. I'm not being offensive,

am I?"

"No," Burbhalter said. "Every mutation can run too close to the line. There were lots of failures.

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The hard radiations brought about one true mutation: hairless telepaths, but they didn't all hew

true to the line. The mind's a queer gadget-you know that. It's a colloid balancing, figuratively,

on the point of a pin. If there's any flaw, telepathy's apt to bring it out. So you'll find that

the Blowup caused a hell of a lot of insanity. Not only among the Baldies, but among the other

mutations that developed then. Except that the Baldies are almost always paranoidal."

"And dementia praecox," Quayle said, finding relief from his own embarrassment in turning the

spotlight on Burkhalter.

"And d. p. Yeah. When a confused mind acquires the tele-

pathic instinct-a hereditary bollixed mind-it can't handle it all. There's disorientation. The

paranoia group retreat into their own private worlds, and the d. p.'s simply don't realize that

this world exists. There are distinctions, but I think that's a valid basis."

"In a way," Quayle said, "it's frightening. I can't think of any historical parallel."

"No."

"What do you think the end of it will be?"

"I don't know," Burkhalter said thoughtfully. "I think we'll be assimilated. There hasn't been

enough time yet. We're specialized in a certain way, and we're useful in certain jobs."

"If you're satisfied to stay there. The Baldies who won't wear wigs-"

"They're so bad-tempered I expect they'll all be killed off in duels eventually," Burkhalter

smiled. "No great loss. The rest of us, we're getting what we want-acceptance. We don't have horns

or halos."

Quayle shook his head. "I'm glad, I think, that I'm not a telepath. The mind's mysterious enough

anyway, without new doors opening. Thanks for letting me talk. I think I've got part of it talked

out, anyway. Shall we try the script again?"

"Sure," Burkhalter said, and again the procession of pages nickered on the screen above them.

Quayle did seem less guarded; his thoughts were more lucid, and Burkhalter was able to get at the

true meaning of many of the hitherto muddy statements. They worked easily, the telepath dictating

re-phrasings into his dictograph, and only twice did they have tc hurdle emotional tangles. At

noon they knocked off, and Burkhalter, with a friendly nod, took the dropper to his office, where

he found some calls listed on the visor. He ran off repeats, and a worried look crept into his

blue eyes.

He talked with Dr. Moon in a booth at luncheon. The conversation lasted so long that only the

induction cups kept the coffee hot, but Burkhalter had more than one problem to discuss. And he'd

known Moon for a long time. The fat man was one of the few who were not, he thought,

subconsciously repelled by the fact that Burkhalter was a Baldy.

"I've never fought a duel in my life, Doc. I can't afford to."

"You can't afford not to. You can't turn down the challenge, Ed. It isn't done."

"But this fellow Reilly-I don't even know him." "I know of him," Moon said. "He's got a bad

temper. Dueled a lot."

Burkhalter slammed his hand down on the table. "Its ridiculous. I won't do it!"

"Well," Moon said practically, "Your wife can't fight him. And if Ethel's been reading Mrs.

Reilly's mind arid gossiping, Reilly's got a case."

"Don't you think we know the dangers of that?" Burkhalter asked in a low voice. "Ethel doesn't go

around reading minds any more than I do. It'd be fatal-for us. And for any other Baldy."

"Not the hairless ones. The ones who won't wear wigs. They-"

"They're fools. And they're giving all the Baldies a bad name. Point one, Ethel doesn't read

minds; she didn't read Mrs. Reilly's. Point two, she doesn't gossip."

"La Reilly is obviously an hysterical type," Moon said. "Word got around about this scandal,

whatever it was, and Mrs. Reilly remembered she'd seen Ethel lately. She's the type who needs a

scapegoat anyway. I rather imagine she let word drop herself, and had to cover up so her husband

wouldn't blame her."

"I'm not going to accept Reilly's challenge," Burkhalter said doggedly.

"You'll have to."

"Listen, Doc, maybe-"

"What?"

"Nothing. An idea. It might work. Forget about that; I think I've got the right answer. It's the

only one, anyway. I can't afford a duel and that's flat."

"You're not a coward."

"There's one thing Baldies are afraid of," Burkhalter said, "and that's public opinion. I happen

to know I'd kill Reilly. That's the reason why I've never dueled in my life."

Moon drank coffee. "Hm-m-m. I think-"

"Don't. There was something else. I'm wondering if I ought to send Al off to a special school."

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"What's wrong with the kid?"

"He's turning out to be a beautiful delinquent. His teacher called me this morning. The playback

was something to hear.

He's talking funny and acting funny. Playing nasty little tricks on his friends-if he has any left

by now."

"All kids are cruel."

"Kids don't know what cruelty means. That's why they're cruel; they lack empathy. But Al's getting-

" Burkhalter gestured helplessly. "He's turning into a young tyrant. He doesn't seem to give a

care about anything, according to his teacher."

"That's not too abnormal, so far."

"That's not the worst. He's become very egotistical. Too much so. I don't want him to turn into

one of the wigless Baldies you were mentioning." Buckhalter didn't mention the other possibility;

paranoia, insanity.

"He must pick things up somewhere. At home? Scarcely, Ed. Where else does he go?"

"The usual places. He's got a normal environment."

"I should think," Moon said, "that a Baldy would have unusual opportunities in training a

youngster. The mental rapport-eh?"

"Yeah. But-I don't know. The trouble is," Burkhalter said almost inaudibly, "I wish to God I

wasn't different. We didn't ask to be telepaths. Maybe it's all very wonderful in the long run,

but I'm one person, and I've got my own microcosm. People who deal in long-term sociology are apt

to forget that. They can figure out the answers, but it's every individual man -or Baldy- who's

got to fight his own personal battle while he's alive. And it isn't as clear-cut as a battle. It's

worse; it's the necessity of watching yourself every second, of fitting yoursejf into a world that

doesn't want you."

Moon looked uncomfortable. "Are you being a little sorry for yourself, Ed?"

Burkhalter shook himself. "I am, Doc. But I'll work it out."

"We both will," Moon said, but Burkhalter didn't really expect much help from him. Moon would be

willing, but it was horribly difficult for an ordinary man to conceive that a Baldy was-the same.

It was the difference that men looked for, and found.

Anyway, he'd have to settle matters before he saw Ethel again. He could easily conceal the

knowledge, but she would recognize a mental barrier and wonder. Their marriage had been the more

ideal because of the additional rapport, something that compensated for an inevitable, half-sensed

estrangement from the rest of the world.

"How's 'Psychohistory' going?" Moon asked after a while.

"Better than I expected. I've got a new angle on Quayle.

If I talk about myself, that seems to draw him out. It gives him enough confidence to let him open

his mind to me. We may have those first chapters ready for Oldfield, in spite of everything."

"Good. Just the same, he can't rush us. If we've got to shoot out books that fast, we might as

well go back to the days of semantic confusion. Which we won't!"

"Well," Burkhalter said, getting up, "I'll smoosh along. See you."

"About Reilly-"

"Let it lay." Burkhalter went out, heading for the address his visor had listed. He touched the

dagger at his belt. Dueling wouldn't do for Baldies, but-

A greeting thought crept into his mind, and, under the arch that led into the campus, he paused to

grin at Sam Shane, a New Orleans area Baldy who affected a wig of flaming red. They didn't bother

to talk.

Personal question, involving mental, moral and physical well-being.

A satisfied glow. And you, Burkhalter? For an instant Burkhalter half-saw what the symbol of his

name meant to Shane.

Shadow of trouble.

A warm, willing anxiousness to help. There was a bond between Baldies.

Burkhalter thought: But everywhere I'd go there'd be the same suspicion. We're freaks.

More so elsewhere, Shane thought. There are a lot of us in Modoc Town. People are invariably more

suspicous where they're not in daily contact with-Us.

The boy-I've trouble too, Shane thought. It's worried me. My two girls-

Delinquency?

Yes.

Common denominators?

Don't know. More than one of Us have had the same trouble with our kids.

Secondary characteristic of the mutation? Second generation emergence?

Doubtful, Shane thought, scowling in his mind, shading his concept with a wavering question. We'll

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think it over later. Must go.

Burkhalter sighed and went on his way. The houses were strung out around the central industry of

Modoc, and he cut through a park toward his destination. It was a sprawling curved building, but

it wasn't inhabited, so Burkhalter filed Reilly for future reference, and, with a glance at his

timer, angled over a hillside toward the school. As he expected, it was recreation time, and he

spotted Al lounging under a tree, some distance from his companions, who were involved in a

pleasantly murderous game of Blowup.

He sent his thought ahead.

The Green Man had almost reached the top of the mountain. The hairy gnomes were pelting on his

trail, most unfairly shooting sizzling light-streaks at their quarry, but the Green Man was agile

enough to dodge. The rocks were leaning-

"Al."

-inward, pushed by the gnomes, ready to-

"Al!" Burkhalter sent his thought with the word, jolting into the boy's mind, a trick he very

seldom employed, since youth was practically defenseless against such invasion.

"Hello, Dad," Al said, undisturbed. "What's up?"

"A report from your teacher."

"I didn't do anything."

"She told me what it was. Listen, kid. Don't start getting any funny ideas in your head."

"I'm not."

"Do you think a Baldy is better or worse than a non-Baldy?"

Al moved his feet uncomfortably. He didn't answer.

"Well," Burkhalter said, "the answer is both and neither. And here's why. A Baldy can communicate

mentally, but he lives in a world where most people can't."

"They're dumb," Al opined.

"Not so dumb, if they're better suited to their world than you are. You might as well say a frog's

better than a fish because he's an amphibian." Burkhalter briefly amplified and explained the

terms telepathically.

"Well... oh, I get it, all right."

"Maybe," Burkhalter said slowly, "what you need is a swift kick in the pants. That thought wasn't

so hot. What was it again?"

Al tried to hide it, blanking out. Burkhalter began to lift the barrier, an easy matter for him,

but stopped. Al regarded his father in a most unfilial way-in fact, as a sort of boneless fish.

That had been clear.

"If you're so egotistical," Burkhalter pointed out, "maybe you can see it this way. Do you know

why there aren't any Baldies in key positions?"

"Sure I do," Al said unexpectedly. "They're afraid."

"Of what, then?"

"The-" That picture had been very curious, a commingling of something vaguely familiar to

Burkhalter. "The non-Baldies."

"Well, if we took positions where we could take advantage of our telepathic function, non-Baldies

would be plenty envious-especially if we were successes. If a Baldy even invented a better

mousetrap, plenty of people would say he'd stolen the idea from some non-Baldy's mind. You get the

point?"

"Yes, Dad." But he hadn't. Burkhalter sighed and looked up. He recognized one of Shane's girls on

a nearby hillside, sitting alone against a boulder. There were other isolated figures here and

there. Far to the east the snowy rampart of the Rockies made an irregular pattern against blue

sky.

"Al," Burkhalter said, "I don't want you to get a chip on your shoulder. This is a pretty swell

world, and the people in it are, on the whole, nice people. There's a law of averages. It isn't

sensible for us to get too much wealth or power, because that'd militate against us-and we don't

need it anyway. Nobody's poor. We find our work, we do it, and we're reasonably happy. We have

some advantages non-Baldies don't have; in marriage, for example. Mental intimacy is quite as

important as physical. But I don't want you to feel that being a Baldy makes you a god. It

doesn't. I can still," he added thoughtfully, "spank it out of you, in case you care to follow out

that concept in your mind at the moment."

Al gulped and beat a hasty retreat. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"And keep your hair on, too. Don't take your wig off in class. Use the stickum stuff in the

bathroom closet." "Yes, but... Mr. Venner doesn't wear a wig." "Remind me to do some historical

research with you on zoot-suiters," Burkhalter said. "Mr. Venner's wiglessness is probably his

only virtue, if you consider it one." "He makes money."

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"Anybody would, in that general store of his. But people don't buy from him if they can help it,

you'll notice. That's what I mean by a chip on your shoulder. He's got one. There

are Baldies like Venner, Al, but you might, sometime, ask the guy if he's happy. For your

information, I am. More than Venner, anyway. Catch?"

"Yes, Dad." Al seemed submissive, but it was merely that. Burkhalter, still troubled, nodded and

walked away. As he passed near the Shane girl's boulder he caught a scrap: -at the summit of the

Glass Mountains, rolling rocks back at the gnomes until-

He withdrew; it was an unconscious habit, touching minds that were sensitive, but with children it

was definitely unfair. With adult Baldies it was simply the instinctive gesture of tipping your

hat; one answered or one didn't. The barrier could be erected; there could be a blank-out; or

there could be the direct snub of concentration on a single thought, private and not to be

intruded on.

A copter with a string of gliders was coming in from the south: a freighter laden with frozen

foods from South America, to judge by the markings. Burkhalter made a note to pick up an Argentine

steak. He'd got a new recipe he wanted to try out, a charcoal broil with barbecue sauce, a welcome

change from the short-wave cooked meats they'd been having for a week. Tomatoes, chile, mm-m-what

else? Oh, yes. The duel with Reilly. Burkhalter absently touched his dagger's hilt and made a

small, mocking sound in his throat. Perhaps he was innately a pacifist. It was rather difficult to

think of a duel seriously, even though everyone else did, when the details of a barbecue dinner

were prosaic in his mind.

So it went. The tides of civilization rolled in century-long waves across the continents, and each

particular wave, though conscious of its participation in the tide, nevertheless was more

preoccupied with dinner. And, unless you happened to be a thousand feet tall, had the brain of a

god and a god's life-span, what was the difference? People missed a lot- people like Venner, who

was certainly a crank, not batty enough to qualify for the asylum, but certainly a potential

paranoid type. The man's refusal to wear a wig labeled him as an individualist, but as an

exhibitionist, too. If he didn't feel ashamed of his hairlessness, why should he bother to flaunt

it? Besides, the man had a bad temper, and if people kicked him around, he asked for it by

starting the kicking himself.

But as for Al, the kid was heading for something approaching delinquency. It couldn't be the

normal development of

childhood, Burkhalter thought. He didn't pretend to be an expert, but he was still young enough to

remember his own formative years, and he had had more handicaps than Al had now; in those days,

Baldies had been very new and very freakish. There'd been more than one movement to isolate,

sterilize, or even exterminate the mutations.

Burkhalter sighed. If he had been born before the Blowup, it might have been different. Impossible

to say. One could read history, but one couldn't live it. In the future, perhaps, there might be

telepathic libraries in which that would be possible. So many opportunities, in fact-and so few

that the world was ready to accept as yet. Eventually Baldies would not be regarded as freaks, and

by that time real progress would be possible.

But people don't make history-Burkhalter thought. Peoples do that. Not the individual.

He stopped by Reilly's house, and this time the man answered, a burly, freckled, squint-eyed

fellow with immense hands and, Burkhalter noted, fine muscular co-ordination. He rested those

hands on the Dutch door and nodded.

"Who're you, mister?"

"My name's Burkhalter."

Comprehension and wariness leaped into Reilly's eyes. "Oh, I see. You got my call?"

"I did," Burkhalter said. "I want to talk to you about it May I come in?"

"O.K." He stepped back, opening the way through a hall and into a spacious living room, where

diffused light filtered through glassy mosiac walls. "Want to set the time?"

"I want to tell you you're wrong."

"Now wait a minute," Reilly said, patting the air. "My wife's out now, but she gave me the

straight of it. I don't like this business of sneaking into a man's mind; it's crooked. You should

have told your wife to mind her business-or keep her tongue quiet."

Burkhalter said patiently, "I give you my word, Reilly, that Ethel didn't read your wife's mind."

"Does she say so?"

"I... well, I haven't asked her."

"Yeah," Reilly said with an air of triumph.

"I don't need to. I know her well enough. And... well, I'm a Baldy myself."

"I know you are," Reilly said. "For all I know, you may be reading my mind now." He hesitated.

"Get out of my

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house. I like my privacy. We'll meet at dawn tomorrow, if that's satisfactory with you. Now get

out." He seemed to have something on his mind, some ancient memory, perhaps, that he didn't wish

exposed.

Burkhalter nobly resisted the temptation. "No Baldy would read-"

"Go on, get out!"

"Listen! You wouldn't have a chance in a duel with me!"

"Do you know how many notches I've got?" Reilly asked.

"Ever dueled a Baldy?"

"I'll cut the notch deeper tomorrow. Get out, d'you hear?"

Burkhalter, biting his lips, said, "Man, don't you realize that in a duel I could read your mind?"

"I don't care ... what?"

"I'd be half a jump ahead of you. No matter how instinctive your actions would be, you'd know them

a split second ahead of time in your mind. And I'd know all your tricks and weaknesses, too. Your

technique would be an open book to me. Whatever you thought of-"

"No." Reilly shook his head. "Oh, no. You're smart, but it's a phony set-up."

Burkhalter hesitated, decided, and swung about, pushing a chair out of the way. "Take out your

dagger," he said. "Leave the sheath snapped on; I'll show you what I mean."

Reilly's eyes widened. "If you want it now-"

"I don't." Burkhalter shoved another chair away. He un-clipped his dagger, sheath and all, from

his belt, and made sure the little safety clip was in place. "We've room enough here. Come on."

Scowling, Reilly took out his own dagger, held it awkwardly, baffled by the sheath, and then

suddenly feinted forward. But Burkhalter wasn't there; he had anticipated, and his own leather

sheath slid up Reilly's belly.

"That," Burkhalter said, "would have ended the fight."

For answer Reilly smashed a hard dagger-blow down, curving at the last moment into a throat-

cutting slash. Burkhalter's free hand was already at his throat; his other hand, with the sheathed

dagger, tapped Reilly twice over the heart. The freckles stood out boldly against the pallor of

the larger man's face. But he was not yet ready to concede. He tried a few more passes, clever,

well-trained cuts, and they failed, because Burkhalter had anticipated them. His left hand

invariably

covered the spot where Reilly had aimed, and which he never struck.

Slowly Reilly let his arm fall. He moistened his lips and swallowed. Burkhalter busied himself

reclipping his dagger in place.

"Burkhalter," Reilly said, "you're a devil."

"Far from it. I'm just afraid to take a chance. Do you really think being a Baldy is a snap?"

"But, if you can read minds-"

"How long do you think I'd last if I did any dueling? It would be too much of a set-up. Nobody

would stand for it, and I'd end up dead. I can't duel, because it'd be murder, and people would

know it was murder. I've taken a lot of cracks, swallowed a lot of insults, for just that reason.

Now, if you like, I'll swallow another and apologize. I'll admit anything you say. But I can't

duel with you, Reilly."

"No, I can see that. And-I'm glad you came over." Reilly was still white. "I'd have walked right

into a set-up."

"Not my set-up," Burkhalter said. "I wouldn't have dueled. Baldies aren't so lucky, you know.

They've got handicaps- like this. That's why they can't afford to take chances and antagonize

people, and why we never read minds, unless we're asked to do so."

"It makes sense. More or less." Reilly hesitated. "Look, I withdraw that challenge. O.K.?"

"Thanks," Burkhalter, said, putting out his hand. It was taken rather reluctantly. "We'll leave it

at that, eh?"

"Right." But Reilly was still anxious to get his guest out of the house.

Burkhalter walked back to the Publishing Center and whistled tunelessly. He could tell Ethel now;

in fact, he had to, for secrets between them would have broken up the completeness of their

telepathic intimacy. It was not that their minds lay bare to each other, it was, rather, that any

barrier could be sensed by the other, and the perfect rapport wouldn't have been so perfect.

Curiously, despite this utter intimacy, husband and wife managed to respect one another's privacy.

Ethel might be somewhat distressed, but the trouble had blown over, and, besides, she was a Baldy

too. Not that she looked it, with her wig of fluffy chestnut hair and those long, curving lashes.

But her parents had lived east of Seattle during , the Blowup, and afterward, too, before the hard

radiation's effects had been thoroughly studied.

The snow-wind blew down over Modoc and fled southward

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Kuttner, Henry - Mutant

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