Jean and Jeff Sutton - The Beyond

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The Beyond -- Jean and Jeff Sutton -- (1967)

(Version 2002.08.21 -- Done)

For Mary Hansen, Denmark, Wisconsin

Prologue

The planet Engo turns about the Giza sun, a dusky orange star that

stands at the very apex of the galaxy's third spiral arm. Across a vast,

sunless gulf, it stares toward the distant Magellanic Clouds.

Racing along its lonely path, Engo carries with it a strange orange

moon. At times the moon comes within 150,000 miles of the planet's brooding

face; at times it accelerates outward to a distance of over 330,000 miles.

When the moon is closest, rumbling land tides roil Engo's surface and

violent winds, born of the moon's gravitational pull, bend and toss its giant

weeping agora trees. At that time torrential rains lash its surface and its

rivers tumble and roar from grotesquely serrated mountains, spilling out over

the fields of bulla grass. At other times the heat comes -- the season of

orange heat -- and the world is still and stifling.

The captain of the survey ship Star Probe that discovered the planet in

Galactic Year 2850 had given it its name, a Vegan word meaning "outcast," and

noted: "It is the single planet of a star which itself is incredibly remote,

lying at the very brink of an unbridgeable abyss."

Following a brief exploration, he described the planet and concluded:

"Climate unsuitable for permanent development." Proceeding along the opposite

side of the spiral arm in the direction of the seventeen island galaxies that

formed the great cosmic corridor leading to the magnificent spiral nebula

Andromeda, he promptly forgot that such a world as Engo existed.

Over three standard centuries later, in GY 3155, an obscure official in

the Planning Branch of Sector Three Social Administration ran across the

notation and studied it with more than casual interest. Engo, it appeared, was

a planet where humans could survive...for a while. It also was far from the

mainstream of commerce and travel.

Forwarding the survey report to his superior, he noted that this might

prove a suitable planet on which to exile citizens of the Federation's Third

Sector found "dangerous to the public weal" under Public Law 2435-T2-M, a

sweeping edict recently passed by the High Council to control "telepaths,

mutants, and other paranormal minds" (and thus quiet public hysteria arising

from an alleged mutant conspiracy to infiltrate and seize the reins of

galactic government).

His superior agreed.

In time the recommendation reached the highest level of government and

was signed by the Imperator. In a short while a village was born on Engo. The

planet promptly was decreed out of bounds to all but official ships. Commerce

with it was prohibited, and all mention of the planet disappeared from the

public media.

Engo ceased to exist except for a few persons high in the Social

Administration and, of course, the High Council of Ten which, headed by the

Imperator, administered the affairs of the Federation's Ten Sectors with their

almost three thousand inhabited planets.

But the village clung to the edge of life.

Despite periodic shipments of "dangerous elements," its size remained

almost static; only its graveyard grew -- a small plot which became an acre,

and then two acres of round white river stones which marked the closely packed

graves.

Lying at the edge of a towering forest of weeping agora trees, the

village huddled defensively against the cruel climate, at times all but

lifeless; and yet life struggled on, a spark which even the planet's harsh

climate couldn't extinguish.

Then, in GY 3180, an incident occurred that brought Engo under the

immediate scrutiny of the galactic overlords; a crisis loomed. In reality, the

crisis started when a tramp freighter, violating the prohibition against

commerce with the exile planet, put into Engo to trade utensils, tools, and

cloth for the thick, furry catmel pelts so much in demand by the women of the

three thousand planets.

The freighter was the Cosmic Wind.

One

GORDON CROMWELL, captain of the Cosmic Wind, gulped noisily from a

silver flask as he watched the dusky orange glow of Engo in the starport. For

two days, since coming out of the time stream, the planet had grown steadily

larger and -- in his mind -- more baleful. The exile planet. The planet of

mutants, telepaths. Planet of death...Orange like its sun, orange like its

racing moon -- orange and deadly and beyond the law.

Cromwell regarded it philosophically.

Beyond the law? He chuckled at the thought. Perhaps to the rest of the

Federation, but not to him. The Cosmic Wind went where the profit lay, and the

profit lay there, on Engo, where thick, furry catmel pelts were to be had, as

many as the Cosmic Wind could carry. And no competition! The profit in the

black markets of the Third Sector alone was a thousandfold, and the Federation

be cursed, he thought. A trader's business was to trade.

Aside from that, he made additional profit carrying cargo to the planet

for a man known only to him as "Mr. Olaf." That cargo was given to the

inhabitants free, a charitable attitude which Cromwell considered detrimental

to the spirit of trade. Not that he objected; the space which it occupied

returned a fair fee; he had to admit that was better than empty space, which

returned nothing.

At times Cromwell found himself vaguely perturbed over Mr. Olaf. But, he

told himself, the man was merely a do-gooder, a breed that appeared to abound

on the fringes of misery, eyeing the less fortunate much as a jackal eyes a

potential meal. In more honest moments, he admitted that the man must be a

hidden telepath, or perhaps even a member of the mutant underground which

people spoke of in whispers. Yet he couldn't complain, he reflected. It all

added up to profit.

"She's a rarin' back on her heels," Snorkel called from behind him.

Cromwell grunted. Snorkel, his first mate, made the comment every time

the aged tramper went into retrofire. But it was true; the ship bucked and

vibrated, the howl through her bulkheads giving the impression that she was

coming apart at the seams. Not that it worried him; she had sounded that way

since the day he'd bought her secondhand -- or was it third-hand? -- from a

junk dealer on Mypor over forty years before. Snorkel had come aboard as first

mate at the same time.

Perhaps the old gal was coming apart, he reflected, but so was he. And

so was Snorkel, and Prim the purser. And Grimp, the engineer. Especially

Grimp. All he did was eat and sleep and play chess. Yes, they were all getting

there together. But that was the way to go, in space somewhere, with the

engines pounding, not planet-bound like an ordinary mortal.

He took another pull from his flask and asked, "Checking the screens?"

"Clear," Snorkel replied. He had a high screechy voice that suited his

scrawny figure. "No patrols in this godforsaken hole."

"Don't be too certain," admonished Cromwell.

Snorkel chortled. "Never caught us yet."

"You're getting cocky. That's bad, Snorky." Cromwell shook his head

warningly. Although the sleek Federation patrols mainly were concerned with

smuggling and occasional acts of piracy within the Ten Sectors, a region

containing almost three thousand inhabited planets and a thousand and one

suns, they weren't entirely unknown in the region the Cosmic Wind was

traversing. The thought was perturbing.

He peered more closely at the starport. Off to one side, the dull orange

Giza sun burned like a cooling ember against a backdrop almost devoid of

light. Higher up, the perpetual purple-black was broken by two faintly glowing

patches -- the Magellanic Clouds, which lay like detached fragments of the

Milky Way. For all practical purposes the Giza sun, with its single miserable

planet, lay at the edge of a tremendous gulf -- unbridged and unbridgeable --

the gulf between galaxies that man could never span. Giza lay at the edge of

nowhere.

Watching it, he thought of the patrols again and fidgeted uneasily. On

occasion they did come. So did the SocAd ship. Two or three times every

standard year -- and at times more often a black ship crawled out along the

edge of the third spiral arm, bearing a wretched cargo of mutants caught by

the "searchers," the police arm of the Social Administration -- men, women,

and children doomed to exile on Engo's storm-ravaged surface. It came bringing

a load of humanity to populate Engo's growing graveyard, he thought, for only

a few survived. If he were caught...

"Dropping retro to three-quarters," Snorkel called.

Cromwell nodded, watching their oblique rush toward the orange planet.

Thinking of it, he regarded himself more as a saviour than a smuggler. Were it

not for the medicine, tools, and equipment he traded for the catmel pelts, the

exiles might perish altogether, as he suspected the government intended they

should.

Cromwell regarded the Federation wonderingly. Under Sol Golom, the

Imperator -- Absolute Ruler of the High Council of Ten -- the Federation was

all-powerful, all-benevolent. Its uncounted billions of citizens enjoyed a

greater degree of security, freedom, and luxury than any people in the long

and twisted history of man; the Imperator proclaimed that often and with

assurance.

And it was true, Cromwell knew. The third millennium of the Federation

was an age of play, pleasure, sensual abandon -- absolute freedom from war,

strife, poverty. People never had it so good. Yet he believed it a sterile

life, mechanistic, routine, completely without adventure. Machines controlled

machines that controlled machines -- that was his view. The Federation was a

giant machine within which the people moved, stalking the lands like puppets,

no longer their own masters. In eliminating war, poverty, insecurity, in

conquering his total environment, man had eliminated challenge, hence had

vitiated his own soul; he'd argued that with Grimp many times. It was

imperative to be the same, unthinkable to be different. He suspected that was

why the telepaths were feared and hated; they were different. He looked at the

orange planet again. Wasn't exile the same as the death sentence? Puzzling

over it, he nipped at the flask.

As the planet grew in the starport, its orange atmosphere was broken by

a darker blur that gradually resolved into a huge continent which, he knew,

bordered the pinkish Badek Sea. Next, the jagged purplish slash of the Kavu

range emerged, flanked by yellowish splotches which he knew to be meadows of

ochre bulla grass that cut fingerlike into the towering agora forests.

Cromwell glanced at the crude ephemeris he had plotted of the Giza

system. At the moment the hurtling orange moon was near apogee, hence land

tides on the planet would be at a minimum, nor would the atmosphere be

seething from the moon's gravitational pull. And if the rains held off...He

calculated, thinking he might wind up his business within a single day; he

liked to keep his visits short.

"Closing at orbital speed," Snorkel called. "You're positioned for

communications."

"Don't I know that?" Cromwell grunted. He punched a button and sent out

a series of call letters. A speaker beside him crackled to life almost

immediately. He wasn't surprised. So dear was cargo that the villagers kept

the radio shack manned continuously on the off chance that a stray smuggler

might come in.

The static settled down and a voice wheezed, "Simon, come in, Cosmic

Wind."

"Any visitors?" Cromwell asked cautiously.

"Nary a soul, Cap'n."

"How's the weather?"

"So calm and clear you'd never believe it," cackled Simon. "The wind's

at standard thirty. You'd better hurry; it won't last long."

"Got a good load of pelts?"

"More'n you can carry." Simon's voice grew anxious. "What's your cargo?"

"Medicine, blankets, boots and tools, mainly. Some Ankara cloth for the

ladies."

"Anything else, Cap'n?"

"Might have." Cromwell chuckled. The old caretaker liked his nip.

"You more'n welcome," Simon declared.

As the Cosmic Wind coasted in orbit, Snorkel plotted their position and

extrapolated it against speed and direction. When the purplish Kavu mountains

came around again, he put the main engines into full retrofire, bringing a

pounding and bucking that caused Cromwell to reach for the silver flask.

"You might pass it back," Snorkel remarked aggrievedly.

Cromwell shook his head. "You know the rules, Snorky. Not till you

land."

"You could take her down."

"Nope, you need the practice, Snorky."

"Practice? I've been practicing for forty years."

"Maybe next trip." Cromwell returned his attention to the planet,

watching as its features took color and shape. Because no human hand had ever

tilled its soil or crowned it with the artifacts of man, it was a completely

ungeometric world -- a place of beauty, to Cromwell's eyes. If only it weren't

for the rugged climate. No, he thought, it was better this way. If the planet

were livable, a billion people would descend on it overnight.

He watched the land flee past. Plains of bulla grass, towering agora

forests, pinkish lakes, and jagged purplish mountains wheeled underfoot. The

roaring and vibration increased as the tramper lost headway and began letting

down on its powerful landing jets. Danged if the old gal wasn't really

jumpin', he thought. Perhaps he'd better put her in for overhaul, get her face

lifted.

The engine sound changed and far ahead he discerned the small region of

bulla grass that served as Engo's spaceport. As they drew closer, a scattering

of log huts appeared, huddled against the forest edge. Here and there he

caught glimpses of the black, sullen Dimbo river as it twisted among the trees

and crossed small patches of meadow. Off to one side, several acres of small

white river stones marked the graveyard. Bigger with each visit, he reflected.

He disliked the graveyard from a practical viewpoint: dead people made poor

catmel hunters.

The trees and cabins wheeled toward him at an ever slower rate. The

roaring grew to a din, ceasing abruptly as the Cosmic Wind touched down with a

distinct thump.

"Rough," Cromwell commented.

"Never saw you do it any better," Snorkel snapped.

"You need practice, Snorky."

As Cromwell emerged from the ship with Snorkel at his heels, Simon

emerged from the log shanty that served as the communication center and limped

to meet them. Thin and bent, his snow-white hair and scraggly beard whipped in

the wind.

"Good to see you, Cap'n," he greeted. "You, too, Mr. Snorkel." His face

took on an expectant look.

Cromwell reached into his pocket and brought forth a twin to his own

flask. "Drop of medicine," he said.

"Thank you, Cap'n. I'm feeling poorly."

As Simon unscrewed the cap, Cromwell glanced around. He'd never seen it

so calm. The standard thirty wind Simon had mentioned scarcely rippled the

tops of the bulla grass and only a faint sigh came from the slow-moving

branches of the agora trees. Scattered clouds trailed like small ships across

the orange sky. It was almost pleasant, he reflected.

Simon sampled the flask, smacked his lips and screwing on the cap,

dropped it into his own pocket. Cromwell didn't appear to notice.

"Any newcomers?" he asked.

"Several dozen a few months back." Simon gestured toward the graveyard.

"Mostly dead now."

"So soon?"

"They don't last long," Simon cackled. "No, sir, especially them from

the hot planets."

Cromwell gazed at the village. Aside from a wisp of smoke trailing

upward from one of the chimneys, it gave no indication of life. But then it

always did appear deserted, he reflected. Aside from old Simon, the mutants

were an elusive lot. There was a time when it had bothered him, but no more.

Simon caught his glance and explained, "Most everyone's out trapping

catmels."

"Can't get too many," he observed.

While Prim, the purser, set up the tables and piled them high with goods

for trade, Cromwell drew Snorkel to one side. "Keep a sharp eye," he

cautioned. "I'm going to stroll through the village."

The first mate glanced at the cabins under the towering trees. "Ever see

it so quiet?" he asked. "It's like a bloomin' morgue."

Cromwell suppressed a shudder and said, "It won't stay this way long.

Make the dealing quick."

Gazing back at the village, he started across the clearing. Although the

wind was light, it was cold and he drew his coat tightly around him. Strange,

the orange sun gleamed like a furnace, yet seldom gave much heat. But it felt

good to tramp the sodden ground after three months in space, just as it would

feel good to get back into space again. He particularly liked it when they

entered the time stream, for then there was neither planet nor star; the

Cosmic Wind was but a mote in some strange infinity.

Drawing closer, he eyed the village interestedly. Despite more than a

score of trips to the planet, he'd never really seen it before. Usually the

wind was howling, the rain sweeping down, or a numbing cold kept him penned

inside the ship while Snorkel and the purser conducted business with old

Simon, who was the only inhabitant who ever approached the ship. But today was

beautiful.

Reaching the first of the crude log houses, he saw it was chinked

against the harsh climate with some sort of clay or cement, and made a mental

note to include weatherstripping in the next cargo. That should be worth quite

a few pelts.

The sucking sound of his boots pulling through the mud brought the

realization of how quiet it was, how still the village. Aside from the single

column of smoke, he saw no evidence of life. Strange, there should be voices,

the laughter of children; but there wasn't. No one, no one at all, he thought.

It was, he reflected uneasily, as if old Simon were Engo's sole inhabitant.

Silly, of course, but that's the way it felt. And yet...

Perhaps a hundred eyes were watching him. For the first time he became

conscious that perhaps someone was watching him, or reading his mind. It was

an eerie sensation. Strange, but he'd never felt that way before, never

thought of them as mutants, telepaths. Certainly not Simon. But here...He

quickened his step.

A low booming reached his ears and he looked ahead, seeing a small

meadow among the trees. The Dimbo river. He'd seen it coming down, a black

torrent that rushed from the Kavu mountains, winding through the agora forests

toward some unknown destination. It sounded as if it were tumbling over rocks.

He reached the edge of the meadow and stopped, watching the froth of

water thunder from the forest to swirl and eddy across the clearing. It formed

a small lake in the distance. Inflatable boats and rafts, fishing lines and

hooks -- items like that should be in demand. He'd have a talk with Simon.

Abruptly he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and jerked his

head around, momentarily startled. A boy! It took him an instant to comprehend

that the boy was sitting on a low knoll facing the river, his arm around the

neck of a shaggy yellow beast. A dog, he thought, and marveled at it. For some

reason he'd never thought of a boy on Engo, much less a dog.

Gazing at the two, Cromwell wondered at his surprise. Of course there

would be children, even on this godforsaken planet. But he'd never really

considered the possibility. Somehow he'd come to believe that the planet was

inhabited solely by adults like Simon, doddering and creaking, waiting for the

day when they would take their places under the white headstones in the

graveyard.

This fellow couldn't be more than ten or twelve, he reflected. But what

a hellish place for a child. Did he know he was doomed? Probably not. Children

had an amazing adaptability. A hundred planets gave testimony to that.

Cromwell felt a touch of nostalgia. How long had it been since he'd sat

with his dog, watching the bright yellow sun Capella slide below the soft

hills of Mypor? Over fifty years, half a century; closer to sixty, when he

thought of it. Kolo, the dog's name had been, a big, shaggy beast like the one

ahead of him. Kolo had bounded at his side throughout his childhood years. And

when he died, he had buried him on a hillside and cried.

"I'll get you another dog," his father promised. But there wasn't

another dog, nor could there be. No other could take Kolo's place. Somehow his

father had understood. Now, standing on the meadow, he let the memories rush

back.

But that was long ago. For over fifty years now he'd been a wanderer

among the stars. He'd watched the sun rise and set on a hundred forgotten

planets. He'd grown old under the stars. Not that he could complain; they had

been good years, filled with freedom, danger, hardship -- the solitude he

loved. There was little he hadn't seen or done. And when he died someday, it

would be in space. He would be buried by whatever sun happened to be nearest.

Who could ask for more?

He brought back his attention as the boy scrambled to his feet and threw

a stick. "Get it! Get it!" he yelled in a thin, piping voice. Cromwell

remembered his own youth and smiled sadly.

The dog yelped and bounded forward to seize the stick when it leaped to

a new spot. Barking and prancing, the dog looked around expectantly.

"Very clever," Cromwell murmured, wondering how the toy worked. He could

sell a million of them with ease, two million, and he wouldn't have to resort

to the black market. It was the kind of thing any child would love, and adults

too. No doubt it was a local invention, perhaps the boy's. If so, he could get

it easily. A few saws and hammers should do the trick.

The dog barked, subsiding on its haunches, its head cocked as it

regarded the stick. Suddenly the stick moved upward, dangling a dozen or so

feet in the air while the dog leaped and yelped frantically.

"Get it, Rok," the boy cried. He jumped and clapped his hands. "Get it,

get it."

Cromwell was trying to comprehend the sight when the dog suddenly shot a

dozen feet into the air and grasped the stick in its jaws, then remained

floating in space to the accompaniment of the boy's pealing laughter.

"My God, a freak..." Cromwell caught his breath, feeling his heart begin

to pound. Telepaths, yes...but this! His mind reeled at the sight.

Psychokinesis! He'd heard the term -- the power to move objects by thought.

But that had been a fairy tale; no one could...He watched, his eyes bulging,

and all at once he began to tremble.

Wheeling, he stumbled back through the village.

Two

ASCENDING the marble stairs which led to the Social Administration

building, Alek Selby wondered again at the sudden conference called by

Director Korl Smithson. Right in the middle of the holidays; the thought was

faintly perturbing. A new cultural deviation which threatened the general

welfare? A new edict from on High? (The High Council of Ten, representing the

ten sectors that comprised the Federation, had convened recently on Earth,

administrative center for the Federation's nearly three thousand planets; it

seemed likely that the conference was related.) Or was it something else?

Selby glanced at the yellow-white sun of Altair rising above the stately

buildings of Mekla before he passed into the shadows of the arched doorway. It

was the something else which bothered him, the almost nameless fear that had

lurked deep in his mind for more years than he cared to remember.

Nameless? Not quite, but a fear so deeply recessed that not even

Psymaster Hallam Vogel's probing had touched it. (Thank God for that!) Or was

the fear utterly groundless, an irrational fantasy born of his childhood

imagination and unshakable throughout the years? No, he knew that with

certainty; the fear was not groundless.

The big building appeared empty. With most of the population celebrating

the 3181st anniversary of the Federation's founding -- signed into existence

at the Vegan Conference following the Thirty-Year War which ended in the

collapse of the Hanhight Dynasty -- only essential maintenance and guard units

were at work. As he entered the main hall, a voice in the distance echoed

hollowly, emphasizing the silence that followed.

Invisible rays probed him for security clearance as he turned into a

side corridor; ahead, bronze doors swung silently open at his approach. He

slowed his pace, regrouping his thoughts in a final effort to fathom the

reason for the meeting. He ticked off a dozen possibilities, dismissing them

all.

Sighing, he entered the director's conference room and saw four men

sitting at the long table.

Philip Wig! He caught his breath at sight of the dark, saturnine figure

who headed Department 404, SocAd's secret police arm. Philip Wig, a shadowy

figure, was charged with enforcement of the mutant control laws. His

assistants, Derek Jonman and Jabor Conrad, flanked him on either side. So, the

conference was concerned with the mutant problem? Then why had he been

summoned? The question alarmed him.

He switched his eyes to the fourth man. Psymaster Hallam Vogel! Selby's

unease grew stronger than ever. Before his appointment as principal

investigator on the director's staff, he had been required to have his psyche

and stability certified. Vogel had been the probe master. Although that time

was five years in the past, he seldom encountered the psymaster without

sensing a vague fear. Yet Vogel had found nothing, nothing at all. Selby clung

to that knowledge as an antidote to his fear.

Nothing of that showed on his face as he crossed the room. Smiling

briefly, he nodded toward the others and settled into a chair across from

Vogel. Wig, conversing in a subdued voice with his assistants, appeared not to

notice him. Selby didn't mind. He disliked the executor intensely, and his

aides as well. They had what he liked to think of as the police mind, in which

the psychic probing was by force.

He eyed the psymaster speculatively. "What's it all about?"

Vogel shrugged. "Don't know. I just received the summons." Leaning back,

he closed his eyes, his way of saying he didn't want to talk.

Selby studied him thoughtfully. Vogel was fiftyish, of average height,

average build, average appearance -- "Mr. Nobody," he'd once heard him

described. And it was true, at least superficially; Vogel's voice, looks, and

personality were designed to total anonymity. But he had risen high, held

power -- the power to certify the existence of the telepathic trait, the power

to exile mutants to Engo. Yet he appeared so mild and retiring...Selby

wondered why he feared him.

He switched his eyes to the executor.

Philip Wig was another matter. Slender, fortyish, with a domed forehead

and pale, sharp features, he was ambitious, vain, a man driven by the pursuit

of power. The mutant laws were his weapon; he was relentless in his pursuit of

any actual or suspected telepath, relentless in his constant cry of a "mutant

underground" which, he warned, was plotting to overthrow the Federation

government. But more to the point, he was rumored to be a favorite of Ewol

Strang, the Third Sector representative on the High Council of Ten. As such,

he was considered as Smithson's successor when the 78-year-old director

stepped down. Philip Wig was the crown prince -- the whispers ran through the

offices and corridors of Sector Three SocAd.

Selby watched him, his face blank.

Despite Wig's high position, he had a brake on his power. Although he

was charged with enforcement of the mutant laws, his department had been

placed under SocAd by a thoughtful Imperator, who considered that such a move

might erase the stigma of persecution. As such, Wig was answerable to Director

Korl Smithson. Nor could he certify the existence of the telepathic trait in

those taken into custody; that was the psymaster's province. Wig could pursue,

trap, arrest, but there his power ended and Hallam Vogel's began. That, Selby

knew, was a thorn in the executor's side.

He glanced up as the bronze doors swung open and closed behind Director

Korl Smithson, who crossed the golden carpet with a limping gait. Sparse and

gray, his deeply lined face gave ample evidence of his years; all but the

eyes. A cobalt blue, they held a penetrating quality that fascinated Selby. At

times he had the uncomfortable feeling that they looked inside his body,

watched the organs at work. Silly, of course, but they were those kind of

eyes.

Selby liked the director. Smithson had come up through the Social

Administration ranks, for the last twenty years serving as its head -- no

small feat in this day of shifting politics, he reflected.

The hushed conversation between Wig and his assistants ceased and Vogel

opened his eyes, sitting straighter.

Fitting himself into a well-cushioned chair at the head of the table,

Smithson said in a voice reedy with age, "I wish to apologize for calling this

conference in the midst of the holidays, especially" -- he looked at Vogel --

"just as our psymaster was about to enjoy a long-postponed vacation."

"It can wait," Vogel returned placidly.

"It will have to wait," Smithson acceded. He let his gaze rove around

the circle of faces before continuing, "A serious situation has arisen,

perhaps a dangerous one."

"What is it?" asked Wig sharply.

"We appear to have a boy who can make sticks rise in the air, make dogs

float." The director sat back, contemplating them. Selby suppressed a sense of

shock. A psychokinetic? Unbelievable. And yet...

"A pk?" Wig's eyes were startled.

"On the evidence we have now, yes." Smithson nodded. Selby saw that

Hallam Vogel's expression hadn't changed. It was, he thought, as if the

psymaster were listening to a routine report. Then Vogel stirred.

"Seems far-fetched," he observed.

"Far-fetched?" Wig shot back. "Why? How about Henry Fong? Anna LeMay?"

"Telepathy, yes, but I regard the beyond powers largely a product of

public hysteria," answered Vogel. He hunched closer, fixing his dark eyes on

the executor's face. "A lot of overripe imaginations are at work."

"Fong was a certified pk," snapped Wig.

"After his death, yes, and by a psymaster third in a remote town on a

small agricultural planet. Scarcely what you'd call credible evidence."

"You can't deny..."

Vogel waved him to silence and continued, "Henry Fong was never

investigated during his short life, never subjected to probing. The rumor

started he could lift stones, shake trees, make the earth around him tremble;

and he was promptly killed by the superstitious people among whom he lived.

You can't cite Fong as a precedent."

"No?" asked Wig coldly. "How about the LeMay girl?"

"What do we actually know?" asked Vogel. "She was reputed to be

clairvoyant."

"She predicted her own death!"

"Any suicide can do that." Vogel smiled acidly.

Selby felt a faint surprise. He would have expected the psymaster, if

anyone, to appreciate the possibility of powers beyond telepathy, yet he

clearly wasn't impressed. And why was Wig so vociferous? He switched his gaze

to the director; the cobalt blue eyes held a tolerant, waiting expression.

"Perhaps we'd better hear the evidence," suggested Vogel.

"What is the evidence?" Wig stared at the director.

"The captain of a tramp freighter witnessed the act," Smithson replied.

"He was drunk, talking in a public place. The police heard him and took him in

for questioning."

"Where?" demanded Wig.

"In Eliksen, a port city on the planet Krall."

"The Canulus system? That puts him under our jurisdiction."

Smithson nodded. "Fortunately the local SocAd director was informed

immediately and had him transferred to department custody." He smiled

slightly. "I have scant doubt but that you'll hear of it soon enough from your

404 office there."

Wig asked quickly, "Was he put under psychic probe?"

"By our own people," Smithson acceded. "He was telling the truth all

right, at least as he saw it."

"Any chance of his having an overactive imagination?" asked Selby.

"I doubt it. Imagination is a relative surface phenomenon, Alek. A deep

probe goes beyond that...into the subconscious reality."

"The reality of the subconscious is not necessarily the reality of the

actual situation," Vogel interposed. "Probing uncovers what is real to the

mind -- in other words, what the mind accepts as reality; but that isn't

necessarily the same as reality."

"I'll grant that," Smithson returned. "At the same time, we're faced

with an extremely uncomfortable possibility. I'm certain the High Council

won't view it lightly."

As if he hadn't heard, Wig murmured, "A pk." His eyes came up slowly,

resting on the director's face. "Where was he spotted?"

"The alleged beyond?" Smithson smiled faintly and said, "On Engo."

"Engo!" In the startled silence that followed the executor's

exclamation, Selby noted that Vogel alone betrayed no surprise. The psymaster

didn't shake easily, he reflected.

"What was he doing there?" demanded Wig.

"The tramper captain? Illegal trading," answered Smithson.

"It's nothing new," Vogel cut in. "When you put a planet out of bounds,

you're inviting illegal trade."

Wig glowered at him. "We should make an example of that man."

"Why?"

"Smuggling?" Wig lifted his eyes.

"If reports are true, none of the exile planets lack for trade," Vogel

answered casually. "I can't see that it's so monstrous."

"How do you know they're traders? They can just as easily be members of

the mutant underground."

"The man was put under psychic examination," Vogel reminded.

Wig switched his gaze to the director. "What's the captain's name?"

"Gordon Cromwell of the Cosmic Wind," Smithson told him. "It's an old

tramper of Capellan registry."

"We should get that man here, wring him out."

"That's my worry," Vogel interposed softly. Jonman, silent until now,

asked raspingly, "What about the freak?"

"The boy?" Smithson contemplated him. "We'll have to wait and see."

"Wait?" interjected Wig. "We'd better take action right now."

Irked by his tone, Selby asked, "Why? What is there to do? If he's on

Engo, he's already exiled. What more can you do?"

Wig regarded him poisonously. "Exile's not enough."

"Not enough?"

"Have you ever heard of Mr. Olaf? The mutant underground?" demanded Wig.

"What do you think those people would do if they learned of a pk on Engo?

They'd snatch him quick, and they could. The smuggler made it in an old

tramper. The boy's a danger to the universe, Selby. I know that if you don't."

"One small boy?" asked Selby wonderingly.

"A pk," rasped Wig. "Don't you understand the meaning of that?"

"Do you?" he asked.

"I know he's dangerous -- too dangerous to live."

"You'd kill him?" Selby stared at the executor disbelievingly. The pale,

glittering eyes that met his held a mocking expression. He shifted his gaze to

Vogel's face, and then to Smithson's. Both were set, inscrutable.

After what seemed endless seconds the director said, "There's an

unwritten policy to that effect, Alek."

"Murder?"

He smiled grimly. "It's not called murder. Usually there's an accident

or some such arrangement."

"It's still murder."

"Yes, it is," the director assented.

Selby suppressed his shock. "Henry Fong?" he asked quietly.

"An agent stirred the people up," Smithson acceded. "That's highly

classified, of course."

"I didn't know that," Vogel said flatly.

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TheBeyond--JeanandJeffSutton--(1967)(Version2002.08.21--Done)ForMaryHansen,Denmark,WisconsinPrologueTheplanetEngoturnsabouttheGizasun,aduskyorangestarthatstandsattheveryapexofthegalaxy'sthirdspiralarm.Acrossavast,sunlessgulf,itstarestowardthedistantMagellanicClouds.Racingalongitslonelypath,Engocarri...

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Jean and Jeff Sutton - The Beyond

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