The physicians at the Center had language to explain the erosion of Chicken's skills. They spoke about the neurological imbalance that lay at the core of a sensitive's ability, and how, in some few cases, the neurological network slowly returned to a balanced, or normal, state. The condition was rare, but not unknown, and once the balance was complete the skills were gone. It happened perhaps once in every five hundred cases that an ace turned into a deuce, and there were always one or two of them around the Center. There was no way in which they could be sent back into the normal world, for they knew too much, and so they stayed bound to a life that had abandoned them. They became the hewers of wood and the fetchers of water, auxiliaries to those who once had been their peers. To be a deuce among aces was a sensitive's nightmare, and Chicken was facing just such a life.
Poor bastard, Martha thought. Poor, pathetic bastard.
She pushed the thought aside; it was time to check the troops. To the lift in back of her, she flashed, Pam? Linda?
Pam here.
Linda here. Any instructions?
Just keep your heads open. Report anything that looks even slightly suspicious. George? Chicken?
George here.
Chicken? No answer. Chicken, do you copy? Still no answer. Damn it, Chicken… Martha caught herself. George, tell him to keep his eyes open and stay alert.
You try telling him. He's off in another world. I think he's in love.
Just what we needed. You mean Lila?
Who else?
That isn't love, it's teenage lust.
I know that, and you know that, but Chicken doesn't. Maybe if you fixed him up with her…
That's enough of that. Nobody's getting fixed up on this trip.
Hey, who made that rule? asked Pam from behind, and Linda chimed in, You mean we're supposed to live like nuns?
I said enough, Martha told them. George, tell Chicken what I said, and the rest of you keep alert.
George poked Chicken, and said, "Martha says to keep your eyes open."
Chicken nodded absently. Open for what? Villains? Guys in black hats? His mind was on Lila, but not on the job. The girl attracted him, he wanted her to notice him, but he didn't know how to get her attention. He had little experience with "normal" girls, even the females at the Center seemed always to defeat him, and he was painfully aware of his limitations. His appearance was against him. He was overgrown and clumsy for his age, with a moon face, squinty eyes, and features that were not yet fully formed. He had no social graces, words did not come easily to him, and when he talked with girls he tended to mutter the first idiocy that came into his mind. So he did crazy things. He stole trucks at the Center, raced them and crashed them. He stunted, he bragged, he lied outrageously. He did everything he could to get the world to pay attention, but all that the world ever did was to frown.
So far, Lila hadn't frowned, but she hadn't paid much attention to him, either. Still, he had the feeling that she liked him, and there had to be a way to make her notice him, a way to light up her eyes. But, as always, he couldn't think of what to do, or to say. Angry at his helplessness, he gripped the safety bar in front of him, and squeezed. He squeezed as hard as he could, as if squeezing could give him an answer. He looked down at his hands. Fastened to the safety bar was a metal plaque that bore a warning. DO NOT BOUNCE ON THE CHAIRS.
Yeah, he thought. Yeah.
He shifted his weight in the seat, and gave a little bounce. The chair shivered, and the tremor passed up through the supporting bar to the cable. The chair rocked back and forth. He did it again, just a little bounce, and the same thing happened. One solid bounce, he figured, would send the chairs rocking all along the cable. He was about to try it when he felt George's hand close over his wrist in a tight grip. George twisted and squeezed, and pain shot up Chicken's arm.
"Hey, cut it out," he said.
"Don't do it again."
"Do what?"
"Bounce."
"I wasn't."
"You were, and you were about to do it again. That's kid stuff, Chicken, and it's dangerous. Get her attention some other way."
"You're hurting my wrist."
"If you try it again," George said sweetly, "I will break your fucking hand."
"Look, I really wasn't…"
"You were. You were about to pull one of your stupid stunts."
"How did you…?" Chicken knew the answer before he finished the question. George had been in his head, and he hadn't been aware of it. He had felt nothing. The knowledge hurt more than the pain in his wrist, and he muttered, "You can let go now. I won't do anything."
George took his hand away. He stared straight ahead as if nothing had happened. They rode together silently, until Chicken, rubbing his wrist, said, "We used to be friends."
They had been more than friends. George and Chicken, Pam and Linda, Terry Krazewski back at the Center in the infirmary-as members of the same class they had been taught to think of themselves as brothers and sisters. George sighed. "Look, I'm still your friend, still your brother, but shit, Chicken, this last year… there sure are times when you burn my ass. And it isn't just me."
"I know." Chicken looked away. "The others, too."
"You really can't blame them, some of the things you do. You act so crazy sometimes."
"That's me, the crazy Chicken. You ever stop to wonder why?"
George shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was a subject they avoided. "You mean because you're losing it?"
"It's getting worse."
"I know. I was in and out of your head just now, and you didn't even know it."
Chicken said quietly, "It scares me, George."
"It would scare me, too."
"I get scared and I do crazy things. It's like I can't help myself."
"I understand."
"I don't want to be a deuce, George. I think I'd rather die than be a deuce."
"Don't talk that way."
"Why not? You'd talk that way, too, if it happened to you."
"Is it totally gone?"
"No, sometimes it's there. They've been giving me medication. They say it may help. It's a zinc oxide combination. It's supposed to slow things down, maintain the imbalance."
"Does it work?"
"Sometimes." Chicken shrugged. "Most of the time it doesn't do a damn thing for me."
"So what happens next?"
"We wait and see. That's all they can say. Wait and see."
With unconscious cruelty, George said, "That isn't much."
"It's all I've got."
George searched for words, and found none. He finally said, "Hang in there."
"Yeah."
Two chairs back, Pam and Linda fretted over Martha's ban on social activity. They were accustomed to the easygoing sexual standards of the Center where, once you were old enough, the only taboo was making it with a member of your own class. They had assumed that the same standards would apply in the field, and now this.
"It's going to be a cold couple of days," said Linda.
"Cold all over," Pam agreed. "Cold on the hill, and cold in bed."
"You know that big fireplace back at the lodge?"