And it was.
—
The rest of the incident, though not without some danger, was straightforward and almost not worth mentioning. Jackson and Colby, taken completely by surprise, were easy to overpower and tie up. By the time Duke and the others came trooping back, Heather and the two prisoners were safely locked in the cabin and I was outside with my bow and arrows and lots of cover. The boys put up some resistance, but they had no real chance, and after two of them collected arrows in the shoulder they finally gave up. I marched the whole group to Hemlock, confirming my story by taking the town leaders to the body in the woods. Frontier justice being what it is, the boys were found guilty of murder and hanged that evening.
The stars were shining through gaps in the cloud cover when I returned to the cabin. Heather had left a candle burning in the window and was waiting for me on the couch. "How did it go?" she asked quietly.
"They were convicted. I'm giving their bikes to the town; some of the men will come by tomorrow to pick them up."
She nodded. "I'm almost sorry for them... but I don't suppose we could have let them go."
"No. If it bothers you too much, try thinking about their victim." I sat down next to her. "Heather, we have to talk. I need to know how you were able to do the things you did today. I think you know what I mean."
"Yes." Her smile was bittersweet, with traces of fear and weariness, and I suddenly realized this wasn't the first time she'd had this discussion. "You're wondering if I'm really blind or somehow faking it." She nodded heavily. "Yes, I am completely and totally blind. My eyes are useless. But the... disease, accident, whatever... that blinded me did something strange to my brains optic center. Somehow, I'm able to pick up the images that all nearby people are getting. In other words, I can see—sort of—but only through other people's eyes." I nodded slowly as all sorts of pieces finally fell into place. "That was one possibility that never occurred to me," I said. "A lot of things make sense now, though. What sort of range do you have?"
"Oh, thirty or forty feet." She sounded vaguely surprised. I wondered why, and then realized that the usual reaction was probably one of shock or revulsion. I wasn't following the pattern.
"It must have been rough for you," I said gently, taking her hand in mine.
She shrugged, too casually. "A little. I haven't told very many people. They usually... aren't sympathetic."
"I can imagine. I'm glad you told me, though."
"I couldn't hardly keep it a secret after all that stuff with the ropes," she smiled faintly. Then she turned serious again, and when she spoke her voice was low and just a little apprehensive. "Do you want me to leave?"
"Don't be silly. My gosh, Heather, is that why you held out on me this long? You thought I would toss you out?"
"Well..." She squeezed my hand. "No, not really; not after the first two months. By then I knew you cared for me and wouldn't treat me like a freak or something worse. But..." Her voice trailed off.
But she couldn't override her own defenses, I decided. Not really surprising— a good set of defenses would be vital to protect her from both external and internal assaults. I thought of what it must have been like, waking up that first time to see your body from someone else's point of view. No wonder she'd almost gone insane.
And a horrible thought hit me like a sledgehammer.
Heather must have sensed my tension, for she gripped my hand tightly. "Neil! What is it?"
It took me two tries to get the words out through my suddenly dry mouth. "Those hoodlums. If you could see through them... you saw my face."
She sighed. "Neil, I've known what you look like since the first night you brought me here. I saw your reflection in the kitchen window while you were washing the dinner dishes."
I stared at her, my head spinning. No wonder she'd cried herself to sleep that night! "But if you knew—?"
"Then why did I stay? I explained that to you months ago. Because you're a warm, generous man and I like being with you." "But my face—"
"Damn your face!" she flared. "That thing has become an obsession with you!" She closed her eyes, and after a moment the anger drained from her expression, leaving weariness in its place. "Neil," she said, her quiet voice brimming with emotion, "I've wanted to tell you about my... ability... for a long, long time. But I couldn't, because I was afraid that you'd never believe I could care for you if I knew what you looked like. I was afraid you'd make me leave you."
Letting go of Heather's hand, I put my arm around her and held her close. All around me, I could feel reality going tilt. "I get the distinct feeling I've been acting like a jerk," I told her humbly. "I'm a little old to start changing all of my preconceived ideas around, though. I'll probably need a lot of help. You'll stick around and give me a hand, won't you?"
She took my free hand in both of hers and rested her head on my shoulder. "I'll stay as long as you want me here."
"I'm glad." I paused. "Heather, I think I love you." Eyes glistening with tears, she treated me to the happiest smile I'd ever seen. Then she chuckled. "You mean you're just finding that out? My darling Neil, sometimes I think you're blinder than I am."
I denied that, of course. But now, after fifteen years with her, I sometimes wonder if she was right.
Afterword
This story gave me my first genuine head-on collision with the First Law of Science Fiction: There are few, if any, truly "new" ideas. For a beginning writer it was a bit traumatic, but as it turned out I got off with only minor fender damage and no ticket at all.
I'd just sent off the manuscript to Stan Schmidt at Analog, and was still congratulating myself on such a neat concept as a blind woman who saw through other people's eyes, when my copy of the July 1980 Analog appeared in my mailbox. Which contained the first part of Dean Ing's "Anasazi"... which featured a blind woman who saw through other people's eyes.
I walked around in a permanent wince for six weeks, awaiting with dread the caustic comments that must surely be on their way. But—surprise!—when Stan sent the story back he made no mention whatsoever of the unintentional overlap, merely saying that he liked the story but was too overbooked with novelettes to buy it right away. He must have been sincere, because when I ran it by him again five months later he bought it, again making no mention of "Anasazi."
Which was, I suppose, my introduction to the Second Law of Science Fiction: What you actually do with the idea is the truly important thing.
The Dreamsender
It was always a great day for me when my tiny office was graced by the presence of a paying client, so when I got two jobs in the same day it was cause for a quiet celebration. Riding up the thirty floors between my office and apartment I decided to splurge and cook myself the steak I'd tucked away in the freezer for a special occasion. It was a shame I couldn't have a bottle of wine with it as well, but that was one of the ironies of this job: the only times I could afford to buy good liquor I couldn't afford to drink it. I learned long ago what alcohol did to my performance.
I had just finished changing into more comfortable clothes and was hunting for that steak when the doorbell buzzed. Frowning a bit—I wasn't expecting anyone—I glanced through the peephole. The woman I saw was short, dark, rather plain-looking, and a complete stranger to me. I opened the door.
"Mr. Jefferson Morgan?" she asked without preamble. "The Dreamsender?"
"Yes," I admitted. "What can I do for you, Miss, ah—"
"May I come in?" I stood aside and she brushed past me, moving quickly as if afraid someone would happen by and see her here. I motioned her toward the couch and closed the door.