Cutter hesitated. He dropped his cigarette thoughtfully to the floor and crushed it underfoot. "What are you doing here? You usually hang out in New York. This is a long way out here."
Abbud smiled. "We picked up Doctor Franklin's thoughts as he entered the girl's car -- before she gave him the hood. She waited too long. We got a distinct visual image of her, seen from the back seat, of course. But she turned around to give him the hood. Two hours ago Clearance picked her up. She knew a great deal -- our first real contact. We were able to locate the factory and round up most of the workers."
"Oh?" Cutter murmured.
"They're in protective custody. Their hoods are gone -- and the supply stored for distribution. The stampers have been dismantled. As far as I know we have all the group. You're the last one."
"Then does it matter if I keep my hood?"
Abbud's eyes flickered. "Take it off. I want to scan you -- Mister Hood Maker."
Cutter grunted. "What do you mean?"
"Several of your men gave us images of you -- and details of your trip here. I came out personally, notifying Waldo through our relay system in advance. I wanted to be here myself."
"Why?"
"It's an occasion. A great occasion."
"What position do you hold?" Cutter demanded.
Abbud's sallow face turned ugly. "Come on! Off with the hood! I could blast you now. But I want to scan you first."
"All right. I'll take it off. You can scan me, if you want. Probe all the way down." Cutter paused, reflecting soberly. "It's your funeral."
"What do you mean?"
Cutter removed his hood, tossing it onto a table by the door. "Well? What do you see? What do I know --that none of the others knew?"
For a moment Abbud was silent.
Suddenly his face twitched, his mouth working. The Slem-gun swayed. Abbud staggered, a violent shudder leaping through his lank frame. He gaped at Cutter in rising horror.
"I learned it only recently," Cutter said. "In our lab. I didn't want to use it -- but you forced me to take off my hood. I always considered the alloy my most important discovery -- until this. In some ways, this is even more important. Don't you agree?"
Abbud said nothing. His face was a sickly gray. His lips moved but no sound came.
"I had a hunch -- and I played it for all it was worth. I knew you telepaths were born from a single group, resulting from an accident -- the Madagascar hydrogen explosion. That made me think. Most mutants, that we know of, are thrown off universally by the species that's reached the mutation stage. Not a single group in one area. The whole world, wherever the species exists.
"Damage to the germ plasma of a specific group of humans is the cause of your existence. You weren't a mutant in the sense that you represented a natural development of the evolutionary process. In no sense could it be said that homo sapiens had reached the mutation stage. So perhaps you weren't a mutant.
"I began to make studies, some biological, some merely statistical. Sociological research. We began correlating facts on you, on each member of your group we could locate. How old you were. What you were doing for a living. How many were married. Number of children. After a while I came across the facts you're scanning right now."
Cutter leaned toward Abbud, watching the youth intently.
"You're not a true mutant, Abbud. Your group exists because of a chance explosion. You're different from us because of damage to the reproductive apparatus of your parents. You lack one specific characteristic that true mutants possess." A faint smile twitched across Cutter's features. "A lot of you are married. But not one birth has been reported. Not one birth! Not a single teep child! You can't
you are married. But not one birth has been reported. Not one birth! Not a single teep child! You can't
"You're not mutants. You're freaks!"
Abbud grunted hoarsely, his body trembling. "I see this, in your mind." He pulled himself together with an effort. "And you've kept this secret, have you? You're the only one who knows?"
"Somebody else knows," Cutter said.
"Who?"
"You know. You scanned me. And since you're a teep, all the others --"
Abbud fired, the Slem-gun digging frantically into his own middle. He dissolved, showering in a rain of fragments. Cutter moved back, his hands over his face. He closed his eyes, holding his breath.
When he looked again there was nothing.
Cutter shook his head. "Too late, Abbud. Not fast enough. Scanning is instant -- and Waldo is within range. The relay system... And even if they missed you, they can't avoid picking me up."
A sound. Cutter turned. Clearance agents were moving rapidly into the hall, glancing down at the remains on the floor and up at Cutter.
Director Ross covered Cutter uncertainly, confused and shaken. "What happened here? Where --"
"Scan him!" Peters snapped. "Get a teep in here quick. Bring Waldo in. Find out what happened."
Cutter grinned ironically. "Sure," he said, nodding shakily. He sagged with relief. "Scan me. I have nothing to hide. Get a teep in here for a probe -- if you can find any..."
Of Withered Apples
Something was tapping on the window. Blowing up against the pane, again and again. Carried by the wind. Tapping faintly, insistently.
Lori, sitting on the couch, pretended not to hear. She gripped her book tightly and turned a page. The tapping came again, louder and more imperative. It could not be ignored.
"Darn!" Lori said, throwing her book down on the coffee table and hurrying to the window. She grasped the heavy brass handles and lifted.
For a moment the window resisted. Then, with a protesting groan, it reluctantly rose. Cold autumn air rushed into the room. The bit of leaf ceased tapping and swirled against the woman's throat, dancing to the floor.
Lori picked the leaf up. It was old and brown. Her heart skipped a beat as she slipped the leaf into the pocket of her jeans. Against her loins the leaf cut and tingled, a little hard point piercing her smooth skin and sending exciting shivers up and down her spine. She stood at the open window a moment, sniffing the air. The air was full of the presence of trees and rocks, of great boulders and remote places. It was time -- time to go again. She touched the leaf. She was wanted.
Quickly Lori left the big living-room, hurrying through the hall into the dining-room. The dining-room was empty. A few chords of laughter drifted from the kitchen. Lori pushed the kitchen door open. "Steve?"
Her husband and his father were sitting around the kitchen table, smoking their cigars and drinking steaming black coffee. "What is it?" Steve demanded, frowning at his young wife. "Ed and I are in the middle of business."
"I -- I want to ask you something."
The two men gazed at her, brown-haired Steven, his dark eyes full of the stubborn dignity of New England men, and his father, silent and withdrawn in her presence. Ed Patterson scarcely noticed her. He rustled through a sheaf of feed bills, his broad back turned toward her.
her. He rustled through a sheaf of feed bills, his broad back turned toward her.
"I have to go," Lori blurted.
"Go where?"
"Outside." Anxiety flooded over her. "This is the last time. I promise. I won't go again, after this. Okay?" She tried to smile, but her heart was pounding too hard. "Please let me, Steve."
"Where does she go?" Ed rumbled.
Steve grunted in annoyance. "Up in the hills. Some old abandoned place up there."
Ed's gray eyes flickered. "Abandoned farm?"
"Yes. You know it?"
"The old Rickley farm. Rickley moved away years ago. Couldn't get anything to grow, not up there. Ground's all rocks. Bad soil. A lot of clay and stones. The place is all overgrown, tumbled down."
"What kind of farm was it?"
"Orchard. Fruit orchard. Never yielded a damn thing. Thin old trees. Waste of effort."