The Mindworm, locked in the toilet of the coach, wondered what the next stop was. He was getting off at it—not frightened, just careful.
Dodge them, keep dodging them and everything would be all right.
Send out no mental taps until the train was far away and everything would be all right.
He got off at a West Virginia coal and iron town surrounded by ruined mountains and filled with the offscourings of Eastern Europe. Serbs, Albanians, Croats, Hungarians, Slovenes, Bulgarians, and all possible combinations and permutations thereof. He walked slowly from the smoke-stained, brownstone passenger station. The train had roared on its way.
"…ain' no gemmum that's fo sho', fi-cen' tip fo' a good shine lak ah give um …"
"…dumb bassar don't know how to make out a billa lading yet he ain't never gonna know so fire him get it over with…"
"…gabblegabblegabble …" Not a word he recognized in it.
"…gobblegobble dat tarn vooman I brek she nack…"
"…gobble trink visky chin glassabeer gobblegobblegobble …"
"…gabblegabblegabble…"
"…makes me so gobblegobble mad little no-good tramp no she ain'
but I don' like no standup from no dame …"
A blond, square-headed boy fuming under a street light.
"…out wit' Casey Oswiak I could kill that dumb bohunk alia time trine ta paw her…"
It was a possibility. The Mindworm drew near.
"…stand me up for that gobblegobble bohunk I oughtta slap her inna mush like my ole man says …"
"Hello," said the Mindworm.
"Waddaya wan'?"
"Casey Oswiak told me to tell you not to wait up for your girl. He's taking her out tonight."
The blond boy's rage boiled into his face and shot from his eyes. He was about to swing when the Mindworm began to feed. It was like pheasant after chicken, venison after beef. The coarseness of the environment, or the ancient strain? The Mindworm wondered as he strolled down the street. A girl passed him:
"…oh but he's gonna be mad like last time wish I came right away so jealous kinda nice but he might bust me one some day be nice to him tonight there he is lam'post leaning on it looks kinda funny gawd I hope he ain't drunk looks kinda funny sleeping sick or bozhe moi gabblegabblegabble …"
Her thoughts trailed into a foreign language of which the Mind-worm knew not a word. After hysteria had gone she recalled, in the foreign language, that she had passed him.
The Mindworm, stimulated by the unfamiliar quality of the last feeding, determined to stay for some days. He checked in at a Main Street hotel.
Musing, he dragged his net:
"…gobblegobblewhompyeargobblecheskygobblegabblechyesh …"
"…take him down cellar beat the can off the damn chesky thief put the fear of god into him teach him can't bust into no boxcars in mah parta the caounty…"
"…gabblegabble…"
"…phone ole Mister Ryan in She-cawgo and he'll tell them three-card monte grifters who got the horse-room rights in this necka the woods by damn don't pay protection money for no protection …"
The Mindworm followed that one further; it sounded as though it could lead to some money if he wanted to stay in the town long enough.
The Eastern Europeans of the town, he mistakenly thought, were like the tramps and bums he had known and fed on during his years on the road—stupid and safe, safe and stupid, quite the same thing.
In the morning he found no mention of the square-headed boy's death in the town's paper and thought it had gone practically unnoticed. It had—by the paper, which was of, by, and for the coal and iron company and its native-American bosses and straw bosses. The other town, the one without a charter or police force, with only an imported weekly newspaper or two from the nearest city, noticed it. The other town had roots more than two thousand years deep, which are hard to pull up.
But the Mindworm didn't know it was there.
He fed again that night, on a giddy young streetwalker in her room. He had astounded and delighted her with a fistful of ten-dollar bills before he began to gorge. Again the delightful difference from city-bred folk was there….
Again in the morning he had been unnoticed, he thought. The chartered town, unwilling to admit that there were streetwalkers or that they were found dead, wiped the slate clean; its only member who really cared was the native-American cop on the beat who had collected weekly from the dead girl.
The other town, unknown to the Mindworm, buzzed with it. A delegation went to the other town's only public officer. Unfortunately he was young, American-trained, perhaps even ignorant about some important things. For what he told them was: "My children, that is foolish superstition. Go home."
The Mindworm, through the day, roiled the surface of the town proper by allowing himself to be roped into a poker game in a parlor of the hotel. He wasn't good at it, he didn't like it, and he quit with relief when he had cleaned six shifty-eyed, hard-drinking loafers out of about three hundred dollars. One of them went straight to the police station and accused the unknown of being a sharper. A humorous sergeant, the Mindworm was pleased to note, joshed the loafer out of his temper.
Nightfall again, hunger again …
He walked the streets of the town and found them empty. It was strange. The native-American citizens were out, tending bar, walking their beats, locking up their newspaper on the stones, collecting their rents, managing their movies—but where were the others? He cast his net:
"…gobblegobblegobble whomp year gobble …"
"…crazy old pollack mama of mine try to lock me in with Errol Flynn at the Majestic never know the difference if I sneak out the back .
. ."
That was near. He crossed the street and it was nearer. He homed on the thought:
"…jeez he's a hunka man like Stanley but he never looks at me that Vera Kowalik I'd like to kick her just once in the gobblegobble-gobble crazy old mama won't be American so ashamed…"
It was half a block, no more, down a side street. Brick houses, two stories, with back yards on an alley. She was going out the back way.
How strangely quiet it was in the alley.
"…easy down them steps fix that damn board that's how she caught me last time what the hell are they all so scared of went to see Father Drugas won't talk bet somebody got it again that Vera Kowalik and her big…"
"…gobble bozhe gobble whomp year gobble…"
She was closer; she was closer.
"All think I'm a kid show them who's a kid bet if Stanley caught me all alone out here in the alley dark and all he wouldn't think I was a kid that damn Vera Kowalik her folks don't think she's a kid …"
For all her bravado she was stark terrified when he said: "Hello."
"Who—who—who—?" she stammered.
Quick, before she screamed. Her terror was delightful.
Not too replete to be alert, he cast about, questing.
"…gobblegobblegobble whomp year."
The countless eyes of the other town, with more than two thousand years of experience in such things, had been following him. What he had sensed as a meaningless hash of noise was actually an impassioned outburst in a nearby darkened house.
"Fools! fools! Now he has taken a virgin! I said not to wait. What will we say to her mother?"
An old man with handlebar mustache and, in spite of the heat, his shirt sleeves decently rolled down and buttoned at the cuffs, evenly replied:
"My heart in me died with hers, Casimir, but one must be sure. It would be a terrible thing to make a mistake in such an affair."
The weight of conservative elder opinion was with him. Other old men with mustaches, some perhaps remembering mistakes long ago, nodded and said: "A terrible thing. A terrible thing."
The Mindworm strolled back to his hotel and napped on the made bed briefly. A tingle of danger awakened him. Instantly he cast out: