He picked up the book of matches and handed them to Blaine.
“You’ll want these for smoking.”
Blaine put them in his pocket.
“I could get you cigarettes,” the sheriff said.
“No need,” Blaine told him. “I carry them sometimes, but I don’t do much smoking. Usually I wear them out carrying them before I get around to smoking.”
The sheriff lifted a ring of keys off a nail.
“Come along,” he said.
Blaine followed him into a corridor that fronted on a row of cells.
The sheriff unlocked the nearest one, across the corridor from the door.
“You’ve got it all alone,” he said. “Ran the last one out last night. Boy who came across the border and got himself tanked up. Figured he was as good as white folks.”
Blaine walked into the cell. The sheriff banged and locked the door.
“Anything you want,” he said, with a fine show of hospitality, “just yell out and say so. I’ll get it for you.”
EIGHT
It had gone by many names.
Once it had been known as extrasensory perception. And then there had been a time when it had been psionics, psi for short. But first of all it had been magic.
The medicine man, with the oxides that he used for paint, with his knucklebones to rattle in the skull, with his bag of nauseous content, may have practiced it in a clumsy sort of way before the first word had been written — grasping at a principle he did not understand, more than likely not even knowing that he did not understand, not realizing there was anything he ought to understand. And the knowledge was passed on, from hand to inept hand. The witch doctor of the Congo used it, the priests of Egypt knew it, the wise men of Tibet were acquainted with it. And in all these cases it was not wisely used and it was not understood and it got mixed up with a lot of mumbo jumbo and in the days of reason it became discredited and there was scarcely anyone who believed in it.
Out of the days of reason rose a method and a science, and there was no place for magic in the world that science built — for there was no method in it and there was no system in it and it could not be reduced to a formula or equation. So it was suspect and it was outside the pale and it was all stupid foolishness. No man in his right mind would once consider it.
But they called it PK now for paranormal kinetics, which was too long to say. And the ones who had it they called parries and shut them up in jails and did even worse than that.
It was a queer business, once one thought of it — for despite the strange gulf which lay between PK and science, it had taken the orderly mind which science had drummed into the human race to make PK finally work.
And, strange as it might seem, Blaine told himself, it had been necessary that science should come first. For science had to be developed before Man could understand the forces which had freed his mind from the shackles in which they had been bound, before mental energy could be tapped and put to work by those who quite unsuspectingly had always carried with them that power and energy. For even in the study of PK there had been a need for method, and science had been the training ground in which method had developed.
There were those who said that in some distant past two roads had forked for mankind, one of them marked “Magic” and the other “Science,” and that Man had taken the “Science” road and let the “Magic” go. Many of these people then went on to say that Man had made a great mistake in the choosing of the roads. See how far we’d have gone, they said, if we had taken “Magic” at the first beginning.
But they were wrong, Blaine said, talking to himself, for there had never been two roads; there’d only been the one. For Man had had to master science before he could master magic.
Although science had almost defeated magic, had almost driven it into limbo with laughter and with scorn.
And would have driven it had there not been stubborn men who had refused to give up the dream of stars. Men who had been willing to do anything at all, to brave the laughter of the world, to accept derision, if they only could lay hands upon the stars.
He wondered how it must have been in those days when Fishhook had been no more than a feeble hope, a glimmer of the mind, an article of faith. For the little band of hopeful, stubborn men had stood entirely by themselves. When they had asked for help, there had been no help, but only scornful chuckling against such errant foolery.
The press had made a field day of it when they had appeared in Washington to ask financial aid. There had, quite naturally, been no such aid forthcoming, for the government would have naught to do with such a wildcat scheme. If science in all its might and glory had failed to reach the stars, how could there be hope that such as these might do it? So the men had worked alone, except for such pittances as they might be given here and there — a small grant from India, another from the Philippines and a little from Columbia — plus dribbles that came in from metaphysical societies and a few sympathetic donors.
Then finally a country with a heart — Mexico — had invited them to come, had provided money, had set up a study center and a laboratory, had lent encouragementrather than guffaws of laughter.
And almost from that day, Fishhook had become reality, had developed into an institution which did credit not to itself alone, but to the country which had opened up its heart.
And I am a part of it, thought Blaine, sitting in his cell; a part of this virtually secret society, although secret through no fault of its own. Made secret, rather, by the envy and intolerance and the surging superstition of the entire world. Even though I am running from it, even though it be hunting me, I am still a part of it.
He got up from the tiny bunk with its dirty blanket and stood at the window, staring out. He could see the sunbaked street and the scraggly trees staggered on the boulevard and across the street the sad, defeated business houses with a few dilapidated cars parked against the curb, some of them so ancient they were equipped with wheels which in turn were driven by internal combustion engines. Men sat on the steps that led up to the store fronts, chewing tobacco and spitting out onto the sidewalks, creating little pools of sticky amber liquid which looked like old bloodstains. They sat there languidly and chewed and occasionally talked among themselves, not looking at the courthouse, looking nowhere in particulars but being very nonchalant about their deadly loafing.
But they were watching the courthouse, Blaine knew. They were watching him — the man with the mirror in his mind. The mind, Old Sara told the sheriff, that bounces back at you.
And that had been what Kirby Rand had seen, that had been what had tipped him off and set Fishhook on the trail. Which meant that Rand, if he were not a peeper, then certainly was a spotter. Although, Blaine thought, it didn’t really matter whether Rand was a peeper or a spotter, for a peeper would have little luck in reading a mind that bounced right back at you.
And that meant, Blaine realized, that he carried in his mind the equivalent of a flashing warning light for anyone with the ability to see. There’d be nowhere he’d be safe. There’d be no place he could hide. He’d ring a loud and angry bell for any peeper or any spotter or any hounder that came within his range.
He’d not been that way before. He was quite certain of it. Someone would have mentioned it or it would have been on his psych report.
You, he said to the hider in his mind, come out of there!
It wagged its tail. It wriggled like a happy dog. It did not come out.
Blaine went back to the bunk and sat down on the edge of it.
Harriet would be back with some sort of help. Or maybe the sheriff would let him go before then, as soon as it was safe. Although the sheriff didn’t have to, for the sheriff had good grounds to hold him — the possession of the gun.