“We did what we could for Mr. Stone. We had to hurry and we couldn’t be too formal. But everyone turned out. He’s buried on the hill.”
“Your father told me,”
“We couldn’t put up a marker and we couldn’t make a mound. We cut the sod and put it back exactly as it was before. No one would ever know. But all of us have the place tattooed on our minds.”
“Stone and I were friends from long ago.”
“In Fishhook?”
Blaine nodded.
“Tell me about Fishhook, Mr. Blaine.”
“The name is Shep.”
“Shep, then. Tell me.”
“It is a big place and a tall place (the towers on the hill, the plazas and the walks, the trees and mighty buildings, the stores and shops and dives, the people . . . )
Shep, why don’t they let us come?
Let you come?
There were some of us who wrote them and they sent application blanks. Just application blanks, that’s all. But we filled them out and mailed them. And we never heard.
There are thousands who want to get into Fishhook.
Then why don’t they let us come? Why not take all of us? A Fishhook reservation. Where all the little frightened people can have some peace at last.
He didn’t answer. He closed his mind to her.
Shep! Shep, what’s wrong? Something that I said?
Listen, Anita. Fishhook doesn’t want you people. Fishhook isn’t what you think it is. It has changed. It’s become a corporation.
But, we have always . . .
I know. I KNOW. I KNOW. It has been the promised land. It has been the ultimate solution. The never-never land. But it’s not like that at all. It is a counting house. It figures loss and profit. Oh, sure, it will help the world; it will advance mankind. It’s theoretically, and even actually, the greatest thing that ever happened. But it has no kindness in it, no kinship with the other paranormals. If we want that promised land, we’ll have to work it out ourselves. We have to fight our own fight, like stopping Finn and his Project Halloween. . . .
That’s what I came to tell you, really. It isn’t working out.
The telephoning . . .
They let two calls get through. Detroit and Chicago. Then we tried New York and the operator couldn’t get New York. Can you imagine that — couldn’t get New York. We tried Denver and the line was out of order. So we got scared and quit. . . .
Quit! You can’t quit!
We’re using long tellies. We have a few of them. But it’s hard to reach their contacts. There is little use for distance telepathy and it’s not practiced much.
Blaine stood in a daze.
Couldn’t get New York! Line to Denver out of order!
It was impossible that Finn should have such complete control.
Not complete control, Anita told him. But people spotted in strategic situations. For example, he probably could sabotage the world’s entire communications network. And he has people all the time watching and monitoring settlements like ours. We don’t make one long-distance call a month. When three came through in fifteen minutes, Finn’s people knew there was something wrong, so they isolated us.
Blaine slid the knapsack and canteen off his shoulder, lowered them to the ground.
“I’m going back,” he said.
“It would do no good. You couldn’t do a thing we aren’t doing now.”
“Of course,” said Blaine. “You’re very probably right. There is one chance, however, if I can get to Pierre in time . . .”
“Pierre was where Stone lived?”
“Why, yes. You knew of Stone?”
“Heard of him. That was all. A sort of parry Robin Hood. He was working for us.”
“If I could contact his organization, and I think I can . . .”
“The woman lives there, too?”
“You mean Harriet. She’s the one who can put me in contact with Stone’s group. But she may not be there. I don’t know where she is.”
“If you could wait till night, a few of us could fly you up there. It’s too dangerous in the daytime. There are too many people, even in a place like this.”
“It can’t be more than thirty miles or so. I can walk it.”
“The river would be easier. Can you handle a canoe?”
“Many years ago. I think I still know how.”
“Safer, too,” Anita said. “There’s not much traffic on the river. My cousin has a canoe, just upriver from the town. I’ll show you where it is.”
THIRTY-ONE
The storm sneaked in. There was no warning of it except for the gradual graying of the day. At noon the slow-moving clouds blotted out the sun and by three o’clock the sky was closed in, horizon to horizon, by a fleecy grayness that seemed less cloud than the curdling of the sky itself.
Blaine bent to his paddle, driving furiously to eat up the miles. It had been years since he had used a paddle, years since he had done anything approaching strenuous labor. His arms became stiff and numb, and his shoulders ached, and across the upper back a steel band had settled down and was tightening with every stroke he took. His hands seemed one vast blister.
But he did not slow his strokes nor the power behind them, for every minute counted. When he got to Pierre, he knew, he might be unable to locate immediately the group of parries who had worked with Stone, and even if he found them they might refuse to help him. They might want to confirm his identity, they might want to check his story, they might quite rightly suspect him as a spy for Finn. If Harriet were there, she could vouch for him, although he was not sure what her status with the group might be nor what her word was worth. Nor was he even sure that she would be there.
But it was a last, long chance. It was the final hope he had and he could not shirk it. He must get to Pierre, he must find the group, he must make them understand the urgency of the situation.
For if he failed, it spelled the end of Hamilton and of all the other Hamiltons that might be in the world. And it meant as well the end for the other parries who were not in the Hamiltons, but who lived out precarious, careful lives in the midst of normal neighbors.
Not all of them, of course, would die. But all, or nearly all, would be scattered to the winds, to hide in whatever social and economic nooks and crannies they might be able to devise. It would mean that the parries would lose on a world-wide basis whatever tacit accommodations or imperfect understandings they had been able to establish with their normal neighbors. It would mean another generation of slowly coming back, of regaining, item after painful item, what they would have lost. It would mean, perhaps, another fifty years to ride out the storm of rage, to await the growth of another generation’s tolerance.
And in the long picture that stretched ahead, Blaine could see no sign of help — of either sympathy or assistance. For Fishhook, the one place that could help, simply would not care. He had gained at least that much understanding of the situation from his contact with Kirby Rand.
The thought left the taste of bitter ashes in his mind, for it took away the last comfort that he had in all the world — the memory of his days in Fishhook. He had loved Fishhook; he had fought against his fleeing from it; he had regretted that he’d left it; at times he’d wondered if he should not have stayed. But now he knew that he had stayed too long, that perhaps he never should have joined it — for his place was here, out here in the bitter world of the other parries. In them, he realized, lay the hope of developing paranormal kinetics to their full capacity.
They were the misfits of the world, the outcasts, for they deviated from the norm of humanity as established through all of history. Yet it was this very deviation which made them the hope of all mankind. Ordinary human beings — the kind of human beings who had brought the race this far — were not enough today. The ordinary humans had pushed the culture forward as far as they could push it. It had served its purpose; it had brought the ordinary human as far as he could go. Now the race evolved. Now new abilities had awoke and grown — exactly as the creatures of the Earth had evolved and specialized and then evolved again from that first moment when the first feeble spark of life had come into being in the seething chemical bath of a new and madcap planet.