"What's happening?" he demanded.

  "Ship coming in." The engineer shook his arm loose. "Gotta get to the engine room." He rushed away before Selby could question him further. That would be Philip Wig, Selby thought grimly.

  He hadn't had as much time as he'd hoped for. Hurrying down the passageway, he hoped Simon would alert the exiles. Johnny Sloan had to stay out of sight.

  Cromwell was shouting orders into the speaker when he reached the bridge. At sight of Selby he swung around grimly. "We're preparing for lift off in fifteen minutes," he announced.

  "Why the rush?" Selby kept his voice calm.

  "Simon tracked a ship moving into orbit. Must be a patrol."

  "That won't affect you."

  "No?" The captain's voice betrayed his uncertainty.

  "You're here on official business on orders of the director of SocAd,"

  Selby said. "There's nothing to worry over."

  "Just the same, I'd feel safer in space."

  "You can't lift off," he countered. "Our job's not finished."

  Cromwell lifted his eyes. "The boy's dead, isn't he?"

  "We need verification."

  "Of what?" he demanded skeptically.

  "Of the boy's powers," Selby stated. "The director demands positive proof of whether or not he was a beyond. We haven't got that yet."

  "I saw him," Cromwell declared. "Aside from that, Simon says he was."

  "That's not enough."

  The captain thrust out his chin. "How do I know the director cleared this with the patrols? How do I know they won't arrest us all, confiscate the ship? I don't want to wind up on a detention planet. No, sir, not at my age."

  "You won't," he promised. "I'll vouch for that."

  "I don't know." Cromwell rubbed his hands uncertainly.

  Selby said, "You can't lift off. You have to stay until the job's completed. If you don't, I can't guarantee your immunity. That was part of the bargain."

  Cromwell stiffened. "Is that a threat, Mr. Selby?"

  He shook his head. "Not a bit. I'm just telling you how the director would view it. You don't have to worry about the patrol."

  Cromwell gazed through the star window, his jaw muscles working convulsively. "All right," he said finally, "but you'd better be right."

  "I am right," Selby declared, with more confidence than he felt. Acting on the direct orders of Ewol Strang, Wig might feel confident enough to override the director. At the very least he could make things extremely unpleasant. "How soon will they land?" he asked.

  "Simon didn't say," the captain answered. "He just flashed word of the contact. I'd better ask."

  "I'll talk with him," he decided. He started to turn away when the deck lurched under his feet and a low rumble ran through the ship. His first thought was that Grimp had started the engines, but then the vibration died and the rumbling ceased. "What was that," he asked worriedly.

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  "Land tide," Cromwell explained. "They'll get stronger as the moon approaches perigee."

  "I can hardly wait," he answered drily.

  He found Simon sitting in his shack, facing the door, and had the disconcerting impression that the old man had been expecting him. Simon's eyes, deep and blue, yet strangely opaque, settled on his face.

  "I hear we're going to have visitors," he said.

  Simon nodded without changing expression. "I've been talking with 'em, ship designated as SA-456P."

  He smiled faintly. "That's a SocAd ship."

  "I figured it was."

  "When do you believe it might land?"

  "Two or three hours," Simon answered reflectively. "They'll orbit once before starting down."

  "Did they mention any names?"

  "I talked with a Captain Welker. He requested landing information and weather."

  Selby studied him and reached a decision. "I believe the name of the man in charge is Philip Wig, of the police arm," he explained.

  "I've heard the name," Simon acknowledged.

  "Department 404," Selby said. He watched, seeing no change in the old man's expression.

  Simon said laconically, "I'm not surprised."

  "He's coming to get information on David Gant."

  "I know."

  "You know?" As soon as he asked, Selby realized that of course the old man knew; he'd just read it in his mind. The thought was disconcerting. How did one talk with a telepath? Simon's inscrutable face didn't make it any easier. He pushed the perturbing thought aside and said,

  "You won't find him very sympathetic."

  "Don't expect to," Simon admitted. His eyes lost some of their depth and Selby fancied they twinkled. He wondered if the old man were laughing at him.

  Finally he said desperately, "I've got to talk to Lora Gant. Won't you tell me where she is, how I can reach her?" If Simon were reading his mind, he would know the urgency, he thought. The floor lurched gently underfoot; the old man didn't appear to notice.

  Giving no indication that he knew the turmoil in Selby's mind, Simon said drily, "We haven't much in the way of street directories."

  "You're a telepath," Selby charged. "You can reach her."

  "Probably." Simon nodded agreeably.

  "Tell her I'm going to the meadow, will be waiting," he urged. "What I have to tell her is important."

  "She probably already knows," Simon suggested.

  Selby swallowed desperately. "Tell her anyway," he pleaded.

  "Better wear a jacket," Simon counseled. "The wind's coming up something fierce."

  She wasn't there.

  Selby knew it the moment he reached the meadow and looked out over the whipping tops of the bulla grass toward the sullen river. He felt a sharp disappointment. Had Simon sent the message? He felt certain of it, just as he felt certain that the old man had probed his mind, knew all about Philip Wig.

  And about himself. He shifted uncomfortably, wondering how the exiles might regard a hidden telepath, particularly one who worked for SocAd and had come to investigate one of their kind?

  He shivered and drew his jacket closer, listening to the rising wind.

  Its bite penetrated to the marrow. Idly he watched the clouds tumble across the sky. Not that he was a telepath, he thought. Not really, but the capability lay there, deep in his mind, waiting only Page 39

  to be developed. "You could, if you wanted," Johnny had said, and he knew it was true. But he'd always hidden it, denied it, believing it a stigma rather than a gift.

  Now he wasn't so certain. Since coming to Engo and talking with the exiles, he'd found them much like anyone else. If they were probing his mind, they never let on. Yet he could understand the fear of normals when suddenly deprived of the secrecy of their thoughts. It left a man naked to the world, without a single defense. Excuses, rationalizations, lies, hidden greeds and lust -- all were as transparent as glass.

  He thought of the strange boy he'd encountered in the meadow. Vogel had tested him and found him of average IQ, and low on the telepathic scale. But he wasn't that way at all. He'd proved extremely bright, with all his senses attuned to the world. Yet how could the psymaster have been so wrong? The question puzzled him.

  More important, what did Johnny think of him? "You're all right," Johnny had said. Had the boy, in that brief encounter, realized his true sympathies?

  It seemed unlikely, and yet he'd shown no hesitancy in answering questions.

  That implied trust, Selby decided. Perhaps the boy had probed him more fully than he suspected.

  What did Lora Gant think of him? His thoughts went back to their meeting, reviewing each word, each nuance. She'd been hostile at first, but gradually had thawed; and she'd thanked him for his honesty regarding Philip

  Wig. Had her changed attitude come as a result of reading his mind?

  Contemplating it, he became aware of a sense of presence and turned, glimpsing a slender figure moving toward him through the forest. Lora Gant!

  His heart began to pound and do crazy things as he moved to meet her.

  "I'm glad you came," he said, as she drew close. The wind riffled her hair and gave her face a glow. She wore a jacket with her hands plunged deep into the pockets. He thought her lovely.

  She paused a few steps away and regarded him gravely. "Simon said it was important."

  "A SocAd ship's coming in," he answered. "I'm certain it's the executor, Philip Wig."

  She watched him levelly. "What has that to do with me?"

  "You have to take Johnny away."

  "Why?"

  "I told you before. Wig has too much at stake to let the investigation drop because of your brother's death."

  "He'd create a pk?"

  "It's possible."

  "He must hate us," she whispered fiercely.

  "More likely he's thinking of his own future," he answered grimly.

  "Is that the way they all think?"

  "No." He shook his head.

  "But they give him the power to do this sort of thing," she accused.

  "He only had to reach one man on the High Council," he countered. "The director of SocAd doesn't feel that way at all. I'm certain of that. Neither does Hallam Vogel, the psymaster."

  "Hallam Vogel." She uttered the name with loathing. "He sent us here."

  "He was forced by law," he answered defensively.

  "The law," she said scornfully. "Has he ever heard of justice?"

  "I don't pretend that law and justice are the same," he replied. "And I'm certain Hallam Vogel doesn't either. I've known him a long time. He's not like you think.

  Neither is the director. The Wigs are few and far between."

  "Why are you warning us?"

  "I think you know the answer."

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  "We don't go around reading minds, not even here on Engo."

  "Can you honestly say you haven't read mine?" he challenged.

  She flushed and said, "Only when we first met. There's such a thing as survival, you know."

  "Simon uses me like a public library," he countered.

  "It's still survival."

  "Do you trust me now?"

  Her cool dark eyes met his. "Yes," she answered simply.

  "Does Johnny?"

  "Yes."

  "He thinks I'm a telepath."

  "Aren't you?" she asked archly.

  "I don't know. At times I've believed so, but I certainly can't communicate like people do here,"

  he explained. "I've never gotten more than formless impressions."

  "Never?"

  "Once," he admitted. Hesitantly, he told her of the incident that had occurred years before when his father was lost on the Aragon. "Nothing that stark has happened since," he finished. Gazing down at her, he saw she had cocked her head, a look of wonder in her eyes.

  "Your mother was clairvoyant." She half-whispered the words, looking away into the distance.

  "I've wondered."

  "It seems almost certain, Alek."

  He smiled at her use of his given name, all at once feeling better. "I thought it must be something like that," he admitted.

  Her eyes came back to him. "It's a great gift," she said.

  "More like a curse," he answered wryly.

  "Only to your worlds, to the people who don't understand," she rebuked.

  She added bitterly, "To them we're mutants, freaks, some alien form of life.

  If your mother never revealed herself, it's because she knew that, Alek.

  That's why she warned you. Is Simon cursed? Is Johnny'? Do you believe I'm cursed?"

  "Not at all," he interrupted. "I didn't mean that."

  "What did you mean?" She pulled her jacket closer, brushing the hair from her face, a gesture that he thought made her appear very feminine.

  "Cursed because of the treatment accorded them," he explained. "Like being exiled here on Engo."

  "I'd rather be here, among my kind, than on any of your so-called civilized planets," she answered.

  "I'm not fighting you." When she didn't answer, he said, "But that still doesn't change things. You have to take Johnny away, hide him until Wig leaves."

  "He can't leave."

  "Why not?" he demanded.

  "I can't tell you that."

  "I thought you trusted me?"

  She studied him for a long moment before saying, "We know the danger.

  Someone's coming to take Johnny away, but he won't be here for several days."

  "Take him away?" Caught by something in her tone, he eyed her sharply.

  "From Engo," she murmured.

  He stared at her with a sudden flash of insight. "Mr. Olaf?" he asked.

  "He's helped us a lot, Alek."

  "From what Wig says, I imagine he has," he replied drily. "Does he come often?"

  "I've never seen him."

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  "Never?" Her answer surprised him.

  "He makes his contacts through Simon," she explained.

  "He can't come here," he objected. "Can't he meet Johnny at a safer place?"

  "There are things keeping Johnny here," she said.

  "What things?"

  "Please don't ask, Alek."

  "How can I help you if I don't know what's happening?" he demanded.

  She said softly, "You can't help, not in this."

  "I can try."

  "No, please." She glanced at the sky. "I'd better go."

  He laid a restraining hand on her arm. "When will I see you again?"

  She turned her face up. "That's up to you."

  "Except that I don't know where you live, or how to reach you, and Simon's not very talkative. He doesn't like to give out a girl's address."

  "Simon's a dear," she said. A smile touched her lips. "You're a transmitter, remember?"

  "Transmitter?" He echoed the word hollowly. "What good does it do to transmit if I can't hear the answers?"

  "Transmitters are powerful people, Alek."

  "Powerful?"

  "It's not just the transmitting, it's the power to get into the minds of other people."

  "So Johnny said."

  "It's true," she insisted. "After what you told me of your mother..."

  She broke off, watching him speculatively.

  "I'm not clairvoyant," he said grimly. "Don't think that."

  "No, but there could be something in your genes." She regarded him gravely. "Simon once knew a transmitter so powerful he could cause a person to act against his own will. It could have been a case of telepathic hypnosis, or..."

  "Or what?" he prompted.

  "I don't know." She smiled slightly. "There are many things we don't know about ourselves, Alek."

  He said soberly. "That power could be dangerous."

  "In the wrong hands, yes."

  "In anyone's hands," he declared.

  "Not if the power were used for good," she denied.

  "I'm not interested in that."

  "What are you interested in, Alek?"

  "Making you hear me." He looked down at her, smiling. "Do you believe I could do that?"

  "You can try," she said. She turned before he could answer, hurrying back along the path through the woods. He restrained the impulse to follow, watching until she vanished. Humming happily, he started toward the field.

  He could see the virtue in being a transmitter.

  Seven

  THE SocAd ship remained in orbit while the wind screamed across the planet's surface.

  Reaching nearly two hundred miles per hour, it tore huge branches from the agora trees and sent them spinning through the air. Shortly after the onset of the storm, the sky opened, hurling down a wall of water that sent the Dimbo raging over its banks and flooding the field.

  Captain Cromwell battened all hatches when the storm broke. "It's going to be a real blow," he warned grimly.

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  Confined to the freighter, Selby fumed apprehensively. Had Lora reached home safely? The question haunted him. The storm had struck with appalling suddenness. He'd scarcely returned from the meadow when it roared out of the

  Kavu mountains with blasts that flattened the bulla grass and set the whole forest in motion.

  Debris, slamming against the metal plates, sent thudding jars throughout the ship's hull.

  Are you all right? Are you all right? He concentrated on the question, hoping against hope that he really was the transmitter she had believed. But did he have the key? What was the secret?

  Lora, are you all right? The answering silence mocked him.

  Cromwell caught his look of despair. "Might as well take it easy," he counseled. "Nothing you can do."

  "At least it keeps the patrol ship in orbit," Snorkel supplied. "I like that."

  "They'll come down sometime," Grimp uttered dolefully. He stared at Prim. "I have the unholy feeling I'm about to wind up on a detention planet."

  "Don't say that," the purser snapped testily. "I'm a young man."

  "You..., young?" Snorkel gave a nasal laugh.

  The hours stretched out and still the wind howled. From time to time Selby felt the ship lurch crazily and knew it was from land tides as the orange moon rushed toward perigee. Now he knew why the graveyard grew.

  Trying to sleep, he caught himself staring into the darkness, picturing Lora Gant's slender face framed in a cascade of dark brown hair, the soft, luminous eyes he couldn't hope to plumb. Finally sheer exhaustion overtook him and he sank into a stupor that was neither sleep nor wakefulness, but somewhere in the strange world between in which reality became mixed with hallucinated voices and sounds. His mind seemed to drift as if freed from his body.

  "I'm all right, Alek." The words penetrated his consciousness with such clarity that he bolted upright in his bunk, listening, all his senses attuned to the inner world of his mind. He heard nothing but the storm. Yet the words had come, as plainly as he'd heard his mother's call on that long ago day when she'd witnessed his father's death. The message had been that clear.

  Slowly he lay back again, staring into the darkness. She was safe! He knew that beyond the shadow of a doubt. Somehow she had heard his call, had answered. And he'd heard her!

  Listening to the wind shriek past the hull, his eyes grew heavy.

  I'm a telepath, he thought; and then he slept.

  The wind abated next morning and the sun rose in a cloudless sky. It was one of those sudden transformations in weather which Selby was becoming to expect of the planet. Cromwell informed him that the SocAd ship would be forced to remain in orbit for another day while the water drained from the field.

 

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