A Saucer of Loneliness by Theodore Sturgeon Page A

they should recover so swiftly from blackout was, to say the least, an intrusion; for his moments of aloneness were precious and more than precious to Grunty, and would be useless to him under the scrutiny of those jeweled eyes. But that was a minor matter compared to this other thing, this terrible fact that they
heard
.
    Telepathic races were not common, but they did exist. And what he was now experiencing was what invariably happened when humans encountered one. He could only send; the loverbirds could only receive. And they
must not
receive him! No one must. No one must know what he was, what he thought. If anyone did, it would be a disaster beyond bearing. It would mean no more flights with Rootes. Which, of course, meant no flights with anyone. And how could he live—where could he go?
    He turned back to the loverbirds. His lips were white and drawn back in a snarl of panic and fury. For a blood-thick moment he held their eyes. They drew closer to one another, and together sent him a radiant, anxious, friendly look that made him grind his teeth.
    Then, at the console, the finder chimed.
    Grunty turned slowly from the transparent door and went to his couch. He lay down and poised his thumb over the push-button.
    He
hated
the loverbirds, and there was no joy in him. He pressed the button, the ship slid into a new stasis, and he blacked out.
    The time passed.
    “Grunty!”
    “?”
    “You feed them this shift?”
    “Nuh.”
    “Last shift?”
    “Nuh.”
    “What the hell’s matter with you, y’big dumb bastich? What you expect them to live on?”
    Grunty sent a look of roiling hatred aft. “Love,” he said.
    “Feed ’em,” snapped Rootes.
    Wordlessly Grunty went about preparing a meal for the prisoners. Rootes stood in the middle of the cabin, his hard small fists on his hips, his gleaming auburn head tilted to one side, and watched every move. “I didn’t used to have to tell you anything,” he growled, half pugnaciously, half worriedly. “You sick?”
    Grunty shook his head. He twisted the tops of two cans and set them aside to heat themselves, and took down the water suckers.
    “You got it in for those honeymooners or something?”
    Grunty averted his face.
    “We get them to Dirbanu alive and healthy, hear me? They get sick, you get sick, by God. I’ll see to that. Don’t give me trouble, Grunty. I’ll take it out on you. I never whipped you yet, but I will.”
    Grunty carried the tray aft. “You hear me?” Rootes yelled.
    Grunty nodded without looking at him. He touched the control and a small communication window slid open in the glass wall. He slid the tray through. The taller loverbird stepped forward and took it eagerly, gracefully, and gave him a dazzling smile of thanks. Grunty growled low in his throat like a carnivore. The loverbird carried the food back to the couch and they began to eat, feeding each other little morsels.
    A new stasis, and Grunty came fighting up out of blackness. He sat up abruptly, glanced around the ship. The Captain was sprawled out across the cushions, his compact body and outflung arm forming the poured-out, spring-steel laxness usually seen only in sleeping cats. The loverbirds, even in deep unconsciousness, lay like hardly separate parts of something whole, the small one on the couch, the tall one on the deck, prone, reaching, supplicating.
    Grunty snorted and hove to his feet. He crossed the cabin and stood looking down on Rootes.
    The hummingbird is a yellowjacket
, said his words,
Buzz and dart, hiss and flash away. Swift and hurtful, hurtful …
    He stood for a moment, his great shoulder muscles working one against the other, and his mouth trembled.
    He looked at the loverbirds, who were still motionless. His eyes slowly narrowed.
    His words tumbled and climbed, and ordered themselves:
    I through love have learned three things,
    Sorrow, sin and death it brings.
    Yet day by day my heart within
    Dares shame and sorrow, death and sin
.…
    And dutifully he