Tom's girl didn't mind Jesse having a little fun with Tom. What
frightened her was that Tom didn't know what he was up against. He was liable to make
Jesse angry enough to really hurt him. If she had been out with a Donaldton man, she
wouldn't have worried.
As the two men fought, though, it was Tom whose anger grew, silently encouraged
by Jesse. Jesse mentally goaded Tom to fight as though his life were at stake. Then an
explosion went off in Jesse's head and Tom got his chance.
Jesse was only vaguely aware of the beating his body was taking as he struggled to
close out the mental blast. But there was no way to close it out. No way to dull it as it
screamed through him. Tom had a field day.
When the "noise" finally lessened, when it didn't fill every part of Jesse's mind, he
realized that he was on the ground. He started groggily to get up, and the man whose
anger he had mentally encouraged kicked him in the face.
His head snapped back—not as far as Tom would have liked—and he lost
consciousness.
He didn't come to all at once. First he was aware only of the call drawing him,
destroying any mental peace he might have had before he became aware of the condition
of his body. He didn't seem to be hurt seriously, but he could feel a dozen or two places
where his flesh was split and bruised. His face was lumpy and already swollen. Some of
his teeth had been kicked in. And he hurt. He hurt all over. He spat out blood and broken
teeth.
Damn that out-of-town bastard to hell!
The thought of Tom roused him to look around. Somebody from Donaldton was
standing over him, thinking about moving him back into town to a bed.
Not far away, Tom struggled between two more Donaldton men and cursed steadily.
Jesse staggered to his feet. The crowd was still there. Probably some out-of-towner
had gone for the police. Not that it mattered. The police were old friends of Jesse's.
Jesse refused to mute his own pain. It came as near as anything could to blocking out
the call to Forsyth. And, although Jesse had not yet analyzed what had happened to him,
the message of the call was clear—and clearly something he wanted no part of. Besides,
he wanted to hurt. He wanted to look at Tom and hurt. He started to smile, had to spit
more blood, then spoke softly. "Let him go."
Jesse moved in, anticipating Tom's swings, avoiding them. Tom couldn't surprise
him. And as angry as Jesse was now, that meant Tom couldn't touch him. Slowly,
methodically, he cut the bigger man to pieces.
Now Tom's strength betrayed him. It kept him on his feet when he should have fallen,
kept him fighting, well after he was beaten. When he finally did collapse to the ground, it
kept him conscious and aware—aware solely of pain.
Jesse walked away and left him lying there. Let his girl take care of him.
The townspeople drifted away, too. They had had a much better show than they had
bargained for. To the out-of-towners, Tom seemed to have gotten no more than he
deserved. They resumed their Sunday outing.
A few minutes later, Tara was shaking her head and wiping blood from Jesse's face
with a cold, wet paper napkin. "Jess, why'd you let him beat you up like that? How are
you going to go to your birthday party tonight, now?"
He glanced at her in annoyance and she fell silent. Party, hell! If he could just get rid
of this damned buzzing in his head, he would be all right.
So, somewhere in California, there was a town called Forsyth, and there were other
actives there—more of Doro's people. So what! Why should he run to them, come when
they called? Nobody on the other end of that buzz could have anything to offer him that
was better than what he had.
ADA DRAGAN
They were screaming at each other over some small thing—a party Ada would not
attend. Yesterday the screaming had been over the neighbors whom Ada had interfered
with. She had sensed them
frightened her was that Tom didn't know what he was up against. He was liable to make
Jesse angry enough to really hurt him. If she had been out with a Donaldton man, she
wouldn't have worried.
As the two men fought, though, it was Tom whose anger grew, silently encouraged
by Jesse. Jesse mentally goaded Tom to fight as though his life were at stake. Then an
explosion went off in Jesse's head and Tom got his chance.
Jesse was only vaguely aware of the beating his body was taking as he struggled to
close out the mental blast. But there was no way to close it out. No way to dull it as it
screamed through him. Tom had a field day.
When the "noise" finally lessened, when it didn't fill every part of Jesse's mind, he
realized that he was on the ground. He started groggily to get up, and the man whose
anger he had mentally encouraged kicked him in the face.
His head snapped back—not as far as Tom would have liked—and he lost
consciousness.
He didn't come to all at once. First he was aware only of the call drawing him,
destroying any mental peace he might have had before he became aware of the condition
of his body. He didn't seem to be hurt seriously, but he could feel a dozen or two places
where his flesh was split and bruised. His face was lumpy and already swollen. Some of
his teeth had been kicked in. And he hurt. He hurt all over. He spat out blood and broken
teeth.
Damn that out-of-town bastard to hell!
The thought of Tom roused him to look around. Somebody from Donaldton was
standing over him, thinking about moving him back into town to a bed.
Not far away, Tom struggled between two more Donaldton men and cursed steadily.
Jesse staggered to his feet. The crowd was still there. Probably some out-of-towner
had gone for the police. Not that it mattered. The police were old friends of Jesse's.
Jesse refused to mute his own pain. It came as near as anything could to blocking out
the call to Forsyth. And, although Jesse had not yet analyzed what had happened to him,
the message of the call was clear—and clearly something he wanted no part of. Besides,
he wanted to hurt. He wanted to look at Tom and hurt. He started to smile, had to spit
more blood, then spoke softly. "Let him go."
Jesse moved in, anticipating Tom's swings, avoiding them. Tom couldn't surprise
him. And as angry as Jesse was now, that meant Tom couldn't touch him. Slowly,
methodically, he cut the bigger man to pieces.
Now Tom's strength betrayed him. It kept him on his feet when he should have fallen,
kept him fighting, well after he was beaten. When he finally did collapse to the ground, it
kept him conscious and aware—aware solely of pain.
Jesse walked away and left him lying there. Let his girl take care of him.
The townspeople drifted away, too. They had had a much better show than they had
bargained for. To the out-of-towners, Tom seemed to have gotten no more than he
deserved. They resumed their Sunday outing.
A few minutes later, Tara was shaking her head and wiping blood from Jesse's face
with a cold, wet paper napkin. "Jess, why'd you let him beat you up like that? How are
you going to go to your birthday party tonight, now?"
He glanced at her in annoyance and she fell silent. Party, hell! If he could just get rid
of this damned buzzing in his head, he would be all right.
So, somewhere in California, there was a town called Forsyth, and there were other
actives there—more of Doro's people. So what! Why should he run to them, come when
they called? Nobody on the other end of that buzz could have anything to offer him that
was better than what he had.
ADA DRAGAN
They were screaming at each other over some small thing—a party Ada would not
attend. Yesterday the screaming had been over the neighbors whom Ada had interfered
with. She had sensed them
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