Others. How had
she searched for so long without finding them? It seemed that they had no trouble finding
her. And the strength of the first attack, and even of the call that now pulled at her
insistently, was far greater than anything she felt herself able to generate. Such power
gave the unknown caller a terrible air of permanence.
Unexpectedly, Kenneth was lifting her to her feet, reassuring her that she was all
right.
Steadying herself enough to sample his thoughts, she learned that he was a little
frightened by her screaming. He had hit her before and gotten no reaction other than quiet
tears.
The selfishness of his thoughts stabilized her. He was wondering what would happen
to him if he had hurt her. He had long before ceased worrying about her for her own sake.
And she had never forced him to do anything more than stay with her. She pulled away
from him tiredly and went into the bedroom.
She would never be well again, never be able to go among people without being
bombarded by their thoughts. And facing this, she could not possibly continue her present
living arrangement. She could no longer force Kenneth to stay with her when he hated
her as he did. Nor would she exert more control over him, to force an obscene, artificial
love.
She would follow the call. Even if it had been less insistent, she would have followed
it. Because it was all she had.
She would quarantine herself with others who were afflicted as she was. If she was
alone with them, she would be less likely to hurt people who were well. How would it be,
though? How much worse than anything she had yet known? A life among outcasts.
JAN SHOLTO
The neighborhood had changed little in the three years since Jan had seen it. New
cars, new children. Two small boys ran past her; one of them was black. That was new
too. She was glad her mind had not been open and vulnerable when the boy ran past. She
had problems enough without that alienness. She looked back at the boy with distaste,
then shrugged. She planned only a short visit. She didn't have to live there.
It occurred to her, not for the first time, that even visiting was foolish, pointless. She
had placed her own children in a comfortable home where they would be well cared for,
have better lives than she had had. There was nothing more that she could do for them.
Nothing she could accomplish by visiting them. Yet for days she had felt a need to make
this visit. Need, urge, premonition?
Thinking about it made her uncomfortable. She deliberately turned her attention to
the street around her instead. The newness of it disgusted her. The unimaginative modern
houses, the sapling trees. Even if the complexion of the neighborhood had not been
changing, Jan could never have lived there. The place had no depth in time. She could
touch things, a fence, a light standard, a signpost. Nothing went back further than a
decade. Nothing carried real historical memory. Everything was sterile and perilously
unanchored to the past.
A little girl of no more than seven was standing in one of the yards watching Jan walk
toward her. Jan examined the child curiously. Small, fine-boned and fair-haired, like Jan.
Her eyes were blue, but not the pale, faded blue of Jan's eyes. The girl's eyes had the
same deep, startling blue that had been one of her father's best featuresor one of the best
features of the body her father had been wearing.
Jan turned to walk down the pathway to the child's house.
As she came even with the girl, some sentimentality about the eyes made her stop and
hold out her hand. "Will you walk to the house with me, Margaret?"
The child took the offered hand and walked solemnly beside Jan.
Jan automatically blocked any mental contact with her. She had learned, painfully
that children not only had no depth but that their unstable little animal minds could
deliver one emotional outburst after
she searched for so long without finding them? It seemed that they had no trouble finding
her. And the strength of the first attack, and even of the call that now pulled at her
insistently, was far greater than anything she felt herself able to generate. Such power
gave the unknown caller a terrible air of permanence.
Unexpectedly, Kenneth was lifting her to her feet, reassuring her that she was all
right.
Steadying herself enough to sample his thoughts, she learned that he was a little
frightened by her screaming. He had hit her before and gotten no reaction other than quiet
tears.
The selfishness of his thoughts stabilized her. He was wondering what would happen
to him if he had hurt her. He had long before ceased worrying about her for her own sake.
And she had never forced him to do anything more than stay with her. She pulled away
from him tiredly and went into the bedroom.
She would never be well again, never be able to go among people without being
bombarded by their thoughts. And facing this, she could not possibly continue her present
living arrangement. She could no longer force Kenneth to stay with her when he hated
her as he did. Nor would she exert more control over him, to force an obscene, artificial
love.
She would follow the call. Even if it had been less insistent, she would have followed
it. Because it was all she had.
She would quarantine herself with others who were afflicted as she was. If she was
alone with them, she would be less likely to hurt people who were well. How would it be,
though? How much worse than anything she had yet known? A life among outcasts.
JAN SHOLTO
The neighborhood had changed little in the three years since Jan had seen it. New
cars, new children. Two small boys ran past her; one of them was black. That was new
too. She was glad her mind had not been open and vulnerable when the boy ran past. She
had problems enough without that alienness. She looked back at the boy with distaste,
then shrugged. She planned only a short visit. She didn't have to live there.
It occurred to her, not for the first time, that even visiting was foolish, pointless. She
had placed her own children in a comfortable home where they would be well cared for,
have better lives than she had had. There was nothing more that she could do for them.
Nothing she could accomplish by visiting them. Yet for days she had felt a need to make
this visit. Need, urge, premonition?
Thinking about it made her uncomfortable. She deliberately turned her attention to
the street around her instead. The newness of it disgusted her. The unimaginative modern
houses, the sapling trees. Even if the complexion of the neighborhood had not been
changing, Jan could never have lived there. The place had no depth in time. She could
touch things, a fence, a light standard, a signpost. Nothing went back further than a
decade. Nothing carried real historical memory. Everything was sterile and perilously
unanchored to the past.
A little girl of no more than seven was standing in one of the yards watching Jan walk
toward her. Jan examined the child curiously. Small, fine-boned and fair-haired, like Jan.
Her eyes were blue, but not the pale, faded blue of Jan's eyes. The girl's eyes had the
same deep, startling blue that had been one of her father's best featuresor one of the best
features of the body her father had been wearing.
Jan turned to walk down the pathway to the child's house.
As she came even with the girl, some sentimentality about the eyes made her stop and
hold out her hand. "Will you walk to the house with me, Margaret?"
The child took the offered hand and walked solemnly beside Jan.
Jan automatically blocked any mental contact with her. She had learned, painfully
that children not only had no depth but that their unstable little animal minds could
deliver one emotional outburst after
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