XIV

I left homestead with a half-formed idea that I was going to visit

Bruce, Wisconsin, long enough to say goodbye to Catherine and to release

her from any matrimonial involvement she may have felt binding. I did

not relish this idea, but I felt that getting it out, done, and agreed

was only a duty.

But as I hit the road and had time to think, I knew that my half-formed

intention was a sort of martyrdom; I was going to renounce myself in a

fine welter of tears and then go staggering off into the setting sun to

die of my mental wounds. I took careful stock of myself and faced the

fact that my half-baked idea was a sort of suicide-wish; walking into

any Mekstrom way station now was just asking for capture and a fast trip

to their reorientation rooms. The facts of my failure and my

taking-of-leave would be indication enough for Catherine that I was

bowing out. It would be better for Catherine, too, to avoid a fine,

high-strung, emotional scene. I remembered the little bawling session in

the Harrison living room that night; Catherine would not die for want of

a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. In fact, as she'd said

pragmatically, well balanced people never die of broken hearts.

Having finally convinced myself of the validity of this piece of obvious

logic, I suddenly felt a lot better. My morose feeling faded away; my

conviction of utter uselessness died; and my half-formed desire to

investigate a highly hypothetical Hereafter took an abrupt about-face.

And in place of this collection of undesirable self-pities came a much

nicer emotion. It was a fine feeling, that royal anger that boiled up

inside of me. I couldn't lick 'em and I couldn't join 'em, so I was

going out to pull something down, even if it all came down around my own

ears.

I stopped long enough to check the Bonanza .375 both visually and

perceptively and then loaded it full. I consulted a road map to chart a

course. Then I took off with the coal wide open and the damper rods all

the way out and made the wheels roll towards the East.

I especially gave all the Highways a very wide berth. I went down

several, but always in the wrong direction. And in the meantime, I kept

my sense of perception on the alert for any pursuit. I drove with my

eyes alone. I could have made it across the Mississippi by nightfall if

I'd not taken the time to duck Highway signs. But when I got good, and

sick, and tired of driving, I was not very far from the River. I found a

motel in a rather untravelled spot and sacked in for the night.

I awoke at the crack of dawn with a feeling of impending _something_. It

was not doom, because any close-danger would have nudged me on the bump

of perception. Nor was it good, because I'd have awakened looking

forward to it. Something odd was up and doing. I dressed hastily, and as

I pulled my clothing on I took a slow dig at the other cabins in the

motel.

Number One contained a salesman type, I decided, after digging through

his baggage. Number Two was occupied by an elderly couple who were

loaded with tourist-type junk and four or five cameras. Number Three

harbored a stopover truck driver and Number Four was almost overflowing

with a gang of schoolgirls packed sardine-wise in the single bed. Number

Five was mine. Number Six was vacant. Number Seven was also vacant but

the bed was tumbled and the water in the washbowl was still running out,

and the door was still slamming, and the little front steps were still

clicking to the fast clip of high heels, and----

I hauled myself out of my cabin on a dead gallop and made a fast line

for my car. I hit the car, clawed myself inside, wound up the turbine

and let the old heap in gear in one unbroken series of motions. The

wheels spun and sent back a hail of gravel, then they took a bite out of

the parking lot and the take-off snapped my head back.

Both esper and eyesight were very busy cross-stitching a crooked course

through the parking lot between the parked cars and the trees that were

intended to lend the outfit a rustic atmosphere. So I was too busy to

take more than a vague notice of a hand that clamped onto the doorframe

until the door opened and closed again. By then I was out on the highway

and I could relax a bit.

"Steve," she said, "why do you do these things?"

Yeah, it was Marian Harrison. "I didn't ask to get shoved into this

mess," I growled.

"You didn't ask to be born, either," she said.

I didn't think the argument was very logical, and I said so. "Life

wasn't too hard to bear until I met you people," I told her sourly.

"Life would be very pleasant if you'd go away. On the other hand, life

is all I've got and it's far better than the alternative. So if I'm

making your life miserable, that goes double for me."

"Why not give it up?" she asked me.

I stopped the car. I eyed her dead center, eye to eye until she couldn't

take it any more. "What would you like me to just give up, Marian? Shall

I please everybody by taking a bite of my hip-pocket artillery sights

whilst testing the trigger pull with one forefinger? Will it make

anybody happy if I walk into the nearest reorientation museum blowing

smoke out of my nose and claiming that I am a teakettle that's gotta be

taken off the stove before I blow my lid?"

Marian's eyes dropped.

"Do you yourself really expect me to seek blessed oblivion?"

She shook her head slowly.

"Then for the love of God, what do you expect of me?" I roared. "As I

am, I'm neither flesh nor fish; just foul. I'm not likely to give up,

Marian. If I'm a menace to you and to your kind, it's just too tough.

But if you want me out of your hair, you'll have to wrap me up in

something suitable for framing and haul me kicking and screaming to your

mind-refurbishing department. Because I'm not having any on my own.

Understand?"

"I understand, Steve," she said softly. "I know you; we all know you and

your type. You can't give up. You're unable to."

"Not when I've been hypnoed into it," I said.

Marian's head tossed disdainfully. "Thorndyke's hypnotic suggestion was

very weak," she explained. "He had to plant the idea in such a way as to

remain unidentified afterwards. No, Steve, your urge has always been

your own personal drive. All that Thorndyke did was to point you

slightly in our direction and give you a nudge. You did the rest."

"Well, you're a telepath. Maybe you're also capable of planting a

post-hypnotic suggestion that I forget the whole idea."

"I'm not," she said with a sudden flare.

I looked at her. Not being a telepath I couldn't read a single thought,

but it was certain that she was telling the truth, and telling it in

such a manner as to be convincing. Finally I said, "Marian, if you know

that I'm not to be changed by logic or argument, why do you bother?"

For a full minute she was silent, then her eyes came up and gave it back

to me with their electric blue. "For the same reason that Scholar Phelps

hoped to use you against us," she said. "Your fate and your future is

tied up with ours whether you turn out to be friend or enemy."

I grunted. "Sounds like a soap opera, Marian," I told her bitterly.

"Will Catherine find solace in Phillip's arms? Will Steve catch

Mekstrom's Disease? Will the dastardly Scholar Phelps--"

"Stop it!" she cried.

"All right. I'll stop as soon as you tell me what you intend to do with

me now that you've caught up with me again."

She smiled. "Steve, I'm going along with you. Partly to play the

telepath-half of your team. If you'll trust me to deliver the truth. And

partly to see that you don't get into trouble that you can't get out of

again."

My mind curled its lip. Pappy had tanned my landing gear until I was out

of the habit of using mother for protection against the slings and

arrows of outrageous schoolchums. I'd not taken sanctuary behind a

woman's skirts since I was eight. So the idea of running under the

protection of a woman went against the grain, even though I knew that

she was my physical superior by no sensible proportion. Being cared for

physically by a dame of a hundred-ten--

"Eighteen."

--didn't sit well on me.

"Do you believe me, Steve?"

"I've got to. You're here to stay. I'm a sucker for a good-looking woman

anyway, it seems. They tell me anything and I'm not hardhearted enough

to even indicate that I don't believe them."

She took my arm impulsively; then she let me go before she pinched it

off at the elbow. "Steve," she said earnestly, "Believe me and let me be

your--"

#Better half?# I finished sourly.

"Please don't," she said plaintively. "Steve, you've simply _got_ to

trust _somebody_!"

I looked into her face coldly. "The hardest job in the world for a

non-telepath is to locate someone he can trust. The next hardest is to

explain that to a telepath; because telepaths can't see any difficulty

in weeding out the non-trustworthy. Now--"

"You still haven't faced the facts."

"Neither have you, Marian. You intend to go along with me, ostensibly to

help me in whatever I intend to do. That's fine. I'll accept it. But you

know good and well that I intend to carry on and on until something

cracks. Now, tell me honestly, are you going along to help me crack

something wide open, or just to steer me into channels that will not

result in a crack-up for your side?"

Marian Harrison looked down for a moment; I didn't need telepathy to

know that I'd touched the sore spot. Then she looked up and said,

"Steve, more than anything, I intend to keep you out of trouble. You

should know by now that there is very little you can really do to harm

either side of our own private little war."

#And if I can't harm either side, I can hardly do either side any good.#

She nodded.

#Yet I must be of some importance.#

She nodded again. At that point I almost gave up. I'd been around this

circle so many times in the past half-year that I knew how the back of

my head looked. Always, the same old question.

#_Cherchez le angle_,# I thought in bum French. Something I had was

important enough to both sides to make them keep me on the loose instead

of erasing me and my nuisance value. So far as I could see, I was as

useless to either side as a coat of protective paint laid on stainless

steel. I was immune to Mekstrom's Disease; the immunity of one who has

had everything tried on him that scholars of the disease could devise.

About the only thing that ever took place was the sudden disappearance

of everybody that I came in contact with.

Marian touched my arm gently. "You mustn't think like that, Steve," she

said gently. "You've done enough useless self-condemnation. Can't you

stop accusing yourself of some evil factor? Something that really is not

so?"

"Not until I know the truth," I replied. "I certainly can't dig it; I'm

no telepath. Perhaps if I were, I'd not be in this awkward position."

Again her silence proved to me that I'd hit a touchy spot. "What am I?"

I demanded sourly. "Am I a great big curse? What have I done, other than

to be present just before several people turn up missing? Makes me sort

of a male Typhoid Mary, doesn't it?"

"Now, Steve--"

"Well, maybe that's the way I feel. Everything I put my great big

clutching hands on turns dark green and starts to rot. Regardless of

which side they're on, it goes one, two, three, four; Catherine,

Thorndyke, You, Nurse Farrow."

"Steve, what on Earth are you talking about?"

I smiled down at her in a crooked sort of quirk. "You, of course, have

not the faintest idea of what I'm thinking."

"Oh, Steve--"

"And then again maybe you're doing your best to lead my puzzled little

mind away from what you consider a dangerous subject?"

"I'd hardly do that--"

"Sure you would. I'd do it if our positions were reversed. I don't think

it un-admirable to defend one's own personal stand, Marian. But you'll

not divert me this time. I have a hunch that I am a sort of male Typhoid

Mary. Let's call me old Mekstrom Steve. The carrier of Mekstrom's

Disease, who can innocently or maliciously go around handing it out to

anybody that I contact. Is that it, Marian?"

"It's probably excellent logic, Steve. But it isn't true."