"That's good," I said emphatically. "That's very good. You can learn a
lot from her then. It takes an awful lot of study to learn how to be
stupid."
My own troublesome business life came to mind and I thought to myself,
"I sometimes think I'll never learn it."
I swear I didn't say it aloud. But Star patted me consolingly and
answered as though I'd spoken.
"That's because you're only fairly bright, Daddy. You're a Tween, and
that's harder than being really bright."
"A Tween? What's a Tween?" I was bumbling to hide my confusion.
"That's what I mean, Daddy," she answered in exasperation. "You don't
grasp quickly. An In Between, of course. The other people are Stupids,
I'm a Bright, and you're a Tween. I made those names up when I was
little."
Good God! Besides being unmeasurably bright, she's a telepath!
All right, Pete, there you are. On reasoning processes you might stand
a chance--but not telepathy!
"Star," I said on impulse, "can you read people's minds?"
"Of course, Daddy," she answered, as if I'd asked a foolishly obvious
question.
"Can you teach me?"
She looked at me impishly. "You're already learning it a little. But
you're so slow! You see, you didn't even know you were learning."
Her voice took on a wistful note, a tone of loneliness.
"I wish--" she said, and paused.
"What do you wish?"
"You see what I mean, Daddy? You try, but you're so slow."
All the same, I knew. I knew she was already longing for a companion
whose mind could match her own.
A father is prepared to lose his daughter eventually, Star, but not so
soon.
Not so soon....
* * * * *
_June again_
Some new people have moved in next door. Star says their name is
Howell. Bill and Ruth Howell. They have a son, Robert, who looks maybe
a year older than Star, who will soon be five.
Star seems to have taken up with Robert right away. He is a
well-mannered boy and good company for Star.
I'm worried, though. Star had something to do with their moving in next
door. I'm convinced of that. I'm also convinced, even from the little
I've seen of him, that Robert is a Bright and a telepath.
Could it be that, failing to find quick accord with my mind, Star has
reached out and out until she made contact with a telepath companion?
No, that's too fantastic. Even if it were so, how could she shape
circumstances so she could bring Robert to live next door to her? The
Howells came from another city. It just happened that the people who
lived next door moved out and the house was put up for sale.
Just happened? How frequently do we find such abnormal Brights? What
are the chances of one _just happening_ to move in next door to another?
I know he is a telepath because, as I write this, I sense him reading
it.
I even catch his thought: "Oh, pardon me, Mr. Holmes. I didn't intend
to peek. Really I didn't."
Did I imagine that? Or is Star building a skill in my mind?
"It isn't nice to look into another person's mind unless you're asked,
Robert," I thought back, rather severely. It was purely an experiment.
"I know it, Mr. Holmes. I apologize." He is in his bed in his house,
across the driveway.
"No, Daddy, he really didn't mean to." And Star is in her bed in this
house.
It is impossible to write how I feel. There comes a time when words are
empty husks. But mixed with my expectant dread is a thread of gratitude
for having been taught to be even stumblingly telepathic.
* * * * *
_Saturday--August 11th_
I've thought of a gag. I haven't seen Jim Pietre in a month of Sundays,
not since he was awarded that research fellowship with the museum. It
will be good to pull him out of his hole, and this little piece of
advertising junk Star dropped should be just the thing.
Strange about the gadget. The Awful Secret Talisman of the Mystic
Junior G-Men, no doubt. Still, it doesn't have anything about crackles
and pops printed on it. Merely an odd-looking coin, not even true
round, bronze by the look of it. Crude. They must stamp them out by the
million without ever changing a die.
But it is just the thing to send to Jim to get a rise out of him. He
could always appreciate a good practical joke. Wonder how he'd feel to
know he was only a Tween.
* * * * *
_Monday--August 13th_
Sitting here at my study desk, I've been staring into space for an
hour. I don't know what to think.
It was about noon today when Jim Pietre called the office on the phone.
"Now, look, Pete," he started out. "What kind of gag are you pulling?"