The Oholo, Lauri. Strong minded, yes. But untrained.
And realizing this, Parr smiled, for it testified to the certainty
of his superiority, a superiority he should have recognized from the
beginning. He was dealing with an amateur, an Oholo who had never
received even the most elementary instruction in individual tactics.
What she was doing now was glaringly obvious to a professional:
cruising the town in an attempt to locate him. But in contacting his
shield by focusing the pressure, directionally, she failed to realize
that the space variations would not only tell her of his location but
also inform him of her movements.
Cautiously Parr began the defensive procedure. Step by step he engaged
the pressure with his mind, rather than letting it rest on his shield.
Then he began to counteract the distance pulsations--strengthening,
weakening, presenting a continual pressure against her questing
thoughts, compensating for her movements.
But in a very short time she realized what had happened. She altered
the pressure sharply. A split second later he joined it again. The
advantage was still his. She altered once more. He followed suit. Check.
He could almost feel her angry confusion. Then after a moment she let
the pressure fall into a rhythmic pattern. A lullaby of monotony that
was the result of concentration rather than of the distance variations.
He knew what to expect and after fifteen minutes it happened. She broke
the rhythm suddenly and tried to plunge inward, to center on him before
he could counter. He had not been lulled, however, and she accomplished
nothing. He met the assault easily.
The rhythmic pattern returned. Every few minutes she broke the pattern
and tried to plunge in again. But his mental screen absorbed the shock.
She was persistent.
Finally Parr grew weary of it--then vaguely annoyed--then exasperated.
When he was thoroughly uncomfortable she tried another swift
change of tactics. She began to increase the pressure, slowly,
inexorably--stronger and stronger against his defense. He blocked her,
held, retreated, held again, keeping the shield in readiness. Shortly,
perspiration stood on his forehead. Abandoning the defensive he fought
back against her.
But she blocked him; they locked in a deadly mental tension of
spiraling energy that weakened Parr with each passing second.
* * * * *
She held the tension longer than he would have thought possible. And
when it eased, it vanished, leaving his mind uncontacted. Instead of
relaxing, he formed his shielding, expecting a sudden assault.
None came. Instead, the gentle insistent pressure returned,
undiminished by her efforts. She was stationary now; the pressure was
steady.
His body had been tense for a long time. It ached, and he was
physically exhausted. His hand shook a little as he brushed at his leg,
waiting for the space variations to begin again.
They did not.
But the initial confidence--generated by the realization of her
inexperience--was no longer so bright.
The very pressure itself now was an emotional drain and he wanted to
lower the mind shield and relax completely. But even at a distance a
mental assault would sting like a slap, like a cut, like disinfectant
in a raw wound.
Under the strain, sleep was lost. Instead there was uneasiness.
He tried to ignore it. He forced himself to remember his home village.
It had been a long time since he had thought of it, and at first it was
difficult. But after a while, memories began to open up with nostalgia:
the clumsy citizens with their mute opposition to the Empire, a _jehi_
farmer who had once addressed his class on planetism and afterwards
been shot, the smell of the air, the look in people's eyes, night ...
the stars....
The stars were cold and bright and far away. Imposing symbols of Empire.
His mind turned comfortingly on that, and his planet seemed dwarfed
and unimportant. The Empire, with its glittering capital system, the
sleek trade arteries ... the purposeful masses of citizens ... the
strength and power of it, the essential rightness of it. Something you
could feel in the air about you and smell and see. It was a thing to be
believed in, to be lost in, to surrender yourself to.
It was strong, crushing opposition, rolling magnificently down the
stream of time--splintering, shattering, destroying, absorbing, growing
hungry and eternal. He was part of it, and its strength protected him.
It was stronger than everything. There could be no doubt about Empire.
But a single Oholo was strong, too.
He stirred restlessly on the bed, unable to dissect out the thing that
bothered him when he thought of the Empire. His thoughts had run the
full cycle, and they were back where they had started.
It seemed for a moment as if his mind were a shiny polished surface,
like an egg floating beneath his skull, hanging on invisible threads of
sensation that ran to the outside world.
The room was full of moonlight.
* * * * *
With fascination he studied the wall paper, a flower design scrawled
repetitiously between slightly diagonal lines of blue. He concentrated
on the rough texture of the paper, let his eyes drift down to where
the paper met the cream siding, revealing twin rifts of plaster. A
thin line of chalk-like dust had fallen on the wood of the floor. The
edge of the rug, futilely stretching for contact with the wall, curled
fuzzily.
A faint breeze fluttered the half drawn blinds, puffed the lace
curtains, rippled in to his bed and body.
_He was guilty of something._
He wrinkled his face, puzzled. What was he guilty of?
No answer, and the moon went behind a cloud, bringing depression
and acute loneliness, sharp and bitter. A depression bleak in its
namelessness, and terrifying.
Then suddenly his mind jerked away from the thoughts.
He realized he was not countering the Oholo's movements. The steady
pressure was a compensated pressure, varying as her distance. A
projection requiring mental ability he could never hope to equal. She
had learned fast. She had neatly sidestepped his defense. Terrified, he
probed beyond his shield, and for an instant received an impression of
her distance. He sat upright, shivering. She had worked much nearer.
In desperation, he launched an assault, closing his eyes, forgetting
everything else.
Lightly she parried him and slapped back strongly enough to make him
wince.
Then for two long hours they fought. He grappled with the pressure,
working on the theory that it was a burden no mind could carry
indefinitely.
But she did not concede. Instead she continued, giving up trying to
come closer, intent on breaking down his will to resist. He checked her
with all his energy. He countered, stared at the scattered moonlight on
the rug.
Energy drained from him until he wanted to scream, to plead with her.
And beyond the bleak reality of concentration he knew that she was
using twice as much energy as he was.
Then she began to weaken. The pressure steadied, and he could feel her
exhaustion. She was through for the night.
The sheets of the bed were damp. His body trembled. He wanted to
whimper pathetically in fancied defeat.
Sleep slowly came, and the long pervasive influence of Empire, the
influence visible in concrete form on conquered planets, swept over him.
But somehow he was guilty of something, he knew....
* * * * *
He was still tired when he awoke, instantly alert, wary. She apparently
still slept, although she held the pressure against his mind.
Dawn ushered in a cloudy day, and street noises--cars, trolleys,
movement--came into the room with the utmost clarity.
He would have to change hotels. That alone had an urgency to it.
Wearily he fumbled with his shield. It was still solid. He ran a hand
over his forehead, pressing against the temples.
He thought of the sleeping Oholo. He dropped the shield completely,
knowing she would realize its absence. He stretched mentally for a
long, precious second, and it was with infinite relief.
"Hello," he leered in the direction of Lauri. "Hello," he snarled
suddenly, tingling with excitement.
No answer.
"Hello! Hello! Hello!"
He shielded, and hatred of her and of all Oholos--inbred hate, overcame
him. It brought an almost pathological bravado with it. The destructive
drive for revenge was a surge within him. He dropped the shield and
thought to her, slow and gloatingly, of the things in store for her
when she was safely disarmed and helpless. And he permitted his hate
to leap and caress her, and the details of the torture were etched in
passion acid.
After a while, he could feel her shudder at the thoughts, and he
simpered. She seemed to lie helpless, stunned under him, spurring him
to greater imaginative excesses.
Then she struck out blindly, a shivering blow that caught him unaware
between the eyes like a swung club.
* * * * *
He shielded. Instantly he felt the guilt of last night. He was angry
at himself, as if he had acted without really wanting to, as a Knoug
was supposed to act. And he snarled a curse.
The maddening, uncompromising pressure returned. Implacable.
Patient. Unanswerable. Pressure that would drive him insane if he
had no eventual hope of release. He shuddered, and the sense of
depression--the night sense--was even more dark and terrible in
daylight.
He got out of bed, reported to the Advanceship, keeping his voice low
and even.
"Parr. Scheduling."
"Check."
The voice from the Ship was a stabbing, accusing voice. A voice that
_knew_, that had made, overnight, a secret and awful discovery about
him. He wanted to grovel before it and plead for forgiveness....
_Nonsense!_
He licked his lips nervously.
"That damned female!" he shrieked.
"Eh?"
"That damned female, don't you see!"
"Parr, what's wrong? Listen, Parr, are you all right down there?"
Suddenly he relaxed. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," he said. "I'm just a little nervous."
* * * * *
He ordered the driver to stop. The building was columned, red brick,
decayed. The sidewalk before it was grimy, littered, cracked, chipped.
Listlessly, people shuffled down the street, flecks from the vortex of
humanity farther uptown drifting in the backwater of the city. Faded
overalls, jeans, thin unpressed cheap suits, frayed shirts and crumpled
soggy collars. Faces--lean, hollow, blotched; eyes that were harried,
red, tired. The women, still trying to retain the snap of movement,
were like wind-up toys, almost run down.
Parr grunted at the smells of the area, and straightening up to pay
the driver, noticed distastefully the slack faces, defeated eyes and
shuffling steps.
Then he knew: here, pressing in from all sides was reassurance. He
watched a haggered face, felt pity, shook off the emotion as unworthy
but still felt it. He could understand the haggered face. But distaste
returned again, for he was superior to the face. He blocked off his
mind, refusing to consider the natives any longer....
He took a room inside the dingy, wasted building. He hung his extra
suit in the closet. The wall was greyish with cracking plaster and
water stains, half hidden by the dim light; the rug underfoot was
threadbare and stale. On the dresser, a Gideon Bible, nearly new.
The sheets, he discovered upon turning back the bed, were dingy and
yellowish. The mattress sagged in the middle and the metal bedstead was
chipped and dented.
After he was settled he reported to the Advanceship, told of his new
location and the reason for it.
On his way out of the hotel he was conscious of the guilt again, and
in the street, he stopped an old man who wore a tobacco stained shirt
and gave him several of the bills from his wallet. Bribing helplessness
made him feel better.
Back in the hotel that evening, renewed confidence came as he thought
how clever he had been to choose such a location; he thought of the
Oholo searching across town, her mind automatically rejecting this
location. It would take her more than one night to find him.
But her mind did not seek contact with his; instead, the pressure
remained annoyingly general.
She was making no attempt to locate him.
He stared out the window at the pale reflection of neon from the
sidewalk. She was not even moving yet.
He waited, suddenly nervous.
When she finally began to move she still kept the pressure general.
He checked her position and after an instant met opposition that
scattered his thoughts. But in that space, of contact he knew she had
moved closer.
In terror he drew his shield in tight.
* * * * *
Suspense mounted in his mind. He counted his pulse beats, quieting
himself. He tried to relax. Then fearfully checked her position again.
That involved receiving a sharp slap of assault, for she had been ready
with an almost trigger response.
And she was closer. She seemed to be advancing confidently.
In nervous haste he began to dress.
And then she struck with her full hellish power from very near at hand.
Amazement and abject fear flamed in his mind. He fought to strengthen
the shield. She forced it back, got a single hot tentacle of thought
through into his mind proper, and it lashed about like a living thing
before he could force it out.
Gradually he came to realize that she was not near enough for the kill.
He staggered to the door, his mind numbed and spinning as if a giant
explosion had gone off by his ear.
And then, somehow, he was in the street, half dressed. Somehow he
managed to find a cab. It was all a blur to him that might have taken
two minutes, five minutes, or twenty minutes. She had abandoned the
assault. She was moving closer.
Then, before the cab began to move he saw her. Two blocks away.
Coming toward him. Her face was impassive, but even at a distance, the
eyes ... or was it his imagination? The focus gun ... in his pocket....
The cab drew away. He leaned out the window, twisting back, tried to
aim at her. The shot, silent and lethal, sped away. The distance was
too great.
Then a new assault, but it was too late. He held it until the cab
outdistanced it. She renewed the pressure and he could think again. And
he knew, in the back of his mind, that soon now they would meet. And he
shuddered, wondering of the outcome.
* * * * *
He was sick. Unbelievably, she had outguessed him. She had guessed he
would flee away from the obvious to the other extreme.
His breathing was hoarse and painful, and he thought comfortingly
of his home planet; a small planet with a low sky; incredibly blue,
a trading station far removed from Earth, satisfyingly deep in the
Empire. As a boy he had often gone to the space port to watch the
ships. He remembered how he had stood watching their silvery beauty and
their naked violence. He had always been very excited by them. Always.
And they were a symbol of Empire.
After the cab driver had spoken to him several times he roused himself
to say, "A hotel, any hotel."
It was luck he knew, that he had been beyond effective range. She might
have guessed the correct slum hotel and stood below his window.
His mind was foggy and befuddled.
And he had been hurt. Much more than mentally hurt. More than
physically hurt. He wanted to hurt something in return. Only now he was
too tired.
He relaxed in the seat, listened to the hiss of tires. He would be able
to sleep tonight. She could not figure out his next move, predicted on
random selection.
In his new hotel room he found that his body stung and itched.
And she began to search for him.
He had to fight her for more than an hour, and after that he slept,
subconsciously keeping his shield on a delicate balance.