But by the time he had emerged from the forest and felt the noonday sun beating down, he wasn’t so sure. Kechnie had once told him, “Don’t run away ” He hadn’t explained—but now Davison knew what he meant.
Dumb Joe Flanagan would last out his five years with a minimum of effort, and when he returned he would get his release and become a member of the Guild. But had he really accomplished his goal to the fullest? Not really, Davison told himself. It wouldn’t be possible for him to hide as a beggar forever; sometime, somewhere, it would be necessary for him to function as a member of society, and then Flanagan’s five years of shambling would do him little good.
There had to be some other way, Davison thought fiercely. Some way to stick out the five years without burying his head like an ostrich. Some way that would leave him fit to return to society, or to live in some psiless society, and still have his psi power under firm control.
He strode through the hot fields. Off in the distance, he could see the Rinehart family finishing up a furrow. It was noon, and they would be knocking off now. As he looked, he saw sturdy Dirk Rinehart finish his furrow and empty his pods into the waiting truck, and before he had come within shouting distance the rest of them had done so too, and were standing around relaxing after a hard morning’s work.
“Well, look who’s back!” Janey exclaimed, as Davison drew near. “Have a nice morning’s relaxation?”
“I did some heavy thinking, Janey,” Davison said mildly. “And I’ll be making up my time on Sunday, while you’re resting. It balances out.”
Old Rinehart came over, smiling. “All thought out, youngster? I hope so, because there’s a rough afternoon’s work waiting for us.”
“I’ll be with you,” Davison said. He clamped his lips together, not listening to what they were saying, wondering only where the way out might lie.
“Hey, look at me,” called a piping voice from behind him.
“Put those down!” Dirk Rinehart ordered sternly. “Get down from there before you break your neck!”
Davison turned and saw Buster Rinehart, standing upon the cab of the truck. He had some bean pods in his hands, and he was energetically juggling them through the air. “Look at me!” he yelled again, evidently proud of his own acrobatic skill “I’m juggling!”
A moment later he lost control of the pods. They fell and scattered all over the ground. A moment later, the boy was yowling in pain as his father’s palm administered punishment vigorously.
Davison chuckled. Then he laughed louder, as he realized what had happened.
He had his answer at last.
Davison gave notice at the end of the week, after working particularly hard in the field. He felt a little guilty about quitting just before planting time, and he had grown to like the Rineharts more than a little. But it was necessary to pull out and move on.
He told Dirk Rinehart he would go after another week had elapsed, and though the farmer had obviously not been pleased by the news, he made no protest. When his week was up, Davison left, gathering his goods together in his suitcase and departing by foot.
He needed to cover quite a distance—far enough from the village so that no one would trace him. He hired one of the nearby farmers’ sons to drive him to the next town, giving him one of his remaining coins to do so. Folded in his hip pocket was the crumpled wad of bills that was his salary for his stay at Rinehart’s, above room and board. He didn’t want to touch that money at all.
The boy drove him through the flat, monotonous Mondarran countryside to another town only slightly larger than the first, and otherwise almost identical.
“Thanks,” Davison said simply, got out, and started to walk. He entered the town—it, too, had its witch-pole—and started looking around for a place to live. He had many preparations to tend to before he would be ready.
Six months later, the signs started to appear all over the local countryside. They were gaudy, printed in three colors, bright and eye-catching. They said, simply,
THE PRESTIDIGITATOR IS COMING!
It caused a stir. As Davison drove his gilded, ornate chariot into the first town on his itinerary, the rambling village on the far side of Lord Gabrielson’s domain, a crowd gathered before him and preceded him down the main street, shouting and whooping. It wasn’t every day of the year that a travelling magician came to town.
He drove solemnly behind them down the wide street, turned the chariot around, and parked it almost in front of the steel witch-pole. He set the handbrakes, lowered the little platform on which he was going to perform, and stepped out, resplendent in his red-and-gold costume with billowing cloak, in full view of the crowd. He saw a little ripple of anticipation run through them at his appearance.
A tall yokel in the front called out, “Are you the presti—prestig—the whatever you are?”
“I am Marius the Prestidigitator, indeed,” Davison said in a sepulchral voice. He was enjoying it.
“Well, just what do you do, Mr. Marius?” the yokel replied.
Davison grinned. This was better than having a shill or a trained stooge in the crowd. “Young man, I perform feats that stagger the imagination, that astound the mind, that topple reality.” He waved his arms over his head in a wild, grandiose gesture. “I can call spirits from the vasty deep!” he thundered. “I hold the secrets of life and death!”
“That’s what all you magicians say,” someone drawled boredly from the back of the crowd. “Let’s see you do something, before we have to pay!”
“Very well, unbeliever!” Davison roared. He reached behind himself, drew forth a pair of wax candles, struck a match, and lit the candles. “Observe the way I handle these tapers,” he said sonorously. “Notice that I handle the fiery flames without experiencing the slightest harm.”
He hefted the candles, tossed them aloft, and began to rotate them telekinetically so that whenever they came down, it was the unlit end he grasped. He juggled the two candles for a moment or two, then reached back, drew forth a third, and inserted it into the rotation. He remained that way for a moment, and the crowd grew silent as Davison tottered around under the candles, pretending to be having all sorts of difficulties. Finally, when the wax became too pliable to handle easily, he teeked the candles down and caught them. He waved them aloft. The crowd responded with a tinkle of coins.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said. He pulled out a box full of colored globes, and began to juggle them without prologue. Within a few seconds he had five of them going at once—actually manipulated by tk, while he waved his hands impressively but meaninglessly beneath them. He sent up a sixth, then a seventh.
He smiled pleasantly to himself as he juggled. Quite possibly these people had encountered telekinetics before, and had burned them for witches. But those were real telekinetics; he was only a sleight-of-hand artist, a man of exceptional coordination, a wandering charlatan—a fake. Everyone knew magicians were phonies, and that it was by tricky fingerwork that he kept all those globes aloft.
When the shower of coins had stopped, he caught the balls and restored them to their box. He began a new trick—one which involved a rapid line of patter while he set up an elaborate balancing stunt. Piling chairs on top of thin planks and adding odd pieces of furniture from the back of his chariot to make the edifice even more precarious, he assembled a balanced heap some twelve feet high. He ran round it rapidly, ostensibly guiding it with his hands, actually keeping the woodpile under a firm tk control.
Finally he was satisfied with the balance. He began to climb slowly. When he reached the uppermost chair—balanced crazily on one of its legs alone—he climbed up, braced himself, and, by teeking against the ground, lifted himself and balanced for a long moment by one hand. Then he swung down, leaped lightly to the ground, and waved one hand in triumph. A clatter of coins resulted.