Hip turned. Janie put up her hand and left a small glass cylinder, smaller than a cigarette, hanging between her lips. She said, ‘I warned you, Gerry. You know what this is. Touch him and I bite down on it—and then you can live out the rest of your life with Baby and the twins like a monkey in a cage of squirrels.’
The thought, the thought—‘I’d like to meet Baby.’
Thompson thawed; he had been standing, absolutely motionless, staring at Janie. Now he swung his glasses around in a single bright circle. ‘You wouldn’t like him.’
‘I want to ask him a question.’
‘Nobody asks him questions but me. I suppose you expect an answer too?’
‘Yes.’
Thompson laughed. ‘Nobody gets answers these days.’
Janie said quietly, ‘This way, Hip.’
Hip turned towards her. He distinctly felt a crawling tension behind him, in the air, close to his flesh. He wondered if the Gorgon’s head had affected men that way, even the ones who did not look at her.
He followed her down to a niche in the house wall, the one which was not curved glass. In it was a crib the size of a bathtub.
He had not known that Baby was so fat. ‘Go ahead,’ said Janie. The cylinder bobbed once for each of her syllables.
‘Yes, go ahead.’ Thompson’s voice was so close behind him that he started. He had not heard the man following him at all and he felt boyish and foolish. He swallowed and said to Janie, ‘What do I do?’
‘Just think your question. He’ll probably catch it. Far as I know he receives everybody.’
Hip leaned over the crib. Eyes gleaming dully like the uppers of dusty black shoes caught and held him. He thought, Once this Gestalt had another head. It can get other telekines, teleports. Baby: Can you be replaced?
‘He says yes,’ said Janie. ‘That nasty little telepath with the corncob—remember?’
Thompson said bitterly, ‘I didn’t think you’d commit such an enormity, Janie. I could kill you for that.’
‘You know how,’ said Janie pleasantly.
Hip turned slowly to Janie. The thought came closer, or he went high and faster than it was going. It was as if his fingers actually rounded a curve, got a barest of purchases.
If Baby, the heart and core, the ego, the repository of all this new being had ever been or done or thought—if Baby could be replaced, then Homo Gestalt was immortal!
And with a rush, he had it. He had it all.
He said evenly, ‘ I asked Baby if he could be replaced; if his memory banks and computing ability could be transferred.’
‘Don’t tell him that!’ Janie screamed.
Thompson had slipped into his complete, unnatural stillness. At last he said, ‘Baby said yes. I already know that. Janie, you knew that all along, didn’t you?’
She made a sound like a gasp or a small cough.
Thompson said, ‘And you never told me. But of course, you wouldn’t. Baby can’t talk to me; the next one might. I can get the whole thing from the Lieutenant, right now. So go ahead with the dramatics. I don’t need you, Janie.’
‘Hip! Run! Run!’
Thompson’s eyes fixed on Hip’s. ‘No,’ he said mildly. ‘Don’t run.’
They were going to spin; they were going to spin like wheels, like fans, like… like…
Hip heard Janie scream and scream again and there was a crunching sound. Then the eyes were gone.
He staggered back, his hand over his eyes. There was a gabbling shriek in the room, it went on and on, split and spun around itself. He peeped through his fingers.
Thompson was reeling, his head drawn back and down almost to his shoulderblades. He kicked and elbowed backward. Holding him, her hands over his eyes, her knee in the small of his back, was Bonnie, and it was from her the gabbling came.
Hip came forward running, starting with such a furious leap that his toes barely touched the floor in the first three paces. His fist was clenched until pain ran up his forearm and in his arm and shoulders was the residual fury of seven obsessive years. His fist sank into the taut solar plexus and Thompson went down soundlessly. So did the Negro but she rolled clear and bounced lithely to her feet. She ran to him, grinning like the moon, squeezed his biceps affectionately, patted his cheek and gabbled.
‘And I thank you!’ he panted. He turned. Another dark girl, just as sinewy and just as naked, supported Janie who was sagging weakly. ‘Janie!’ he roared. ‘Bonnie, Beanie, whoever you are—did she…’
The girl holding her gabbled. Janie raised her eyes. They were deeply puzzled as she watched him come. They strayed from his face to Gerry Thompson’s still figure. And suddenly she smiled.
The girl with her, still gabbling, reached and caught his sleeve. She pointed to the floor. The cylinder lay smashed under their feet. A slight stain of moisture disappeared as he watched. ‘Did I?’ repeated Janie. ‘I never had a chance, once this butterfly landed on me.’ She sobered, stood up, came into his arms. ‘Gerry… is he…’
‘I don’t think I killed him,’ said Hip and added, ‘yet.’
‘I can’t tell you to kill him,’ Janie whispered.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I know.’
She said, ‘It’s the first time the twins ever touched him. It was very brave. He could have burned out their brains in a second.’
‘They’re wonderful. Bonnie!’
‘Ho.’
‘Get me a knife. A sharp one with a blade at least so long. And a strip of black cloth, so-by-so.’
Bonnie looked at Janie. Janie said, ‘What—‘
He put his hand on her mouth. Her mouth was very soft. ‘Sh.’
Janie said, panicked, ‘Bonnie, don’t—‘
Bonnie disappeared. Hip said, ‘Leave me alone with him for a while.’
Janie opened her mouth to speak then turned and fled through the door. Beanie vanished.
Hip walked over to the prone figure and stood looking down at it. He did not think. He had his thought; all he had to do was hold it there.
Bonnie came through the door. She held a length of black velvet and a dagger with an eleven-inch blade. Her eyes were very big and her mouth was very small.
‘Thanks, Bonnie.’ He took them. The knife was beautiful. Finnish, with an edge he could have shaved with, and a point drawn down almost to invisibility. ‘Beat it, Bonnie!’
She left—blip!—like a squirted appleseed. Hip put the knife and the cloth down on a table and dragged Thompson to a chair. He gazed about him, found a bell-pull and tore it down. He did not mind if a bell rang somewhere; he was rather sure he would not be interrupted. He tied Thompson’s elbows and ankles to the chair, tipped the head back and made the blindfold.
He drew up another chair and sat close. He moved his knife hand gently, not quite tossing it, just feeling the scend of its superb balance in his palm. He waited.
And while he was waiting he took his thought, all of it, and placed it like a patterned drape across the entrance to his mind. He hung it fairly, attended to its folds and saw with meticulous care that it reached quite to the bottom, quite to the top, and that there were no gaps at the sides.
The pattern read:
Listen to me, orphan boy, I am a hated boy too. You were persecuted; so was I.
Listen to me, cave boy. You found a place to belong and you learned to be happy in it. So did I.
Listen to me, Miss Kew’s boy. You lost yourself for years until you went back and learned again. So did I.
Listen to me, Gestalt boy. You found power within you beyond your wildest dreams and you used it and loved it. So did I.
Listen to me, Gerry. You discovered that no matter how great your power, nobody wanted it. So did I.
You want to be wanted. You want to be needed. So do I.
Janie says you need morals. Do you know what morals are? Morals are an obedience to rules that people laid down to help you live among them.