“As long as that?” Joan was disappointed.
“Oh, yes, my dear. There are two bills to get before Congress, and much arranging to do to get them passed in the face of a full legislative calendar. There are arrangements to be made with the railroads and bus companies to give the boys special rates so that they can afford to come. We must start a publicity campaign to make the idea popular. Then there must be time for as many of our brothers as possible to get into the administration of the movement in order that the camp executives may be liberally interspersed with adepts. Fortunately I am a national trustee of the organization. Yes, I can manage it in two years’ time, I believe.”
“Good heavens!” protested Phil. “Why wouldn’t it be more to the point to teleport them here, teach them, and teleport them back?”
“You do not know what you are saying, my son. Can we abolish force by using it? Every step must be voluntary, accomplished by reason and persuasion. Each human being must free himself; freedom cannot be thrust on him. Besides, is two years long to wait to accomplish a job that has been waiting since the Deluge?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Do not be. Your youthful impatience has made it possible to do the job at all.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
* * *
“YE SHALL KNOW THE TRUTH—”
ON THE LOWER SLOPES of Mount Shasta, down near McCloud, the camp grew up. When the last of the spring snow was still hiding in the deeper gullies and on the north sides of ridges, U.S. Army Quartermaster trucks came lumbering over a road built the previous fall by the army engineers. Pyramid tents were broken out and were staked down in rows on the bosom of a gently rolling alp. Cook shacks, an infirmary, a headquarters building took shape. Camp Mark Twain was changing from blueprint to actuality.
Senator Moulton, his toga laid aside for breeches, leggings, khaki shirt, and a hat marked CAMP DIRECTOR, puttered around the field, encouraging, making decisions for the straw bosses, and searching, ever searching the minds of all who came into or near the camp for any purpose. Did anyone suspect? Had anyone slipped in who might be associated with partial adepts who opposed the real purpose of the camp? Too late to let anything slip now—too late, and too much at stake.
In the middle west, in the deep south, in New York City and New England, in the mountains and on the coast, boys were packing suitcases, buying special Shasta Camp round-trip tickets, talking about it with their envious contemporaries.
And all over the country the antagonists of human liberty, of human dignity—the racketeers, the crooked political figures, the shysters, the dealers in phony religions, the sweat-shoppers, the petty authoritarians, all of the key figures among the traffickers in human misery and human oppression, themselves somewhat adept in the arts of the mind and acutely aware of the danger of free knowledge—all of this unholy breed stirred uneasily and wondered what was taking place. Moulton had never been associated with anything but ill for them; Mount Shasta was one place they had never been able to touch—they hated the very name of the place. They recalled old stories, and shivered.
They shivered, but they acted.
Special transcontinental buses loaded with the chosen boys—could the driver be corrupted? Could his mind be taken over? Could tires, or engine, be tampered with? Trains were taken over by the youngsters. Could a switch be thrown? Could the drinking water be polluted?
Other eyes watched. A trainload of boys moved westward; in it, or flying over it, his direct perception blanketing the surrounding territory, and checking the motives of every mind within miles of his charges, was stationed at least one adept whose single duty it was to see that those boys reached Shasta safely.
Probably some of the boys would never have reached there had not the opponents of human freedom been caught off balance, doubtful, unorganized. For vice has this defect; it cannot be truly intelligent. Its very motives are its weakness. The attempts made to prevent the boys reaching Shasta were scattered and abortive. The adepts had taken the offensive for once, and their moves were faster and more rationally conceived than their antagonists’.
Once in camp a tight screen surrounded the whole of Mount Shasta National Park. The Senior detailed adepts to point patrol night and day to watch with every sense at their command for mean or malignant spirits. The camp itself was purged. Two of the councilors, and some twenty of the boys, were sent home when examination showed them to be damaged souls. The boys were not informed of their deformity, but plausible excuses were found for the necessary action.
The camp resembled superficially a thousand other such camps. The courses in woodcraft were the same. The courts of honor met as usual to examine candidates. There were the usual sings around the campfire in the evening, the same setting-up exercises before breakfast. The slightly greater emphasis on the oath and the law of the organization was not noticeable.
Each one of the boys made at least one overnight hike in the course of the camp. In groups of fifteen or twenty they would set out in the morning in company of a councilor. That each councilor supervising such hikes was an adept was not evident, but it so happened. Each boy carried his blanket roll, and knapsack of rations, his canteen, knife, compass, and hand axe.
They camped that night on the bank of a mountain stream, fed by the glaciers, whose rush sounded in their ears as they ate supper.
Phil started out with such a group one morning during the first week of the camp. He worked around the mountain to the east in order to keep well away from the usual tourist haunts.
After supper they sat around the campfire. Phil told them stories of the holy men of the east and their reputed powers, and of Saint Francis and the birds. He was in the middle of one of his yarns when a figure appeared within the circle of firelight.
Or rather figures. They saw an old man, in clothes that Davy Crockett might have worn, flanked by two beasts, on his left side a mountain lion, who purred when he saw the fire, on his right a buck of three points, whose soft brown eyes stared calmly into theirs.
Some of the boys were alarmed at first, but Phil told them quietly to widen their circle and make room for the strangers. They sat in decent silence for a while, the boys getting used to the presence of the animals. In time one of the boys timidly stroked the big cat, who responded by rolling over and presenting his soft belly. The boy looked up at the old man and asked,
“What is his name, Mister—”
“Ephraim. His name is Freedom.”
“My, but he’s tame! How do you get him to be so tame?”
“He reads my thoughts and trusts me. Most things are friendly when they know you—and most people.”
The boy puzzled for a moment. “How can he read your thoughts?”
“It’s simple. You can read his, too. Would you like to learn how?”
“Jiminy!”
“Just look into my eyes for a moment. There! Now look into his.”
“Why—Why—I really believe I can!”
—“Of course you can. And mine, too. I’m not talking out loud. Had you noticed?”
—“Why, so you’re not. I’m reading your thoughts!”
—“And I’m reading yours. Easy, isn’t it?”
With Phil’s help Howe had them all conversing by thought transference inside an hour. Then to calm them down he told them stories for another hour, stories that constituted an important part of their curriculum. He helped Phil get them to sleep, then left, the animals following after him.
The next morning Phil was confronted at once by a young skeptic. “Say, did I dream all that about an old man and a puma and a deer?”
—“Did you?”
—“You’re doing it now!”
—“Certainly I am. And so are you. Now go tell the other boys the same thing.”
Before they got back to camp, he advised them not to speak about it to any other of the boys who had not as yet had their overnight hike, but that they test their new powers by trying it on any boy who had had his first all-night hike
.
All was well until one of the boys had to return home in answer to a message that his father was ill. The elders would not wipe his mind clean of his new knowledge; instead they kept careful track of him. In time he talked, and the word reached the antagonists almost at once. Howe ordered the precautions of the telepathic patrol redoubled.
The patrol was able to keep out malicious persons, but it was not numerous enough to keep everything out. Forest fire broke out on the windward side of the camp late one night. No human being had been close to the spot; telekinetics was the evident method.
But what control over matter from a distance can do, it can also undo. Moulton squeezed the flame out with his will, refused it permission to burn, bade its vibrations to stop.
For the time being the enemy appeared to cease attempts to do the boys physical harm. But the enemy had not given up. Phil received a frantic call from one of the younger boys to come at once to the tent the boy lived in; his patrol leader was very sick. Phil found the lad in a state of hysteria, and being restrained from doing himself an injury by the other boys in the tent. He had tried to cut his throat with his jack knife and had gone berserk when one of the other boys had grabbed his hand,
Phil took in the situation quickly and put in a call to Ben.
—“Ben! Come at once. I need you.”
Ben did so, zipping through the air and flying in through the door of the tent almost before Phil had time to lay the boy on his cot and start forcing him into a trance. The lad’s startled tent mates did not have time to decide that Dr. Ben had been flying before he was standing in a normal fashion alongside their councilor.
Ben greeted him with tight communication, shutting the boys out of the circuit—“What’s up?”
—“They’ve gotten to him . . . and damn near wrecked him.”
—“How?”
—“Preyed on his mind. Tried to make him suicide. But I tranced back the hookup. Who do you think tried to do him in?—Brinckley!”
—“No!”
—“Definitely. You take over here; I’m going after Brinckley. Tell the Senior to have a watch put on all the boys who have been trained to be sensitive to telepathy. I’m afraid that any of them may be gotten at before we can teach them how to defend themselves.” With that he was gone, leaving the boys half convinced of levitation.
He had not gone very far, was still gathering speed, when he heard a welcome voice in his head,
—“Phil! Phil! Wait for me.”
He slowed down for a few seconds. A smaller figure flashed alongside his and grasped his hand. “It’s a good thing I stay hooked in with you two. You’d have gone off to tackle that dirty old so-and-so without me.”
He tried to maintain his dignity. “If I had thought that you should be along on this job, I’d have called you, Joan.”
“Nonsense! And also fiddlesticks! You might get hurt, tackling him all alone. Besides, I’m going to push him into the tar pits.”
He sighed and gave up. “Joan, my dear, you are a blood-thirsty wench with ten thousand incarnations to go before you reach beatitude.”
“I don’t want to reach beatitude; I want to do old Brinckley in.”
“Come along, then. Let’s make some speed.”
They were south of the Tehachapi by now and rapidly approaching Los Angeles. They flitted over the Sierra Madre range, shot across San Fernando Valley, clipped the top of Mount Hollywood, and landed on the lawn of the President’s Residence at Western University. Brinckley saw, or felt, them coming and tried to run for it, but Phil grappled with him.
He shot one thought to Joan—“You stay out of this, kid, unless I yell for help.”
Brinckley did not give up easily. His mind reached out and tried to engulf Phil’s. Huxley felt himself slipping, giving way before the evil onslaught. It seemed as though he were being dragged down, drowned, in filthy quicksand.
But he steadied himself and fought back.
When Phil had finished that which was immediately necessary with Brinckley, he stood up and wiped his hands, as if to cleanse himself of the spiritual slime he had embraced. “Let’s get going,” he said to Joan. “We’re pushed for time.”
“What did you do to him, Phil?” She stared with fascinated disgust at the thing on the ground.
“Little enough. I placed him in stasis. I’ve got to save him for use—for a time. Up you go, girl. Out of here—before we’re noticed.”
Up they shot, with Brinckley’s body swept along behind by tight telekinetic bond. They stopped above the clouds. Brinckley floated beside them, starfished, eyes popping, mouth loose, his smooth pink face expressionless.
—“Ben!” Huxley was sending, “Ephraim Howe! Ambrose! To me! To me! Hurry!”
—“Coming, Phil!” came Coburn’s answer.
—“I hear.” The strong calm thought held the quality of the Senior. “What is it, son? Tell me.”
—“Not time!” snapped Phil. “Yourself, Senior, and all others that can. Rendezvous! Hurry!”
—“We come.” The thought was still calm, unhurried. But there were two ragged holes in the roof of Moulton’s tent. Moulton and Howe were already out of sight of Camp Mark Twain.
Slashing, slicing through the air they came, the handful of adepts who guarded the fire. From five hundred miles to the north they came, racing pigeons hurrying home. Camp councilors, two-thirds of the small group of camp matrons, some few from scattered points on the continent, they came in response to Huxley’s call for help and the Senior’s unprecedented tocsin. A housewife turned out the fire in the oven and disappeared into the sky. A taxi driver stopped his car and left his fares without a word. Research groups on Shasta broke their tight rapport, abandoned their beloved work, and came—fast!
“And now, Philip?” Howe spoke orally as he arrested his trajectory and hung beside Huxley.
Huxley flung a hand toward Brinckley. “He has what we need to know to strike now! Where’s Master Ling?”
“He and Mrs. Draper guard the Camp.”
“I need him. Can she do it alone?”
Clear and mellow, her voice rang in his head from half a state away—“I can!”
—“The tortoise flies.” The second thought held the quality of deathless merriment which was the unmistakable characteristic of the ancient Chinese.
Joan felt a soft touch at her mind, then Master Ling was among them, seated carefully tailor-fashion on nothingness. “I attend; my body follows,” he announced. “Can we not proceed?”
Whereupon Joan realized that he had borrowed the faculties of her mind to project himself into their presence more quickly than he could levitate the distance. She felt unreasonably flattered by the attention.
Huxley commenced at once. “Through his mind—” He indicated Brinckley, “I have learned of many others with whom there can be no truce. We must search them out, deal with them at once, before they can rally from what has happened to him. But I need help. Master, will you extend the present and examine him?”
Ling had tutored them in discrimination of time and perception of the present, taught them to stand off and perceive duration from eternity. But he was incredibly more able than his pupils. He could split the beat of a fly’s wing into a thousand discrete instants, or grasp a millennium as a single flash of experience. His discrimination of time and space was bound neither by his metabolic rate nor by his molar dimensions.
Now he poked gingerly at Brinckley’s brain like one who seeks a lost jewel in garbage. He felt out the man’s memory patterns and viewed his life as one picture. Joan, with amazement, saw his ever-present smile give way to a frown of distaste. His mind had been left open to any who cared to watch. She peered through his mind, then cut off. If there were that many truly vicious spirits in the world, she preferred to encounter them one at a time, as necessary, not experience them all at once.
Master Ling’s body joined the group, melted into his projection.
Huxley, Howe, Moulton, and Bierce followed the
Chinese’s delicate work with close attention. Howe’s face was bleakly impassive; Moulton’s face, aged to androgynous sensitivity, moved from side to side while he clucked disapproval of such wickedness. Bierce looked more like Mark Twain than ever, Twain in an implacable, lowering rage.
Master Ling looked up. “Yes, yes,” said Moulton, “I suppose we must act, Ephraim.”
“We have no choice,” Huxley stated, with a completely unconscious disregard of precedent. “Will you assign the tasks, Senior?”
Howe glanced sharply at him. “No, Philip. No. Go ahead. Carry on.”
Huxley checked himself in surprise for the briefest instant, then took his cue. “You’ll help me, Master Ling. Ben!”
“Waiting!”
He meshed mind to mind, had Ling show him his opponent and the data he needed.
—“Got it? Need any help?”
—“Grandfather Stonebender is enough.”
—“Okay. Nip off and attend to it.”
—“Chalk it up.” He was gone, a rush of air in his wake.
—“This one is yours, Senator Moulton.”
—“I know.” And Moulton was gone.
By ones and twos he gave them their assignments, and off they went to do that which must be done. There was no argument. Many of them had been aware long before Huxley was that a day of action must inevitably come to pass, but they had waited with quiet serenity, busy with the work at hand, till time should incubate the seed.
* * *
In a windowless study of a mansion on Long Island, sound-proofed, cleverly locked and guarded, ornately furnished, a group of five was met—three men, one woman, and a thing in a wheel chair. It glared at the other four in black fury, glared without eyes, for its forehead dropped unbroken to its cheekbones, a smooth sallow expanse.
A lap robe, tucked loosely across the chair masked, but did not hide, the fact that the creature had no legs.