There wasn’t a doubt of it. Matt nodded. “You all suddenly lost interest in me.”
“What about our eyes?” Hood seemed about to spring at him, he was so intense.
“Something. I don’t know. I was bending down to see, when”—Matt shrugged—“it wore off.”
Harry Kane used a word your publisher will cut.
Hood said, “Suddenly? I don’t remember its being sudden.”
“What do you remember?” Matt asked.
“Well, nothing, really. We were talking about eyes—or was it about Polly? Sure, Polly. Matt, did it bother you to talk about it?”
Matt growled in his throat.
“Then that’s why you did whatever you did. You didn’t want to be noticed.”
Probably.
Hood rubbed his hands briskly together. “So. We know you’ve got something, anyway, and it’s under your control. Your subconscious control. Well!” Hood became a professor looking around at his not-too-bright class. “What questions are still unanswered?
“For one, what do the eyes have to do with anything? For another, why was a guard eventually able to shoot you and store you away? For a third, why would you use your ability to drive girls away?”
“Mist Demons, Hood! There’s no conceivable reason—”
“Keller.”
The voice was a quiet command. Harry Kane was back in Thinker position on the couch, staring off into space. “You said Polly looked abstracted. Did we look abstracted a moment ago?”
“When you forgot about me? Yah.”
“Do I look abstracted now?”
“Yah. Wait a minute.” Matt stood up and walked around Harry, examining him from different sides. He should have looked like a man deep in thought. Thinker position: chin on fist, elbow on knee; face lowered, almost scowling; motionless; eyes hooded…Hooded? But clearly visible.
“No, you don’t. There’s something wrong.”
“What?”
“Your eyes.”
“Round and round we go,” Harry said disgustedly. “Well, get down and look at my eyes, for the Mist Demons’ sake!”
Matt knelt on the indoor grass and looked up into Harry’s eyes. No inspiration came. A wrongness there, but where?…He thought of Polly on Friday night, when they stood immersed in noise and elbows, and talked nose-to-nose. They’d touched from time to time, half accidentally, hands and shoulders brushing…He’d felt the warm blood beating in his neck…and suddenly—
“Too big,” said Matt. “Your pupils are too big. When somebody really isn’t interested in what’s going on around him, the pupils are smaller.”
“What about Polly’s eyes?” Hood probed. “Dilated or contracted?”
“Contracted. Very small. And so were the guards’ eyes, the ones who came for me this morning.” He remembered how surprised they’d been when he yanked on the handcuffs, the handcuffs that still dangled from his wrists. They hadn’t been interested in him; they’d merely unlocked the chains from their own wrists. And when they’d looked at him—“That’s it. That’s why their eyes looked so funny. The pupils were pinpoints.”
Hood sighed in relief. “Then that’s all of it,” he said, and got up. “Well, I think I’ll see how Lydia’s doing with dinner.”
“Come back here.” Harry Kane’s voice was low and murderous. Hood burst out laughing.
“Stop that cackling,” said Harry Kane. “Whatever Keller’s got, we need it. Talk!”
Whatever Keller’s got, we need it. Matt felt he ought to protest. He didn’t intend to be used by the Sons of Earth. But he couldn’t interrupt now.
“It’s a very limited form of telepathy,” said Jay Hood. “And because it is so very limited, it’s probably more dependable than more general forms. Its target is so much less ambiguous.” He smiled. “We really ought to have a new name for it. Telepathy doesn’t apply, not quite.”
Three people waited patiently but implacably.
“Matt’s mind,” said Hood, “is capable of controlling the nerves and muscles which dilate and contract the iris of another man’s eye.” And he smiled, waiting for their response.
“So what?” asked Harry Kane. “What good is that?”
“You don’t understand? No, I suppose you don’t. It’s more in my field. Do you know anything about motivational research?”
Three heads waggled No.
“The science was banned on Earth long, long ago because its results were being used for immoral advertising purposes. But they found out some interesting things first. One of them involved dilation and contraction of the pupil of the eye.
“It turns out that if you show a man something and measure his pupil with a camera, you can tell whether it interests him. You can show him pictures of his country’s political leaders, in places where there are two or more factions, and his eyes will dilate for the leader of his own. Take him aside for an hour and talk to him, persuade him to change his political views, and his pupils will dilate for the other guy. Show him pictures of pretty girls, and the girl he calls prettiest will have dilated pupils. He doesn’t know it. He only knows she looks interested. In him.
“I wonder,” said Hood, smiling dreamily at himself. Some people love to lecture. Hood was one. “Could that be the reason the most expensive restaurants are always dark? A couple comes in, they look at each other across a dinner table, and they both look interested. What do you think?”
Harry Kane said, “I think you’d better finish telling us about Keller.”
“He has,” said Laney. “Don’t you see? Matt’s afraid of being seen by someone. So he reaches out with his mind and contracts the man’s pupils whenever he looks at Matt. Naturally the man can’t get interested in Matt.”
“Exactly.” Hood beamed at Laney. “Matt takes a reflex and works it in reverse to make it a conditioned reflex. I knew light had something to do with it. You see, Matt? It can’t work unless your victim sees you. If he hears you, or if he gets a blip when you cross an electric-eye beam—”
“Or if I’m not concentrating on being scared. That’s why the guard shot me.”
“I still don’t see how it’s possible,” said Laney. “I helped you do your research on this, Jay. Telepathy is reading minds. It operates on the brain, doesn’t it?”
“We don’t know. But the optic nerve is brain tissue, not ordinary nerve tissue.”
Harry Kane stood up and stretched. “That doesn’t matter. It’s better than anything the Sons of Earth have put together. It’s like a cloak of invisibility. Now we have to figure out how to use it.”
The missing car was still missing. It was nowhere in the Implementation garages; it had not been found by the search squad, neither in the air nor on the ground. If policeman had taken it out for legitimate purposes, would have been visible; if it had not been visible, it would have been in trouble of some kind, and the pilot would have phoned a Mayday. Apparently it really had be stolen.
To Jesus Pietro, it was disturbing. A stolen car was one thing; an impossible stolen car was another.
He had associated Keller with miracles: with the miracle that had left him unhurt when his car fell into the void mist, with the miracle that had affected Hobart’s memory last night. On that assumption he had sounded the “Prisoners Loose.” And, lo! there were prisoners running amok in the corridors.
He had associated missing prisoners with a missing car with the miracles of Keller. Thus he had assumed a stolen car where no car could have been stolen. And, lo! a car had indeed been stolen.
Then Major Jansen had called from the vivarium. Nobody had noticed, until that moment, that the sleep helmets were still running. How, then, had ninety-eight prisoners walked away?
Miracles! What the blazes was he fighting? One man, many? Had Keller been passenger or driver of that car? Had there been other passengers? Had the Sons of Earth discovered something new, or was it Keller alone?
That was an evil thought. Matthew Keller, come back from the void in the person of his nephe
w to haunt his murderer…Jesus Pietro snorted.
He’d doubled the guard at the Alpha-Beta Bridge. Knowing that the bridge was the only way off the cliff and across the Long Fall River at the bottom, he had nonetheless set guards along the cliff edge. No normal colonist could leave Alpha Plateau without a car. (But could something abnormal walk unseen past the guards?)
And no fugitive would leave in a police car. Jesus Pietro had ordered all police cars to fly in pairs for the duration. The fugitives would be flying alone.
As part colonist, Jesus Pietro had not been allowed to hear Millard Parlette’s speech, but he knew it was over. Crew cars were flying again. If the fugitives stole a crew car, they might have a chance. But the Hospital would be informed immediately if a crew car was stolen. (Really? A police car had been stolen, and he’d had to find out for himself.)
Nobody and nothing had been found in the abandoned coral houses. (But would anything important have been seen?)
Most of the escaped prisoners were safe in the vivarium. (From which they had escaped before, without bothering to turn off their sleeper helmets.)
Jesus Pietro wasn’t used to dealing with ghosts.
It would require brand new techniques.
Grimly he set out to evolve them.
The arguments began during dinner.
Dinner took place at the unconventional hour of three o’clock. It was good, very good. Lydia Hancock still looked like a sour old harridan, but to Matt, anyone who could cook like her deserved the benefit of the doubt. They had finished the mutton chops when Harry Kane turned to business.
“There are five of us left,” he said. “What can we do to get the rest of us loose?”
“We could blow the pumping station,” Hood suggested. It developed that the pumping station, which supplied Alpha Plateau with water from the Long Fall was the crew’s only source of water. It was located at the base of the Alpha-Beta cliff. The Sons of Earth had long ago planted mines to blow it apart. “It would give us a diversion.”
“And cut off the power, too,” said Matt, remembering that hydrogen for fusion can be taken from water.
“Oh, no. The power plants only use a few buckets of water in a year, Keller. A diversion for what, Jay? Any suggestions?”
“Matt. He got us out once. He can do it again, now that he knows—”
“Oh no you don’t. I am not a revolutionary. I told you why I went to the Hospital, and I won’t go there again.”
Thus, the arguments.
On Matt’s side there was little said. He wasn’t going back to the Hospital. If he could, he would return to Gamma and live out his life there, trusting his psi power to protect him. If he had to live elsewhere—even if he had to spend the rest of his life in hiding on Alpha Plateau—so be it. His life might be disrupted now, but it was not worthless enough to throw away.
He got no sympathy from anyone, not even from Laney. On their part the arguments ranged from appeals to his patriotism or to his love of admiration, to attacks on his personality, to threats of bodily harm to himself and his family. Jay Hood was the most vituperative. You would have thought he had invented “the luck of Matt Keller,” that Matt had stolen it. He seemed genuinely convinced that he held a patent on psi power on the Plateau.
In a way it was ludicrous. They begged him, they browbeat him, they threatened him—and with never a chance of succeeding. Once they actually succeeded in frightening him, and once their personal comments annoyed him beyond the limits of patience. Both times the arguments ended abruptly, and Matt was left alone in his irritation while the Sons of Earth discussed whatever came to mind, their pupils contracting to pinpoints whenever they looked at him.
After the second such episode Harry Kane realized what was happening and ordered the others to lay off. It was interfering with their ability to make plans, he said.
“Go somewhere else,” he told Matt. “If you’re not going to help us, at least don’t listen to our plans. Feeble though they’ll probably be, there’s no reason we should risk your hearing them. You might use the information to buy your way back into Castro’s good graces.”
“You’re an ungrateful son of a bitch,” said Matt, “and I demand an apology.”
“Okay, I apologize. Now go somewhere else.”
Matt went out into the garden.
The mist was back, but it was an overhanging mist now, turning the sky steel gray, bleaching colors out of the garden, turning the void from a fuzzy flat plain into a dome around the universe. Matt found a stone bench and sat down and put his head in his hands.
He was shaking. A mass verbal attack can do that to a man, can smash his self-respect and set up doubts which remain for hours or days or forever. There are well-developed verbal techniques for many to use against one. You never let the victim speak without interruption; never let him finish a sentence. You interrupt each other so that he can’t quite catch the drift of your arguments, and then he can’t find the flaws. He forgets his rebuttal points because he’s not allowed to put them into words. His only defense is to walk out. If, instead, you throw him out…
Gradually his confusion gave way to a kind of sick, curdled anger. The ungrateful…! He’d saved their worthless lives twice, and where was their thanks? Well, he didn’t need them. He’d never needed them for a moment.
He knew what he was now. Hood had given him that much. He knew, and he could take advantage of it.
He could become the world’s first invulnerable thief. If Implementation would not let him resume his mining career, he would do just that. Weaponless, he could rob storehouses in broad daylight. He could pass guarded bridges unnoticed, be at work on Gamma while they were searching him out in every corner of Eta. Eta, now…a nice place to rob if he couldn’t return to his old life. The crew gambling-resort must see half the wealth of the Plateau at one time or another.
He’d have a long walk to the Alpha-Beta Bridge, and a longer walk afterward. A car would be useful. Serve the Sons of Earth right if he took their car—but he’d have to wait till midnight. Did he want to do that?
His daydreams had calmed him still further. His shaking had stopped, and he wasn’t as angry now. He could begin to see what had moved the four inside to attack him so, though he saw no justice in it for there was none. Laney, Hood, Harry Kane, Lydia—they must be fanatics, or why would they sell their lives for a hopeless revolution? Being fanatics, they would have only one ethic: to do anything in their power to advance their cause, no matter whom it might hurt.
He still didn’t know where he went from here. One thing he knew: It would not involve the Sons of Earth. Otherwise he had plenty of time for decisions.
A chill thin breeze blew from the north. Gradually the fog was thickening.
The electric fire inside would be welcome.
But the thick hostility would not. He stayed where he was, hunching his back to the wind.
…Why in blazes would Hood assume he drove away women? Did Hood think he was crazy? Or deficient? No; he’d have used that during the arguments. Why, then?
He hadn’t driven away Laney.
That memory warmed him. She was lost for good now; their paths would diverge, and someday she’d end in the organ banks. But Friday night had happened; Friday night was permanent…
…Polly’s eyes. Her pupils had contracted, sure enough. Like the gatekeeper’s eyes, like Harry’s and Hood’s and Laney’s eyes when Matt had tired of their verbal onslaughts. Why?
Matt nibbled gently at his lower lip.
And if he’d driven Polly away (never mind why; there was no answer), then it was not her fault that she had gone.
But Laney had stayed.
Matt jumped to his feet. They’d have to tell him. He had a lever on them; they couldn’t know how sure he was that he’d have nothing to do with their cause. And he had to know.
He turned toward the house and saw the cars—three of them, way up there in the gray sky, disappearing and reappearing around the mist. Dropping.
/> He stood perfectly still. He wasn’t really convinced that they were landing here, though they grew bigger and closer every second. Finally they were just overhead and settling. And still he stood. For by then there was no place to run to, and he knew that only “the luck of Matt Keller” could protect him. It should work. He was certainly scared enough.
One of the cars almost landed on him. He was invisible, all right.
A tall, spare man got out of the car, moved his hands briefly inside the dashboard, and stepped back to avoid the wind as the car rose again and settled on the roof. The other cars had landed, and they were Implementation. A man disembarked and moved toward the tall civilian. They spoke briefly. The tall man’s voice was high, almost squeaky, and it had the crew lilt. He was thanking the policeman for his escort. The policeman got back into the car, and both Implementation cars rose into the fog.
The tall man sighed and let himself slump. Matt’s fear ebbed. This crew was no danger; he was a tired old man, worn out with years and with some recent toil. But what a fool Harry Kane had been to think nobody would come!
The man moved toward the house. Tired he might have been, but he walked straight, like a policeman on parade. Matt cursed softly and moved in behind him.
When the oldster saw the living room, he’d know someone had been there. He’d call for help unless Matt stopped him.
The old man opened the big wooden door and walked in. Matt was right behind him.
He saw the old man go rigid.
The ancient didn’t try to scream. If he had a handphone, he didn’t reach for it. His head turned from side to side, studying the living room from where he stood, taking in the abandoned glasses and pitcher and the glowing false fire. When his profile turned to Matt, he looked thoughtful. Not frightened, not angry. Thoughtful.
And when the old man smiled, it was a slow, tense smile, the smile of a chess player who sees victory almost within his grasp—or defeat, for his opponent might have set an unsuspected trap. The old man smiled, but the muscles of his face stood out iron-hard under the loose, wrinkled skin, and his fists tightened at his sides. He cocked his head to one side, listening.