[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
personality a little . . . but not very well, and not for very long times at a stretch. Folks, believe me on this
one: if you are what we call a green monkey, the other apes are going to rip you a new one every time
they smell you. Hiding out is an art. But don t hide yourself so well that others like you can t find you.
And don t follow the crowd so much that eventually you re not playing at it. Don t wind up doing it so
well that the mask you ve worn to perfection becomes your real face. Protect yourself, but don t get
assimilated. And never wage a land war in Asia. I just thought I d throw that in. You never know.
They came to Alf Gunnderson in the Pawnee County jail.
He was sitting, hugging his bony knees, against the plasteel wall of the cell. On the plasteel floor lay an
ancient, three-string mandolin he had borrowed from the deputy. He had been plunking, with some talent,
all that hot, summer day. Under his thin buttocks the empty trough of his mattressless bunk curved
beneath his weight. He was an extremely tall man, even hunched up that way.
He was more than tired-looking, more than weary. His was an inside weariness . . . he was a gaunt,
empty-looking man. His hair fell lanky and drab and gray-brown in shocks over a low forehead. His eyes
seemed to be peas, withdrawn from their pods and placed in a starkly white face. It was difficult to tell
whether he could see from them.
Their blankness only accented the total cipher he seemed. There was no inch of expression or recognition
on his face, in the line of his body.
More, he was a thin man. He seemed to be a man who had given up the Search long ago. His face did
not change its hollow stare at the plasteel-barred door opposite, even as it swung back to admit the two
nonentities.
The two men entered, their stride as alike as the unobtrusive gray mesh suits they wore; as alike as the
faces that would fade from memory moments after they had turned. The turnkey a grizzled country
deputy with a minus 8 rating stared after the men with open wonder on his bearded face.
One of the gray-suited men turned, pinning the wondering stare to the deputy s face. His voice was calm
and unrippled. Close the door and go back to your desk. The words were cold and paced. They
brooked no opposition. It was obvious: they were Mindees.
The roar of a late afternoon inverspace ship split the waiting moment outside, then the turnkey slammed
the door, palming it loktite. He walked back out of the cell block, hands deep in his coverall pockets. His
head was lowered as though he were trying to solve a complex problem. It, too, was obvious: he was
trying to block his thoughts off from those goddamned Mindees.
When he was gone, the telepaths circled Gunnderson slowly. Their faces softly altered, subtly, and
personality flowed in with quickness. They shot each other confused glances.
Him?the first man thought, nodding slightly at the still, knee-hugging prisoner.
That s what the report said, Ralph. The other man removed his forehead-concealing snapbrim and sat
down on the edge of the bunk-trough. He touched Gunnderson s leg with tentative fingers.He s not
thinking, for God s sake! the thought flashed.I can t get a thing .
Incredulousness sparkled in the thought.
He must be blocked off by trauma-barrier, came the reply from the telepath named Ralph.
Is your name Alf Gunnderson? the first Mindee inquired softly, a hand on Gunnderson s shoulder.
The expression never changed. The head swiveled slowly and the dead eyes came to bear on the
dark-suited telepath. I m Gunnderson, he replied briefly. His tones indicated no enthusiasm, no
curiosity.
The first man looked up at his partner, doubt wrinkling his eyes, pursing his lips. He shrugged his
shoulders, as if to say,Who knows?
He turned back to Gunnderson.
Immobile, as before. Hewn from rock, silent as the pit.
What are you in here for, Gunnderson? He spoke as though he were unused to words. The halting
speech of the telepath. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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personality a little . . . but not very well, and not for very long times at a stretch. Folks, believe me on this
one: if you are what we call a green monkey, the other apes are going to rip you a new one every time
they smell you. Hiding out is an art. But don t hide yourself so well that others like you can t find you.
And don t follow the crowd so much that eventually you re not playing at it. Don t wind up doing it so
well that the mask you ve worn to perfection becomes your real face. Protect yourself, but don t get
assimilated. And never wage a land war in Asia. I just thought I d throw that in. You never know.
They came to Alf Gunnderson in the Pawnee County jail.
He was sitting, hugging his bony knees, against the plasteel wall of the cell. On the plasteel floor lay an
ancient, three-string mandolin he had borrowed from the deputy. He had been plunking, with some talent,
all that hot, summer day. Under his thin buttocks the empty trough of his mattressless bunk curved
beneath his weight. He was an extremely tall man, even hunched up that way.
He was more than tired-looking, more than weary. His was an inside weariness . . . he was a gaunt,
empty-looking man. His hair fell lanky and drab and gray-brown in shocks over a low forehead. His eyes
seemed to be peas, withdrawn from their pods and placed in a starkly white face. It was difficult to tell
whether he could see from them.
Their blankness only accented the total cipher he seemed. There was no inch of expression or recognition
on his face, in the line of his body.
More, he was a thin man. He seemed to be a man who had given up the Search long ago. His face did
not change its hollow stare at the plasteel-barred door opposite, even as it swung back to admit the two
nonentities.
The two men entered, their stride as alike as the unobtrusive gray mesh suits they wore; as alike as the
faces that would fade from memory moments after they had turned. The turnkey a grizzled country
deputy with a minus 8 rating stared after the men with open wonder on his bearded face.
One of the gray-suited men turned, pinning the wondering stare to the deputy s face. His voice was calm
and unrippled. Close the door and go back to your desk. The words were cold and paced. They
brooked no opposition. It was obvious: they were Mindees.
The roar of a late afternoon inverspace ship split the waiting moment outside, then the turnkey slammed
the door, palming it loktite. He walked back out of the cell block, hands deep in his coverall pockets. His
head was lowered as though he were trying to solve a complex problem. It, too, was obvious: he was
trying to block his thoughts off from those goddamned Mindees.
When he was gone, the telepaths circled Gunnderson slowly. Their faces softly altered, subtly, and
personality flowed in with quickness. They shot each other confused glances.
Him?the first man thought, nodding slightly at the still, knee-hugging prisoner.
That s what the report said, Ralph. The other man removed his forehead-concealing snapbrim and sat
down on the edge of the bunk-trough. He touched Gunnderson s leg with tentative fingers.He s not
thinking, for God s sake! the thought flashed.I can t get a thing .
Incredulousness sparkled in the thought.
He must be blocked off by trauma-barrier, came the reply from the telepath named Ralph.
Is your name Alf Gunnderson? the first Mindee inquired softly, a hand on Gunnderson s shoulder.
The expression never changed. The head swiveled slowly and the dead eyes came to bear on the
dark-suited telepath. I m Gunnderson, he replied briefly. His tones indicated no enthusiasm, no
curiosity.
The first man looked up at his partner, doubt wrinkling his eyes, pursing his lips. He shrugged his
shoulders, as if to say,Who knows?
He turned back to Gunnderson.
Immobile, as before. Hewn from rock, silent as the pit.
What are you in here for, Gunnderson? He spoke as though he were unused to words. The halting
speech of the telepath. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]