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the short-wave cooked meats they'd been having for a week. Tomatoes, chile,
mm-m-what else? Oh, yes. The duel with Reilly. Burkhalter absently touched his
dagger's hilt and made a small, mocking sound in his throat. Perhaps he was
innately a pacifist. It was rather difficult to think of a duel seriously,
even though everyone else did, when the details of a barbecue dinner were
prosaic in his mind.
So it went. The tides of civilization rolled in century-long waves across the
continents, and each particular wave, though conscious of its participation in
the tide, nevertheless was more preoccupied with dinner. And, unless you
happened to be a thousand feet tall, had the brain of a god and a god's
lifespan, what was the difference? People missed a lot-people like Venner, who
was certainly a crank, not batty enough to qualify for the asylum, but
certainly a potential paranoid type. The man's refusal to wear a wig labeled
him as an individualist, but as an exhibitionist, too. If he didn't feel
ashamed of his hairlessness, why should he bother to flaunt it? Besides, the
man had a bad temper, and if people kicked him around, he asked for it by
starting the kicking himself.
But as for Al, the kid was heading for something approaching delinquency. It
couldn't be the normal development of childhood, Burkhalter thought. He didn't
pretend to be an expert, but he was still young enough to remember his own
formative years, and he had had more handicaps than Al had now; in those days,
Baldies had been very new and very freakish. There'd been more than one
movement to isolate, sterilize, or even exterminate the mutations.
Burkhalter sighed. If he had been born before the Blowup, it might have been
different. Impossible to say. One could read history, but one couldn't live
it. In the future, perhaps, there might be telepathic libraries in which that
would be possible. So many opportunities, in fact-and so few that the world
was ready to accept as yet. Eventually Baldies would not be regarded as
freaks, and by that time real progress would be possible.
But people don't make history-Burkhalter thought. Peoples do that. Not the
individual.
He stopped by Reilly's house again, and this time the man answered, a burly,
freckled, squint-eyed fellow with immense hands and, Burkhalter noted, fine
muscular co-ordination. He rested those
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'Who's you, mister?'
'My name's Burkhalter.'
Comprehension and wariness leaped into Reilly's eyes. 'Oh. I see. You got my
call?'
'I did,' Burkhalter said. 'I want to talk to you about it. May I come in?'
'O.K.' He stepped back, opening the way through a hall and into a spacious
living-room, where diffused light filtered through glassy mosaic walls. 'Want
to set the time?'
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'I want to tell you you're wrong.'
'Now wait a minute,' Reilly said, patting the air. 'My wife's out now, but she
gave me the straight of it. I don't like this business of sneaking into a
man's mind; it's crooked. You should have told your wife to mind her
business-or keep her tongue quiet.'
Burkhalter said patiently, 'I give you in my word, Reilly, that Ethel didn't
read your wife's mind.'
'Does she say so?'
'I ... well, I haven't asked her.'
'Yeah,' Reilly said with an air of triumph.
'I don't need to. I know her well enough. And . . . well, I'm Baldy myself.'
'I know you are,' Reilly said. Tor all I know, you may be reading my mind
now.' He hesitated. 'Get out of my house. I
like my privacy. We'll meet at dawn tomorrow, if that's satisfactory with you.
Now get out." He seemed to have something on his mind, some ancient memory,
perhaps, that he didn't wish exposed.
Burkhalter nobly resisted the temptation. 'No Baldy would read--'
'Go on, get out!'
'Listen! You wouldn't have a chance in a duel with me!'
'Do you know how many notches I've got?' Reilly asked.
'Ever dueled a Baldy?'
'I'll cut the notch deeper tomorrow. Get out, d'you hear?'
Burkhalter, biting his lips, said, 'Man, don't you realize that in a duel I
could read your mind?'
'I don't care . . . what?'
'I'd be half a jump ahead of you. No matter how instinctive your actions would
be, you'd know them a split second ahead of time in your mind. And I'd know
all your tricks and weaknesses, too. Your technique would be an open book to
me. Whatever you thought of---'
'No.' Reilly shook his head. 'Oh, no. You're smart, but it's a phony set-up.'
Burkhalter hesitated, decided, and swung about, pushing a chair out of the
way. 'Take out your dagger,' he said. 'Leave the sheath snapped on; I'll show
you what I mean.'
Reilly's eyes widened. 'If you want it now--'
'I don't.' Burkhalter shoved another chair away. He undipped his dagger,
sheath and all, from his belt, and made sure the little safety clip was in
place. 'We've room enough here. Come on.'
Scowling, Reilly took out his own dagger, held it awkwardly, baffled by the
sheath, and then suddenly feinted forward. But Burkhalter wasn't there; he had
anticipated, and his own leather sheath slid up Reilly's belly.
'That,' Burkhalter said, 'would have ended the fight.'
For answer Reilly smashed a hard dagger-blow down, curving at the last moment
into a throat-
cutting slash. Burkhalter's free hand was already at his throat; his other
hand, with the sheathed dagger, tapped Reilly twice over the heart. The
freckles stood out boldly against the pallor of the larger man's face. But he
was not yet ready to concede. He tried a few more passes, clever, well-trained [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]