Zelazny, Roger - Novel 07 (23 page)

 
          
 
It was on a Friday evening that I came across
something peculiar. I had climbed a nearby hill, a concession to my mother's
complaint that I was not getting enough exercise, and seated on a rock out of
sight of the house I had set forth with my mind once again, casting first at
places nearer to home. After a quarter of an hour of wandering, I encountered
familiar thought-patterns. When I closed with them, I determined that they
originated in
Albuquerque
, and I became aware of the thinker's plans for the following day. He
would be heading north, and passing on the highway, not too far to the east. I
was filled with excitement. He was not my quarry, but he was someone I greatly
desired to meet.

 
          
 
When I returned to the house, my mother saw my
face, felt my mood and smiled.

 
          
 
"I told you," she said.
"Exercise. This is the best I've seen you look."

 
          
 
"Yes, Mother," I said.

 
          
 
"You will be in good condition for your
surprise tomorrow."

 
          
 
"Surprise? What is it?"

 
          
 
"If I told you..." she began.

 
          
 
"It isn't Dad, is it? Is he coming?"

 
          
 
She looked away.

 
          
 
"No," she said, "not your
father. You will just have to wait and see."

 
          
 
I thought of trying a probe, but she would
have caught it and blocked it, I am certain. And she wanted it to be a
surprise. I left it at that. I had more important matters to consider, anyhow.

 
          
 
I yawned.

 
          
 
"All this fresh air and altitude ... I am
going to turn in early."

 
          
 
"Good idea," she said, and kissed
me.

 
          
 
I was up early the next morning. Before I even
got out of bed, I reached out with my mind and found my man. Then I left a note
saying that I had gone for a walk, and I made my way to a bluff above the
highway. I seated myself and waited, listening to his thoughts as he drove on.

 
          
 
After a long while, the car came into view. I
climbed down and waited at the side of the road.

 
          
 
When the vehicle drew near, I stepped out into
the road and raised my hands. I was in his mind at the time and saw that he had
noticed me and was going to stop. Else I would have gotten out of the way.

 
          
 
He braked to a halt and called out,
"What's the matter, kid?"

 
          
 
I walked up beside the machine, studying the
face of the man I had once been.

 
          
 
"Hello, Quick," I said. "It's
been a while."

 
          
 
He stared at me, then shook his head.

 
          
 
"I'm sorry, he said. "I don't
remember where ..."

 
          
 
"I remember the shootout when they got
Leishman," I said. "You got the last cop and made it away. They never
did figure out who the other man was."

 
          
 
His eyes widened, then narrowed.

 
          
 
"Who the hell are you, anyway?"

 
          
 
"I have to talk with you. It's
important."

 
          
 
"All right. Get in," he said.

 
          
 
"No, thanks. Why don't you pull off to
the side and get out? We can climb up in those rocks across the way."

 
          
 
"Why?"

 
          
 
"It's a place to sit down."

 
          
 
"Is anyone else there?"

 
          
 
"No."

 
          
 
He pulled over, opened the door and stepped
out

 
          
 
"I want you to know something—" he
began.

 
          
 
"—that you are carrying a loaded .32
automatic in the right-hand pocket of your jacket," I said, "and you
intend to shoot anyone else you encounter the moment you see him. But I am not
lying to you. There is no one else. I just want to talk."

 
          
 
"How did you—? Are you a telepath?"

 
          
 
"Yes."

 
          
 
"Okay. Anyplace special?"

 
          
 
"No. Just up."

 
          
 
"Lead on."

 
          
 
He followed me to the top, found himself a
perch and lit a cigarette.

 
          
 
"What do you want?" he asked.

 
          
 
"First," I said, "I wanted to
meet you. You see, once I was you."

 
          
 
"Come again?"

 
          
 
"I will have to tell you something about
myself ..." I began. And I did. I told him of my condition, of how I had
become Leishman and been used to trace him, of how I had later, briefly, been
Quick Smith. The sun was higher when I finished.

 
          
 
He had remained silent as I had spoken,
nodding occasionally. Now he sat, staring off toward the horizon, as if
listening to some faraway voice. I waited for him to say something, but he did
not

 
          
 
I cleared my throat

 
          
 
"That is—my story," I said, finally.
"I wanted you to know that much before—"

 
          
 
"Yes, it is—quite interesting,* 5 he said
then. "You certainly are a different sort of person. Now what?"

 
          
 
"Now? Now I was going to ask you, as the
only COE member handy, whether you really believe that our rural past possessed
all the virtues, whether all the cliches about cities might not make that past
seem like something it never was, whether exploitation of the land and the
people—like child labor—might not have been far worse in the old days, as it
still is in agrarian countries today, whether the cities might not really offer
more than they have taken when contrasted with that past."

 
          
 
"That was not what I meant when I said
*Now what?' and that is a string of loaded questions," he said. "But
I will give you an answer anyway, before I go back to it. I am hardly a spokesman
for the COE. I am just a dirtywork specialist. It is true that a lot of us
might romanticize the simpler life, turn it into a pastoral. I am not one of
them. I grew up on a farm. I was child labor myself. I do not have it in for
the cities. In fact, they represented something I wanted to get away to as soon
as I could swing it. They may well offer more than they have taken. I think
that they probably do. I am just a dirty, mean little guy who was probably
simply a troublemaker to begin with. If it had not been the COE it would have
been something else—then. Your asking me these things makes me think back over
it, though. Now, it is a bit different. But okay ... For all that, when I look
back at my childhood, I see that I always loved the land. I can't romanticize
it, I was too close to it. I am a conservationist, an environmentalist, an
ecological activist—whatever term is currently fashionable—because I am
pro-land, not anti-city. You set up a false dichotomy when you reeled off those
questions. Being for the land does not mean being against the city. We cannot
junk them all and turn back the clock. Not now. When we blow up a dam or screw
up a source of pollution, we are not telling them to turn off all the
technology in the world. We are telling them to be more judicious in its
disposition, we are encouraging the consideration, the development, of
alternatives. There are men who see no more in public lands than lumber,
minerals, grazing and the building of dams, men who claim they are benefiting the
people in this and are really only out for a fast buck. Rod told me the history
of the national parks, for example. They faced this kind of invasion and
destruction, with the same excuses offered, long before our present problems
existed. I want to protect what remains of the natural world, that's all. Now
you tell me something. I had asked you, 'Now what?' What I meant was, you have
this powerful ability no other telepath seems to have developed yet. What are
you going to do with it?"

 
          
 
"What do you mean?"

 
          
 
"Your interest in these matters seems
more than simple curiosity. I could not help but wonder—"

 
          
 
His eyes flicked upward, past my shoulder.

 
          
 
I had not heard anyone approach, nor felt them
with my mind, and I was not in Quick's mind at the moment. I turned.

 
          
 
She had come up the easy grade on the far side
of the bluff. She seemed taller than I remembered, and a trifle thinner.

 
          
 
"
Lydia
!" I said, rising. "Mother spoke
of a surprise...."

 
          
 
She smiled.

 
          
 
"Hello, Dennis," she said.
"Hello, Quick."

 
          
 
"You know each other?" I asked.

 
          
 
Quick nodded.

 
          
 
"Oh yes," he said. "We've met.
A long time ago. How've you been?"

 
          
 
"Fine," she said, drawing nearer.

 
          
 
"
Lydia
is the therapist I mentioned," I said,
"who took care of me. Before."

 
          
 
"Quick, you have changed," she said.

 
          
 
He nodded.

 
          
 
"Everyone does, I guess,*' he said

 
          
 
She looked at me again,

 
          
 
Dennis, let me see you.

 
          
 
I nodded and felt her move further into my
mind.

 
          
 
After a time, Congratulations. We have
succeeded, she told me. You exist. You have followed the leads that I left you.
You are seeking. .. What?

 
          
 
A man. The man who spoke with Van Duyn, years
back.

 
          
 
Why?

 
          
 
To ask how I can help him with his efforts.