I became aware that I was lying on my left side, my head socketed in the place between Alia's neck and her firm shoulder. My right ear ached from cold, my feet and hand were numb, my side was stiff, my stump hurt abominably in its harness, and I had to piss something awful. I felt wonderful.
Alia was still in the undermind. I wouldn't have disturbed her if a snake had crawled up my pants. I lay where I was and tasted my joy, marveled at how close it was to pain, realized that in the past night I had climbed another proud and humble step up the ladder of evolution. I felt the bittersweet wistfulness that always comes after one of those exalted moments when you are granted a hazy intuition of the answers to the Big Questions, like what is all this doing here? and why am I here perceiving it? and what will it be like to die?—or at least the certainty that there are answers, that everything matters. The wistfulness always follows such moments because that's when you realize that memory banks can't retain moments like that, when you realize that you'll have to keep recreating that certainty again and again, seeking it all your life.
She stirred, and I lifted my weight off her with my new left arm. Our gazes locked for a long moment, and we didn't take the trouble to smile with our faces. Then she did, so I did too.
"I don't remember leaving the house," she said.
"Me either, but it seems we must have."
"Let's pee," she said practically, so we did. It's nice to have two hands for trouser buttons.
The morning was cold and blustery, earmuff and scarf weather, and we had neither. I took off my coat and put it on Alia and we beat it for the house. We were laughing like turkeys by the time we got inside. Not only was relief from the wind welcome, we discovered that we still had a fire going in the big Ashley, and a few chunks of maple later we were entirely thawed. Alia put the triangle on the Ashley and set the coffeepot on it, and I built a fire in the kitchen stove for breakfast, humming as I chopped the kindling. We had finished a ridiculous quantity of sausage and eggs and coffee before either of us felt the need to speak a word.
Alia put down her fork and looked thoughtful. "Isham . . . that was mostly me, wasn't it?"
I nodded.
"I thought you were the family alpha-master."
I grinned and shook my head. "You've got it all wrong, Madonna. I know your alpha-rating is nothing spectacular, but it takes more than alpha to make a telempath."
"A what?"
"Telempath. That's what Mike calls me—and himself, now. A telempath is a person who approaches telepathy by way of empathy. What was once called an Enlightened Man—if only for flashes. High alpha potential plus a high degree of empathy plus a lifelong drive to escape the boundaries of my skull combined to make me a telempath, a man a High Musky could and would talk to."
"But how did I . . ."
"I have just invented a new scale, whose measurements can so far only be intuited. I call it the Empathy Scale. On a scale of ten, with me at ten and a turnip at zero, you would rate . . . oh, let's see . . . about fifty."
"Oh." One of the many little things I love about my beloved is that she accepts a compliment well.
"I connected with you, then connected us both with High Mistral. But it was you who connected us all with little Wendell. Mistral and I wouldn't have known where to look. How to look. You know whatever it is I mean."
"Yes." Her eyes got a faraway look. "God, Isham. He's so little. And so. . . fierce."
"Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny. At this point in his evolution, he needs to be."
She nodded slowly. "Walk me to the smithy," she asked.
"The smithy can wait. The embassy leaves today, remember?"
"Wow, I forgot. It's Monday."
"Better shake a leg or we'll miss them."
"Isham? I know it's easier to talk in the undermind without the chatter of other minds, but why go all the way to New York? They could truck that machine of Michael's closer to home."
"Whose home?"
"Eh?"
"You were there at the Pond, the day after the War ended. You heard Dad speak to upwards of four hundred people—Agros and Technos—telling them the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You saw the crowd look at Wendell, and you've seen them looking at him for two weeks now. It doesn't matter what they know with their heads, darling. In their hearts Wendell Morgan Carlson is the lifelong symbol of evil, the ultimately hated man. You may have also seen Wendell looking back at the crowd that day, trembling. Crowds freak him out, and no wonder. New York is Wendell's home—for now, at least. He'll have to build a tolerance to this many people, and they to him."
"The poor old man."
"Poor old man, my eye. He invented the undermind. He's given the race the greatest gift it's had in a couple thousand years, and he has the satisfaction of knowing it. If he doesn't have a mind to live with the race, the fact that it ain't sorry to see him go is largely irrelevant. He's no Moses. He's a man who's upset by people—perhaps he's been hanging around Muskies too long. Give him time. Give Fresh Start time. They'll fall in love—if they aren't thrown at each other by their mutual friends."
She nodded. "I guess you're right."
"Can't undo eighteen years overnight. Let's go." We bundled up and left the house. We walked along the Lake shore, cut through the woods past Dad and Helen's place, which was empty. Dawn was just turning the clouds purple from underneath, and the wind was mostly from the south. Two weeks ago, I thought, that would have called for noseplugs. Good old Muskies. Superb janitors. And they sho' can dance.
We strolled down Main Street, hand in hand. People were beginning to stir in the dormitories; smoke was already twisting from the chimneys as the kitchen crews made ready for breakfast. We heard a baby cry somewhere in the Statler, and grinned together. Mrs. Wilson was just opening the General Store as we went by, and gave us a cheery wave. "Lovely day," she called out happily.
We left the road at the corner of First Avenue, passing behind Security HQ, and paused for a while at the Pond, watching ripples chase each other in the schizoid breeze. It was indeed a lovely day. I was still dazed from the shock of telempathic contact with my unborn son, but it was the sort of daze that makes you more aware of the world rather than less. I felt kinship with the big weeping willows and the Pond and the breeze itself. My consciousness was more than planetary—it seemed universal. Alia was as much a part of me as my ribcage.
We entered the Ad Building by the back entrance, stopped to listen to Dan O'Connor botch the morning news and weather, and were heading down a corridor toward the front exit when we heard voices raised in anger.
". . . can't you get that through your ugly head?" came Krishnamurti's voice from the Planning Office next to us. We stopped walking.
"Why you pigheaded Hindu!" Jordan's unmistakable baritone blazed. "Anybody but a shit-for-brains could see that gettin' our diet together is mo' important than some kinda sunpower jive. Or don't you . . ."
I knocked and entered, grinning broadly. The Mayor tours City Hall. "Good morning, gentlemen."
The two looked sheepish. "Morning, Isham."
"Mornin'."
"Isn't it a little early for you two to be at it?"
They both began speaking at once, and I waved them to silence. "What's up, Jordan?"
"This fathead wants t' put our juice into more power instead o' greenhouses, an' winter roun' the corner."
"But a solar power plant would make the methane converters obsolete, you imbecile," my father-in-law snapped. "Then you'd have unlimited fertilizer for your damned greenhouses."
"Human shit gotta be composted at leas' a year, meatbrain."
"Hold it," I cut in. "You're both right. Jordan, those methane converters have big slop-slopes. The stuff that comes out the bottom is a year old or better. Krish, we do need greenhouses, and soon—unless you want scurvy again this winter. Rose hips won't grow in snow."
"But we can't do both," Krishnamurti complained. "We can't spare more than twenty people, and either project would take that many."
"Seems like Technos'd be the last choice to build a greenhouse program. Jordan, why don't you recruit some of your Agros? The employment rate for guerrillas is terrible these days."
"Where they gon' live? Winter comin' on, dammit."
"I know where you could house twenty men right now, with a day's work or so."
"Where?"
"The hot-shot factory."
"Oh." Both men got thoughtful looks. After a minute they started, looked at each other and headed for the big map on the conference table. "How much prime shit can you deliver?" Jordan asked.
"Well . . ." Krishnamurti began, and I grinned. They wouldn't be at each other's throats for at least an hour now. I'm a good mayor. Far out.
"Father," Alia said, speaking for the first time.
"Yes, Alia?" He pulled his attention from the map.
"I've got a problem for you two Planners. You too, Isham."
"What's that?''
"Collaci.''
No one asked what problem she meant. Within a very few days of the Battle of Fresh Start, Teach' had begun to mope. I'd gotten drunk with him once and stoned with him twice without effect, and two days ago he'd gotten up from his desk, locked the empty and obsolete Security headquarters, and taken to the woods. His house still stood empty.
"I confess I have no solution," Krishnamurti said, his eyes pained. "What use is a general in peacetime?"
"That Collaci is a lot of man," Jordan declared. "Seem like they ought to be some kinda work for him. He need to be useful."
"I love Teach'," I said sadly, "but I'm goddamned if I can see how we can use him efficiently. I offered him a job teaching philosophy while Mike's away, but he said he'd probably find himself kicking the shit out of his students out of pure reflex. He's no good at chaperoning drunks and wife beaters either—what he is, he's the best killer in the world, and we just don't need one."
"He could boss the hunting crew," Jordan suggested, rubbing a hand across his mouth. "We be needin' lotsa meat when the cold come."
"Mmmm—close. But it feels like a Band-Aid on a slashed artery, like that teaching job. Teach' needs challenge, not makework."
"Isham," Alia said suddenly, "he's not what you said."
"Eh?"
"He's not the world's best killer. That's what the times required him to be. Collaci is the world's best survivor."
I blinked.
"By God, you're right," Krishnarnurti said.
"And where does Fresh Start need a survivor-type?" she went on.
"Where?" Jordan asked.
"Out there," said Krishnamurti, waving at the window, and his daughter smiled.
"Huh?"
"What do we know about the world?" Krish asked. "There's no one on the airwaves but us—all we know about anything more than a hundred miles in any direction is hearsay and rumor from occasional wandering travelers, and the stories they tell are wildly inconsistent. It appears that there may be a kingdom of some sort growing in the Deep South somewhere, and we know virtually nothing about it. We need another Balboa, another Lewis and Clark, another Livingston. We need a survivor."
"That's not all we need," Alia said. "We need a missionary. Someone has to spread the news that the War is over—that men can and must live with Muskies."
"She's right," I told Krish. "It's all very well to Save Lower New York State. But sooner or later we're just going to have to up and Save the World. And we can't do that if we don't know a damned thing about it. Old Buddhist notion, hiniyana and mahayana: small boat and big boat. You either become a hermit and try to get enlightened, or you go out and try to get everybody enlightened. We've spent the eighteen years since the world sank in perfecting and tightening up our lifeboat—now it's time to look around for other lifeboats, and for drowning men in need of one."
"Of course," Krishnamurti said wonderingly. "For eighteen years I've been certain that India survived, perhaps better than we, but there never seemed to be time to . . . but there is time, now." His eyes went far away.
"China survived," Jordan asserted. "Bet they could teach us plenty."
"We don't know if California survived," I said dryly. "But it's time we found out. Teach' ain't superfluous—he's our Most Valuable Player. Okay, as Acting Mayor of Fresh Start I order myself to take a couple days off and go offer Teach' an explorer's commission, give him a . . . uh . . . missionary position. I hate like hell to start my administration by cutting school, but I don't believe anyone else could track Teach' but me. Will you two cover for me?" I put just the least shade of emphasis on the "you two."
They glared at each other like rival tomcats, and Alia and I burst out laughing. They glared at us, and then at each other again, and then they broke up too. "We try to keep it together," Jordan said, laughing, and gathered the three of us in his great arms.
"Now design me a solar power plant and a couple greenhouses," I said awhile later. "We've got to go say goodbye to the road company." We left the two Planning Chiefs bent over the map, and got as far as the hallway. I paused then, sent Alia on ahead, and went back to the Planning Office, opening the door quietly. "Jordan?"
He looked up. "Yes, brother?"
I inclined my head. He left Krishnamurti and stepped out into the corridor. "Yeah?"
I tried to say it just right. "Been meaning to ask you. What made you decide to stop wearing that mask?"
He looked startled, ran a finger across his big smashed nose.
"None of my business, of course, but . . . well, I may be stupid, but I'm just beginning to put two and two together about my woman."
He did what I know he thought was smiling, and nodded. "You got it, man. After the Muskies took you from my cave, I got into it with yo' old lady a few times. Couldn't figure why she stop' you from killing me when you had the chance. We talked some. Whoo-ee, she said a lot of words I didn't wanna hear. Made me some mad. I got to thinkin', after High Mistral hit me thataway, thinkin' on things she said. I figured the thing she say that make me maddest mus' be the truest." His voice deepened. "Was she say, `You don't need to hide behind that handkerchief.' Was, `You should be as proud of that face as you always was of the black skin that was given you by the same Lord Pan.' She got a way of humblin' you an' makin' you proud all at the same time."
"I know what you mean."
"You know, all that time we was talkin' in that cave, I never thought I knew where she was at one time. But I believe it hadn't been for her, that High Mistral never coulda got to me. You know?"
I put my meat hand on his shoulder. "I know. The same goes for me. I'm just beginning to realize what I married."
"Man, you got lucky. Be worthy." He squeezed my arm.
"It's a challenge, all right. Later."
"Peace."
I hurried outside. A coffee urn squatted on a folding table beside the heavily loaded truck, and Mrs. Wilson was passing out steaming cups. I traded Alia a kiss for one and turned to face Dad, Helen, Wendell and Mike. As usual, Helen looked away. "So you mugs are our ambassadors, huh?"
"So you're our mayor, huh?" Mike asked.
"I stand foursquare for chickenshit in every pot patch. Seriously, Mike, how's your undermind? You sure you and Wendell can link up with Dad?"
"Yep. High Mistral introduced me to a colleague whose name doesn't translate, and we have excellent rapport. With the aid of the Infernal Gadget, it's a sure thing."
"What's the new Musky like?"
"Reminds me of music a lot. I call him `Gershwind.' "
I winced. "High-ra Gershwind, no doubt."
Wendell spoke up diffidently. "No, actually—`George.' The Rhapsody in Blew."
"Get thee behind me," I groaned. "Alia, have you told Helen yet?"
"No. I thought perhaps you should."
I studied her a moment in admiration. "Just can't help it, can you? Pure instinct."
"I don't know what you mean," she lied.
"Nor I," Helen said. "Tell me what?"
"Well," I said, turning to face her and Dad, "first I have to tell you what Alia and I did last night."
Mike cut in. "Three to one you haven't discovered anything I hadn't tried by your age." Helen blushed.
"You're on," I said, "for an ounce of hash. We spent the night in the undermind, linked with High Mistral, and by the end of the trip it was a five-way hookup."
"I don't follow," Dad said. "Who were the others?"
"Alia found us the first one. A little squirt named Wendell Jacob Stone." Gasps and other exclamations. "It wasn't exactly what you'd call a dialogue—he seems to be just now growing a central nervous system. But we felt him. Felt his struggle to live and grow."
"My God," Dad said. Wendell's jaw hung down.
"I'm impressed," Mike said soberly. "What was it like?"
"Like meeting High Mistral for the first time, cubed, and then cubed again. Like looking on the face of God."
"You said `five-way,' " Helen spoke up, meeting my eyes for the first time.
"It was Isham's idea," Alia said quietly. "Since I'd brought us into that plane, he suggested we step up our reception. So we did."
"And . . . ?"
"Helen," I told her, "I'm very glad you decided to leave the sunpower specs with George and go to New York. Dad'll be a lot of comfort to you when the morning sickness starts."
"No!" She started, and then her face went so utterly smooth that fifty years' worth of wrinkles disappeared. Dad dropped his coffee on his feet, looking like a man who'd been kicked in the head by an ox. Mike had a grin a half-meter wide, and Wendell had the other half.
"Yup. There's a little blastula in your belly."
Mike caught the feminine suffix. "A girl, eh?"
"I didn't grok any Y chromosomes. Always wanted a sister."
"Isham . . . oh, Isham! I . . ." Helen was saying. She seemed to have something else to say, but she couldn't get it out. Dad was speechless. "Oh, Isham!" Alia caught my eye, gestured with hers.
"Want to step inside a minute, Helen?" I nodded toward the door of the Ad building.
She thought about it. "No." She gulped her coffee as though it were raw whiskey, and placed the cup carefully on the urn-table. "No, I want to say this in front of Jacob. He's been asking me for two weeks now why I still seem to hold a grudge against you. He says it doesn't make sense to forgive him for what he did to the world if I can't forgive you for what you tried to do to him." She took a deep breath. "He's right, Isham. I've cordially despised you for over fifteen years, now—attempted murder had nothing to do with it."
"I don't understand."
"Your wife does—don't you, dear?" Alia said nothing. "It's your face, Isham. Your face." She got stuck then.
I must have looked stupid.
"You look like her," Helen cried, and Dad jumped again.
"Oh, holy shit," I breathed, and Alia smiled.
"You looked like Barbara," Helen repeated, "You reminded me of what she had had, what I thought I could never have. Even when the War ended I despised you, because I thought I could never have Jacob's child. I thought it was too late." She burst into noisy tears, and Dad snapped out of his trance and took her in his arms. His eyes met mine over her shoulder, and I ran to embrace them both. "It's all right, Mother," I said gently, "It's all right. It's over now."
She pulled away from Dad and threw her arms around me, and as I hugged her back I gave Alia a thumb-and-forefinger circle.
Finally all the hugs were over with and the congratulations had all been said and the sun was climbing high in the sky. It was time, as Lightin' Sam says, to bottle it up and go. Mrs. Wilson took her coffee-urn inside. Workers began passing by on their way to Southtown, singly and in groups. Most called out cheery farewells to Dad and Helen and Mike, and Dad thanked them all by name. One or two even said good-bye to Wendell, which pleased me. Won't be such an insuperable PR problem after all. History can be rewritten. Wendell acknowledged the few farewells with dignity, not in the least disturbed by their rarity.
I took him by the shoulder with my meat hand, Dad with the metal one. "Okay, you two. Off you go. Listen to your teacher Docta Mike, and do your homework. I don't want to have to boss this burg forever, you know."
"This is the first vacation I've had in eighteen years," Dad said placidly, "and my first honeymoon in twenty-five. I'll be back when I'm damned good and ready." Helen and Mike guffawed.
"That's telling him," Wendell agreed. "I haven't shared a laboratory with your father in a long time, Isham. I haven't shared a lab with anyone in a long time. I might get to like it."
"You'd better come back with this crew when they're done," Alia threatened, "or I'll come after you. I want you at my birthing, dammit."
"That I'll return for," Wendell promised. "Isham, you listen to your teacher too."
"I do," I said, grinning at Alia.
"Let's roll," Mike said, and got into the truck. The other three walked around the front and boarded too, and the big engine roared into life. "Mighty crowded cab," I observed, and Dad, Helen, and Wendell said "No it isn't" in chorus and then laughed together.
"Give my regards to Broadway," I said, and they were gone. The commuters walking along West Avenue cheered as the truck went by. Alia and I watched until it was out of sight, and then linked arms and headed for the Linkin' Tunnel and her smithy.
"You handled that business with Helen pretty smoothly," I told her as we entered the tunnel.
"I just like to see people be happy," she said, a bit defensively.
"I'm not mocking, Madonna, I'm applauding. You can't help being an empath, and you wouldn't if you could. Hell, right now I wouldn't be surprised if you're trying to figure out a way to fix Wendell up with a girlfriend."
"What do you think of Mrs. Wilson?" she asked seriously.