INTERVENTION (69 page)

Sergei realized that he was next. A sudden spurt of adrenalin energized him, weakening Finster's coercive hold. Clumsily, Sergei fell against the killer and knocked the needle-gun to the floor. Finster's arm scythed out and he broke Sergei's neck with a single karate chop. Then a swift-moving foot crushed Sergei's larynx.

Paralyzed and silenced, but with his mind free, Sergei watched Finster take up a huge bouquet of red roses from a folding table near the proscenium arch. Out on the stage, the General Secretary was bowing and smiling. He waved to the continuing thunder of applause. Finster approached, his mind radiating homage and loyalty, and the leader of the Soviet Union held out his hands to accept the flowers.

Sergei's lips moved. He managed a small, useless sound. His eyes caught sight of Academician Sakhvadze in the opposite wings and he
thought
at her. She started as though electrically shocked and hesitated. Fool! Sergei raged. He thought at the American—but, ah! Holy Mother! A mind-numbing surge of sensation smote him, obliterating pain and darkening his vision. Was he dead? No, not yet! He saw a flash of brilliant orange and felt an unspoken shriek of disbelief. His nervous system—that fragment of it still precariously connected to his brain—shrank from another mental assault emanating not from one mind but from thousands.

Sergei seemed to hear two titanic voices shouting.
NO! NO! NO!
The formally dressed American and Tamara Petrovna had paid for their indecision and together they were trying to support a terrible headless figure. Cowards, Sergei told them. Cowards.

NO! NO! NO!
the man and Tamara begged the raging audience. The anger and sorrow swelled into a vital thing; the minds of the delegation meshed spontaneously into metaconcert and focused on the hated target.

Something was running toward Sergei.

NO! NO! NO!

It was a man, brighter than the sun. A flaming angel come for him and his sins.

NO...

Not an angel. Only a small man enveloped in seething energy, and then tumbling bones glowing red-hot on the boards of the stage.

From each, Sergei thought, according to his abilities. To each according to his needs.

He closed his eyes for the last time, smiling.

LACONIA, NEW HAMPSHIRE, EARTH

7
FEBRUARY
1998

A
S THE CRITICAL
years of coadunating consciousness dawned for the indigenes of planet Earth, the Milieu stepped up its psychosocial surveillance. Ever larger numbers of field-workers went planetside to track firsthand the irruptions of operancy among different population groups, gathering data on the numbers of metapsychically talented children being born, the spectrum of the various functions, and their potential strength—given optimum nurture and education.

The results of these late studies were a source of both enthusiasm and anxiety among the exotic observers. It had been known even in Earthly prehistoric times that the race had an exceptional creative component to its Mind¡ but the most recent samplings had begun to show just how awesome human psychocreativity might eventually prove to be. Analysts among the Krondaku were finally able to verify what the Lylmik had cavalierly stated at the inception of the Intervention scheme: humanity's mental potential undoubtedly exceeded that of any other race in the galaxy—coadúnate or noncoadunate. Whether the puerile Earthlings would survive to manifest the potential was as questionable a point as ever.

Exotic field-workers on Earth were usually Simbiari or Poltroyans, since they had the most humanoid form and so required the least expenditure of psychic effort in projecting illusory bodies. Often the Poltroyans did not even bother with mental disguise. They were a trifle short in stature compared to average humans, but with wigs, a dab of Pancake make-up to lighten their purplish-gray skin, and contact lenses over their ruby irises they could pass as natives among many Earth populations.

Fritiso-Prontinalin, who called himself Fred during his sojourn on Earth, and his colleague Vilianin-Tinamikadin, who was known as Willy, were young Poltroyan psychogeomorphologists on their first assignment as xenosurveyors. Their project, a rather tedious one that had them tending automated data accumulators in widely separated parts of the world, attempted to correlate operancy in the farsensory spectrum with long-term population residence in the proximity of granitic lithoforms. The hypothesis wasn't working out too well in any sampling area except New Hampshire—and here the correlates were so high that the two researchers suspected a fudging factor. Discouraged and very much in need of a break, they decided to drive down to Laconia from their secret base camp in Waterville Valley and take a holiday. Primed for a weekend of alien thrills, they joined the crowd that had packed Laconia for the annual World Championship Sled-Dog Derby.

The sky was heavily overcast and the temperature hovered around the freezing point of a saline solution—glorious weather for Poltroyans, who generally hail from wintry planets—and Fred and Willy mingled happily with the mob. In recent weeks they had done extensive fieldwork in Norway, and they had brought souvenirs with them to New Hampshire—distinctive Samish "caps of the four winds"—which they wore to cover their bald mauve skulls. Otherwise their garb was ordinary American winter gear, comfortable enough but skimpy and drab when compared to the gem-studded fish-fur parkas and mukluks of their home world. They told curious natives that they were Lapps. This helped to explain away their shortness and also made them some quick friends, since many of the mushers and fans were of Scandinavian descent.

On Saturday morning Fred and Willy caught the first round of Husky-drawn sled races in the hard-charging sprint classification. When their favorite dog-team did poorly, they went around afterward to offer condolences to the driver, a petite lavender-eyed blonde named Marcie Nyberg who reminded them very much of certain girls they had left behind them.

She was quite ready to commiserate. "Just my luck! I didn't bring the right kind of wax for the runners, and none of the places in Laconia stock it. It's called Totally Mean Extra Green. I don't suppose you guys ever heard of it."

"Well, no," Fred admitted. "In Norway we use another kind."

But Willy was rummaging in the kangaroo pouch of his anorak and murmuring, "Wait a minute! Wait a minute!" And then, triumphantly, he pulled out a flat container of pinkish metal with a soft pad at one end. "Marcie, you're not going to believe this, but I remembered that I had this defrictionizer stowed away in here from the last time I was on—from
Norway.
I think it would be just the thing for snow conditions today. Please try it."

Marcie examined the container dubiously. "Gee, I never saw this kind of wax before. Is this writing on the side? I thought Norwegians used the same alphabet as we do—"

Hastily, Willy said, "That's Samish. You know, the Lapp language. The stuff is simple to use. You just stroke it on, using the pad end. It's not like crayon wax. It's—it's new."

Marcie grinned. "Okay, Willy. I'll give it a try this afternoon. Thanks a whole bunch."

She had to tend to her dogs' feet then, so the Poltroyans said goodbye and went to watch a weight-pulling event. Malamute dogs, much more massive than the rangy Huskies, strained eagerly to move sledges loaded with weights up to a ton per animal. Fred and Willy were overwhelmed at the strength of the furry quadrupeds—and especially interested to note that the handler of the heavyweight Grand Prize winner had unconsciously exercised a telepathic rapport with his dog, aiding its performance.

When the contest was over, Fred went to the man and offered hearty congratulations. But when he offhandedly added a remark about telepathic encouragement, the musher let loose a blast of profanity that nearly took off the Poltroyan's quaint four-comered cap.

"Use telepathy? Me? You accusing me of being one of them goddam cheating
heads
? Well, lemme tell you, pipsqueak, I run my dogs honest, and any guy that says different can taste a knuckle sandwich!"

He was a black-browed bruiser with a stubbly jaw and the number 22 pinned to his down jacket. Several other dog-handlers crowded around, looking none too friendly, and the prize-winning Malamute took a lunge at Willy with its lips curled back from enormous teeth. Fortunately, its owner had a good grip on its chain.

Fred quickly apologized. "I'm sorry! I didn't understand! We're visitors from Norway, you see. We didn't know that—er—that kind of thing was considered improper here."

The animosity of the bystanders dwindled and Number 22 seemed slightly mollified. "Well... so long as you're foreigners and don't know better, I won't take offense. But you better watch it, fella. Calling somebody a head won't make you any friends in this part of the U.S. and A."

"No, sirree," the others chimed in. "Damn tootin'!"

Number 22 squinted at the Poltroyans in suspicion. "You two wouldn't be heads yourself, would you?"

"Oh, my, no," Willy said. "We're Samish. You know—Laplanders. The people who used to herd reindeer."

"Reindeer!" humphed Number 22. "Mighta known."

"Oh, we're very interested in dogs, too," Fred said. "Ours are called spitz. They're something like small Huskies."

The Malamute handler was patently unenthusiastic and his dog, a huge gray and white creature with black eyes, continued to growl. "You see this?" The musher indicated a big round button pinned beside the cloth square with the numerals 22. "You wanta stay outa trouble, you better know what it means."

Fred and Willy took a closer look. The button was a depiction of Earth as seen from space, a blue disk splashed with white. "It's very attractive," Fred said.

The man gave an unpleasant laugh. "It means I'm one of the Sons of Earth, shorty. A normal human being, and proud of it! You ever heard of us?"

"Yes," said Willy, keeping a neutral expression.

"Well, then you know where I'm comin' from. As far's I'm concerned, God made this Earth for normal human folks—not for freako heads who break the laws of nature and try to lord it over the rest of us like they're some kind of fuckin' master race."

"Yeah!" members of the crowd affirmed. "You said it, Jer! Damn right on!"

Number 22 slackened the dog chain a fraction and the Malamute reared. "I don't know what goes on in Norway, but in
this
country we're gonna make sure that real people stay in charge of things—not freaks. You get what I'm saying?"

"Oh, yes," said Fred, backing away. There were quite a few of the big blue buttons being worn by the crowd. Neither Poltroyan had taken any note of them before.

"Well, thanks for explaining," Willy said. "And congratulations again on winning the Golden Bone. You've got a really fine dog there." And with that, Fred and Willy fled, hurried along by hostile and contemptuous aetheric vibrations. They stopped near a refreshment stand to catch their breaths.

"Half-masticated lumpukit!" Fred swore. "That was a nasty one."

"The buttons must be a new fad here in America. I certainly don't recall seeing them in New Hampshire last year at the ski jumps. It seems to me that the Sons of Earth were still a disreputable fringe movement then. Membership was quite furtive."

"Not anymore." Fred was looking about. "Love's Oath—every third or fourth person seems to be wearing one of those buttons. We'll have to send notification to the Oversight Authority."

"They're probably aware of the situation. But we'll do it."

It was almost time for the next heat of sprints that Marcie was scheduled to participate in, so the Poltroyans decided to get something to eat and go cheer on their new friend. Willy dug in his pocket for a credit card and ordered two hot dogs with sauerkraut and mustard and two Classic Cokes. Then the exotics wandered over to the racecourse, sipping and munching. The beverage's alkaloid was invigorating even if it wasn't quite sweet enough, so they tossed in three or four maple-sugar candies to saccharify it. The delicious sulfur taste of the shredded hot vegetable mingled nicely with the speckled buff condiment's bite. Too bad that the proteinoid was too highly nitrified for really safe metabolization—but an occasional treat wouldn't kill them.

When the heats began they forgot the unpleasant incident with the Sons of Earth and reveled in the excitement of the racing. Dogs howled, mushers yelled, the spectators cheered on their favorites, and a diamond-dust snow sifted down on everything. It was glorious! And when the final times were posted, Marcie and her team had won.

Fred and Willy ran to her, shouting their congratulations.

"Your wax! Your wax!" She swept the pair of them into her arms like a mother embracing her children. "The wax made all the difference! I love you guys, do you know that?"

She was covered with crusted rime thrown up by the galloping dogs, and one could almost forget she was the wrong color and chromosomally incompatible. Fred and Willy pressed lips with her because that was what her mind told them she wanted. Then she brushed herself off and untied the vivid Day-Glo racing vest with her number, 16, and pulled it over her head.

On the jacket underneath was a big blue button.

Marcie was bubbling over as she began to load her dogs into her truck. "Listen, you guys. Tonight there's a Musher's Ball with beer and chili and a live band. I want you to come. My treat! You can meet the whole gang and tell them about the crazy wax and the whole Laplander thingypop!"

"We'd love to," Fred said sadly.

"But we really have to go now," Willy concluded. "Please keep the wax. I wish I had more, but—it's in short supply."

Marcie's face fell. "Oh, guys. What a shame you can't come. Maybe you could catch me later? The Adirondack's two weeks off—"

"We're finishing our work in the States very soon," Fred said.

"We're really sorry," Willy added.

"Well," Marcie said, "it was awfully nice knowing you. I'll always remember you two."

The Poltroyans turned and walked away. All around were mushers tinkering with sleds or adjusting harnesses and traces. The loudspeakers announced the start of another event and the dogs began to yelp, eager to be off and away.