Zelazny, Roger - Novel 07 Read Online Free PDF Page A

             But he was not fond of the mountains, the
pinons, the rocks, the cacti, the cottonwoods. He was President of the
International Telepathic Operators Union, and despite the enormous efficiencies
of twenty-first-century communication, of which he was a significant part, he
would have felt far more comfortable in a large urban environment, preferably
Eastern. He maintained offices in such locations, true, but his was the same
problem which had caused all telepaths with young children to seek residence in
remote areas. Only, with Dennis, something had gone wrong....
                   He reached with his special sense, down into
the infra-awareness of a stinkbug picking its way among pebbles.
                   ... A world of coarse texture and massive
forms, of striking odors and peculiar kinesthetic sensations ...
                   He swung his stick and observed the sensations
dwindle to nothing, the kinesthetics fading last. It was not at all true that
empathy bred sympathy. Sometimes the best thing about a channel of experience
was the ability to cut it off.
                   These walks had become more frequent in recent
weeks, as it became increasingly apparent that something was still wrong with
their son. Beyond the fatigue factor and the possibility of broadcasting his
feelings near the child, he simply did not like shielding his thoughts around
Vicki. He had to get off somewhere to think them, though.
                   "Damn!"
                   He stirred the mashed beetle into the sand,
smoothed it over, glanced at his watch. Perhaps the doctor would have something
good to say this time.
                   Victoria Guise tended her plants. She watered,
misted, cultivated; she plucked off dead leaves, added nutriments, shifted pots
from courtyard to patio, win-dowsill to bench, sunlight to shade and vice
versa; she fondled them with her thoughts. Blue shorts, white halter, red
bandana, leather sandals, hung, clung, wrapped her thin, pepper-haired,
five-&nd-a-half-foot, randomly mole-flecked person. Whenever she was
particularly troubled the plants received more than usual attention. Green eyes
squinted, she sought and dealt with burn, droop, dryness, mold, wither and insect
depredation. She was aware that this was a piece of emotional misdirection.
Even so, it was generally effective.
                   For now, she did not have to shield her
thoughts and feelings. Except— It was taking much longer than she had
anticipated. The doctor was still in with Dennis, and Dick would probably be
returning before much longer. If only— She decided that the impatiens could use
a little more light, and the navy petunias still looked thirsty. She returned
to the tap.
                   As she was pinching back the asparagus fern, a
faint, inquiring thought reached her: Is it all right? She felt Dick's
presence, sensed the landscape through which he moved, dry, rocky, house up on
the hill ahead. He was passing along the small arroyo to the north.
                   I do not know, she replied. He is still in
there with him.
                   Oh.
                   She felt him slow his pace, caught a whisper
of his feelings.
                   It cannot be too much longer, she added.
                   I would not think so.
                   Several minutes later, she heard a door close
inside the house.
                   Hurry, she sent suddenly.
                   What is it?
                   I —I think he is finished.
                   All right. A sense of their house, nearer.
                   She passed through the gate, closing it behind
her, walked around to the south wall. Only marigolds here. They never seemed to
need anything special. She inspected them.
                   "Mrs. Guise?"—faintly,