LITMIR.BIZ

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of light against a sea of darkness.

      I’m cold, Houston thought. And I’m sick.

      He couldn’t tell whether his eyes were open or closed—and he didn’t much care.

      He tried to move his arms and legs, found he couldn’t, and gave it up.

      He blinked.

      My eyes must be open, he thought, if I can blink.

      Well, then, if his eyes were open, why couldn’t he see anything? All he could see were the little pinpoints of light against a background of utter blackness.

      Like stars, he thought.

      Stars? STARS!

      With a sudden rush, total awareness came back to him, and he realized with awful clarity where he was.

      He was chained, spread-eagled, on an asteroid in the Penal Cluster, nearly a hundred million miles from Earth.

      It was easy to piece together what had happened. He dimly remembered that he had started to wake up once before. It was a vague, confused recollection, but he knew what had taken place.

      The PD Police, coming in response to his call, had found all four men unconscious from the effects of the stun beam. Naturally, all of them had been taken into custody; the PD Police had to find out which one of the men was the Controller and which the controlled. That could easily be tested by waiting until they began to wake up; the resulting mental disturbances would easily identify the telepath.

      Houston could imagine the consternation that must have resulted when the PD men found that all three suspects—and their brother officer—were Controllers.

      And now here he was—tried, convicted, and sentenced while he was unconscious—doomed to spend the rest of his life chained to a rock floating in space.

      A sudden chill of terror came over him. Why wasn’t he asleep? Why wasn’t he under hibernene?

      It’s their way of being funny, came a bitter thought. We’re supposed to be under hibernene, but we’re left to die, instead.

      For a moment, Houston did not realize that the thought was not his own, so well did it reflect his own bitterness. It was bad enough to have to live out one’s life under the influence of the hibernation drug, but it was infinitely worse to be conscious. Under hibernene, he would have known nothing; his sleeping mind in his comatose body would never have realized what had happened to him. But this way, he would remain fully awake while his body used up the air too fast and his stomach became twisted with hunger pangs which no amount of intravenous feeding could quell. Oh, he’d live, all right—for a few months—but it would be absolute hell while he lasted. Insanity and catatonia would come long before death.

      That’s a nasty thought; I wish you hadn’t brought it up.

      That wasn’t his own thought! There was someone else out here!

      Hell, yes, my friend; we’re all out here.

      “Where are you?” Houston asked aloud, just to hear his own voice. He knew the other couldn’t hear the words which echoed so hollowly inside the bubble of the spacesuit helmet, but the thought behind them would carry.

      “You mean with relation to yourself?” came the answer. “I don’t know. I can see several rocks around me, but I can’t tell which one you’re on.”

      Houston could tell now that the other person was talking aloud, too. So great was the illusion carried to his own brain that it almost seemed as though he could hear the voice with his ears.

      “Then there are others around us?” Houston asked.

      “Sure. There were three of us: a Hawaiian named Jerry Matsukuo; a girl from Bombay, Sonali Siddhartha; and myself, Juan Pedro de Cadiz. Jerry and Sonali are taking a little nap. You’re the first of your group to wake up.”

      “My group?”

      “Certainly, my friend. There are five of you; the other four must still be unconscious.”

      Four? That would be Lasser, Sager, Pederson, and—and Dorrine!

      Juan Pedro de Cadiz picked up the whole thought-process easily.

      “The girl—I’m sorry,” he said. “But the other three—of us all, I think, they deserve this.”

      “Juan!” came another thought-voice. “Have our newcomers awakened?”

      “Just one of them, my sweet,” replied the Spaniard. “Sonali, may I present Mr. David Houston. Mr. Houston, the lovely Sonali Siddhartha.”

      “Juano has a habit of jumping to conclusions, David,” said the girl. “He’s never even seen me, and I’m sure that after three weeks of being locked in this prison whatever beauty I may have had has disappeared.”

      “Your thoughts are beautiful, Sonali,” said Juan Pedro, “and with us, that is all that counts.”

      “It is written,” said a third voice, “that he who disturbs the slumber of his betters will wake somebody up. You people are giving me dreams, with your ceaseless mental chatter.”

      “Ah!” the Spaniard said. “Mr. Matsukuo, may I—”

      “I heard, Romeo, I heard,” said the Hawaiian. “An ex-cop, eh? I wonder if I like you? I’ll take a few thousand years to think it over; in the meantime, you may treat me as a friend.”

      “I’ll try to live down my reputation,” said Houston.

      * * * *

      It was an odd feeling. Physically, he was alone. Around him, he could see nothing but the blackness of space and the glitter of the stars. He knew that the sun must be shining on the back of his own personal asteroid, but he couldn’t see it. As far as his body was concerned, there was nothing else in the universe but a chunk of pitted rock and a set of chains.

      But mentally, he felt snug and warm, safe in the security of good friends. He felt—

      “David! David! Help me! Oh, David, David, David!”

      It was Dorrine, coming up from her slumber. Like a crashing blare of static across the neural band, her wakening mind burst into sudden telepathic activity.

      Gently, Houston sent out his thoughts, soothing her mind as he had soothed Harris’s mind weeks before. And he noticed, as he did it, that the other three were with him, helping. By the time Dorrine was fully awake, she was no longer frightened or panicky.

      “You’re wonderful people,” she thought simply, after several minutes.

      “To one so beautiful, how else could we be?” asked Juan Pedro.

      “Ignore him, Dorrine,” said Sonali, “he tells me the same thing.”

      “But not in the same way, amiga!” the Spaniard protested. “Not in the same way. The beauty of your mind, Sonali, is like the beauty of a mountain lake, cool and serene; the beauty of Dorrine is like the beauty of the sun—warm, fiery, and brilliant.”

      “By my beard!” snorted Matsukuo. “Such blather!”

      “I’ll be willing to wager my beautiful hacienda in the lovely countryside of Aragon against your miserable palm-leaf nipi shack on Oahu that you have no beard,” said Juan Pedro.

      “Hah!” said Matsukuo; “that’s all I need now—Castles in Spain.”

      It was suddenly dizzying for Houston. Here were five people, doomed to slow, painful death, talking as though there were nothing to worry about. Within minutes, each had learned to know the others almost perfectly.

      It was more than just the words each used. Talking aloud helped focus the thoughts more, but at the same time, thousands of little, personal, fringe ideas were present with the main idea transmitted in words. Houston had talked telepathically to Dorrine hundreds of times, but never before had so much fine detail come through.

      Why?

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