"Henry Kuttner - Mutant" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kuttner Henry)

"Well, some mighty queer specimens came out of the radio-active-affected areas around the bomb-
targets. Funny things happened to the germ plasm. Most of 'em died out; they
couldn't reproduce; but you'll still find a few creatures in sanitariums-two heads, you know. And
so on."
Nevertheless they were always ill-at-ease. "You mean you can read my mind-now?"
"I could, but I'm not. It's hard work, except with another telepath. And we Baldies-well, we
don't, that's all." A man with abnormal muscle development wouldn't go around knocking people
down. Not unless he wanted to be mobbed. Baldies were always sneakingly conscious of a hidden
peril: lynch law. And wise Baldies didn't even imply that they had an... extra sense. They just
said they were different, and let it go at that.
But one question was always implied, though not always mentioned. "If I were a telepath, I'd...
how much do you make a year?"
They were surprised at the answer. A mindreader certainly could make a fortune, if he wanted. So
why did Ed Burkhalter stay a semantics expert in Modoc Publishing Town, when a trip to one of the
science towns would enable him to get hold of secrets that would get him a fortune?
There was a good reason. Self-preservation was part of it. For which reason Burkhalter, and many
like him, wore toupees. Though there were many Baldies who did not.
Modoc was a twin town with Pueblo, across the mountain barrier south of the waste that had been
Denver. Pueblo held the presses, photolinotypes, and the machines that turned scripts into books,
after Modoc had dealt with them. There was a helicopter distribution fleet at Pueblo, and for the
last week Oldfield, the manager, had been demanding the manuscript of "Psychohistory," turned out
by a New Yale man who had got tremendously involved in past emotional problems, to the detriment
of literary clarity. The truth was that he distrusted Burkhalter. And Burkhalter, neither a priest
nor a psychologist, had to become both without admitting it to the confused author of
"Psychohistory."
The sprawling buildings of the publishing house lay ahead and below, more like a resort than
anything more utilitarian. That had been necessary. Authors were peculiar people, and often it was
necessary to induce them to take hydrotherapic treatments before they were in shape to work out
their books with the semantic experts. Nobody was going to bite them, but they didn't realize
that, and either cowered in corners, terrified, or else blustered their way around, using
language few could understand. Jem Quayle, author of "Psy-chohistory," fitted into neither group;
he was simply baffled by the intensity of his own research. His personal history had qualified him
too well for emotional involvements with the past-and that was a serious matter when a thesis of
this particular type was in progress. *
Dr. Moon, who was on the Board, sat near the south entrance, eating an apple which he peeled
carefully with his silver-hilted dagger. Moon was fat, short, and shapeless; he didn't have much
hair, but he wasn't a telepath; Baldies were entirely hairless. He gulped and waved at Burkhalter.
"Ed ... urp... want to talk to you."
"Sure," Burkhalter said, agreeably coming to a standstill and rocking on his heels. Ingrained
habit made him sit down beside the Boardman; Baldies, for obvious reasons, never stood up when non-
telepaths were sitting. Their eyes met now on the same level. Burkhalter said, "What's up?"
"The store got some Shasta apples flown in yesterday. Better tell Ethel to get some before they're
sold out. Here." Moon watched his companion eat a chunk, and nod.
"Good. I'll have her get some. The copter's laid up for today, though; Ethel pulled the wrong
gadget."


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