For Love of Mother-Not by Alan Dean Foster Read Free Book Online Page A

There was no feeling of triumph in what she had just done; they had progressed beyond such trivialities. “I’ve been feeding and cross-correlating records on dispersal and individual subject characteristics for months now. It’s finally paid off. I’ve located Number Twelve.”
    The tall black woman leaned closer to the screen. “Number Twelve—that sticks in the mind. Male, wasn’t it?”
    Nyassa-lee nodded and indicated the screen. “Here, I’ll run the relevants back for you.”
    They refamiliarized themselves with the details of the case in question. It had been eight years since case interdiction. In the eight years since, they had encountered a number of other subjects. Most of them had grown into normal childhood. A few had even displayed tiny flashes of promise, but nothing worth a full-scale follow-up.
    Then there had been those whose minds and bodies had been horribly distorted and twisted by the original surgical manipulations, for which they each shared the blame. Unfortunate failures such as those had been made public by the government and had raised such an emotional outcry among the scientifically unsophisticated public that the government had been able to legalize its witch hunt against the Society.
    Most of the subject children had been recovered by the government, raised in special homes, and restored to normality. Where possible, the genetic alterations performed by the Society’s surgeons had been corrected to enable all the children to live a normal life.
    If we cannot improve upon the normal, thought Haithness, then we do not deserve to explore and master the universe. Nature helps those who help themselves. Why should we not employ our learning and knowledge to give evolution a boost?
    From the far corner of the darkened room, a man called out. “Brora reports that a government shuttle has landed at Calaroom shuttleport.”
    “Could be the usual load of agricultural specialists,” Cruachan said thoughtfully.
    “Possible,” agreed the individual manning the communications console, “but can we afford that risk?”
    “I hate to order evacuation on such slim evidence. Any word on how many passengers?”
    “Hard to say,” the man ventured, listening intently to his receiver. “Brora says at least a dozen he doesn’t recognize.”
    “That’s a lot of agricultural specialists, Cruachan,” Haithness pointed out.
    “It is.” He called across to the communications specialist. “Tell Brora to pull back and prepare for departure. We can’t take chances. Push evac time from a month to tonight.”
    “Tonight?” The voice of the communicator had a dubious ring. “I won’t have half the equipment broken down by then.”
    “New communications equipment we can buy,” Cruachan reminded him. “Replacements for ourselves are not available.”
    The man at the com console nodded and turned back to his station, speaking softly and hurriedly into the pickup. Cruachan returned his attention to the computer screen.
    Information emerged. NUMBER TWELVE. MALE. PHYSICALLY UNDISTINGUISHED AS A CHILD . Next were descriptions of cerebral index and figures for cortical energy displacement.
    Oh, yes; Cruachan remembered now. Unpredictable, that Number Twelve. Patterns in brain activity suggesting paranormal activity but nothing concrete. Particularly fascinatinghad been the amount of activity emerging from the left side of the cerebrum, usually detected only in females. That by itself was not reason enough for excitement, but there were also continuous signs of functioning in at least two sections of brain that were not normally active, the “dead” areas of the mind. That activity, like the child himself, had also been unpredictable.
    And yet, despite such encouraging evidence, the case history of Number Twelve was devoid of the usual promising developments. No hint of telepathy, psychokinesis, pyrokinesis, dual displacement, or any of the other multitude of abilities the Society had hoped to bring