Psion by Joan D. Vinge Read Free Book Online Page A

close to his mind, or any of them, I can smell it.” My hands tightened into fists on my knees.
    Cortelyou grimaced. “Damn them, why can’t they-“
    “Why shouldn’t they hate me? Who wants to have somebody else know everything you’re thinking? I seen people get killed for less than that!”
    “And that’s why you’re fighting this every step of the way.” Half question, half answer.
    I shrugged, letting him think he understood everything, when he only understood half of it.
    “I’m sorry I was so hard on you.” He bent his head. “I should have known . . .”
    “Why should you be any different?” I wished he didn’t apologize so much; it got on my nerves.
    “Because we are different. We have to be-not just because of what we can do, but because of the responsibility it puts on us. We do things with our minds that most humans could never do, and that makes them afraid of us. ‘In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is stoned to death.’ We have to live by a stricter code than the rest of humanity, to prove to them that they have nothing to fear from us. . . .” He leaned forward. “Do you want to know how I feel about my telepathy?”
    No. But I didn’t say it. I shifted in my seat, hung onto its hard, curving edges to keep from bolting as I felt him reach into my thoughts again. I held my mind loose, let the sparking strands link with his in the invisible space where our senses met. I was shaking with the effort, and I felt his mind cringe with the fear I couldn’t damp out.
    But he didn’t push me away. Instead the weave of his thoughts only loosened, like the first time, as he dropped all his defenses and drew me in. The impressions he wanted me to find shimmered on the surface of his awareness where I couldn’t help seeing them: he was proud, glad, grateful for the Gift that he’d been born with. . . . Psionics could lead to a new future for humanity, filled with understanding and free of the fear that fed blind hatred. . . . He would never abuse his Gift, never do anything to make the blind ones think of his talent as a threat. . . . He would do anything to gain their trust, to make them understand.
    But behind the images he held like banners for me to see, I felt the brand of a fresh wound laid on him by some psi-hating corporate lackey-heard the murmur of a thousand other ghosts and shadows. Fury raged in some deep part of his mind, held prisoner by his will. And I realized what it cost him to be a corporate telepath, a missionary in a world of hate-filled deadheads who didn’t want to be saved. . . .
    I broke contact. “How can you live with that?”
    “What?” He looked totally confused.
    “They spit on you, they don’t give a damn about what you’re trying to prove. It’s eating your guts out; why don’t you quit whoring for those bastards?”
    His mouth fell open. “Where did you . . . ?” His face straightened out again. “I’ve lived with it for years. I’m barely aware of it anymore.” It sounded like something he used to put himself to sleep at night. “I believe in what I’m trying to do. It isn’t an easy thing, but it isn’t impossible.” One hand clung to the other. “Haven’t you ever endured something unpleasant for something you believed in?” It was almost a challenge.
    “Yeah. Staying alive-so I could stay alive.” The words slid out, just another smart remark. But then my own mind showed me things I’d done, and let be done to me, that would probably make him say everything I’d just said to him. “I guess you get used to anything, if you have to.” I looked down. “So long as you don’t think about it too much.” I thought about all his facts and figures, filling up his mind until there was no room for anything else to get in the way of his belief. And I understood suddenly why this research was important to him, why I was too, why he’d had to make that breakthrough today and force me to prove he was right. I thought about my being