Distant Friends and Other Stories Read online

  Distant Friends and Other Stories

  Timothy Zahn

  Timothy Zahn

  Distant Friends and Other Stories

  DISTANT FRIENDS

  RED THOUGHTS AT MORNING

  It had been one of those long, frustrating days, the kind that makes you feel like the dish rag at a greasy spoon, and I wasn't in any shape for the Headline that jumped out at me as I opened my Des Moines Register that evening: TELEPATH KILLED IN HIJACKING.

  I stood there, just inside my apartment door, rainwater running off my coat onto the rug, and read the first few paragraphs. Amos Potter, of Eureka, California, had been on a commuter flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles when three men at the other end of the plane produced guns and a bomb and demanded to go to Cuba. The pilot had obediently changed course, but had had to set down in Las Vegas for fuel.

  Police and FBI men had stormed the plane, killing all three hijackers and wounding four passengers.

  Amos hadn't been found until it was all over: he'd been stabbed in the heart with one of the galley's steak knives and left in one of the lavatories.

  Tears welled up in my eyes and I tossed the paper aside. I'd never met Amos, of course; never even been within two hundred miles of him. But he'd been a sort of elder statesman to the rest of us, the embodiment of easy dignity and high moral character, and it was largely because of him that we had won any tolerance at all from the world.

  I made my way to my couch and collapsed onto it. Colleen, I called.

  Yes, Dale. She must have been expecting my call. I've seen the news, darling.

  Why didn't you call and tell me? The news at noon mentioned the hijacking, but I didn't know Amos was aboard. Or... any of the rest of it.

  Maybe I should have called you. Her thoughts wrapped soothingly around my pain, the telepathic equivalent of taking me in her arms. But I knew you were going to have a rough day, and I didn't want to dump this on top of you at the same time. Did that go all right?

  More or less, I told her. Both sides spent the whole day arguing legal details before the judge. I got to sit there and listen to them discuss my abilities and ethics as if I wasn't there. When I wasn't being insulted I was being bored. Hardly seems important now, though, does it?

  I know, she agreed soberly. Did you know Amos well?

  Not really. I Felt her smile, and couldn't help smiling myself. It was truly the sort of answer a telepath would give: only when you don't know how complex human beings really are do you lightly state that you I know, she agreed soberly. Did you know Amos well?

  Not really. I Felt her smile, and couldn't help smiling myself. It was truly the sort of answer a telepath would give: only when you don't know how complex human beings really are do you lightly state that you a couple of times a year just to talk with him. I'm going to miss him.

  Yeah. We all are.

  For a few minutes we sat silently, maintaining contact without words, Colleen's presence had a warm, comforting texture to it, and slowly the tensions of the day began to fade. Finally, I stirred. Have you discussed arrangements with any of the others yet?

  A little. I talked to Gordon in Spokane, and he thought the only fair way was to let all of us draw straws to see who'd get to go to Eureka and attend the funeral.

  No, I shook my head, it should be between those who knew Amos best. That would be Gordy and Nelson, I guess.

  Colleen shifted uncomfortably. Do you think it would be wise to let Nelson go? I mean... you know how he gets sometimes.

  Oh, he'd be all right, I assured her. He was only mildly paranoid to begin with, and living in San Diego's been good for him. Every time Amos went down to Los Angeles he improved a little; some of Amos's calmness had to rub off at that distance.

  All right. She was willing to concede the point. Do you want me to suggest that to Gordon?

  If you would. I thought for a second. With Amos gone, Gordy was out of touch with everyone except Colleen. I'll call Calvin in Pueblo and have him relay the message to Nelson.

  You feel up to that?

  I smiled. Yes. Thanks for always being there when I need you, Colleen.

  Thank you, she said quietly, and I knew then that she'd received as much comfort from me as she'd given.

  I love you, Colleen.

  I love you, Dale. Good-bye.

  We broke contact. I'd loved Colleen for nearly three years now, and she'd loved me even longer. And the knowledge that we would never meet each other was a dull ache permanently lodged in my throat.

  What a stinking world.

  Sighing, I got to my feet and headed for the kitchen to see about some supper.

  Today, for the umpteenth time, Urban, the public defender, wanted to hear about my range. "Think of it as listening to someone whispering," I told him once more. "Within two or three feet I can't help but hear someone's thoughts. Farther away, up to about twenty or twenty-five feet, I can choose whether or not to listen; beyond that, I can't hear at all."

  "Except with your fellow telepaths, of course," Urban said briskly, as if I needed reminding.

  "The defendant isn't a telepath," I pointed out as patiently as possible.

  "Of course not. Now, you referred to this as akin to hearing whispers. We all know how easy it is to misunderstand whispers sometimes-"

  "The analogy referred to range, not accuracy," I interrupted. "If I can hear the thoughts at all I hear them clearly. Always."

  He started to ask something else-and right then, for no particular reason, the crucial question hit me like a Trident missile.

  How the hell do you unexpectedly stab a telepath?

  It had to have been unexpected; the lavatory door had been unlocked and the paper hadn't mentioned any signs of a struggle. But that was impossible; given the circumstances. Amos was most certainly reading out to his full range. So why hadn't he seen the killer coming?

  Urban had finished his question by the time I made up my mind. "Excuse me," I said, pulling out my handkerchief and pretending to clear my sinuses. I didn't want to just go glassy-eyed on them, after all; I've learned that sort of thing can be disconcerting to people. But safely hidden behind the handkerchief, I could make my contact. Calvin? Calvin, are you there? Calvin?

  Right here, Dale, came the calm thought. You sound agitated.

  I'm getting there, I agreed. Listen, you've got the location log this quarter, right? Can you clear me to Las Vegas tonight? It's important.

  From Des Moines? That was Calvin-no unnecessary questions asked. Any direct flight would bring you too close to Pueblo, but I could move out of town for a few hours if necessary.

  No, it's not worth that. Besides, I doubt there's a direct flight, anyway.

  Then if you go via Denver or Salt Lake we should be all right.

  Great. I'll make some reservations and get back to you as soon as I know my schedule.

  Yeah, okay.

  Calvin was getting curious. I trust you'll tell me what all this is about sometime.

  Sure, but later. I've got to go now.

  Talk to you later.

  I slid my handkerchief back in my pocket. Already I felt better. "Now, what was that question again, Mr.

  Urban?"

  I got through the rest of the morning without any real trouble. During lunch break I called a travel agent and he worked out a pair of connecting flights that would get me into Las Vegas by ten. That was later than I'd wanted, but my option was to wait until after Gordy had come and gone. This way I'd have at least most of tomorrow before I had to leave town.

  The judge and lawyers weren't happy about my announcement that I was taking a few days off, but they accepted it with the grace of reasonable men who have no real choice
in the matter. By seven-thirty that evening I was on the first leg of my flight... and by eight we were circling Denver, just a hundred miles from Calvin's home in Pueblo.

  It's a strange sort of sensation, and more than a little scary the first time you experience it. Even a hundred miles apart. Calvin and I were now close enough that it was no longer possible to block our surface thoughts from each other: to tune each other out, so to speak. It's the same thing that happens when a telepath and human are only two or three feet apart, but with the extra complication that it's a true two-way communication. If the plane now suddenly turned due south and Calvin and I got even closer...

  but that wasn't something I wanted to think about.

  Of course, as long as you didn't panic, the effortless communication provided by a close approach was a good opportunity to talk. Calvin and I spent quite some time doing just that, discussing life in general and ourselves and our fellow telepaths in particular. But he couldn't hide his curiosity about my sudden trip, just as I couldn't hide my somewhat perverse decision to make him bring up the subject first.

  Calvin cracked first. All right, you win, he said at last. You're not going to Vegas just to say good-bye to Amos-I can tell that much. So?

  You're right. I explained as best I could the questions I had about Amos's death-not an easy task, since a lot of my feelings hadn't really made it to verbal level yet.

  He mulled at the problem for a bit after I finished, his thoughts an orderly flow of questions, possibility, and logic. Interesting, he said. I agree; something here doesn't ring quite true. I don't know, though.

  Suppose one of the hijackers recognized Amos, decided to kill him to cover their trail, and threatened to kill some of the other passengers too unless Amos went quietly? He was nobler than the rest of us put together, and I could see him giving in under those circumstances.

  Maybe, I said slowly. But I still don't like it.

  You'll be the first I call, I assured him.

  Good. Oh, one other thing you may not have heard about yet: the questions been making the rounds today as to whether or not we should ban commercial air travel by our members.

  I thought we settled that issue years ago.

  We did, but it's getting another look. If there's going to be a resurgence of hijackings, the margin of safety's going to be all fouled up, and it may be smart to stick with trains or private planes for a while.

  Suppose, for instance, Amos's plane had been diverted to Pueblo or Des Moines instead of Vegas.

  We both shuddered. Yeah, I agreed soberly. But I think the risks can be minimized.

  Yeah, well, I'm not going to debate it with you now. Just think about it, and we'll all discuss it together in a week or so.

  Okay. I'd better enjoy this trip, I thought glumly-it might be the last I could take for a while.

  Fine. Well, you seem pretty tired, so I think we should break now. I'll talk to you later, Dale.

  I glanced out the window in mild surprise. Our layover was over, and we were once again airborne.

  Beneath the plane the ground was dark; Denver was far behind us. The close approach was over. Good night, Calvin, I said, and broke contact.

  I dozed the rest of the trip, trying to ignore the peculiar looks and even more peculiar thoughts the stewardess kept sending my way.

  Sometime during the middle of the night I decided I hated Las Vegas, and that first impression was solidified the next morning during my taxi ride to police headquarters. It wasn't just the high proportion of the criminal element roaming the streets: every city has some of that. Rather, it was the greed, goldlust, and despair I could sense all around me. This was a frantic town, a city founded on hedonism and life's more transient gains, and it simultaneously angered and depressed me. It seemed grossly unfair that Amos Potter, a man who had loved the quiet outdoors and had spent his life helping others, should have had to die here.

  But the police, at least, were courteous and helpful, and I was routed to the proper officer with a minimum of delay. He was a squat, muscular man with a swarthy complexion and the unlikely but circumstantially appropriate name of Lieutenant James Bond.

  "Honest," he insisted as he gave me a quick handshake. "What can I do for you?"

  "My name's Dale Ravenhall," I told him. "I wanted to ask a few questions about the recent death of Amos Potter."

  He recognized my name and drew back almost imperceptibly. "I see. I'm sorry about Mr. Potter. Was he a good friend of yours?" name-Sergeant Tom Avery-which I filed away for future reference. "I was called in right away to head that part of the investigation."

  "Were there any signs of a struggle? The newspapers didn't mention any."

  "No, there weren't, and that's something I don't understand. You people are supposed to read minds at a pretty good distance, right? So why didn't Mr. Potter lock the door?"

  I scowled. "I don't know. That's one of the things that bothers me about this."

  "What are the others?"

  "The lack of struggle, for one," I said, sensing even as I ticked off my list that he had many of the same questions. "The use of one of the galley knives for the murder when they had guns. How come they were clever enough to smuggle those guns aboard in the first place, and yet got themselves killed on their first stop."

  "You missed two important ones," Bond said. "Why did they pick a puddle-jumping commuter plane from San Francisco, of all places, to hijack to Cuba? And why didn't Mr. Potter contact one of you people before he died?"

  I frowned. That last hadn't occurred to me. "I don't know. I was too far away myself at that time, but maybe he did talk to one of the others. I can check on that right now, if you'd like."

  Bond had never watched a telepath in action and wasn't sure he wanted to start now. But professional considerations outweighed any squeamishness. "Go ahead; I'd like to know."

  From my close-approach contact with Calvin last night I already knew Amos hadn't contacted him before his death. Gordy was a long shot; I tried briefly to get him, but the distance was a shade too great.

  That left only one possibility. Nelson? Are you there, Nelson?

  Yes, of course, Dale. What is it?

  If Colleen's mental texture was one of warmth and love, and Calvin's one of calmness, Nelson's always struck me as predominantly nervous. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd say hi.

  In the neighborhood?

  Las Vegas. Light conversation was often lost on Nelson. Listen, Nelson, I've been trying to track down some questions about Amos's death.

  What sort of questions?

  Oh, just some loose ends. Nelson's nervousness was contagious, and I didn't want to prolong the contact. Besides, Lieutenant Bond was waiting. I wondered if Amos had had a chance to contact you before the end.

  No, he said, almost too quickly. But I might have been out of range.

  Where were you?

  I flew down to Baja for a couple of days. His tone said it was none of my business where he and his Piper Comanche had gone. I was flying back when the news came.

  Okay, just wanted to check. You doing okay?

  Save your sympathy, Dale. I'm fine.

  Right. I'll be talking to you later.

  Bond nodded when I relayed the conversation. "That was Nelson Follstadt, right? Do you think you can believe him?"

  I bristled. "Of course. Why would he lie?"

  He shrugged. "I hear he has some psychological problems."

  "Well... yes, he does, but he's improved a lot lately. And he's been away from the other telepath for nearly ten years, so there's no place to go but up."

  "Come again? What other telepath?"

  This wasn't really the time for a lecture, but Bond truly didn't understand. And I've always tried to avoid littering my path with mysterious statements and obscure hints. Oh, well, you've probably heard that telepaths can't get too close to each other. That's because the contact gets stronger with decreasing distance, and the two personalities begin to meld into one. At about t
wenty miles apart-theoretically-the strain becomes too great and both telepaths go permanently insane."

  Neither Bond's face nor his thoughts were very pleasant. "Is that what happened to Nelson Follstadt?"

  "Fortunately, no. The telepathic ability grows with age, and it's only as you get into the teens that it becomes strong enough for any risk of insanity to show up. Nelson just happened to grow up in the same city with another fledgling telepath, and before they were identified and split up the small effects had gradually built up into a mild paranoia. But, as I said, Nelson's improving."

  "What about the other telepath?"

  "He committed suicide six years ago." One of our group's worst failures, I reminded myself bitterly.

  "Oh." Bond was silent for a moment, wondering if he should ask his next question. I let him take his time.

  "There's one other thing I've been wondering about," he finally said. "I've heard rumors that you people can... well, force normal humans to do what you want. Is that true? And if so, why didn't Mr. Potter stop the hijacking?"

  "It's true, in about the same way the CIA and certain religious cults can impose their will on people. It would take almost continuous contact between telepath and subject for several days straight to accomplish it, though. Amos couldn't possibly have done anything in the time he had."

  "Hmm. Okay, I'm surprised the CIA hasn't shanghaied you, though. You sound like you'd be handy to have around."

  "Some of us have been tested by various agencies. There are drugs that are faster and easier to use.

  Look, we're getting off the subject. Is there anything else you can tell me about Amos's death or about the hijacking in general?"

  "Sorry." He shook his head. "You've got all the obvious facts; the others will have to wait for the lab work. If you'll give me your number, I'll get in touch when I know something more."

  "I'd appreciate that." I wrote my Des Moines number on a card and, for good measure, added Calvin's.

  "I may be moving around in the next few days, but Calvin Wolfe here will be able to relay any messages."

  "Fine." He gave me a thoughtful look. "Nelson Follstadt's closer, you know. Don't you trust him?"