Astounding Science Fiction, British Edition — page 45: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

HUMPTY impact of it, but he was even more schooled in discipline than most Bald- ies, being husband to a nontelepath, and he showed nothing. He only, said, “No. It isn’t that. I won’t take him until you say so.” She gave him a sudden startled glance. “It’s too late?”’ “No,” Cody said quickly. “Of course not. He isn’t old enough yet to remember—this.” Lucy moved uneasily. “I don’t want to keep him down here. You know I don’t. It’s bad enough for me, without knowing my own son wouldn’t ever—’’ She shut off the thought of sunlight, blue air, distances. “‘Not just yet,” she said, and pushed her feet over the edge of the bed. She stood: up a little un- steadily. She gave the baby one blind glance and then walked stocking- footed toward the kitchen, bracing herself against the wall now and then. Cody reached automatically toward her mind, then drew back and got up to follow her. She was at the kitchen sink plashing water into a glass. She drank thirstily, her eyes unfocused. “I have to go,”’ Cody said. “Don’t worry, Lucy.” “Some ... woman,” Lucy said in- distinctly over the edge of the glass. ‘“There’s . . , somebody. I know.” *“Lucy—”’ “One of your kind,” Lucy said, and dropped the glass in the sink. It rolled in a bright arc, spilling water. All he could do was look at her helplessly. There was nothing he could say. He couldn’t tell her he was on his way to try to kill Jasper Horne. He couldn’t tell her about Operation Apocalypse or the Inductor or the position of fearful responsibility he held. He couldn’t say, “If we can perfect the Inductor in time, Lucy, you can go free . . . you and our child.”” Nor could he say, “‘I may have DUMPTY 45 to kill you... you and our child and every nontelepath on earth .. . with Operation Apocalypse.” No, there was nothing he could say. She drew a wet hand across her face, pushing back her hair, looking up at him blurrily, and then came on uncertain, shoeless feet across the kitchen to lay her cheek on his shoul- der and push her arms under his, around his chest. “Tm sorry,” she said. “I’m... crazy. It’s hard for you too, Jeff.” ee Fee “We'll send the baby away next week,” she promised. “Then I'll be sane again. I . . . I hate whiskey. It’s just that—”’ “I know.” He smoothed the hair away from her wet face, tried to find words for the complex waves of love, pity, remorse, terror and pain which filled his mind constantly as long as he was with his wife, or thinking of her. It is curious that telepaths are often almost inarticulate when it is hecessary to communicate nuances of feeling in words. They never need to use words, among their own kind. “Be patient with me, Lucy,” he said finally. ‘““There’s trouble coming. There isn’t much time, and I may fail. I... Pll come home as quickly as can: “IT know you will, dear. I wish I could do .. . anything.” He held her. “Tll bring you something you'll like,’ he said. ““A surprise. I don’t know what yet, but something nice. And Lucy, after... next week... if you mean it, we’ll move if you want. Find a new apartment over in Cave Seven. You can order new furniture, and we’ll—” He scarcely knew what he was saying. Illusion and reality were too confused. “We'll think of something, dear,’’ she said. “‘It’s all right.”’ “Tl go, then,” he said. Conmicloooks.<@ me