John Brunner - The Whole Man

He leaned back against the wall. “However, you may take all that as read, in your case. You’re about the right age for the talent to show itself, you know; mine came on when I was twenty, and that’s typical. So what are you going to do ?”

“I’ve no idea.” She looked rather frightened. “I haven’t even worked out how I’m going to tell my family.”

“That’s one problem I never had to face,” Howson admitted. “Do they have prejudices, then ?”

“I don’t know. I mean’ the subject sort of never came up.” A thought creased her brow. “Look, what the hell do receptive telepathists do , anyway? Aren’t they pretty limited in their choice of work?”

“By comparison with projectives, I suppose they are,” Howson agreed in a judicious tone. “But a telepathist is a very special person, and the demand for their services isn’t by any means exhausted. You could probably invent your own job if you wanted. I can tell you a few of the standard occupations, to be going on with. Most of the receptives I know are psychiatric diagnosticians and therapy watchdogs—”

“Are what?”

He explained. “Then there’s Olaf Marks, who’s a genius-spotter. He loves kids, so they gave him the business of discovering outstandingly brilliant children in the pre-verbal stage. Then there’s Makerakera, whom you may well have heard of; he’s recognized by the UN as an authority on aggression, and spends his time going from one potential crisis to another identifying grievances and having them put right. Oh, don’t worry about being limited in your choice of a career — we’re near enough unique to be able to pick and choose.”

She gave a little nervous laugh. “It’s funny to hear you say “we” and know you’re including me in it! Still, what you said is quite reassuring.”

“I’m not saying it to reassure you. I’m just telling you. Apart from anything else, you wouldn’t be happy doing anything which didn’t exploit your talent once it’s fully developed. I don’t want to make out that being a telepathist doesn’t pose its own problems, Lord knows…” Howson sighed. “You were right about me last night, as you must have guessed.”

“More — more telepathy?”

“What do you think?”

She got up and began to clear away the breakfast things without answering. After an interval of silence she said, ” How about Rudi, Gerry? Did you have a chance to find out what made him do it?”

“No. One has to learn not to intrude on another mind’s privacy. One has to, or life wouldn’t be worth living. And while we were patching him up, of course, I couldn’t spare the time. You’ve had a much better chance to find out why he did it.”

She made a helpless gesture. “All I could tell was that he was — well, living a lie, as they say. Doing it well, but…”

She gestured to complete the statement. “Gerry, what are you doing here, anyway? You’re from Ulan Bator, aren’t you?”

“Yes — now. But I was born here.”

“Are you looking up old acquaintances?”

“I looked up a couple. That was a failure. No, I’m after new rather than old acquaintances. It’s partly a vacation, partly a voyage of self-discovery___You’ll find out what I mean some day.”

She accepted the hint. “So — what should I do now, to get back to my own worries ?” She smiled faintly.

“Officially, you should drop by the local World Health headquarters and take the aptitude tests. Then they’d fly you to Ulan Bator or Canberra or perhaps Hong Kong for proper training. But I’d say, give yourself time to get used to the prospect before you report in.”

“You seem awfully sure I will report in — yet if I asked you not to tell anyone about me I think you’d agree.”

“Of course. Only after a while you’ll get dissatisfied with your own awkwardness. You’ll get frustrated with things you don’t know how to handle. And one day you’ll say, ‘Ah, the hell with it,’ and go and ask how to use your gift to the full. It wasn’t telepathists who worked out the techniques, you know — it was ordinary psychologists who could no more project an impression than ride a bicycle to the moon. And now I want you to do something for me. Go down to the phone and call the hospital where they took Rudi — it’s the Main General. He’ll probably still be under sedation. Ask if we can — I’m sorry. Are you busy this morning ?”

She shook her head.

“Then ask if we, if you want to come, can see him. Tell them I’m Gerald Howson, Psi.D., Ulan Bator. They’ll fall over themselves to let me come.”

“Then why bother to call up first?”

Howson looked at her steadily. “I want them to have a chance to learn that I’m a runt with a gammy leg instead of a husky superman,” he said calmly. “It hurts less that way.”

Clara bit her lip. “That was tactless of me,” she said. “Yes,” said Howson, and got up. “I’ll go and have a wash while you’re making that call.”

Rudi Allef lay in his hospital bed with a cradle to keep the bedding off his injured abdomen. He was not unconscious, but he was chiefly aware of pain. The sedatives he had been given had reduced it to a level like that of a raging headache, and enabled him for short periods to sidestep it within his mind and think coherently; however, most of the time the effort simply did not seem worth while.

When Howson came to him, he lay unmoving with his eyes tightly shut.

The atmosphere and appearance of this place was very much like what he was used to at Ulan Bator, Howson found. What kept reminding him that he was actually a stranger was the ostentatious deference with which he, as a Psi.D. Ulan Bator, was treated. About half the staff had attempted to accompany him to Rudi’s ward, but he had shown temper for the first time in a long while and refused to permit anyone to come with him bar the surgeon who had operated on Rudi and the senior ward nurse. And Clara, naturally.

He could tell she was uncomfortable. Now that she was aware of her gift she was more able to receive the impressions it brought her, and she had not yet learned when in a hospital to concentrate on the undercurrent of healing beneath the ever-present sensations of pain. In memory of his own beginnings he loaned her self-confidence with his mind.

They came into the ward. Screens were drawn around the bed where Rudi lay with a rubber pipe taped to his arm; the last of several transfusions to make up his loss of blood was just ending.

The nurse parted the screens, let the visitors through, and drew them dose again. There was a chair ready for Howson by the bed; awkwardly, because it was full-sized, he scrambled on to it and peered into Rudi’s mind.

Meantime he spoke in words to the surgeon, saying, “What sort of state was he in when you operated ?”

“Bad,” said the surgeon, a straight-bodied woman of forty. “He’d have been dead if it hadn’t been for the first aid you gave him. It was just as well you were there, Dr. Howson—though I didn’t know curative telepathists ever had a full-scale medical course.”

“I never did,” Howson answered. And repeated, “I’d never more than bandaged a cut finger before.”

He could feel resentment hardening in her as the words sank in; it meant, “Not only is this little cripple possessed of superior powers — he can do my job for me without training, without trouble, and boast about his success…”

“That’s hardly a fair thought,” Howson said mildly. “I’m sorry, but it’s not, you know!”

Clara, who had been listening with puzzlement, interrupted unexpectedly. “You should have seen what it cost him! The pain he must have—”

Clara! The single warning thought cut off her hasty words.