• First draft
• Second draft

Story Excerpt Continued ...

Knot dug out his clothing, which was tailored to his physique. The enclave had excellent hand-craftsmen: a source of personal pride to him. It was Knot's job to make the employment assignments, and this was no casual matter. This enclave had an excellent record, and this was due in large part to Knot's professional skill.

He set out for the mess hall. The dawning day outside his bunk-cube was lovely; the blue sun of Planet Nelson was striking through the green morning cloud layer, starting the strong updraft that would soon clear the sky. In the evening the process would reverse, with a visible downdraft and closure by vapor. Knot, like most residents, was fascinated by these natural color shows. No two were quite alike; the patterns and hues shifted with countless minor variables, and the shows were useful for entertainment, divination, art- inspiration and wagering. Holographs of them were exported commercially.

But he could not dawdle, this time; his slot for breakfast was upon him, and the mess-chief became surly when the normal flow was disrupted.

The mess-guard had four eyes. All of them focused on Knot as the man frowned. "Have you checked in at the office?" He spoke with a certain awkwardness, for he also had two tongues.

"I have," Knot said, standing so that his suit exaggerated his imbalance. No one could mistake him for a normal now. "Here is my card."

The guard perused the card, "Very well. Go in and take your ration from the counter and sit down at a green table. You do have color perception?"

"Yes—in the right eye," Knot said, "Monochrome in the left."

"Once you get established, you'll be assigned to a compatible group at a red or blue table," the guard said. "But newcomers have to eat alone, until we get to know them. We have a lot of variation here, but we're the top enclave in this region of space, and we don't like trouble."

"I understand," Knot said with due humility. "I'll try to conduct myself properly."

He went on in, smiling privately. He had gone through this ritual with this guard for the past year, every morning, and with the predecessor-guard for two years before that. He would be alarmed if the man ever recognized him.

Breakfast was a leaf of leanfruit, the succulent foliage that was a meal in itself. An enterprising mutant had discovered how to detoxify it, at one swoop ameliorating the enclave's problem of nourishment. Knot felt pride in that, too; he had selected that mutant for that research. The man had been blind and scrawny, with reverse joints on his fingers, unable to do much useful work, but had an insatiable appetite. At another enclave he would have been a useless burden destined for an untimely accident—such accidents were common in such situations—but Knot had told him he could eat all he wanted if he could figure out how to avoid being poisoned by what was most available. The man had proceeded with a will, noting that no native animals died, though many consumed leanfruit. An enzyme in their saliva did the trick. Now that enzyme was routinely included in the salad dressing. The mutant had become a hero, while Knot was forgotten—and that was the way it had to be.

Actually, the leanfruit breakthrough had not helped everyone. Some mutants could consume grass, wood shavings or paper refuse; others were unable to digest any natural food. But the breakthrough had helped the majority, and enhanced the status of the enclave. The hero had been awarded a silver medal on a chain—which was typical of the bureaucracy, since he happened to be allergic to that metal.

Knot glanced around the hall. There were twenty tables, half of them occupied. This was a small mess, its service extended efficiently by its continuous shifts of operation, There were several others, to allow reasonable segregation among mutants. These ones were minimal: extra digits, or distorted portions of the body, or superfluous appendages of not too gross a nature. Some did not show, as with the large-chested woman who had three livers and an extra lung; she would have been much in demand among enclave males, had she not also had three reasons opposing any friendly approach.

Some of those present looked at Knot with mild curiosity, not recognizing him. He knew them all, of course, but made no show of familiarity.

After the meal Knot repaired to his office. The outdoor color show was over by this time, as it generally was. One day he was going to pull a string to get his breakfast slot shifted, so that he could enjoy the show as most others did. But it was hard to pull strings when no one remembered him.

His secretary was already bustling about. Her name was York, and she looked impressively normal. It took a second glance for newcomers to realize that her bosom was composed of three breasts. Knot wondered whether she was any relation to the woman with three livers, but decided against; there was no physical resemblance, and in any event mutations were not hereditary. Not in that sense.

But that superficial normality could be a problem. Once York had been challenged by a surly arrival, who hated normals and refused to deal with her. In a fit of pique York had ripped off her own blouse and triple halter and silenced him most effectively. There were no normals in this enclave.

"Two routine and one special," York announced with a smile. She was moderately pretty, and more than moderately smart. He wondered at times why she didn't apply for cosmetic surgery to enable her to join the normals without prejudice; it was permitted. Mutants, on the few occasions they conceived, gave birth to normal babies; there were no breeding restrictions, and many mutants did go under the knife so they could pass. Yet the majority did not, and this was not merely a matter of economics. A person who had been raised a mutant, identified with mutants for the rest of his life. Probably it was York's pride of the flesh; she did not want to be normal.

Actually, Knot thought, it would be a shame to mastectomize such a beautiful breast. She was a true mutant, not a genetic freak; her extra breast was directly between the other two and of equal size and configuration, except it was somewhat squeezed. She had quite a double cleavage, when she cared to show it. When nonmutant females had extra breasts, in contrast, they tended to be below the regular ones, like the teats on an animal, in parallel lines down the torso.

She caught him looking. "Did we do something last night?" she inquired brightly. "I have no note of it—"

"No, no, my mind was drifting," Knot said quickly.

"That was evident, as was its direction of drift. Maybe tonight, then—?"

He ignored the flirtation. "I'll take the two routines first, then the special," Knot said. "Make notes as usual."

"Of course." She knew exactly what he meant. She would listen in on the intercom and transcribe a summary of each interview for the file. She was very good at this. Her summaries were complete almost before each interview ended. If she didn't have a note on a given event, it probably hadn't happened. Which was the case with their conjectured liaison of the prior night.

The first client was a large man, whitish of skin, with reddish splotches, whose head rose into a blank and hairless dome. The ears were mere holes, the nose a double slit, and there were no eyes at all. Only the mouth was normal.

"Salutation," Knot said, "You can hear?" York's preliminary note, on the desk before him, indicated that the man could perceive sound, but it was better to establish this openly. Mutants could be sensitive about their handicaps, even among other mutants. The attitudes engendered by life among callous normals could take time to abate.

"I can hear," the man said clearly. "I am Flas, from Planet Jeen."

"Excellent! I've heard good things of Jeen."

Of course the man challenged this, suspiciously. "What do you know of it?"

Knot was prepared; he had an excellent geographic memory, which he cultivated for just this reason. Clients were much easier to put at ease when their home worlds were complimented. "The crystal dunes on the north continent there are among the prettiest sights in the galaxy. If I ever can afford a vacation, that is where I'd go," Knot paused, artfully. "Um, I did not mean to refer to a sense you lack. My apology."

"Who are you?" the mutant demanded, gruffly satisfied. He was not, as Knot had surmised, sensitive about his blindness and now he knew that Knot was indeed familiar with his home planet.

"I am Knot, the placement officer of Enclave MM58 on the Planet Nelson."

The lofty forehead wrinkled. "If you are not he, why do you address me now?"

"Knot, with a sounded K, one syllable," Knot said patiently. He had been through this, too, many times before, and rather enjoyed it. "My name.

The mutant smiled. "Knot," he repeated, pronouncing the K. "Apology." He was now fairly well relaxed.

"Accepted. It is a common misapprehension. Some claim my name has suffered more mutation than my body. May I shake your hand?"

The mutant put forth his large right hand. Knot met it with his equally large hand. The mutant's grip was gentle, though he was obviously quite strong.

"You are larger than you sound," Flas said. "And mutant," he added, feeling the sixth finger.

"We are all mutant here," Knot assured him. That was why he had shaken hands; otherwise the blind mutant could have been in doubt about Knot's status, despite his hint about it. "We don't like to have normals interfering. We are all like you: min-mutes and mod-mutes, of human-norm intellect or above, able to function independently. This enclave is self supporting; we export as much as we import. We have pride."

"Pride," Flas echoed wistfully. "I have known little of that, Even the lobos have higher social status than my type, on Jeen."

Which was evidently the major reason Flas had come here. "Lobos are surgically normal people, of no special significance," Knot said warmly. "Mutants are the catalyst of modern human society." This message, too, he had repeated many times, but it always buoyed him: the justification of his kind. "Without us, there would be no space travel, no colonization of inclement planets or habitats. Without us, in fact, the human empire would collapse and the Coordination Computer would be junk."

"You speak as if you believe."

"I do believe! And you will believe too, or you will not fit in well here. We have the pride of the flesh. Normals are largely restricted to the surfaces of Earth-type planets; the future of the species lies with the mutants."

"The psi-mutes, maybe," Flas said. "Not with our kind."

"The phys-mutes too! Today Enclave MM58 is self supporting; ultimately we may become a creditor entity, with our own representative in the Galactic Concord. Because of the loyalty and application of specially skilled mutants like you."

"Pep talk," Flas said. "I have heard it before."

"You will perceive new meaning in it. This is not a junkyard enclave; this is a viable economic society. What are your skills?"

Despite his superficial reserve, Flas smiled, responding to Knot's enthusiasm. "I am good with my hands. I have made hundreds of baskets in my day."

"A basket case!" Knot snorted. "Where is the future in baskets?"

The mutant shrugged. "When I asked them that, they sent me here."

"You have a questioning mind and an independent spirit. They don't like that in some places. We do like it here." Knot considered. "It is my job to find the ideal situation for you, considering your physical, mental and social propensities. You will not be assigned anywhere against your will; if you don't like what I suggest, I'll look for something else. Sometimes I get too innovative and miss the mark embarrassingly. Sometimes something sounds good, but doesn't work out in practice. If there were not such problems, there would be no point in my job, would there?"

"You're working up to something awkward," Flas said.

"Astute observation. We have a local animal we call the snird, a kind of cross between a snake and a bird in the Earth-book listing. It lays eggs in the dark, and these eggs contain a chemical of value in stellar photography. The elevated radiation of space interferes with conventional processes, as we mutants well know, but this chemical is resistant. The problem is that in the raw state it is hypersensitive to light. Even an instant's exposure ruins it. So we must collect the eggs in complete darkness. Unfortunately the snirds are protective of their eggs, and their bite is poisonous."

"The eggs are extremely delicate, and of odd shapes and sizes. Careless or mechanical handling breaks them. They must be kept warm and intact until brought to the laboratory. In addition, they must be harvested at the right moment; only a `ripe' egg, distinguished by a slightly hardened surface, possesses the necessary quality. A green one is useless. Only an expert human touch suffices to distinguish between them—but for some reason most of our sighted people are reluctant."

The mutant laughed. "I can well believe!"

"We have elevated the incentive bonus, to no avail. A good snird-egg harvester can arrange his own hours of work, has a twenty per cent extra food ration, and a generous personal expense allowance. It is possible to develop a comfortable savings account that permits early retirement."

"If he survives that long!"

"Yet the snird gives fair warning. A faint buzz before striking—" Knot paused. "How good is your hearing?"

"Excellent. And my courage. How bad is a snird-strike?"

"Not fatal, if treated in time. We do have excellent treatment facilities, and an alert, attractive and solicitous nurse. But it is better to avoid it—which an experienced harvester can normally do."

"You figure I'll rise to the challenge?"

"You do strike me as that sort of man."

"Excellent." Knot activated the intercom. This was a redundant gesture, as it was already on, but he preferred not to advertise that fact. "Have a courier conduct Mutant Flas to the Foraging Unit, and notify them that he will essay the egg harvesting, snird division."

"He's got nerve," York remarked.

"The women of MM58 appreciate nerve," Knot told Flas. "I believe you will like it here. The Foraging foreman will brief you thoroughly, of course."

The courier entered the office. She was a young lady whose arms were linked together by fused hands; she could move them only as a unit. They could not be surgically separated because the bones were merged, palm to palm; she would have to have both hands on one arm, and nothing on the other, and the hand would not have functioned well enough to be worthwhile.

Flas stood, tracking her by the sound. "This way, mutant," the girl said. Her voice was dulcet, and her pronunciation of "mutant" made it sound like a badge of honor.

Knot relaxed. He had put together a good crew, trained to make clients respond positively and feel welcome. Nevertheless, there was always a certain tension, and the first interview of the day was the worst. This one had gone very well. The Foraging Unit had been bugging him for another harvester for some time.

The next client entered. This was an older woman. She had large bright eyes, but instead of ears her head sprouted a stout pair of horns. The lower part of her face projected forward, like the muzzle of a sheep, and her mouth was obviously unsuitable for human speech. She wore a rather voluminous robe that concealed any other mutations she might have, except for hands that were callused and hooflike.

Knot held up his right fist in the clubfoot signal of greeting. A number of mutants had problems with their extremities, so this sub-language was useful. Knot was familiar with a great many forms of communication.

The woman perked up when she recognized the gesture. She brought up her own fist.

Knot introduced himself, speaking aloud at the same time as he signaled, so York could transcribe it, "I am Knot, the placement officer of MM58." There was no problem with the pronunciation of the name in sign language. "You are—" he read the signals she returned. "Greta, transferred here at your request because—" He smiled warmly— "because you received news of our stature and wanted to participate." He made an expansive gesture. "That is a very positive attitude, Greta. What do you have in mind to do here?"

Now Greta was doubtful. She had been employed before as a water carrier, but had not been very efficient because it was hard for her to pick up the buckets. Also, there had been no need for the service, since water was pumped in to central locations of that enclave. Thus it had been mere make-work, useless. She preferred to find better employment before she met with a UA—Untimely Accident—but did not know what that might be. Yet she had heard that MM58 seemed to be charmed that way, with everyone there finding good jobs.

Knot pondered briefly. She had paid him a considerable compliment, unknowingly—but it also showed the challenge. He had a high level to maintain, and not every mutant could be made useful. His chief skill was the ability to align mutants with employments no one else would have thought of, but a certain amount of luck was important.

"Most of our tasks are menial, but they are necessary to our best functioning as an enclave," Knot said/signaled. "You don't object to routine physical labor, so long as you know it is productive?"

Greta agreed with a forceful motion of her hoofed fist.

"Let me see your foot," Knot said.

Surprised, she showed her feet. Her legs were human, and fairly good ones at that, but the extremities were indeed like hooves. They were cloven in three or four places, marking where the toes should be, but the nails were so gross as to dominate the entire digits.

"We have a local winery," Knot said/signaled. "We don't like the tax burden on imported beverages, but we have to process all our water anyway, and we do like our relaxation. So we do for ourselves. Perhaps some year MM58 vintage will be renowned in the galaxy. But since at the moment the authorities governing the good planet of Nelson frown an such activity, we operate quietly. We use no power equipment, no foreign additives. We just press the grapes—they're not really grapes, but we like to call them that—we press them in ancient and time-honored fashion."

"Trample out the vintage?" she asked, catching on.

"Your feet would seem to be admirably suited to the labor. Our grapes have small spines that make it difficult for ordinary human feet to press them properly, and of course we don't use footwear for this. So if you don't find it offensive or morally objectionable—"

"I'm thrilled!" she signaled. "It's much better than carrying buckets of water nowhere!"

Knot tapped the intercom. He had made another good placement. "After a day's hard work, our men grow lusty and thirsty," he concluded. "They like anything associated with their drink."

Greta, obviously starved for male companionship, seemed to be considering the prospects as she left. Knot never neglected the social angle; here where every person was mutant, deformities and differences that were prohibitive elsewhere became negligible. In general, the more closely a person approached human norm, the more attractive he or she was considered to be—but there was an extremely broad middle ground, and almost anyone could find a partner if he or she really wanted to.

"PC Knot scores again," York murmured over the intercom in the moment Knot was alone. It was a standing joke between them. CC was the abbreviation of the Coordination Computer, which fitted mutants to specialized positions on a galactic scale. Knot did it only for this enclave. But there was a similarity between their jobs. York teased him because she knew he did not like the Coordination Computer.

The third client was indeed special. She was young and pretty and so completely normal in appearance that he was startled. But there were many non-apparent forms of mutation, She could have an exotic chemical imbalance that prevented her from functioning normally. She might have eyeballs in her belly, concealed by her clothing. She might have brain tissue in her chest and a spleen in her head. York had no note on any such thing, but York was not infallible. He would simply have to fathom her mutancy for himself, by observation and careful questioning, and proceed from there.

Knot started his routine introduction, but the girl leaned forward and turned off his intercom. In the process her blouse separated from her torso in the fashion blouses had been designed to do for thousands of years, showing that there were certainly no eyeballs or brain tissue in that portion of her anatomy. Her breasts were fully as firm and shapely as York's, and there were only two, so that there was no undue crowding.

Knot forced his attention back to business. He started to protest her action, though he really would not have minded if she had leaned forward similarly ten more times.

But before he spoke, she brought out a printed card. It said AUDITOR.

Oh no! A surprise audit of the enclave! And he had just placed a client in a quasi-legal position, making moonshine wine. Also, more insidious: This meant this woman was in fact a normal, so that all of her visible and suggested attributes were genuine. That provided a retroactive luster to his recent glimpse, exciting him and embarrassing him simultaneously.

The woman watched him with calm amusement. She had certainly turned the tables on him! Knot nodded with rueful resignation. He activated his intercom. "York, this client poses special problems. I'll have to take her on a tour of the premises before I can make a placement."

"Understood," the secretary answered. Her tone was disapproving; she was evidently suspicious that he wanted to get an especially attractive min-mute into a truly private nook for a seduction. His office made such things feasible, for those mutants who did not get suitably placed were not permitted to remain in the enclave beyond a reasonable grace period. Knot wished York's suspicion were true; he did have an eye for the women. He knew that York felt that if he wanted to seduce anyone today, she should be first in line. But now, not only did he have no chance with this luscious client, he would incur York's wrath anyway. It would be hard to convince her of the truth.

"We can't be overheard outside," Knot murmured as they emerged from the office. The sky was now completely clear; day was well established. "Do you want the full tour, or shall I fill you in on the enclave indiscretions at the outset and save us both time?"

She smiled. Knot, accustomed to the efforts of mutants who often had strange faces, was surprised again; she was beautiful. Even after allowing for the fact of her normalcy, the humanoid ideal. Normals differed from each other less than mutants did, but this one had to be close to the positive extreme. "Show me the leadmuter."

Knot grimaced, surprised a third time. "You have a better source of information than we thought."

"Much better," she agreed with a smugness that would have been objectionable in anyone else. She held out her petite, five-digited hand. "My name is Finesse."

He shrugged and took the hand in his huge right. She drew him in toward her, leaning forward to plant a light kiss on his cheek. She smelled refreshingly of pine needles.

"Finesse," he said. "Is that literal or allegorical?''

"Yes." She shifted to his small left hand, neatly interlocking her four fingers with his three and capturing his thumb with her own, and walked beside him. The mutants that they passed glanced enviously, not recognizing either of then but wishing they did.

"I presume this is a friendly audit," Knot said, "Or are you merely making sure I can not slip away?" he gave his hand a token shake, as though hefting shackles. He did not care to admit how exciting it was to have a lovely normal turn on to him as if he were attractive to her. She had an ulterior motive, of course—but what was it? She could have required the leadmuter information of him without ever touching his hand.

"Never trust an auditor," she said, squeezing his hand. She had to have noticed his disparity of fingers, but gave no sign of aversion. "Every one of then will deceive you."

Fair warning! But she really hadn't provided any information yet, straight or deceiving. It seemed he would have to wait on her convenience.

"The leadmuter is separate from the main enclave," he said. "In an isolated region, with a difficult approach. Not suitable for clothing like yours."

"You wish me to remove it?"

Yes! he thought. And said aloud: "I was hinting that you night prefer to come back at another time, dressed for the occasion. Boots, leather breeches, outdoor gloves—"

"During which period of delay the exhibit would disappear?" she asked, smiling to disarm the charge.

Knot essayed a gesture of denial—and found he could not, for she still held his hand captive. The enclave had been audited before, many times, for the powers that existed on the planetary level were suspicious of success. But never an audit like this. Knot became reluctantly more suspicious. "May I see your credentials?"

"You perused them pretty well in your office." But she finally let go his hand and fished in her bosom, bringing out an ID disk on a neck-chain. She faced him so as to bring the disk close to him, and held it up beside her face. The illumination came on, showing the holograph of her head, with her name, code and position. She was a legitimate Coordination Computer Auditor.

"CC?" he exclaimed, distracted from the physical credentials that were again in view below the legal ones. "You're from offworld?"

"Naturally. Did you think I was a backplanet girl?"

This was a new dimension. He had assumed she was a Planet Nelson representative. Yet it was hardly possible to counterfeit such IDs; only the Computer staff commanded the authority and technology. In addition, he noticed now, she had the forearm tattoo pattern of a space traveler. This was a galactic audit!

"Satisfied?" Finesse inquired with another sunny smile.

"No. Since when does a galactic auditor hold hands with the auditee?"

"Was I holding hands with the whole enclave?" she asked with mock alarm.

"The enclave is innocent of this particular crime. I represent the enclave administration, and that is what you are auditing, I presume. But you hardly need to play up to me; you can have me fired if I do not cooperate with you in every way."

"True," she agreed sweetly, taking his hand again. "Why do you resist?"

Why, indeed? he thought. You are begging for seduction, and unless you are a nymphomaniac, this is too suspicious to be accepted. And he almost imagined be heard an answer: Smart man!

"I am not so naive as to believe that an attractive normal woman representing CC itself prefers to dally with a mutant."

"Some normals have perverse tastes."

She said it lightly, but the remark chilled him. Some normals did indeed have abnormal inclinations. They had a twisted fascination for deformity. The strange aspects of mutants turned these normal people on sexually. Yet many mutants were so eager for the attention of normals that they would put up with the most extreme indignities for it. If Finesse were a person of power with the taste for perversion, she could make things extremely difficult for him. He did not like perversion—but his enclave was hostage for his behavior, and he would have to do whatever she demanded.

This was, of course, exactly the sort of leverage he exerted against incoming mutant females that attracted him. Knot could appreciate the irony of it, that a woman he had at first taken for a mutant was now putting him in this position. No doubt he deserved it. Fortunately, he had a special resource. He could manage.

"A penny for your thoughts," she said.

"A genuine Earth-type ancient bronze coin?"

"Of course not. They're collector's items. Rarity has made them appreciate so inordinately in value that they are now actually worth their face amount. Would you accept another kiss instead?"

What was this? "Do I have a choice?"

"You're avoiding the issue."

"You play with fire. How do you know I won't take you into the wilderness, rape you, and drop your body in a bog, never to be found again?"

"What, never?"

"Once a body is mired, it can remain for millennia. Old Earthly fossils, dinosaurs, were found—"

"No decent bogs here, according to the geography I checked."

"There are things here that the geography does not dream of." All too true, as she must know.

"Then I suppose I should answer your question." She brought out another disk. "I have an alarm bleeper. You would not be too thrilled if I set it off before you were through."

Knot nodded soberly. Actually, any threat to an auditor would create enormous mischief. His question had been an expression of petulance rather then any real threat, and she knew it. She could play with him as she wished, with virtual impunity. That was exactly what she seemed inclined to do.

"You can have it," she said, handing him the disk.

Yes, she was playing with him. She was cocksure. Bye and bye, in his own fashion, he would play with her. She was not dealing with an ordinary patsy, this time. Her experience on other worlds gave her confidence that was not necessarily warranted.

The route, as he had warned, was devious and difficult. The leadmuter was supposed to be an enclave secret, and was well hidden out of the way. They had to climb a rocky escarpment, wedge through a thick tangle of brush, and wade through a cold stream.

"You're right," Finesse said. "I would have been better off without clothes."

"Except for the brambles," he agreed. "It grows easier once we pass the brushland. Then you may take off your clothes if you wish to."

"I may. Is this terrain comfortable for the leadmuter?"

"No. Fortunately he doesn't have to experience it. He works in a cave."

"I didn't know this was cave country."

"It isn't, according to your geography."

"You rather fascinate me."

"Mutual, I'm sure."

She turned her sweetly tousled face toward him, brushing a tress out of her eyes. "I have given you every opportunity, but you haven't taken advantage of me yet. Are you normally this slow, or are you unconscionably shy?"

"I wouldn't want that alarm to bleep."

"You have charge of it!" she protested, her bosom heaving enticingly.

"A voice-activated device keyed to your voice? I merely hold it; I don't control it."

"But you left it the other side of the river,"

Knot patted his pockets. "I must have dropped it."

"That was the most gentle drop I ever watched. Were you afraid of breaking it?"

She was one hideously perceptive female. He had not spied her watching him. "Some of these things go off when broken," he admitted. "That could have been awkward."

"So you were setting me up—but you haven't made your move. Or did I miss it?"

"These things do take time."

"You must have remarkably easygoing reflexes."

"The flesh is willing, but the spirit is cautious."

"You don't trust me," she complained.

"Well, you did warn me about auditors."

She laughed, "So I did. I didn't mean you to take it so to heart."

"I trust you to do your business. I'm not sure what that business is."

"You have a microscopic memory. I'm an auditor."

Knot felt a chill. Why her reference to memory? "Fortunately, I'm not an auditor. I don't need to entrap anyone."

She drew on his arm. "Did I offend you? I apologize and offer to make delicious amends."

"No offense," he said quickly. He had the growing feeling that he was fencing with someone of greater skill than his own.

"But you reacted." She turned a beautifully innocent gaze on him. "Knot, I don't want it to be negative between us. What did I say to hurt you?"

"We mutants can be very sensitive about our abnormalities, in the presence of normals." That wasn't it, but he was most concerned that she not catch on to his real worry.

"Six-four fingers? That's hardly enough to notice. I'm sure I haven't noticed."

"Obviously." He had to smile, relaxing. She was on the wrong track. "Here is the cave."

"Already? We were just getting warmed up."

"There's always the return trip. I know a longer, more scenic route."

"Oh? I thought you distrusted my motive."

"I do. So I had better ascertain what it is before letting you go."

"That's more like it." She peered into the cave. "Is it safe?"

"Should be. It has endured for thousands of minutes."

"You hollowed out a whole cave, just to hide your project?"

"Well, it isn't easy to hollow out half a cave."

She delivered a reproving glance. She was so cute it was hard for him to keep properly in mind that she was extremely hazardous to his welfare. "The leadmuter did it, before we tuned him in to lead. He changed the rock to lead because the metal was denser and occupied less space than ordinary material. He hollowed out quite a chamber, entertaining himself."

"I don't understand. You said he did this before he learned about lead, yet_-"

"He turned ordinary rock to lead, at first. Then it occurred to us that if he could do that, he might in turn convert the lead to something even more dense. So we persuaded him to change his lead to gold, almost twice as compact. That pleased him, because it gave him more room in his cave with less debris. Then we started using the gold for our artwork —the enclave has a number of fine sculptors and other artisans—so we did him the additional favor of hauling the gold out of his way. That keeps his cave entirely clean, so he's happy. We tuned him into lead as a raw material, instead of as a product."

"Lead transmuted into gold," Finesse murmured. "No wonder your enclave is self-sufficient."

"Oh, we don't sell much of the gold," Knot hastened to assure her. "We do trade some of it for other things we need."

"Barter," she agreed. "Avoiding discovery and taxation."

"Until now," he agreed glumly.

"Not to mention the matter of concealing a viable psi-mute in an enclave allocated for phys-mutes."

"Not to mention," he agreed again. This was real trouble. Fortunately, he had his way to alleviate it—provided he were able to play his trump effectively.

They entered the cave. They rounded a bend in it, and the passage opened into a pleasant chamber. There was none of the moisture or dirt associated with a natural cave; this was even and clean and dry. A normal-seeming man sat on a crude throne made of solid gold, concentrating on an ingot of lead before him. He gave no sign of being aware of the intruders.

"He is almost deaf and blind," Knot said. "And feeble-minded. He was not very happy until we arranged this occupation. Now all his needs are provided for, and he is left alone most of the time. He lives for his work; he gets a thrill from a challenging transmutation. But all he knows now is lead, as origin or product. It would be a shame to take him away from this. He really doesn't belong in psi-mute facilities."

"I can appreciate that," Finesse said dryly. She walked around the cave as though about to move into it as an apartment, her eyes taking note of the crude blocks of lead at one side, the crude blocks of gold at the other. A compact, sturdy cart stood on a steel track in an alcove. "What's this?"

Knot walked across. He put his arms around the nearest block of gold and heaved it up, his right arm doing three quarters of the work. It was about the size of a four-liter container, called a gallon locally, but it weighed as much as Knot himself did. He took one staggering step and eased it into the cart, slowly extricating his pinched fingers.

The weight started the cart on its way. "That will roll to our metalshop; it's downhill from here," he said, flexing his arms to alleviate the cramp caused by the effort. He could have handled the weight more readily, had both arms been of equal size and strength; but he wasn't really sure his build was a disadvantage. Most normals were right handed, too; it just wasn't as extreme.

"You do have a notion what a gallon of gold is worth?" Finesse asked. "Maybe seventy kilograms in that one block—"

"The earnings of a normal's lifetime," Knot said "But you have to understand, it takes our leadmuter several hours to convert that amount, and he is tired afterward."

"Tired!" she snorted. She looked at the man again. He had not moved. His head was supported by his hands, and a small string of drool dangled from his flaccid lips. The block of metal before him seemed smaller than before; it was changing to gold.

"Can he transmute anything to anything," she asked. "I mean, were he trained appropriately?"

"We don't know. He prefers the heavier metals, and it is not easy to change his program. It took several months to shift him from lead-as-product to lead-as-origin. The gold is worth enough to stay with, I think."

"It is not for you to decide. The leadmuter must be registered with the Coordination Computer."

"Who will take him away from us, to no advantage to him, us, or CC."

"The law is the law," she said firmly.

Knot sighed. "Do you realize the removal of this source of income will put our enclave into the red?"

"Surely an executive of your ability will find ways to make up the difference. Most mutant enclaves operate in the red, after all; it is no colossal shame."

"But we're the best enclave, no burden on the economy of our planet. We want to stay that way."

"Solvency that is attained by illegal means is much the same as thievery." She looked again at the little set of tracks. "I don't suppose we could take the cart back?"

"Unsafe," Knot assured her. "Besides, we must pick up your alarm bleeper before it gets lonely and sets itself off."

"It's a dummy." But she moved toward the exit passage.

He followed her out. Obviously she was still teasing him—but why? She had verified what she had come for: the presence of an unregistered mental mutant. There would be hell to pay, for the enclave's concealment of this asset was a crime against the Coordination Computer, which was the effective executive branch of the human government of the galaxy. She could reasonably expect to face a desperate man in Knot. Why should she leave herself open to persuasion or threat?

Knot distrusted this, but decided he had better play along. He needed to know what this too-attractive and too-devious auditor was really up to. Naturally she had sufficient means of self defense; there would be no physical coercion possible, even if that happened to be his style. It was not his style, not by a parsec. It was time he let her reel him in.

"You mean I could have laid hands on you any time with impunity?" he asked, as though none of his private thoughts had occurred.

"That depends." She selected a hummock and sat down on it. She reached into a pocket and brought out what seemed to be a small ball. "This is Mit," she said, holding it in the palm of her hand. "Hold him."

Knot took Mit. Mit was an ornate shell, of the kind found in oceans, curled into a tightening spiral of nacreous hue, with a shiny pink lip around the opening. "A very pretty conch," he said. "I like it. Is the ocean audible?" He lifted it toward his ear.

Then a greenish claw emerged from the shell. Knot paused, startled. The claw was small, but could have taken a nasty nip from his lobe.

"Mit is a hermit crab," Finesse said as two hesitant eye-stalks appeared. "Very shy around strangers."

"A crab—out of water?"

"He keeps a reserve in his shell, and he's modified. He can remain indefinitely on land."

Knot was fascinated, knowing she was not showing him this as an idle curiosity. This might relate to whatever she was hiding from him. "So he's more than a shell. I still like him. Come on out, Mit; I would be the last one to hurt you. I like animals."

Mit came out. His right claw was comparatively large and strong, while his left was small. He peered up at Knot with coalescing confidence. He tapped his claw against the rim of his shell, once.

"That's a click of approval," Finesse said. "He likes you."

"He should. He is built like me. Is Mit a mutant too?"

"It is normal for crabs to have one claw larger than the other."

"I'm not sure you answered my question."

"You are not as slow as you look. You are right. Mit is mutant."

"Ah. Mental rather than physical? Does he have psi?"

"Yes. He is probably the best psi-crab in existence. He is clairvoyant and precognitive."

Knot laughed, pleased. "He knows there is no danger!"

"Precisely. No danger to him or to you. When I carry him, I know when there is any threat to me. He hides in his shell and chatters his teeth."

"Chatters his teeth!" Knot knew she spoke figuratively. "Did you say he has a double psi talent? I thought that was impossible."

"Extremely rare, but it happens. Even triple talents are theoretically possible. One chance in a hundred billion or so, I believe. Since there are not nearly that many mutant births in a century, we really don't need to let the prospect concern us unduly. CC is very interested in such combinations, and collects all the dual-mutes it finds."

Knot felt another chill. He covered it with a smile. "No wonder I couldn't bluff you. You know all my secrets."

She nodded smugly. "Mit knows, at any rate. Tangible things, mainly; intangibles become too complex for his comprehension."

Intangibles were beyond the crab's limited power. Knot allowed himself more hope. "I find myself liking you, Finesse. Let me be blunt, while I have the clairvoyance in my hand. You've been coming on to me from the outset, but you're a normal, and not an ugly or stupid one. What is on your mind? You can't find me physically attractive."

"Men don't have to be physically attractive." She squinted at him appraisingly. "Actually, there is a certain appealing quality to you. Were your proportions normal, you would be a handsome man, and even as it is_-"

"You're avoiding the issue again. There is no visible reason why you should play up to me, especially on business time. You've gotten your information; you verified the power of the leadmuter. You caught our enclave cheating the planetary government and hiding a psi-mutant from CC. It makes most sense for you to scoot the hell home to the machine and make your devastating report. Instead you're acting as though I'm of more interest than—" He paused, glancing down at the hermit crab. "Mit did she come to investigate me?"

"Won't work, Knot," she said. "He's only a crab, with the mind of a crab. Even if he could grasp the complexities of human subterfuge, he can neither comprehend your speech nor reply in kind. He tunes in on danger to himself and those nearest him, without defining it. At least, not in our terms. W ere you telepathic, you could converse with him and obtain more specific information; otherwise the best you can do is tap questions on his shell and get yes-no answers. Since I mean you no mischief of a tangible kind, he feels secure. You'll learn nothing from him you can use."

"Getting me fired or transferred to an inclement enclave or lobotomized as a criminal would not be completely intangible, by my reckoning," Knot said. "You don't have to club me on the head to hurt me."

"Oh, such things are not beyond Mit's ken. He might not understand them, but he can precog your future grief. And he would inform you by clicking on his shell. But my plans for you are a good deal more devious, and I really do not mean you any harm, Knot. I do rather like you, despite your ornery ways, though I will not pretend you are any rival to a normal or any model of integrity."

She was really working him over, but she still had not caught on to his secret, he judged. Best not even to think about that. "And if I take you in my arms and do with you what you're obviously made for—?"

"In due course. I'm not an amateur in that respect. But first there is one other thing I must show you." She reached into another pocket and drew out a small, slender, long animal with a little round, whiskered face. "This is Hermine, the weasel. She's a mutant too."

Knot accepted the weasel in his left hand. She was warm, with sleek fur, and had the secure footing and litheness of a healthy predator. Knot liked all animals other than household pests, but he found himself liking this one in quite a strong, specific way. "And what is your talent, Hermine?" he asked, not expecting an answer.

Nice man. Like you.

Knot started, almost dropping the crab in the forgotten hand. "Broadcast telepathy!" he exclaimed. "And near-human intelligence. Mental verbalization. Isn't that at least a double mutation?"

"Double mutations of a beneficial nature are prohibitively rare," Finesse said. "Usually they'll be a physical-mental combination, such as a minimal body abnormality and a substantial mental one, or vice versa."

Did she know? Knot was suddenly nervous again.

She knows you are a double mutant, Hermine projected.

And you are a transceiver telepath! Knot thought back. You can read minds, and you can project your own thoughts. You must be one of the most potent telepaths in the human galaxy.

I'm not human! the weasel retorted.

I didn't think you were. But you are in the human galaxy.

The weasel galaxy!

Do weasels build spaceships?

You are too smart for me.

But you've got my number, you cute little huntress. Aloud he said: "Hermine does seem pretty smart. If she's not a double mute—telepathy and intelligence-what is she?"

"She's a full telepath—receive and transmit. A single mutation, but a potent one. Most telepaths are partial, being either readers or senders, with varying degrees of proficiency. In range of a human mind—her range is three or four meters, the power varying inversely with distance—she draws on the intelligence of that human mind, much as we draw on the abilities of computers. By herself, she is ordinary weasel intelligence."

"Fascinating. Did you pick up our mental conversation Just now?"

No.

"No," Finesse echoed. "She transmits on a narrow band, mind-to-mind. Close up she can send to anyone; from a distance she must target a particular mind, one she knows well. She can receive from a familiar mind at greater distances. But the other party has to be consciously projecting, and Hermine has to work at it. Right now she's in touch with you, not me; I have no idea what secrets you two are exchanging."

Is that true, Hermine?

Half-true, Knot. She isn't receiving, but she's guessing.

I don't want her to know my secret, Knot thought with a mental picture of a human face with a closed zipper in lieu of the mouth.

Nice man. Funny man. I won't tell. But she will know. She's very smart. Her thoughts are like the teeth of a carnosaur.

"I don't need to be a telepath to figure that out," Finesse said, frowning prettily. "You're making a deal to hide your paranormal power from me. But I'll have it anyway."

"So Hermine tells me. But you already have the leadmuter, who is potentially far more valuable to you than I could ever be. Can't you settle for that?"

"Let the animals play," she said. "They'll be all right."

Mit feels no threat, Hermine agreed. Put us on the ground.

Knot put his hands to the ground, and both weasel and crab moved into the grass.

Now Finesse leaned forward, treating him once more to the glimpse of her frontal charms. Her eyes were large and green, the prettiest Knot had seen in a long time. She was a marvel of appearance, and obviously knew it, and used her physical attributes to sway his mind. Knot was aware of all this, yet felt the impact. She was deliberately making him want her, and the strategy was working.

"I am here to interview you," she said. "The leadmuter was only a pretext. I'm not really an auditor; I'm a scout. The Coordination Computer is looking for someone, and suspects you may be that one."

"How did CC catch on that I have mental mutancy? I thought I had escaped detection."

"You are the son of a man who traveled in space within a year before you were born. That made you a potential mutant. The sperm of the male is affected by the radiation of deep space, so that for up to three months thereafter, until the affected reservoir is used up, the offspring_"

"And I am a mutant, as is plainly evident," Knot said. He put his hands together, making obvious the disparity in their sizes and configurations. "Here I am working in a mutant enclave, doing a satisfactory Job—"

"More than satisfactory," she said. "Enclave MM58 is, as you surmised, number one on the index for client adjustment. That points right to the placement officer."

"So I'm doing a good job, then. An excellent job, A superlative job—whatever you will. I happen to have empathy, a feel for the needs of mutants, and I like my work. I like helping people. This is no psi-power; it is just personality and inclination and effort. And luck. Next year some other enclave will be number one, when one of its gardeners discovers a diamond mine in the barren soil and it can suddenly afford to cater to all its outré whims, and its placement officer will seem suddenly more talented—while simultaneously our own enclave has to make do without our illicit income from transmuted gold. A great fat huge lot that will prove!"

Finesse was watching him, smiling. That only spurred him to further commitment. "I empathize with mutants because I am one, and I work hard to make my clients comfortable. Had you been a client, I would have worked just as hard for you, to place you where you would do best and be happiest. This is the one job I am really fitted for. Why should CC want to take me away?"

"You're beautiful when you're earnest," Finesse said, stroking the side of his face. "Maybe your psi talent is not useful elsewhere in the galaxy. Why don't you just tell me what it is and let me form an opinion? I can't make the decision, of course, but I am a trained interviewer, just as you are, and I might be able to provide some hint how CC will react."

There was a kind of exhilaration he obtained from fencing with another person in his specialty. Knot interviewed physical mutants and placed them compatibly; she did the same for mental mutants. But this time he was the subject, and he did not want to be placed. "Why don't you just kiss me and slap me and go home in a huff?"

"I'll try," she agreed. She stood, kissed him on the lips, slapped him lightly on the cheek—and remained blithely looking at him. "Give me a nudge. I haven't quite mastered the third action yet."

Is she really as seducible as she seems? Knot thought fiercely at the weasel, not certain whether the little animal remained in range.

"Of course I am," Finesse said.

He started. "Oh—Hermine broadcast to you instead of to me?"

"She knows me better. She decided I would want to make that particular decision for myself. Most females do, regardless of what they profess openly, and she's one of us. Not that I needed any telepathy to grasp that particular thought."

"You have encountered it before?" He felt jealous.

"Many times. That's par for the course. I hardly even need to work at it, any more; the signals come naturally. But what I really want at the moment is your secret—and Hermine, a pox on her secretive little heart, has not vouchsafed that to me."

"Suppose I ask her to report to me on your questions?"

"Be my guest."

Knot concentrated, seeking contact with the weasel. Finesse seemed to be doing the same. They were outside Hermine's immediate range, but within her general range.

Knot laughed, receiving the telepathic message. "Right now!" he said, and took Finesse in his arms.

Ellipsis, Hermine thought, and went back to the vole she was stalking.