most important, capable of receiving on its mile-longaxons, antennas of the very soul itself, every thought projected at itfrom any point in the solar system. The housing gleamed blindingly inthe sun of high noon, as perfect as the day it had been completed. Thatsurface was designed to repel all but the most unusual of the radiationbarrages that could bring on subtle changes in the brain within. Thebreakdown, he thought bitterly, would take too many centuries toconsider.
He turned away and headed into an Employment Exchange. The man behindthe desk there was a Suspended, too, and showed himself to besympathetically understanding as soon as he studied the applicationform. "ParaNormal until a few months ago," he nodded. "Tough change tomake, I guess."
Connor managed a little grin. "Maybe I'll be grateful it happened someday."
"A curious thought, to say the least." He glanced down the applicationagain. "Always some kind of work available although there do seem to bemore Suspendeds all the time. Robot repair--that's good! Always ashortage there."
So Connor went to work in a large building downtown along with severalhundred other men whose principal duty was overseeing the repair ofrobot servitors by other servitors and rectifying any minor errors thatpersisted. He was pleased to find that, while some of his fellow workmenknew much more about the work than he did, there were as many who knewless. But the most pleasing thing of all was the way they cooperatedwith one another. They could not reach directly into each other's mindsbut the very denial of this power gave them a sense of common need.
* * *
He visited Newbridge once a week and that, too, proved increasinglyhelpful. As time went on, he found he was spending less of it regrettingwhat he had lost. But once in a while a paraNormal came through theworkshop, eyes moving past the Suspendeds as if they did not exist andthe old resentment would return in all its bitterness. And when hehimself did not feel this way he could still sense it in men around him.
"Perfectly natural way to feel," Rhoda said, "not that it serves anypurpose."
"It's paraNormal lack of reaction," he tried to explain, "that's whatreally bothers me. They don't even bother to notice our hatred becausewe have the strength of insects next to theirs. They can all draw oneach others' resources and that totals to infinitely more than any of ushave, even if as individuals they're so much less. The perfect form ofsecurity."
But for a moment one day that security seemed to be collapsing. Abovethe work floor in Connor's factory there was a gallery of small butluxurious offices in which the executive staff of paraNormals 'worked.'None of them came in more than two days a week but use of these officeswas rotated among them so all were ordinarily occupied and workers,going upstairs to the stock depot, could see paraNormals in variousstages of relaxation. Usually the paraNormal kept his feet on a deskrest and, eyes closed, contemplated incoming entertainment. On rareroccasions he would be leaning over a document on the desk as his mindreceived the proper decision from Central.
This particular morning Connor was feeling bitterly envious as he wentby the offices. He had already seen seven smugly-similar faces when hecame by Room Eight. Suddenly the face of its occupant contorted inagony, then the man got up and paced about as if in a trap. Deciding hehad seen more than was good for him, Connor hurried on. But the man inNine was acting out the same curious drama. He quickly retraced hissteps, passing one scene of consternation after another, and went backdown to the work floor, wondering what it all meant.
Soon everybody knew something extraordinary was afoot as all theparaNormals swarmed noisily onto the runway overlooking the floor. Theywere shouting wordless sounds at each other, floundering about as theydid so. Then, with equal suddenness, everything was calm again and,faces more relaxed, they went back into their offices.
That evening Connor heard the same story everywhere--for ten minutes allparaNormals had gone berserk. On the monorail he noticed that, thoughstill more relaxed than their unwelcome fellows, they no longer exudedthat grating _absolute_ sense of security. No doubt about it--for a fewminutes something had gone wrong, completely wrong, with the CentralSystem. "I don't like it," Rhoda said. "Let's see Dr. Newbridgetomorrow."
"I'll bet it's a good sign."
Newbridge, though, was also worried when they got to see him. "They'relosing some of their self-confidence," he said, "and that means they'regoing to start noticing us. Figure it out, Newman, about one-third thepopulation of Earth--nobody can get exact figures--is outside theSystem. The paraNormals will want to reduce our numbers if morebreakdowns take place. I'll have to go into hiding soon."
"But why you of all people?" Connor protested.
"Because I and a few thousand others like me represent not only analternative way of life--all Suspendeds do that--but we possess moreintensive knowledge for rehabilitating society after Central's collapse.That collapse may come much sooner than we've been expecting. When itdoes we're going to have enormous hordes of paras milling around,helplessly waiting to learn how to think for themselves again. Well,when we finally reach the telepath stage next time we'll have to manageit better." He took out an envelope. "If anything happens to me, thiscontains the names of some people you're to contact."
"Why don't you come to our place now?" asked Rhoda. "We'll still be ableto hold it for a few more months."
"Can't go yet, too many things to clear up. But maybe later." He roseand extended his hand to them. "Anyway it's a kind--and brave--offer."
"Sounds overly melodramatic to me," Connor said when they were outside."Who'd want to harm a psychiatric worker with no knowledge except what'sin his head and his personal library?"
* * *
But he stopped harping on the point when they reached the monorailstation. Three Suspendeds, obviously better educated than most, werebeing led away by a large group of paraNormals. The paraNormals hadtheir smug expressions back but there was a strange gleam ofdetermination in their eyes. "Sometimes life itself gets overlymelodramatic," Rhoda said nervously.
The possible fate of these arrested men haunted him all the way home asdid the hostile stares of the people in the monorail car. At home,though, there was the momentary consolation of a pair of letters fromthe boys. There was little information in them but they did at leastconvey in every line love for their parents.
But even this consolation did not last long. Why, Connor muttered tohimself, did they have to wait for letters when telephone and radiosystems could have eased their loneliness so much more effectively?Because the paras did not need such systems and their needs were theonly ones that mattered! His fingers itched to achieve something moresubstantial than the work, now childishly routine, that he was doing atthe factory. Just from studying Max he knew he could devise suchworkable communication systems. But all that was idle daydreaming--itwouldn't be in his lifetime.
The next morning Rhoda insisted they go back into the city to try oncemore to persuade Newbridge to leave. When they arrived at the HarkerBuilding it seemed strangely quiet. The few people who were about keptavoiding each others' glances and they found themselves alone in theelevator to the 96th level. But Miss Richards, the doctor'snurse-secretary, was standing in the corridor as they got out. She wastrembling and found it difficult to talk. "Don't--don't go in," shestuttered. "No help now."
He pushed past her, took one glance at the fire-charred consulting roomwhere a few blackened splinters of bone remained and turned away,leading the two women to the elevator. At first Miss Richards did notwant to go but he forced her to come along. "You have to get away fromhere--can't do any good for him now."
She sucked in air desperately, blinked back her tears and nodded. "Therewas another ten-minute breakdown this morning. A lot of paraNormalspanicked and a vigilante pack came here to fire-blast the Doctor. Theysaid I'd be next if things got any worse."
Connor pinched his forehead to hold back his own anguish, then pulledout a sheet of paper. "Dr. Newbridge was afraid of something like this.He gave me a list of names."
"I know, Mr. N
ewman, I know them by heart."
"Shouldn't we try to contact one of them?"
As they came out into the street, she stopped and thought a moment."Crane would be the easiest to reach. He's an untitled psychiatrist andone of the alternate leaders for the underground."
"Underground?"
"Oh, they tried to be prepared for every eventual--"
"It's impossible!" Rhoda broke in. She had been looking up and down thegreat avenue as they talked. "There isn't one person in the street, notone!"
An abandoned robot cab stood at the curb and he