Free Dreaming Jewels by Theodore Sturgeon Page B

Anyway, you’ve been here too long,” she added, her voice suddenly gentle. “You should have left before—a year ago, two years, maybe.” She handed him a clean blouse.
    “But why do I have to?” he asked pitiably.
    “Call it a hunch, though it isn’t really. You wouldn’t get through that appointment with the Maneater tomorrow. You’ve got to get out of here and stay out.”
    “I can’t go!” he said, childishly protesting even as he obeyed her. “What are you going to tell the Maneater?”
    “You had a telegram from your cousin, or some such thing. Leave it to me. You won’t ever have to worry about it.”
    “Not ever—can’t I ever come back?”
    “If you ever see the Maneater again, you turn and run. Hide. Do anything, but never let him near you as long as you live.”
    “What about you, Zee? I’ll never see you again!” He zipped up the side of a grey pleated skirt and held still for Zee’s deft application of eyebrow pencil.
    “Yes you will,” she said softly. “Some day. Some way. Write to me and tell me where you are.”
    “Write to you? Suppose the Maneater should get my letter? Would that be all right?”
    “It would not.” She sat down, casting a woman’s absent, accurate appraisal over Horty. “Write to Havana. A penny postcard. Don’t sign it. Pick it out on a typewriter. Advertise something—hats or haircuts, or some such. Put your return address on it but transpose each pair of numbers. Will you remember that?”
    “I’ll remember,” said Horty vaguely.
    “I know you will. You never forget anything. You know what you’re going to learn now, Horty?”
    “What?”
    “You’re going to learn to use what you know. You’re just a child now. If you were anyone else, I’d say you were a case of arrested development. But all the books we’ve read and studied… you remember your anatomy, Horty? And the physiology?”
    “Sure, and the science and history and music and all that. Zee, what am I going to do out there? I got nobody to tell me anything!”
    “You’ll have to tell yourself now.”
    “I don’t know what to do first!” he wailed.
    “Honey, honey…” She came to him and kissed his forehead and the tip of his nose. “You walk out to the highway, see? And stay out of sight. Go down the road about a quarter of a mile and flag a bus. Don’t ride in anything else but a bus. When you get to town wait at the station until about nine o’clock in the morning and then find yourself a room in a rooming house. A quiet one on a small street. Don’t spend too much money. Get yourself a job as soon as you can. You better be a boy, so the Maneater won’t know where to look.”
    “Am I going to grow?” he asked, voicing the professional fear of all midgets.
    “Maybe. That depends. Don’t go looking for Kay and that Armand creature until you’re ready for it.”
    “How will I know when I’m ready?”
    “You’ll know. Got your bankbook? Keep on banking by mail, the way you always have. Got enough money? Good. You’ll be all right, Horty. Don’t ask anyone for anything. Don’t tell anyone anything. Do things for yourself, or do without.”
    “I don’t—belong out there,” he muttered.
    “I know. You will, though; just the way you came to belong here. You’ll see.”
    Moving gracefully and easily on high heels, Horty went to the door. “Well, good-by, Zee. I—I wish I—Couldn’t you come with me?”
    She shook her glossy dark head. “I wouldn’t dare, Kiddo. I’m the only human being the Maneater talks to—really talks to. And I’ve—got to watch what he’s doing.”
    “Oh.” He never asked what he should not ask. Childish, helpless, implicitly obedient, the exact, functional product of his environment, he gave her a frightened smile and turned to the door. “Good bye, honey,” she whispered, smiling.
    When he had gone she sank down on his bunk and cried. She cried all night. It was not until the next morning that she remembered Junky’s