{"id":24966,"date":"2025-11-06T15:10:13","date_gmt":"2025-11-06T19:10:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=24966"},"modified":"2025-11-06T15:10:16","modified_gmt":"2025-11-06T19:10:16","slug":"philip-k-dick-the-golden-man","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/philip-k-dick-the-golden-man\/24966\/","title":{"rendered":"Philip K. Dick: The Golden Man"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis:<\/strong> \u201cThe Golden Man\u201d is a short story by Philip K. Dick, published in April 1954 in If<\/em> magazine. In a post-war world, humans face a disturbing threat: mutants with genetic abilities that give them strange and dangerous powers. George Baines, a government agent, is tasked with tracking down and eliminating these beings. His mission takes him to a remote farm where Cris, a young man of extraordinary beauty with golden skin and hair, lives. His silent presence hides an incomprehensible power that will test Baines’ effectiveness and the system’s ability to control mutants.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Philip<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

The Golden Man<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Philip K. Dick
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs it always hot like this?\u201d the salesman demanded. He addressed everybody at the lunch counter and in the shabby booths against the wall. A middle-aged fat man with a good-natured smile, rumpled gray suit, sweat-stained white shirt, a drooping bow tie, and a panama hat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOnly in the summer,\u201d the waitress answered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

None of the others stirred. The teen-age boy and girl in one of the booths, eyes fixed intently on each other. Two workmen, sleeves rolled up, arms dark and hairy, eating bean soup and rolls. A lean, weathered farmer. An elderly businessman in a blue-serge suit, vest and pocket watch. A dark rat-faced cab driver drinking coffee. A tired woman who had come in to get off her feet and put down her bundles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The salesman got out a package of cigarettes. He glanced curiously around the dingy caf\u00e9, lit up, leaned his arms on the counter, and said to the man next to him, \u201cWhat\u2019s the name of this town?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man grunted. \u201cWalnut Creek.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The salesman sipped at his Coke for a while, his cigarette held loosely between his plump white fingers. Presently he reached in his coat and brought out a leather wallet. For a long time he leafed thoughtfully through cards and papers, bits of notes, ticket stubs, endless odds and ends, soiled fragments\u2014and finally a photograph.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He grinned at the photograph, and then began to chuckle, a low moist rasp. \u201cLook at this,\u201d he said to the man beside him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man went on reading his newspaper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHey, look at this.\u201d The salesman nudged him with his elbow and pushed the photograph at him. \u201cHow\u2019s that strike you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Annoyed, the man glanced briefly at the photograph. It showed a nude woman, from the waist up. Perhaps thirty-five years old. Face turned away. Body white and flabby. With eight breasts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEver seen anything like that?\u201d the salesman chuckled, his little red eyes dancing. His face broke into lewd smiles and again he nudged the man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve seen that before.\u201d Disgusted, the man resumed reading his newspaper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The salesman noticed the lean old farmer was looking at the picture. He passed it genially over to him. \u201cHow\u2019s that strike you, Pop? Pretty good stuff, eh?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The farmer examined the picture solemnly. He turned it over, studied the creased back, took a second look at the front, then tossed it to the salesman. It slid from the counter, turned over a couple of times, and fell to the floor face up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The salesman picked it up and brushed it off. Carefully, almost tenderly, he restored it to his wallet. The waitress\u2019 eyes flickered as she caught a glimpse of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDamn nice,\u201d the salesman observed, with a wink. \u201cWouldn\u2019t you say so?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The waitress shrugged indifferently. \u201cI don\u2019t know. I saw a lot of them around Denver. A whole colony.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s where this was taken. Denver DCA Camp.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAny still alive?\u201d the farmer asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The salesman laughed harshly. \u201cYou kidding?\u201d He made a short, sharp swipe with his hand. \u201cNot any more.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


They were all listening. Even the high-school kids in the booth had stopped holding hands and were sitting up straight, eyes wide with fascination.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSaw a funny kind down near San Diego,\u201d the farmer said. \u201cLast year, some time. Had wings like a bat. Skin, not feathers. Skin and bone wings.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The rat-eyed taxi driver chimed in. \u201cThat\u2019s nothing. There was a two-headed one in Detroit. I saw it on exhibit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWas it alive?\u201d the waitress asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo. They\u2019d already euthed it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIn sociology,\u201d the high-school boy spoke up, \u201cwe saw tapes of a whole lot of them. The winged kind from down south, the big-headed one they found in Germany, an awful-looking one with sort of cones, like an insect. And\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe worst of all,\u201d the elderly businessman stated, \u201care those English ones. That hid out in the coal mines. The ones they didn\u2019t find until last year.\u201d He shook his head. \u201cForty years, down there in the mines, breeding and developing. Almost a hundred of them. Survivors from a group that went underground during the war.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey just found a new kind in Sweden,\u201d the waitress said. \u201cI was reading about it. Controls minds at a distance, they said. Only a couple of them. The DCA got there plenty fast.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a variation of the New Zealand type,\u201d one of the workmen said. \u201cIt reads minds.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cReading and controlling are two different things,\u201d the businessman said. \u201cWhen I hear something like that I\u2019m plenty glad there\u2019s the DCA.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere was a type they found right after the war,\u201d the farmer said. \u201cIn Siberia. Had the ability to control objects. Psychokinetic ability. The Soviet DCA got it right away. Nobody remembers that any more.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI remember that,\u201d the businessman said. \u201cI was just a kid, then. I remember because that was the first deeve I ever heard of. My father called me into the living room and told me and my brothers and sisters. We were still rebuilding the house. That was in the days when the DCA inspected everyone and stamped their arms.\u201d He held up his thin, gnarled wrist. \u201cI was stamped there, sixty years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNow they just have the birth inspection,\u201d the waitress said. She shivered. \u201cThere was one in San Francisco this month. First in over a year. They thought it was over, around here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s been dwindling,\u201d the taxi driver said. \u201cFrisco wasn\u2019t too bad hit. Not like some. Not like Detroit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey still get ten or fifteen a year in Detroit,\u201d the high-school boy said. \u201cAll around there. Lots of pools still left. People go into them, in spite of the robot signs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat kind was this one?\u201d the salesman asked. \u201cThe one they found in San Francisco.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The waitress gestured. \u201cCommon type. The kind with no toes. Bent over. Big eyes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe nocturnal type,\u201d the salesman said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe mother had hid it. They say it was three years old. She got the doctor to forge the DCA chit. Old friend of the family.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The salesman had finished his Coke. He sat playing idly with his cigarette, listening to the hum of talk he had set into motion. The high-school boy was leaning excitedly toward the girl across from him, impressing her with his fund of knowledge. The lean farmer and the businessman were huddled together, remembering the old days, the last years of the war, before the first Ten-Year Reconstruction Plan. The taxi driver and the two workmen were swapping yarns about their own experiences.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The salesman caught the waitress\u2019 attention. \u201cI guess,\u201d he said thoughtfully, \u201cthat one in Frisco caused quite a stir. Something like that happening so close.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d the waitress murmured.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis side of the bay wasn\u2019t really hit,\u201d the salesman continued. \u201cYou never get any of them over here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo.\u201d The waitress moved abruptly. \u201cNone in this area. Ever.\u201d She scooped up dirty dishes from the counter and headed toward the back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNever?\u201d the salesman asked, surprised. \u201cYou\u2019ve never had any deeves on this side of the bay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo. None.\u201d She disappeared into the back, where the fry cook stood by his burners, white apron and tattooed wrists. Her voice was a little too loud, a little too harsh and strained. It made the farmer pause suddenly and glance up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Silence dropped like a curtain. All sound cut off instantly. They were all gazing down at their food, suddenly tense and ominous.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNone around here,\u201d the taxi driver said, loudly and clearly, to no one in particular. \u201cNone ever.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSure,\u201d the salesman agreed genially. \u201cI was only\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMake sure you get that straight,\u201d one of the workmen said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The salesman blinked. \u201cSure, buddy. Sure.\u201d He fumbled nervously in his pocket. A quarter and a dime jangled to the floor and he hurriedly scooped them up. \u201cNo offense.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a moment there was silence. Then the high-school boy spoke up, aware for the first time that nobody was saying anything. \u201cI heard something,\u201d he began eagerly, voice full of importance. \u201cSomebody said they saw something up by the Johnson farm that looked like it was one of those\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShut up<\/em>,\u201d the businessman said, without turning his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Scarlet-faced, the boy sagged in his seat. His voice wavered and broke off. He peered hastily down at his hands and swallowed unhappily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The salesman paid the waitress for his Coke. \u201cWhat\u2019s the quickest road to Frisco?\u201d he began. But the waitress had already turned her back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The people at the counter were immersed in their food. None of them looked up. They ate in frozen silence. Hostile, unfriendly faces, intent on their food.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The salesman picked up his bulging brief case, pushed open the screen door, and stepped out into the blazing sunlight. He moved toward his battered 1978 Buick, parked a few meters up. A blue-shirted traffic cop was standing in the shade of an aiming, talking languidly to a young woman in a yellow silk dress that clung moistly to her slim body.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The salesman paused a moment before he got into his car. He waved his hand and hailed the policeman. \u201cSay, you know this town pretty good?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The policeman eyed the salesman\u2019s rumpled gray suit, bow tie, his sweat-stained shirt. The out-of-state license. \u201cWhat do you want?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m looking for the Johnson farm,\u201d the salesman said. \u201cHere to see him about some litigation.\u201d He moved toward the policeman, a small white card between his fingers. \u201cI\u2019m his attorney\u2014from the New York Guild. Can you tell me how to get out there? I haven\u2019t been through here in a couple of years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nat Johnson gazed up at the noonday sun and saw that it was good. He sat sprawled out on the bottom step of the porch, a pipe between his yellowed teeth, a lithe, wiry man in red-checkered shirt and canvas jeans, powerful hands, iron-gray hair that was still thick despite sixty-five years of active life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was watching the children play. Jean rushed laughing in front of him, bosom heaving under her sweat shirt, black hair streaming behind her. She was sixteen, bright-eyed, legs strong and straight, slim young body bent slightly forward with the weight of the two horseshoes. After her scampered Dave, fourteen, white teeth and black hair, a handsome boy, a son to be proud of. Dave caught up with his sister, passed her, and reached the far peg. He stood waiting, legs apart, hands on his hips, his two horseshoes gripped easily. Gasping, Jean hurried toward him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGo ahead!\u201d Dave shouted. \u201cYou shoot first. I\u2019m waiting for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo you can knock them away?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo I can knock them closer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jean tossed down one horseshoe and gripped the other with both hands, eyes on the distant peg. Her lithe body bent, one leg slid back, her spine arched. She took careful aim, closed one eye, and then expertly tossed the shoe. With a clang the shoe struck the distant peg, circled briefly around it, then bounced off again and rolled to one side. A cloud of dust rolled up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot bad,\u201d Nat Johnson admitted, from his step. \u201cToo hard, though. Take it easy.\u201d His chest swelled with pride as the girl\u2019s glistening, healthy body took aim and again threw. Two powerful, handsome children, almost ripe, on the verge of adulthood. Playing together in the hot sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And there was Cris.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris stood by the porch, arms folded. He wasn\u2019t playing. He was watching. He had stood there since Dave and Jean had begun playing, the same half-intent, half-remote expression on his finely cut face. As if he were seeing past them, beyond the two of them. Beyond the field, the barn, the creek bed, the rows of cedars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome on, Cris!\u201d Jean called, as she and Dave moved across the field to collect their horseshoes. \u201cDon\u2019t you want to play?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No, Cris didn\u2019t want to play. He never played. He was off in a world of his own, a world into which none of them could come. He never joined in anything, games or chores or family activities. He was by himself always. Remote, detached, aloof. Seeing past everyone and everything\u2014that is, until all at once something clicked and he momentarily rephased, re-entered their world briefly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Nat Johnson reached out and knocked his pipe against the step. He refilled it from his leather tobacco pouch, his eyes on his eldest son. Cris was now moving into life. Heading out onto the field. He walked slowly, arms folded calmly, as if he had for the moment descended from his own world into theirs. Jean didn\u2019t see him; she had turned her back and was getting ready to pitch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHey,\u201d Dave said, startled. \u201cHere\u2019s Cris.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris reached his sister, stopped, and held out his hand. A great dignified figure, calm and impassive. Uncertainly, Jean gave him one of the horseshoes. \u201cYou want this? You want to play?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris said nothing. He bent slightly, a supple arc of his incredibly graceful body, then moved his arm in a blur of speed. The shoe sailed, struck the far peg, and dizzily spun around it. Ringer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The corners of Dave\u2019s mouth turned down. \u201cWhat a lousy darn thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCris,\u201d Jean reproved, \u201cyou don\u2019t play fair.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No, Cris didn\u2019t play fair. He had watched half an hour\u2014then come out and thrown once. One perfect toss, one dead ringer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe never makes a mistake,\u201d Dave complained.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris stood, face blank. A golden statue in the midday sun. Golden hair, skin, a light down of gold fuzz on his bare arms and legs\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Abruptly he stiffened. Nat sat up, startled. \u201cWhat is it?\u201d he barked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris turned in a quick circle, magnificent body alert. \u201cCris!\u201d Jean demanded. \u201cWhat\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris shot forward. Like a released energy beam he bounded across the field, over the fence, into the barn and out the other side. His flying figure seemed to skim over the dry grass as he descended into the barren creek bed, between the cedars. A momentary flash of gold\u2014and he was gone. Vanished. There was no sound. No motion. He had utterly melted into the scenery.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat was it this time?\u201d Jean asked wearily. She came over to her father and threw herself down in the shade. Sweat glowed on her smooth neck and upper lip; her sweat shirt was streaked and damp. \u201cWhat did he see?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe was after something,\u201d Dave stated, coming up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nat grunted. \u201cMaybe. There\u2019s no telling.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI guess I better tell Mom not to set a place for him,\u201d Jean said. \u201cHe probably won\u2019t be back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anger and futility descended over Nat Johnson. No, he wouldn\u2019t be back. Not for dinner and probably not the next day\u2014or the one after that. He\u2019d be gone God only knew how long. Or where. Or why. Off by himself, alone some place. \u201cIf I thought there was any use,\u201d Nat began, \u201cI\u2019d send you two after him. But there\u2019s no\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He broke off. A car was coming up the dirt road toward the farmhouse. A dusty, battered old Buick. Behind the wheel sat a plump red-faced man in a gray suit, who waved cheerfully at them as the car sputtered to a stop and the motor died into silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


\u201cAfternoon,\u201d the man nodded, as he climbed out of the car. He tipped his hat pleasantly. He was middle-aged, genial-looking, perspiring freely as he crossed the dry ground toward the porch. \u201cMaybe you folks can help me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d Nat Johnson demanded hoarsely. He was frightened. He watched the creek bed out of the corner of his eye, praying silently. God, if only he stayed away. Jean was breathing quickly, sharp little gasps. She was terrified. Dave\u2019s face was expressionless, but all color had drained from it. \u201cWho are you?\u201d Nat demanded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cName\u2019s Baines. George Baines.\u201d The man held out his hand but Johnson ignored it. \u201cMaybe you\u2019ve heard of me. I own the Pacifica Development Corporation. We built all those little bomb-proof houses just outside town. Those little round ones you see as you come up the main highway from Lafayette.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d Johnson held his hands steady with an effort. He\u2019d never heard of the man, although he\u2019d noticed the housing tract. It couldn\u2019t be missed\u2014a great ant heap of ugly pillboxes straddling the highway. Baines looked like the kind of man who\u2019d own them. But what did he want here?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve bought some land up this way,\u201d Baines was explaining. He rattled a sheaf of crisp papers. \u201cThis is the deed, but I\u2019ll be damned if I can find it.\u201d He grinned good-naturedly. \u201cI know it\u2019s around this way, some place, this side of the state road. According to the clerk at the County Recorder\u2019s Office, a mile or so this side of that hill over there. But I\u2019m no damn good at reading maps.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt isn\u2019t around here,\u201d Dave broke in. \u201cThere\u2019s only farms around here. Nothing for sale.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is a farm, son,\u201d Baines said genially. \u201cI bought it for myself and my missus. So we could settle down.\u201d He wrinkled his pug nose. \u201cDon\u2019t get the wrong idea\u2014I\u2019m not putting up any tracts around here. This is strictly for myself. An old farmhouse, twenty acres, a pump and a few oak trees\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet me see the deed.\u201d Johnson grabbed the sheaf of papers, and while Baines blinked in astonishment, he leafed rapidly through them. His face hardened and he handed them back. \u201cWhat are you up to? This deed is for a parcel fifty miles from here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFifty miles!\u201d Baines was dumbfounded. \u201cNo kidding? But the clerk told me\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Johnson was on his feet. He towered over the fat man. He was in top-notch physical shape\u2014and he was plenty damn suspicious. \u201cClerk, hell. You get back into your car and drive out of here. I don\u2019t know what you\u2019re after, or what you\u2019re here for, but I want you off my land.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In Johnson\u2019s massive fist something sparkled. A metal tube that gleamed ominously in the midday sunlight. Baines saw it\u2014and gulped. \u201cNo offense, mister.\u201d He backed nervously away. \u201cYou folks sure are touchy. Take it easy, will you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Johnson said nothing. He gripped the lash-tube tighter and waited for the fat man to leave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But Baines lingered. \u201cLook, buddy. I\u2019ve been driving around this furnace five hours, looking for my damn place. Any objection to my using your\u2014facilities?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Johnson eyed him with suspicion. Gradually the suspicion turned to disgust. He shrugged. \u201cDave, show him where the bathroom is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThanks.\u201d Baines grinned thankfully. \u201cAnd if it wouldn\u2019t be too much trouble, maybe a glass of water. I\u2019d be glad to pay you for it.\u201d He chuckled knowingly. \u201cNever let the city people get away with anything, eh?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cChrist.\u201d Johnson turned away in revulsion as the fat man lumbered after his son, into the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDad,\u201d Jean whispered. As soon as Baines was inside she hurried up onto the porch, eyes wide with fear. \u201cDad, do you think he\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Johnson put his arm around her. \u201cJust hold on tight. He\u2019ll be gone, soon.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The girl\u2019s dark eyes flashed with mute terror. \u201cEvery time the man from the water company, or the tax collector, some tramp, children, anybody come around, I get a terrible stab of pain\u2014here.\u201d She clutched at her heart, hand against her breasts. \u201cIt\u2019s been that way eighteen years. How much longer can we keep it going? How long?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


he man named Baines emerged gratefully from the bathroom. Dave Johnson stood silently by  moved<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the door, body rigid, youthful face stony.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThanks, son,\u201d Baines sighed. \u201cNow where can I get a glass of cold water?\u201d He smacked his thick lips in anticipation. \u201cAfter you\u2019ve been driving around the sticks looking for a dump some red-hot real-estate agent stuck you with\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dave headed into the kitchen. \u201cMom, this man wants a drink of water. Dad said he could have it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dave had turned his back. Baines caught a brief glimpse of the mother, gray-haired, small, moving toward the sink with a glass, face withered and drawn, without expression.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then Baines hurried from the room, down a hall. He passed through a bedroom, pulled a door open, found himself facing a closet. He turned and raced back, through the living room, into a dining room, then another bedroom. In a brief instant he had gone through the whole house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He peered out a window. The back yard. Remains of a rusting truck. Entrance of an underground bomb shelter. Tin cans. Chickens scratching around. A dog, asleep under a shed. A couple of old auto tires.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He found a door leading out. Soundlessly, he tore the door open and stepped outside. No one was in sight. There was a barn, a leaning, ancient wood structure. Cedar trees beyond, a creek of some kind. What had once been an outhouse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Baines moved cautiously around the side of the house. He had perhaps thirty seconds. He had left the door of the bathroom closed; the boy would think he had gone back in there. Baines looked into the house through a window. A large closet, filled with old clothing, boxes and bundles of magazines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He turned and started back. He reached the corner of the house and started around it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nat Johnson\u2019s gaunt shape loomed up and blocked his way. \u201cAll right, Baines. You asked for it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A pink flash blossomed. It shut out the sunlight in a single blinding burst. Baines leaped back and clawed at his coat pocket. The edge of the flash caught him and he half-fell, stunned by the force. His suit-shield sucked in the energy and discharged it, but the power rattled his teeth and for a moment he jerked like a puppet on a string. Darkness ebbed around him. He could feel the mesh of the shield glow white, as it absorbed the energy and fought to control it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His own tube came out\u2014and Johnson had no shield. \u201cYou\u2019re under arrest,\u201d Baines muttered grimly. \u201cPut down your tube and your hands up. And call your family.\u201d He made a motion with the tube. \u201cCome on, Johnson. Make it snappy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The lash-tube wavered and then slipped from Johnson\u2019s fingers. \u201cYou\u2019re still alive.\u201d Dawning horror crept across his face. \u201cThen you must be\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dave and Jean appeared. \u201cDad!<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome over here,\u201d Baines ordered. \u201cWhere\u2019s your mother?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dave jerked his head numbly. \u201cInside.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGet her and bring her here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re DCA,\u201d Nat Johnson whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Baines didn\u2019t answer. He was doing something with his neck, pulling at the flabby flesh. The wiring of a contact mike glittered as he slipped it from a fold between two chins and into his pocket. From the dirt road came the sound of motors, sleek purrs that rapidly grew louder. Two teardrops of black metal came gliding up and parked beside the house. Men swarmed out, in the dark gray-green of the Government Civil Police. In the sky swarms of black dots were descending, clouds of ugly flies that darkened the sun as they spilled out men and equipment. The men drifted slowly down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s not here,\u201d Baines said, as the first man reached him. \u201cHe got away. Inform Wisdom back at the lab.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019ve got this section blocked off.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Baines turned to Nat Johnson, who stood in dazed silence, uncomprehending, his son and daughter beside him. \u201cHow did he know we were coming?\u201d Baines demanded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d Johnson muttered. \u201cHe just\u2014knew.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA telepath?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Baines shrugged. \u201cWe\u2019ll know, soon. A clamp is out, all around here. He can\u2019t get past, no matter what the hell he can do. Unless he can dematerialize himself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019ll you do with him when you\u2014if you catch him?\u201d Jean asked huskily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStudy him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd then kill him?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat depends on the lab evaluation. If you could give me more to work on, I could predict better.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe can\u2019t tell you anything. We don\u2019t know anything more.\u201d The girl\u2019s voice rose with desperation. \u201cHe doesn\u2019t talk.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Baines jumped. \u201cWhat?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe doesn\u2019t talk. He never talked to us. Ever.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow old is he?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEighteen.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo communication.\u201d Baines was sweating. \u201cIn eighteen years there hasn\u2019t been any semantic bridge between you? Does he have any contact? Signs? Codes?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2014ignores us. He eats here, stays with us. Sometimes he plays when we play. Or sits with us. He\u2019s gone days on end. We\u2019ve never been able to find out what he\u2019s doing\u2014or where. He sleeps in the barn\u2014by himself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs he really gold-colored?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSkin, as well as hair?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSkin, eyes, hair, nails. Everything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd he\u2019s large? Well-formed?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was a moment before the girl answered. A strange emotion stirred her drawn features, a momentary glow. \u201cHe\u2019s incredibly beautiful. A god. A god come down to earth.\u201d Her lips twisted. \u201cYou won\u2019t find him. He can do things. Things you have no comprehension of. Powers so far beyond your limited\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t think we\u2019ll get him?\u201d Baines frowned. \u201cMore teams are landing all the time. You\u2019ve never seen an Agency clamp in operation. We\u2019ve had sixty years to work out all the bugs. If he gets away it\u2019ll be the first time\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Baines broke off abruptly. Three men were quickly approaching the porch. Two green-clad Civil Police. And a third man between them. A man who moved silently, lithely, a faintly luminous shape that towered above them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCris!<\/em>\u201d Jean screamed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe got him,\u201d one of the police said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Baines fingered his lash-tube uneasily. \u201cWhere? How?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe gave himself up,\u201d the policeman answered, voice full of awe. \u201cHe came to us voluntarily. Look at him. He\u2019s like a metal statue. Like some sort of\u2014god.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The golden figure halted for a moment beside Jean. Then it turned slowly, calmly, to face Baines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCris!\u201d Jean shrieked. \u201cWhy did you come back?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The same thought was eating at Baines, too. He shoved it aside\u2014for the time being. \u201cIs the jet out front?\u201d he demanded quickly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cReady to go,\u201d one of the CP answered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFine.\u201d Baines strode past them, down the steps and onto the dirt field. \u201cLet\u2019s go. I want him taken directly to the lab.\u201d For a moment he studied the massive figure who stood calmly between the two Civil Policemen. Beside him, they seemed to have shrunk, become ungainly and repellent. Like dwarfs\u2026 What had Jean said? A god come to earth. Baines broke angrily away. \u201cCome on,\u201d he muttered brusquely. \u201cThis one may be tough; we\u2019ve never run up against one like it before. We don\u2019t know what the hell it can do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


The chamber was empty, except for the seated figure. Four bare walls, floor and ceiling. A steady glare of white light relentlessly etched every corner of the chamber. Near the top of the far wall ran a narrow slot, the view windows through which the interior of the chamber was scanned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The seated figure was quiet. He hadn\u2019t moved since the chamber locks had slid into place, since the heavy bolts had fallen from outside and the rows of bright-faced technicians had taken their places at the view windows. He gazed down at the floor, bent forward, hands clasped together, face calm, almost expressionless. In four hours he hadn\u2019t moved a muscle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell?\u201d Baines said. \u201cWhat have you learned?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wisdom grunted sourly. \u201cNot much. If we don\u2019t have him doped out in forty-eight hours we\u2019ll go ahead with the euth. We can\u2019t take any chances.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re thinking about the Tunis type,\u201d Baines said. He was, too. They had found ten of them, living in the ruins of the abandoned North African town. Their survival method was simple. They killed and absorbed other life forms, then imitated them and took their places. Chameleons, they were called. It had cost sixty lives before the last one was destroyed. Sixty top-level experts, highly trained DCA men.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAny clues?\u201d Baines asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s different as hell. This is going to be tough.\u201d Wisdom thumbed a pile of tape-spools. \u201cThis is the complete report, all the material we got from Johnson and his family. We pumped them with the psych-wash, then let them go home. Eighteen years\u2014and no semantic bridge. Yet, he looks fully developed. Mature at thirteen\u2014a shorter, faster life cycle than ours. But why the mane? All the gold fuzz? Like a Roman monument that\u2019s been gilded.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHas the report come in from the analysis room? You had a wave-shot taken, of course.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHis brain pattern has been fully scanned. But it takes time for them to plot it out. We\u2019re all running around like lunatics while he just sits there!\u201d Wisdom poked a stubby finger at the window. \u201cWe caught him easily enough. He can\u2019t have much, can he? But I\u2019d like to know what it is. Before we euth him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaybe we should keep him alive until we know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEuth in forty-eight hours,\u201d Wisdom repeated stubbornly. \u201cWhether we know or not. I don\u2019t like him. He gives me the creeps.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wisdom stood chewing nervously on his cigar, a red-haired, beefy-faced man, thick and heavy-set, with a barrel chest and cold, shrewd eyes deep-set in his hard face. Ed Wisdom was Director of DCA\u2019s North American Branch. But right now he was worried. His tiny eyes darted back and forth, alarmed flickers of gray in his brutal, massive face. \u201cYou think,\u201d Baines said slowly, \u201cthis is it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI always think so,\u201d Wisdom snapped. \u201cI have to think so.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI mean\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know what you mean.\u201d Wisdom paced back and forth, among the study tables, technicians at their benches, equipment and humming computers. Buzzing tape slots and research hookups. \u201cThis thing lived eighteen years with his family and they don\u2019t understand it. They don\u2019t know what it has. They know what it does, but not how.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat does it do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt knows things.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat kind of things?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wisdom grabbed his lash-tube from his belt and tossed it on a table. \u201cHere.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHere.\u201d Wisdom signaled, and a view window was slid back an inch. \u201cShoot him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Baines blinked. \u201cYou said forty-eight hours.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With a curse. Wisdom snatched up the tube, aimed it through the window directly at the seated figure\u2019s back, and squeezed the trigger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A blinding flash of pink. A cloud of energy blossomed in the center of the chamber. It sparkled, then died into dark ash.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood God!\u201d Baines gasped. \u201cYou\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He broke off. The figure was no longer sitting. As Wisdom fired, it had moved in a blur of speed, away from the blast, to the corner of the chamber. Now it was slowly coming back, face blank, still absorbed in thought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFifth time,\u201d Wisdom said, as he put his tube away. \u201cLast time Jamison and I fired together. Missed. He knew exactly when the bolts would hit. And where.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Baines and Wisdom looked at each other. Both of them were thinking the same thing. \u201cBut even reading minds wouldn\u2019t tell him where they were going to hit,\u201d Baines said. \u201cWhen, maybe. But not where. Could you have called your own shots?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot mine,\u201d Wisdom answered flatly. \u201cI fired fast, damn near at random.\u201d He frowned. \u201cRandom<\/em>. We\u2019ll have to make a test of this.\u201d He waved a group of technicians over. \u201cGet a construction team up here. On the double.\u201d He grabbed paper and pen and began sketching.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


While construction was going on, Baines met his fianc\u00e9e in the lobby outside the lab, the great central lounge of the DCA Building.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow\u2019s it coming?\u201d she asked. Anita Ferris was tall and blonde, with blue eyes and a mature, carefully cultivated figure. An attractive, competent-looking woman in her late twenties. She wore a metal-foil dress and cape\u2014with a red and black stripe on the sleeve, the emblem of the A-Class. Anita was Director of the Semantics Agency, a top-level government co-ordinator. \u201cAnything of interest, this time?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPlenty.\u201d Baines guided her from the lobby into the dim recess of the bar. Music played softly in the background, a shifting variety of patterns formed mathematically. Dim shapes moved expertly through the gloom, from table to table. Silent, efficient robot waiters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As Anita sipped her Tom Collins, Baines outlined what they had found.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat are the chances,\u201d Anita asked slowly, \u201cthat he\u2019s built up some kind of deflection cone? There was one kind that warped their environment by direct mental effort. No tools. Direct mind to matter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPsychokinetics?\u201d Baines drummed restlessly on the table top. \u201cI doubt it. The thing has ability to predict, not to control. He can\u2019t stop the beams, but he can sure as hell get out of the way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDoes he jump between the molecules?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Baines wasn\u2019t amused. \u201cThis is serious. We\u2019ve handled these things sixty years\u2014longer than you and I have been around added together. Eighty-seven types of deviants have shown up, real mutants that could reproduce themselves, not mere freaks. This is the eighty-eighth. We\u2019ve been able to handle each of them in turn. But this\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy are you so worried about this one?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFirst, it\u2019s eighteen years old. That in itself is incredible. Its family managed to hide it that long.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThose women around Denver were older than that. Those ones with\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey were in a government camp. Somebody high up was toying with the idea of allowing them to breed. Some sort of industrial use. We withheld euth for years. But Cris Johnson stayed alive outside our control. Those things at Denver were under constant scrutiny.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaybe he\u2019s harmless. You always assume a deeve is a menace. He might even be beneficial. Somebody thought those women might work in. Maybe this thing has something that would advance the race.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhich<\/em> race? Not the human race. It\u2019s the old \u2018the operation was a success but the patient died\u2019 routine. If we introduce a mutant to keep us going it\u2019ll be mutants, not us, who\u2019ll inherit the earth. It\u2019ll be mutants surviving for their own sake. Don\u2019t think for a moment we can put padlocks on them and expect them to serve us. If they\u2019re really superior to Homo sapiens, they\u2019ll win out in even competition. To survive, we\u2019ve got to cold-deck them right from the start.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIn other words, we\u2019ll know Homo superior when he comes\u2014by definition. He\u2019ll be the one we won\u2019t be able to euth.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s about it,\u201d Baines answered. \u201cAssuming there is a Homo superior. Maybe there\u2019s just Homo peculiar. Homo with an improved line.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe Neanderthal probably thought the Cro-Magnon man had merely an improved line. A little more advanced ability to conjure up symbols and shape flint. From your description, this thing is more radical than a mere improvement.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis thing,\u201d Baines said slowly, \u201chas an ability to predict. So far, it\u2019s been able to stay alive. It\u2019s been able to cope with situations better than you or I could. How long do you think we\u2019d stay alive in that chamber, with energy beams blazing down at us? In a sense it\u2019s got the ultimate survival ability. If it can always be accurate\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A wall-speaker sounded. \u201cBaines, you\u2019re wanted in the lab. Get the hell out of the bar and upramp.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Baines pushed back his chair and got to his feet. \u201cCome along. You may be interested in seeing what Wisdom has got dreamed up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


A tight group of top-level DCA officials stood around in a circle, middle-aged, gray-haired, listening to a skinny youth in a white shirt and rolled-up sleeves explaining an elaborate cube of metal and plastic that filled the center of the view platform. From it jutted an ugly array of tube snouts, gleaming muzzles that disappeared into an intricate maze of wiring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis,\u201d the youth was saying briskly, \u201cis the first real test. It fires at random\u2014as nearly random as we can make it, at least. Weighted balls are thrown up in an air stream, then dropped free to fall back and cut relays. They can fall in almost any pattern. The thing fires according to their pattern. Each drop produces a new configuration of timing and position. Ten tubes, in all. Each will be in constant motion.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd nobody<\/em> knows how they\u2019ll fire?\u201d Anita asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNobody.\u201d Wisdom rubbed his thick hands together. \u201cMind-reading won\u2019t help him, not with this thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anita moved over to the view windows, as the cube was rolled into place. She gasped. \u201cIs that him?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d Baines asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anita\u2019s cheeks were flushed. \u201cWhy, I expected a\u2014a thing. My God, he\u2019s beautiful! Like a golden statue. Like a deity!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Baines laughed. \u201cHe\u2019s eighteen years old, Anita. Too young for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman was still peering through the view window. \u201cLook at him. Eighteen? I don\u2019t believe it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris Johnson sat in the center of the chamber, on the floor. A posture of contemplation, head bowed, arms folded, legs tucked under him. In the stark glare of the overhead lights his powerful body glowed and rippled, a shimmering figure of downy gold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPretty, isn\u2019t he?\u201d Wisdom muttered. \u201cAll right. Start it going.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re going to kill<\/em> him?\u201d Anita demanded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019re going to try.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut he\u2019s\u2014\u201d She broke off uncertainly. \u201cHe\u2019s not a monster. He\u2019s not like those others, those hideous things with two heads, or those insects. Or those awful things from Tunis.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is he, then?\u201d Baines asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know. But you can\u2019t just kill<\/em> him. It\u2019s terrible!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The cube clicked into life. The muzzles jerked, silently altered position. Three retracted, disappeared into the body of the cube. Others came out. Quickly, efficiently, they moved into position\u2014and abruptly, without warning, opened fire.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A staggering burst of energy fanned out, a complex pattern that altered each moment, different angles, different velocities, a bewildering blur that cracked from the windows down into the chamber.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The golden figure moved. He dodged back and forth, expertly avoiding the bursts of energy that seared around him on all sides. Rolling clouds of ash obscured him; he was lost in a mist of crackling fire and ash.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStop it!\u201d Anita shouted. \u201cFor God\u2019s sake, you\u2019ll destroy him!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The chamber was an inferno of energy. The figure had completely disappeared. Wisdom waited a moment, then nodded to the technicians operating the cube. They touched guide buttons and the muzzles slowed and died. Some sank back into the cube. All became silent. The works of the cube ceased humming.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris Johnson was still alive. He emerged from the settling clouds of ash, blackened and singed. But unhurt. He had avoided each beam. He had weaved between them and among them as they came, a dancer leaping over glittering sword-points of pink fire. He had survived.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Wisdom murmured, shaken and grim. \u201cNot a telepath. Those were at random. No prearranged pattern.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


The three of them looked at each other, dazed and frightened. Anita was trembling. Her face was pale and her blue eyes were wide. \u201cWhat, then?\u201d She whispered, \u201cWhat is it? What does he have?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s a good guesser,\u201d Wisdom suggested.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s not guessing,\u201d Baines answered. \u201cDon\u2019t kid yourself. That\u2019s the whole point.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, he\u2019s not guessing.\u201d Wisdom nodded slowly. \u201cHe knew. He predicted each strike. I wonder\u2026 Can<\/em> he err? Can he make a mistake?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe caught him,\u201d Baines pointed out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou said he came back voluntarily.\u201d There was a strange look on Wisdom\u2019s face. \u201cDid he come back after<\/em> the clamp was up?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Baines jumped. \u201cYes, after.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe couldn\u2019t have got through the clamp. So he came back.\u201d Wisdom grinned wryly. \u201cThe clamp must actually have been perfect. It was supposed to be.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf there had been a single hole,\u201d Baines murmured, \u201che would have known it\u2014gone through.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wisdom ordered a group of armed guards over. \u201cGet him out of there. To the euth stage.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anita shrieked. \u201cWisdom, you can\u2019t\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s too far ahead of us. We can\u2019t compete with him.\u201d Wisdom\u2019s eyes were bleak. \u201cWe can only guess what\u2019s going to happen. He knows. For him, it\u2019s a sure thing. I don\u2019t think it\u2019ll help him at euth, though. The whole stage is flooded simultaneously. Instantaneous gas, released throughout.\u201d He signaled impatiently to the guards. \u201cGet going. Take him down right away. Don\u2019t waste any time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan we?\u201d Baines murmured thoughtfully.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The guards took up positions by one of the chamber locks. Cautiously, the tower control slid the lock back. The first two guards stepped cautiously in, lash-tubes ready.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris stood in the center of the chamber. His back was to them as they crept toward him. For a moment he was silent, utterly unmoving. The guards fanned out, as more of them entered the chamber. Then\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anita screamed. Wisdom cursed. The golden figure spun and leaped forward, in a flashing blur of speed. Past the triple line of guards, through the lock and into the corridor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGet him!\u201d Baines shouted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guards milled everywhere. Flashes of energy lit up the corridor, as the figure raced among them, up the ramp.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo use,\u201d Wisdom said calmly. \u201cWe can\u2019t hit him.\u201d He touched a button, then another. \u201cBut maybe this will help.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2014\u201d Baines began. But the leaping figure shot abruptly at him, straight at him, and he dropped to one side. The figure flashed past. It ran effortlessly, face without expression, dodging and jumping as the energy beams seared around it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For an instant the golden face loomed up before Baines. It passed and disappeared down a side corridor. Guards rushed after it, kneeling and firing, shouting orders excitedly. In the bowels of the building, heavy guns were rumbling up. Locks slid into place as escape corridors were systematically sealed off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood God,\u201d Baines gasped, as he got to his feet. \u201cCan\u2019t he do anything but run?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI gave orders,\u201d Wisdom said, \u201cto have the building isolated. There\u2019s no way out. Nobody comes and nobody goes. He\u2019s loose here in the building\u2014but he won\u2019t get out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf there\u2019s one exit overlooked, he\u2019ll know it,\u201d Anita pointed out shakily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe won\u2019t overlook any exit. We got him once; we\u2019ll get him again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A messenger robot had come in. Now it presented its message respectfully to Wisdom. \u201cFrom analysis, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wisdom tore the tape open. \u201cNow we\u2019ll know how it thinks.\u201d His hands were shaking. \u201cMaybe we can figure out its blind spot. It may be able to out-think us, but that doesn\u2019t mean it\u2019s invulnerable. It only predicts the future\u2014it can\u2019t change it. If there\u2019s only death ahead, its ability won\u2019t\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wisdom\u2019s voice faded into silence. After a moment he passed the tape to Baines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll be down in the bar,\u201d Wisdom said. \u201cGetting a good stiff drink.\u201d His face had turned lead-gray. \u201cAll I can say is I hope to hell this isn\u2019t the race to come<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s the analysis?\u201d Anita demanded impatiently, peering over Baines\u2019s shoulder. \u201cHow does it think?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt doesn\u2019t,\u201d Baines said, as he handed the tape back to his boss. \u201cIt doesn\u2019t think at all. Virtually no frontal lobe. It\u2019s not a human being\u2014it doesn\u2019t use symbols. It\u2019s nothing but an animal.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAn animal,\u201d Wisdom said. \u201cWith a single highly developed faculty. Not a superior man. Not a man at all.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Up and down the corridors of the DCA Building, guards and equipment clanged. Loads of Civil Police were pouring into the building and taking up positions beside the guards. One by one, the corridors and rooms were being inspected and sealed off. Sooner or later the golden figure of Cris Johnson would be located and cornered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe were always afraid a mutant with superior intellectual powers would come along,\u201d Baines said reflectively. \u201cA deeve who would be to us what we are to the great apes. Something with a bulging cranium, telepathic ability, a perfect semantic system, ultimate powers of symbolization and calculation. A development along our own path. A better human being.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe acts by reflex,\u201d Anita said wonderingly. She had the analysis and was sitting at one of the desks studying it intently. \u201cReflex\u2014like a lion. A golden lion.\u201d She pushed the tape aside, a strange expression on her face. \u201cThe lion god.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBeast,\u201d Wisdom corrected tartly. \u201cBlond beast, you mean.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe runs fast,\u201d Baines said, \u201cand that\u2019s all. No tools. He doesn\u2019t build anything or utilize anything outside himself. He just stands and waits for the right opportunity and then he runs like hell.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is worse than anything we\u2019ve anticipated,\u201d Wisdom said. His beefy face was lead-gray. He sagged like an old man, his blunt hands trembling and uncertain. \u201cTo be replaced by an animal! Something that runs and hides. Something without a language!\u201d He spat savagely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s why they weren\u2019t able to communicate with it. We wondered what kind of semantic system it had. It hasn\u2019t got any! No more ability to talk and think than a\u2014dog.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat means intelligence has failed,\u201d Baines went on huskily. \u201cWe\u2019re the last of our line\u2014like the dinosaur. We\u2019ve carried intelligence as far as it\u2019ll go. Too far, maybe. We\u2019ve already got to the point where we know so much\u2014think so much\u2014we can\u2019t act.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMen of thought,\u201d Anita said. \u201cNot men of action. It\u2019s begun to have a paralyzing effect. But this thing\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis thing\u2019s faculty works better than ours ever did. We can recall past experiences, keep them in mind, learn from them. At best, we can make shrewd guesses about the future, from our memory of what\u2019s happened in the past. But we can\u2019t be certain. We have to speak of probabilities. Grays. Not blacks and whites. We\u2019re only guessing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCris Johnson isn\u2019t guessing,\u201d Anita added.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe can look ahead. See what\u2019s coming. He can\u2014prethink. Let\u2019s call it that. He can see into the future. Probably he doesn\u2019t perceive it as the future.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Anita said thoughtfully. \u201cIt would seem like the present. He has a broader present. But his present lies ahead, not back. Our present is related to the past. Only the past is certain, to us. To him, the future is certain. And he probably doesn\u2019t remember the past, any more than any animal remembers what\u2019s happened.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAs he develops,\u201d Baines said, \u201cas his race evolves, it\u2019ll probably expand its ability to prethink. Instead of ten minutes, thirty minutes. Then an hour. A day. A year. Eventually they\u2019ll be able to keep ahead a whole lifetime. Each one of them will live in a solid, unchanging world. There\u2019ll be no variables, no uncertainty. No motion! They won\u2019t have anything to fear. Their world will be perfectly static, a solid block of matter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd when death comes,\u201d Anita said, \u201cthey\u2019ll accept it. There won\u2019t be any struggle; to them, it\u2019ll already have happened.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAlready have happened<\/em>,\u201d Baines repeated. \u201cTo Cris, our shots had already been fired.\u201d He laughed harshly. \u201cSuperior survival doesn\u2019t mean superior man. If there were another world-wide flood, only fish would survive. If there were another ice age, maybe nothing but polar bears would be left. When we opened the lock, he had already seen the men, seen exactly where they were standing and what they\u2019d do. A neat faculty\u2014but not a development of mind. A pure physical sense.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut if every exit is covered,\u201d Wisdom repeated, \u201che\u2019ll see he can\u2019t get out. He gave himself up before\u2014he\u2019ll give himself up again.\u201d He shook his head. \u201cAn animal. Without language. Without tools.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWith his new sense,\u201d Baines said, \u201che doesn\u2019t need anything else.\u201d He examined his watch, \u201cIt\u2019s after two. Is the building completely sealed off?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t leave,\u201d Wisdom stated. \u201cYou\u2019ll have to stay here all night\u2014or until we catch the bastard.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI meant her.\u201d Baines indicated Anita. \u201cShe\u2019s supposed to be back at Semantics by seven in the morning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wisdom shrugged. \u201cI have no control over her. If she wants, she can check out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll stay,\u201d Anita decided. \u201cI want to be here when he\u2014when he\u2019s destroyed. I\u2019ll sleep here.\u201d She hesitated. \u201cWisdom, isn\u2019t there some other way? If he\u2019s just an animal couldn\u2019t we\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA zoo?\u201d Wisdom\u2019s voice rose in a frenzy of hysteria. \u201cKeep it penned up in the zoo? Christ no! It\u2019s got to be killed!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


For a long time the great gleaming shape crouched in the darkness. He was in a store room. Boxes and cartons stretched out on all sides, heaped up in orderly rows, all neatly counted and marked. Silent and deserted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But in a few moments people burst in and search the room. He could see this. He saw them in all parts of the room, clear and distinct, men with lash-tubes, grim-faced, stalking with murder in their eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sight was one of many. One of a multitude of clearly etched scenes lying tangent to his own. And to each was attached a further multitude of interlocking scenes, that finally grew hazier and dwindled away. A progressive vagueness, each syndrome less distinct.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the immediate one, the scene that lay closest to him, was clearly visible. He could easily make out the sight of the armed men. Therefore it was necessary to be out of the room before they appeared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The golden figure got calmly to its feet and moved to the door. The corridor was empty; he could see himself already outside, in the vacant, drumming hall of metal and recessed lights. He pushed the door boldly open and stepped out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A lift blinked across the hall. He walked to the lift and entered it. In five minutes a group of guards would come running along and leap into the lift. By that time he would have left it and sent it back down. Now he pressed a button and rose to the next floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stepped out into a deserted passage. No one was in sight. That didn\u2019t surprise him. He couldn\u2019t be surprised. The element didn\u2019t exist for him. The positions of things, the space relationships of all matter in the immediate future, were as certain for him as his own body. The only thing that was unknown was that which had already passed out of being. In a vague, dim fashion, he had occasionally wondered where things went after he had passed them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He came to a small supply closet. It had just been searched. It would be half an hour before anyone opened it again. He had that long; he could see that far ahead. And then\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then he would be able to see another area, a region farther beyond. He was always moving, advancing into new regions he had never seen before. A constantly unfolding panorama of sights and scenes, frozen landscapes spread out ahead. All objects were fixed. Pieces on a vast chessboard through which he moved, arms folded, face calm. A detached observer who saw objects that lay ahead of him as clearly as those under foot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Right now, as he crouched in the small supply closet, he saw an unusually varied multitude of scenes for the next half hour. Much lay ahead. The half-hour was divided into an incredibly complex pattern of separate configurations. He had reached a critical region; he was about to move through worlds of intricate complexity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He concentrated on a scene ten minutes away. It showed, like a three-dimensional still, a heavy gun at the end of the corridor, trained all the way to the far end. Men moved cautiously from door to door, checking each room again, as they had done repeatedly. At the end of the half-hour they had reached the supply closet. A scene showed them looking inside. By that time he was gone, of course. He wasn\u2019t in that scene. He had passed on to another.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next scene showed an exit. Guards stood in a solid line. No way out. He was in that scene. Off to one side, in a niche just inside the door. The street outside was visible, stars, lights, outlines of passing cars and people.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the next tableau he had gone back, away from the exit. There was no way out. In another tableau he saw himself at other exits, a legion of golden figures, duplicated again and again, as he explored regions ahead, one after another. But each exit was covered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In one dim scene he saw himself lying charred and dead; he had tried to run through the line, out the exit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But that scene was vague. One wavering, indistinct still out of many. The inflexible path along which he moved would not deviate in that direction. It would not turn him that way. The golden figure in that scene, the miniature doll in that room, was only distantly related to him. It was himself, but a faraway self. A self he would never meet. He forgot it and went on to examine the other tableau.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The myriad of tableaux that surrounded him were an elaborate maze, a web which he now considered bit by bit. He was looking down into a doll\u2019s house of infinite rooms, rooms without number, each with its furniture, its dolls, all rigid and unmoving. The same dolls and furniture were repeated in many. He, himself, appeared often. The two men on the platform. The woman. Again and again the same combinations turned up; the play was redone frequently, the same actors and props moved around in all possible ways.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Before it was time to leave the supply closet, Cris Johnson had examined each of the rooms tangent to the one he now occupied. He had consulted each, considered its contents thoroughly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He pushed the door open and stepped calmly out into the hall. He knew exactly where he was going. And what he had to do. Crouched in the stuffy closet, he had quietly and expertly examined each miniature of himself, observed which clearly etched configuration lay along his inflexible path, the one room of the doll house, the one set out of legions, toward which he was moving.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anita slipped out of her metal-foil dress, hung it over a hanger, then unfastened her shoes and kicked them under the bed. She was just starting to unclip her bra when the door opened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She gasped. Soundlessly, calmly, the great golden shape closed the door and bolted it after him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anita snatched up her lash-tube from the dressing table. Her hand shook; her whole body was trembling. \u201cWhat do you want?\u201d she demanded. Her fingers tightened convulsively around the tube. \u201cI\u2019ll kill you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The figure regarded her silently, arms folded. It was the first time she had seen Cris Johnson closely. The great dignified face, handsome and impassive. Broad shoulders. The golden mane of hair, golden skin, pelt of radiant fuzz\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d she demanded breathlessly. Her heart was pounding wildly. \u201cWhat do you want?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She could kill him easily. But the lash-tube wavered. Cris Johnson stood without fear; he wasn\u2019t at all afraid. Why not? Didn\u2019t he understand what it was? What the small metal tube could do to him?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course,\u201d she said suddenly, in a choked whisper. \u201cYou can see ahead. You know I\u2019m not going to kill you. Or you wouldn\u2019t have come here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She flushed, terrified\u2014and embarrassed. He knew exactly what she was going to do; he could see it as easily as she saw the walls of the room, the wall-bed with its covers folded neatly back, her clothes hanging in the closet, her purse and small things on the dressing table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll right.\u201d Anita backed away, then abruptly put the tube down on the dressing table. \u201cI won\u2019t kill you. Why should I?\u201d She fumbled in her purse and got out her cigarettes. Shakily, she lit up, her pulse racing. She was scared. And strangely fascinated. \u201cDo you expect to stay here? It won\u2019t do any good. They\u2019ve come through the dorm twice, already. They\u2019ll be back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Could he understand her? She saw nothing on his face, only blank dignity. God, he was huge! It wasn\u2019t possible he was only eighteen, a boy, a child. He looked more like some great golden god, come down to earth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She shook the thought off savagely. He wasn\u2019t a god. He was a beast. The blond beast<\/em>, come to take the place of man. To drive man from the earth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anita snatched up the lash-tube. \u201cGet out of here! You\u2019re an animal! A big stupid animal! You can\u2019t even understand what I\u2019m saying\u2014you don\u2019t even have a language. You\u2019re not human.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris Johnson remained silent. As if he were waiting. Waiting for what? He showed no sign of fear or impatience, even though the corridor outside rang with the sound of men searching, metal against metal, guns and energy tubes being dragged around, shouts and dim rumbles as section after section of the building was searched and sealed off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey\u2019ll get you,\u201d Anita said. \u201cYou\u2019ll be trapped here. They\u2019ll be searching this wing any moment.\u201d She savagely stubbed out her cigarette. \u201cFor God\u2019s sake, what do you expect me to do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris moved toward her. Anita shrank back. His powerful hands caught hold of her and she gasped in sudden terror. For a moment she struggled blindly, desperately.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet go!\u201d She broke away and leaped back from him. His face was expressionless. Calmly, he came toward her, an impassive god advancing to take her. \u201cGet away!\u201d She groped for the lash-tube, trying to get it up. But the tube slipped from her fingers and rolled onto the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris bent down and picked it up. He held it out to her, in the open palm of his hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood God,\u201d Anita whispered. Shakily, she accepted the tube, gripped it hesitantly, then put it down again on the dressing table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the half-light of the room, the great golden figure seemed to glow and shimmer, outlined against the darkness. A god\u2014no, not a god. An animal. A great golden beast, without a soul. She was confused. Which was he\u2014or was he both? She shook her head, bewildered. It was late, almost four. She was exhausted and confused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris took her in his arms. Gently, kindly, he lifted her face and kissed her. His powerful hands held her tight. She couldn\u2019t breathe. Darkness, mixed with the shimmering golden haze, swept around her. Around and around it spiraled, carrying her senses away. She sank down into it gratefully. The darkness covered her and dissolved her in a swelling torrent of sheer force that mounted in intensity each moment, until the roar of it beat against her and at last blotted out everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Anita blinked. She sat up and automatically pushed her hair into place. Cris was standing before the closet. He was reaching up, getting something down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He turned toward her and tossed something on the bed. Her heavy metal-foil traveling cape.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anita gazed down at the cape without comprehension. \u201cWhat do you want?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris stood by the bed, waiting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She picked up the cape uncertainly. Cold creepers of fear plucked at her. \u201cYou want me to get you out of here,\u201d she said softly. \u201cPast the guards and the CP.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris said nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey\u2019ll kill you instantly.\u201d She got unsteadily to her feet. \u201cYou can\u2019t run past them. Good God, don\u2019t you do anything but run? There must be a better way. Maybe I can appeal to Wisdom. I\u2019m Class A\u2014Director Class. I can go directly to the Full Directorate. I ought to be able to hold them off, keep back the euth indefinitely. The odds are a billion to one against us if we try to break past\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She broke off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut you don\u2019t gamble,\u201d she continued slowly. \u201cYou don\u2019t go by odds. You know<\/em> what\u2019s coming. You\u2019ve seen the cards already.\u201d She studied his face intently. \u201cNo, you can\u2019t be cold-decked. It wouldn\u2019t be possible.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a moment she stood deep in thought. Then with a quick, decisive motion, she snatched up the cloak and slipped it around her bare shoulders. She fastened the heavy belt, bent down and got her shoes from under the bed, snatched up her purse, and hurried to the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome on,\u201d she said. She was breathing quickly, cheeks flushed. \u201cLet\u2019s go. While there are still a number of exits to choose from. My car is parked outside, in the lot at the side of the building. We can get to my place in an hour. I have a winter home in Argentina. If worst comes to worst we can fly there. It\u2019s in the back country, away from the cities. Jungle and swamps. Cut off from almost everything.\u201d Eagerly, she started to open the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris reached out and stopped her. Gently, patiently, he moved in front of her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He waited a long time, body rigid. Then he turned the knob and stepped boldly out into the corridor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The corridor was empty. No one was in sight. Anita caught a faint glimpse, the back of a guard hurrying off. If they had come out a second earlier\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris started down the corridor. She ran after him. He moved rapidly, effortlessly. The girl had trouble keeping up with him. He seemed to know exactly where to go. Off to the right, down a side hall, a supply passage. Onto an ascent freight-lift. They rose, then abruptly halted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris waited again. Presently he slid the door back and moved out of the lift. Anita followed nervously. She could hear sounds; guns and men, very close.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They were near an exit. A double line of guards stood directly ahead. Twenty men, a solid wall\u2014and a massive heavy-duty robot gun in the center. The men were alert, faces strained and tense. Watching wide-eyed, guns gripped tight. A Civil Police officer was in charge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll never get past,\u201d Anita gasped. \u201cWe wouldn\u2019t get ten feet.\u201d She pulled back. \u201cThey\u2019ll\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris took her by the arm and continued calmly forward. Blind terror leaped inside her. She fought wildly to get away, but his fingers were like steel. She couldn\u2019t pry them loose. Quietly, irresistibly, the great golden creature drew her along beside him, toward the double line of guards.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere he is!<\/em>\u201d Guns went up. Men leaped into action. The barrel of the robot cannon swung around. \u201cGet him!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anita was paralyzed. She sagged against the powerful body beside her, tugged along helplessly by his inflexible grasp. The lines of guards came nearer, a sheer wall of guns. Anita fought to control her terror. She stumbled, half-fell. Cris supported her effortlessly. She scratched, fought at him, struggled to get loose\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t shoot!\u201d she screamed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guns wavered uncertainly. \u201cWho is she?\u201d The guards were moving around, trying to get a sight on Cris without including her. \u201cWho\u2019s he got there?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One of them saw the stripe on her sleeve. Red and black. Director Class. Top-level.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe\u2019s Class A.\u201d Shocked, the guards retreated. \u201cMiss, get out of the way!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anita found her voice. \u201cDon\u2019t shoot. He\u2019s\u2014in my custody. You understand? I\u2019m taking him out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The wall of guards moved back nervously. \u201cNo one\u2019s supposed to pass. Director Wisdom gave orders\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not subject to Wisdom\u2019s authority.\u201d She managed to edge her voice with a harsh crispness. \u201cGet out of the way. I\u2019m taking him to the Semantics Agency.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a moment nothing happened. There was no reaction. Then slowly, uncertainly, one guard stepped aside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cris moved. A blur of speed, away from Anita, past the confused guards, through the breach in the line, out the exit, and onto the street. Bursts of energy flashed wildly after him. Shouting guards milled out. Anita was left behind, forgotten. The guards, the heavy-duty gun, were pouring out into the early morning darkness. Sirens wailed. Patrol cars roared into life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anita stood dazed, confused, leaning against the wall, trying to get her breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was gone. He had left her. Good God\u2014what had she done? She shook her head, bewildered, her face buried in her hands. She had been hypnotized. She had lost her will, her common sense. Her reason! The animal, the great golden beast, had tricked her. Taken advantage of her. And now he was gone, escaped into the night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miserable, agonized tears trickled through her clenched fingers. She rubbed at them futilely; but they kept on coming.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


\u201cHe\u2019s gone,\u201d Baines said. \u201cWe\u2019ll never get him, now. He\u2019s probably a million miles from here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anita sat huddled in the corner, her face to the wall. A little bent heap, broken and wretched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wisdom paced back and forth. \u201cBut where can he go? Where can he hide? Nobody\u2019ll hide him! Everybody knows the law about deeves!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s lived out in the woods most of his life. He\u2019ll hunt\u2014that\u2019s what he\u2019s always done. They wondered what he was up to, off by himself. He was catching game and sleeping under trees.\u201d Baines laughed harshly. \u201cAnd the first woman he meets will be glad to hide him\u2014as she<\/em> was.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He indicated Anita with a jerk of his thumb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo all that gold, that mane, that godlike stance, was for something. Not just ornament.\u201d Wisdom\u2019s thick lips twisted. \u201cHe doesn\u2019t have just one faculty\u2014he has two. One is new, the newest thing in survival methods. The other is as old as life.\u201d He stopped pacing to glare at the huddled shape in the corner. \u201cPlumage. Bright feathers, combs for the roosters, swans, birds, bright scales for the fish. Gleaming pelts and manes for the animals. An animal isn\u2019t necessarily bestial<\/em>. Lions aren\u2019t bestial. Or tigers. Or any of the big cats. They\u2019re anything but bestial.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019ll never have to worry,\u201d Baines said. \u201cHe\u2019ll get by\u2014as long as human women exist to take care of him. And since he can see ahead, into the future, he already knows he\u2019s sexually irresistible to human females.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll get him,\u201d Wisdom muttered, \u201cI\u2019ve had the government declare an emergency. Military and Civil Police will be looking for him. Armies of men\u2014a whole planet of experts, the most advanced machines and equipment. We\u2019ll flush him, sooner or later.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBy that time it won\u2019t make any difference,\u201d Baines said. He put his hand on Anita\u2019s shoulder and patted her ironically. \u201cYou\u2019ll have company, sweetheart. You won\u2019t be the only one. You\u2019re just the first of a long procession.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThanks,\u201d Anita grated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe oldest survival method and the newest. Combined to form one perfectly adapted animal. How the hell are we going to stop him? We can put you through a sterilization tank\u2014but we can\u2019t pick them all up, all the women he meets along the way. And if we miss one we\u2019re finished.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll have to keep trying,\u201d Wisdom said. \u201cRound up as many as we can. Before they can spawn.\u201d Faint hope glinted in his tired, sagging face. \u201cMaybe his characteristics are recessive. Maybe ours will cancel his out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI wouldn\u2019t lay any money on that,\u201d Baines said. \u201cI think I know already which of the two strains is going to turn up dominant.\u201d He grinned wryly. \u201cI mean, I\u2019m making a good guess<\/em>. It won\u2019t be us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cThe Golden Man\u201d is a short story by Philip K. Dick, published in April 1954 in If magazine. In a post-war world, humans face a disturbing threat: mutants with genetic abilities that give them strange and dangerous powers. George Baines, a government agent, is tasked with tracking down and eliminating these beings. His mission takes him to a remote farm where Cris, a young man of extraordinary beauty with golden skin and hair, lives. His silent presence hides an incomprehensible power that will test Baines’ effectiveness and the system’s ability to control mutants.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":24965,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[577,552,570],"class_list":["post-24966","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-philip-k-dick-en","tag-science-fiction","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":577,"label":"Philip K. Dick"},{"value":552,"label":"Science fiction"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/11\/Philip-K.-Dick-El-hombre-dorado.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":421,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":421,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":577,"name":"Philip K. Dick","slug":"philip-k-dick-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":577,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":15,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":552,"name":"Science fiction","slug":"science-fiction","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":552,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":121,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":294,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24966","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=24966"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24966\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/24965"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=24966"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=24966"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=24966"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}