The Dancers of Noyo by Margaret St. Clair Page A

except really serious felonies.
     
                  His face changed. He made a gesture with the wine glass, so wide and sweeping that wine slopped out on the floor near the door that led to the workshop. "Somebody told you!" he said angrily. "It isn't fair! Won't people ever forget? Won't the ever let me alone? I'm paying my debt to society!"
     
                  "I'm sorry," I said placatingly . "I didn't mean to offend you. Nobody told me anything. It was just a lucky guess on my part."
     
                  "Somebody must have told you ! "
     
                  "No, really not. Say, though, wouldn't it be a good idea to mop up the wine on the floor? If we take some paper towels—"
     
                  He made a gesture toward the towel rack on the wall. He was still fuming. I got towels and began blotting at the spilled wine. I saw that the jamb of the door that led to the workshop was badly splintered, as if the door, locked, had been violently burst open from the workshop side. It would have taken a lot of strength. But perhaps it had never happened—the door, at any rate, was in good shape.
     
                  "That looks better," I said, rising from my knees.
     
                  "Unh." He glared at me, only a little less angry. "T m trying to do the right thing! I don't deserve to be persecuted like this!" All his sentences were italicized.
     
                  I was getting sore. I couldn't think of anything to say. We looked at each other silently for a moment. "I am trying to do the right thing," he said, more calmly. "And I'll prove it. I'll do my best to help you."
     
                  "Thanks," I answered, a little dryly.
     
                  " You're a Pilgrim, aren't you? Making the Grail Journey? I've seen people like you on Highway One before."
     
                  "Yes."
     
                  "Now here I might be able to help you," he said musingly. "Sit down, and I'll get us some more wine. "
     
                  " I could use some help," I said. I sat down in the chair he had indicated, in front of the Franklin stove. I was wondering whether he could possibly be the ally Pomo Joe had predicted. It didn't seem likely. I mistrusted him too much.
     
                  He brought the glasses back, refilled, and a plate of the cheese biscuits made in Petaluma. "There's something similar," he said thoughtfully, "between the, a ir , chemical conscience and the way the Grail Pilgrimage works."
     
                  "What's the similarity?" I asked. I looked around the big redwood-paneled room appraisingly. Two or three of Farnsworth's paintings were hanging on the walls, painted mainly in shades of red. Was it because of them or the splintered door jamb that I disliked the room so much? I rather thought it was the door jamb. My growing uneasiness seemed to center there.
     
                  "I shouldn't think the state of mind would be the same," I went on. "The state of mind of chemical-conscience people and Pilgrims, I mean. You don't, unh, live other fives than your own, do you?"
     
                  "No, though just after I have my shot I do have the sensation of being compelled to behave otherwise than the way I actually feel. It wears off after a while, and ... But what I meant about a similarity is in the way the chemical conscience and the Grail Journey state of mind are mediated."
     
                  "You know something about that?" I asked. I was getting very interested. And yet my uneasiness about the house was increasing. I thought with longing of the glass driveway outside, of running down it toward Highway One, of beginning to dance. The glass would make a pleasant crunching sound as I stamped in the dance. But if I left Farnsworth, I'd probably have another extra-life ... I'd better stay