Once, he knew, the cities of the world had been populated by almost as many mutants as normals. That had been in the days immediately after the great blast, before the Dukes had taken command of the world.
But most of these mutants had been sterile, carrying, like the Dukes, lethal genes. Others carried recessive characteristics only. Gradually, through the centuries, the mutant population had died out and dwindled away into scattered groups here and there in the biggest cities—and, word was, there was one city somewhere in Illinois populated only by mutants.
This one was blind, Kesley saw now, but it moved with unerring accuracy.
"Archbishop Santana!" the creature called, in a hoarse croak of a voice. "Wait for me, Archbishop!"
"How does he know you?" Kesley asked.
"Some of them have strange powers," Santana whispered. He nervously undid the crucifix that hung from the breast of his surplice and held it before him, as if to ward off the Devil.
The mutant merely chuckled. "Put away your toy, Archbishop. I don't frighten so easily."
"Stay back," Kesley snapped. "Keep away from us." To Santana he said, "Let's get out of here. Spur your horse and let's go.
"No. Let's hear him out."
The mutant stationed himself directly in their path and pointed a twisted, lumpy forefinger at Santana. "Behold the man of God," he croaked hoarsely. "Ecce homo!"