Night Lamp (8 page)

“I’m afraid that’s true,” said Dr. Fiorio.

Althea spoke wistfully, “You’re not really optimistic about Jaro, are you?”

Dr. Fiorio grimaced. “I want neither to inflate you with false hopes, nor send you away in despair. The simple truth is that we are still collecting data.”

Hilyer inspected him skeptically. “And that is all you can tell us?”

Dr. Fiorio reflected a moment. “Ordinarily we do not like to disclose raw data until it has been fully analyzed; still, I see no harm in mentioning an item which may interest you.”

Dr. Fiorio paused to arrange his thoughts. Hilyer became impatient. “Well then! What is it?”

Dr. Fiorio gave Hilyer a look of reproach, but said, “During our work sessions, monitors detect the small neural currents which indicate brain activity. While the voice was speaking the monitors recorded no activity. If the voice had been driven by memory, such activity would be expected at characteristic locations. This was not the case.”

“Which means?”

“Subject to review and analysis, it indicates that the source of the voice was external to Jaro’s mind.”

After a pause, Hilyer said stiffly, “I find that hard to credit. The concept leads to mysticism.”

Dr. Fiorio shrugged. “That is not my responsibility. I can only cite evidence.”

The Faths rose to their feet and went to the door. Dr. Fiorio accompanied them out into the entry hall. “You were interested in speculation,” he told Hilyer. “Now you have the facts, and may speculate to your heart’s content. I will do the same, after I have bathed, changed into my fine linen lounge suit and settled myself into the saloon bar at the Palindrome, where I will instantly be served one or more gin pahits.”

A week later, when Dr. Fiorio once again conferred with the Faths in the reception room, he was accompanied by Jaro. Althea, thought that Jaro looked pale and somewhat drawn, but also relaxed and confident.

Jaro went to sit on the couch between Hilyer and Althea. Dr. Fiorio leaned back against the table. He said, “This has been a puzzling case—although we know somewhat more now than we did at the start. For a fact we have put an end to Jaro’s problems; at least, it seems so at the moment.”

“Then that is glorious news!” cried Althea.

Dr. Fiorio nodded without enthusiasm. “I am not altogether satisfied. Our technique has neither been elegant, nor a piece of brilliant improvisation, nor yet even dictated by classical theory. Instead, we used a crude and nasty pragmatism, whose only virtue was its success.”

Althea laughed in happy excitement. “But isn’t that enough? I think you are far too modest!”

Dr. Fiorio shook his head sadly. “Our goal was to solve the mystery, which is of a fundamental nature. In essence, was the voice produced internally, by Jaro’s memory, or externally, by an agency like telepathy? During our research we more or less incidentally happened to cure Jaro’s affliction. The voice no longer groans and curses, so now we must turn off our equipment and declare a great victory.”

Hilyer compressed his lips. Dr. Fiorio’s ponderous levity—if such it were—no longer seemed appropriate, and in fact had started to grate on his nerves. “Sorry,” said Hilyer. “I’m not sure that I grasp what you are trying to tell us.”

“It is quite simple, when translated into layman’s language.”

“Do so, by all means,” murmured Hilyer.

“Of course, of course!” declared Dr. Fiorio, never suspecting that the meek and non-status academician might feel anything other than awed admiration for himself, his expertise and his association with the Palindrome. “As I mentioned, we located an area which seemed to be the seat of the problem: a pad of spongy tissue at the back of the medulla known as Ogg’s Plaque. A chance stimulation of this area had been followed by the voice which you heard. We attempted new stimulations, with varying results. We never answered the basic question of origination, since it had become moot.”

“How so?”

Dr. Fiorio paused to consider, then said, “To make a long story short, we isolated Ogg’s Plaque from its input of nervous impulses, sheathing it in pannax film and totally surrounding it with an insulating capsule. On that instant, the noise associated with the Plaque disappeared. Jaro at once noticed a sensation of liberation. He feels that the voice has been quieted and he is much relieved. Am I right, Jaro?”

“Yes,” said Jaro.

Hilyer’s attention was caught by a hesitancy in Jaro’s response. He asked sharply, “What is wrong? Are you uncomfortable with what has been done?”

“No! Of course not! I’m only afraid that if the therapy wore off, the voice might come back.”

Althea asked, “You feel, then, that the voice comes from outside yourself?”

“Yes.”

Althea shivered. “It is an eery thought.”

Hilyer spoke with cool and rational detachment. “If the voice were part of what is called a ‘multiple personality,’ it would also sound like someone else.”

Dr. Fiorio smiled with that complacency which already had exasperated Hilyer. “Are there any other points you might want illuminated?”

“There are indeed,” said Hilyer crisply. “For instance, the matter of side effects. You have isolated an organ of Jaro’s brain; is that not a serious matter?”

“Probably not. Ogg’s Plaque has been studied at length; it is generally considered a vestigial redundancy.”

“Still, are you not interfering with something you do not completely understand?”

Dr. Fiorio said patiently, “The short answer to your question is ‘yes.’ We intend to keep Jaro under observation. His problems have been controlled; now we must wait to see what happens, if anything.”

Althea asked, “Is Ogg’s Plaque active during hypnosis? Does it control hypnotic suggestion?”

“The answer is: definitely not. Hypnosis operates across quite different areas of the brain. So then—what else? Nothing more? Then I will make an observation on my own, in regard to Jaro. During this work he has gained our affection and also our respect. He has shown us persistence, courage and grit: traits of which he can be proud. He’s also good-natured, cheerful and polite. I realize that you are non-orgs, but if Jaro set his mind to the striving, he’d go fast up the ledges, since he has a natural comporture which will ultimately take him high.”

Althea gave Jaro a quick hug. “Did you hear that? Dr. Fiorio is talking about you! Now perhaps you’ll buckle down and apply some of that persistence to your schoolwork, and put aside your daydreams of wandering space.”

Dr. Fiorio gave an indulgent laugh. “At Jaro’s age, we’re all romantics! I wanted to be the ace roving plunger for the Kaneel Roverball Club.” He addressed Jaro: “Listen to your mother, Jaro; she’s got the right of it. There’s precious little status to be gained in space, and while there is nothing truly wrong in being a nimp, it’s best to suck the sweetest juice from the melon! And strive toward the top!”

“Hmf,” said Hilyer. “Jaro has his sights set on an academic career, and perhaps he will prefer not to be distracted by nursing comporture, and suffering a thousand deaths every time his application to an up-status club is rejected.”

Dr. Fiorio smiled benignly. “That, of course, is an alternate philosophy, and no doubt quite valid. Well then; I wish you all a pleasant day!”

Jaro’s time at Buntoon House coincided with the spring recess at Langolen School, so that he returned to his classes without discontinuity. Nevertheless, everything seemed different. His new liberation put him into a mood close to euphoria. He was sure of his competence; nothing could prevent him from under taking his quest! He might learn unpleasant facts, or worse; already he had experienced inklings of the evil which lurked in his past and which might be groping forward into the present. Somewhere the voice still groaned and howled into a place now dark and empty.

Where?

Why?

What to look for?

Jaro had questions but no answers. The Faths refused to speculate upon or even discuss the voice. Hilyer had officially declared it a “queer little kink” in Jaro’s mental processes, now happily repaired. They had always been reticent in regard to his early years. When he asked questions, they had responded with absentminded generalities. The nameless urchin was gone from mind and memory; there was only Jaro Fath, with a distinguished academic career in prospect. They meant no harm, of course; they wanted only that he be like themselves, which was the prerogative of all parents. Dame Wirtz greeted him with a sharp glance of appraisal and a pat on the head. She asked no questions, but Jaro was sure that she had communicated with Althea and that the two had discussed him at length. Jaro cared little, one way or the other. He looked around the room, seeing his classmates from a new perspective. He felt more detached from them than ever. Almost all were strivers. About half wore the blue and white Junior Service emblems. Others had been accepted into the Persimmons, and a few had arrived among the Zouaves. There were two nimps, sitting quietly at the back of the room. The boy, like himself, belonged to a family of Institute academics, the girl had only recently arrived from off-world and was said to have peculiar eating habits. There was a single Clam Muffin in the class: Skirlet Hutsenreiter.

Jaro’s survey of the group reinforced his own sense of singularity. His classmates considered him not only a nimp but a solitary person who shunned class activities and perhaps indulged in mysticism of one sort or another. On several occasions Jaro had explained his intention to become a spaceman, for whom striving up the social ledges of Thanet could only be wasted effort. No one had troubled to listen to him. It made no great difference. Next year he would enter the Lyceum, where he would concentrate on space studies: astronomy, the history and geography of Old Earth, the morphology of the Gaean Reach, space technology, the locators and the ever more remote frontier which separated the Reach from Beyond. He would try to read all twelve volumes of Baron Bodissey’s
LIFE
, which might well meet with Hilyer’s approval. On second thought, perhaps not; the Baron was closely identified with space exploration, while for many folk, including the Faths, the Gaean Reach was quite large enough, and there was no need for any more spacemen. The Faths had already established a program for Jaro’s future, consonant with their own ideals. Jaro’s plans would surely meet resistance at home. The idea saddened him, inasmuch as he loved Althea and Hilyer, who had devoted so much of themselves to his well-being. But it could not be helped. He wanted no part of an academic career, any more than he yearned to become a Tatterman or a Clam Muffin. Jaro thought of Tawn Maihac, who could be relied upon for discreet advice.

A week had passed since Jaro had last seen Maihac. On this occasion, with the reluctant permission of the Faths, Maihac had taken Jaro to the space terminal. After crossing the main lobby, they entered a long hangar and sauntered along a line of spaceyachts, of many sizes and varieties. They moved slowly, studying each of the gleaming shapes in turn, appraising qualities of comfort, strength, and that peculiar air of dauntless magnificence which could be found in no other human construction.

In the machine shop Maihac introduced Jaro to Trio Hartung, the shop foreman, and to a ferociously ugly mechanic named Gaing Neitzbeck, who acknowledged the introduction with a curt nod.

Upon leaving the machine shop, Maihac took Jaro to an outdoor café at the side of the plaza. Over tea and a dish of cream tarts Maihac asked Jaro his opinion of Hartung and Neitzbeck. Jaro gave the matter consideration, then said: “Mr. Hartung seems very steady, and quite friendly. I found that I liked him.”

“Fair enough. What about Gaing Neitzbeck?”

Jaro knit his brows. “I don’t know what to think. He looks a bit grim.”

Maihac laughed. “He is not altogether what he seems. One thing for certain, he is not diffident.”

“You’ve known him a long time, then?”

“Yes. Let me ask you this: when the Faths brought you to Thanet, you could remember nothing of your past?”

“Nothing of consequence.”

“And you don’t know where they found you?”

“No. They won’t tell me until I am graduated from the Institute.”

“Hmf. Tell me what you remember.”

Jaro described the inklings and images he had brought to Thanet.

Maihac listened intently, his eyes fixed on Jaro’s face as if he could read more than words in Jaro’s expression. “And that is all you remember?”

Jaro looked off across the plaza. “Once or twice—I don’t know how many times—I dreamt of my mother. I could barely make out her shape, but I heard her voice. She said something like, ‘Oh my poor little Jaro! I am so sorry to put this burden upon your shoulders! But so it must be!’ Her voice was sad, and when I awoke I felt very sad, too.”

“What did she mean ‘burden’?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes, when I think of her, I feel that I ought to know, but when I try to remember, it slips away.”

“Hmm. Interesting. And that’s all you remember?”

Jaro grimaced. “There is something else. I think it’s connected with the garden under the two moons.” Jaro told Maihac of the doleful voice which had caused him so much anxiety. He described the therapy at Buntoon House and the harsh blurted words on the recording. “The doctors had no explanation except telepathy,” said Jaro. “Even then, they could not agree. But at least, I have no more trouble with the voice.”

As Jaro spoke, a change came over Maihac. He leaned forward, tense and rigid, as if the account held a dreadful fascination. Jaro wondered if Maihac had suffered a similar intrusion into his mind.

Maihac finally said, “That’s a remarkable set of events.”

Jaro nodded. “I’m glad that they have ended.”

Maihac leaned back in his chair and looked off across the plaza. He asked: “You don’t hear this voice anymore?”

“I don’t think so. Sometimes I feel a tingle in the air, like coming into a room where someone has just spoken.”

“That’s good news,” said Maihac. He rose to his feet. “I must be getting back to work.”

Maihac left the table. Jaro watched the erect figure cross the plaza and disappear into the terminal. For a time Jaro sat pondering Maihac’s strange conduct. It was more than simple surprise; Maihac had been shaken.

Jaro returned to Merriehew thoroughly surfeited with mystery.

Time passed, and Jaro had no further word from Maihac, nor had Maihac shown himself at Merriehew. Perhaps he had not been invited? Jaro thought he knew what had happened. Maihac, from the Fath’s purview, was no longer identifiable either with esoteric music or arcane instruments. Maihac now worked at the space terminal; he had cruised far and wide through space, and the Faths feared his influence over Jaro. If a role model were needed, they preferred that it should be Hilyer Fath, not Tawn Maihac, who was not only a spaceman but far from a pacifist.

Jaro smiled a thin sad smile. It was all quite clear. The Faths, benevolent and loving though they might be, were impressing upon him the guidance he neither needed nor wanted. Jaro knew that Maihac liked him; as soon as possible he would seek him out and try to probe deeper into the tantalizing mysteries of which Maihac was now a part.

In the morning he returned to school, and focused his mind upon his studies, as if invoking a hermetic discipline upon himself. During the lunch hour he passed Hanafer Glackenshaw in the central courtyard. Hanafer glanced at him, his mind elsewhere, but not so far that he could not spare a sneer and a sniff, to indicate the persistence of his old disdain. Jaro went his way without change of expression.

It was an unpleasant situation. Hanafer’s contempt might dissipate, or it might prompt him to actions which Jaro could not ignore. What then? What if Hanafer became so offensive that Jaro felt impelled to fight? It would not accord with the teaching of the Faths. They would remind him that no law compelled him to strike another human being and hurt him, no matter what the provocation; high ethical doctrine required that Jaro politely announce his abhorrence of violence, excuse himself and walk away from the unpleasant affair. In this fashion, said the Faths, he would inculcate shame and contrition in his adversaries, and bring to himself the joy of a deed well done. Once again Jaro’s mouth twitched in that sad half smile. The Faths had never allowed him to undertake physical education courses involving pugilism or combat of any sort; as a result, in the event of attack, he would be at considerable disadvantage, and Hanafer no doubt would thrash him soundly.

Jaro was annoyed by this notion. His deficiency might cause him serious embarrassment, if it were not repaired.

During the afternoon of the first day of the new term, Jaro visited the library, where he borrowed a volume describing various methods of hand-to-hand combat. He left the library and went to sit on a concrete bench in the courtyard, to peruse his acquisition. He became aware that someone had settled upon the far end of the bench. It was the notorious Skirlet Hutsenreiter, whose status as a Clam Muffin was so exalted that she gave not a thought to comporture. She sat sidewise, one leg tucked up under the other, one arm along the back of the bench, the other in her lap, achieving a negligent elegance which Jaro could not help but notice before returning to his book.

A moment passed. Jaro glanced aside, to find Skirlet studying him intently, bright gray eyes alight with intelligence. A casual tangle of short dark locks framed her face; and as usual, she wore whatever had been closest to hand: today a blue peasant’s jacket, a size too large, trousers of off-white duck which lovingly fit the curves of her round rump. Jaro sighed and again went back to his book, nerves tingling to a not unpleasant excitement. In the past Skirlet had barely noticed him; now she watched his every movement. Odd! What was going on in her mind? If he spoke to her and suffered a rebuff—as was to be expected—he would become annoyed and waste time thinking bitter thoughts. He decided to have nothing to do with her.

Skirlet seemed to divine his thinking and allowed herself a rather lofty smile.

Jaro gathered all his dignity and sat stiffly erect. His plan was a good one: he would ignore her totally, until her attention wandered and she ran off to amuse herself elsewhere. She was mercurial; it would be two or three minutes at the most. Skirlet called out: “Hoy! You there! Hello!”

Jaro appraised her without change of expression. She must be regarded as unpredictable, and treated with immense caution.

Skirlet spoke again. “Are you alive or dead? Or simply comatose?”

Jaro responded with stiff formality: “I am alive, thank you.”

“Well said! Your name is Jaro Fath; am I right?”

“Not altogether.”

Skirlet was annoyed by Jaro’s evasiveness. “How so?”

“The Faths are my foster parents.”

“Oh? You have other names?”

“Very likely.” Jaro looked her over. “Who are you?”

Skirlet was taken aback. “Surely you know of me! I am Skirlet Hutsenreiter.”

“I remember your name; it’s quite unusual.”

Skirlet said evenly: “My name is short for ‘Shkirzaksein’ which is my mother’s country estate on Marmone, and where her palace Piri-piri is situated.”

“That sounds very grand.”

Skirlet nodded, rather bleakly. “It is, after a fashion. I stayed with her two years ago.” Skirlet compressed her lips, and looked off down the length of Flammarion Prospect. “I learned things I never would have learned at Thanet. I’ll never go back.”

Skirlet slid closer along the bench. “At the moment I’m interested in you.”

Jaro could hardly believe his ears. He stared at her dumbfounded. “You are interested in—me?”

Skirlet nodded primly. “In you and in your conduct.” Jaro relaxed. Skirlet’s manner was amicable, and while he must guard against complacency, it was hard not to speculate as to what she had in mind. Could she suddenly need an escort for some unexpected social function? Or perhaps, out of sheer caprice, might she wish to introduce him into the exalted ranks of the Clam Muffins? Or could she conceivably—Jaro’s mind faltered at the edge of ideas wild and unthinkable, then cautiously drew back. Of course, such things happened. He eyed Skirlet dubiously. “You show very good taste. Still, I am puzzled.”

“No matter. Do you mind if I watch you rather closely for a time?”

“It all depends. How closely, and for how long?”

Skirlet answered briskly, “No longer and no more closely than necessary.”

“What about privacy?”

“At the moment, none is needed. Now then!” Skirlet held out her hand, touched her thumb to each of her fingers in turn. “Can you do that?”

“Of course.”

“Show me.”

Jaro performed the feat. “How was that?”

“Quite good. Do it again. Again. Again.”

“That is enough for now,” said Jaro. “I don’t want to form an annoying nervous habit.”

Skirlet clicked her tongue in vexation. “You’ve broken the sequence. Now we’ll have to start all over.”

“Not unless I know why.”

Skirlet made an impatient gesture. “It is a clinical test. Deranged people start making characteristic mistakes at specific counts. I heard that you had been declared, well, just a bit crazy by the psychiatrists, and I wanted to try the experiment as soon as possible.”

After an interval of dead silence Jaro uttered a soft syllable. Then he looked toward the sky. All was well; the world was sane again; Skirlet had not succumbed to a sudden amorous obsession. Too bad, in a way. He could use the practice.