The Mammoth Book of 20th Century SF II (78 page)

“I’ve hit upon a rather unusual subject and started with a piece of jobbery I eventually intend to write about.”

“Unusual? In what way?”

“Blind from birth, for one thing.”

“You’re using the ONT&R?”

“Yes. She’s going to be a Shaper.”

“Verfluchter! – Are you aware of the possible repercussions?”

“Of course.”

“You’ve heard of unlucky Pierre?”

“No.”

“Good, then it was successfully hushed. Pierre was a philosophy student at the University of Paris, and was doing a dissertation on the evolution of consciousness. This past summer he
decided it would be necessary for him to explore the mind of an ape, for purposes of comparing a moins-nausee mind with his own, I suppose. At any rate, he obtained illegal access to an ONT&R
and to the mind of our hairy cousin. It was never ascertained how far along he got in exposing the animal to the stimulibank, but it is to be assumed that such items as would not be immediately
trans-subjective between man and ape – traffic sounds and
so weiter –
were what frightened the creature. Pierre is still residing in a padded cell, and all his responses are
those of a frightened ape.

“So, while he did not complete his own dissertation,” he finished, “he may provide significant material for someone else’s.”

Render shook his head.

“Quite a story,” he said softly, “but I have nothing that dramatic to contend with. I’ve found an exceedingly stable individual – a psychiatrist, in fact –
one who’s already spent time in ordinary analysis. She wants to go into neuroparticipation – but the fear of a sight-trauma was what was keeping her out. I’ve been gradually
exposing her to a full range of visual phenomena. When I’ve finished she should be completely accommodated to sight, so that she can give her full attention to therapy and not be blinded by
vision, so to speak. We’ve already had four sessions.”

“And?”

“. . . And it’s working fine.”

“You are certain about it?”

“Yes, as certain as anyone can be in these matters.”

“Mm-hm,” said Bartelmetz. “Tell me, do you find her excessively strong-willed? By that I mean, say, perhaps an obsessive-compulsive pattern concerning anything to which
she’s been introduced so far?”

“No.”

“Has she ever succeeded in taking over control of the fantasy?”

“No!”

“You lie,” he said simply.

Render found a cigarette. After lighting it, he smiled.

“Old father, old artificer,” he conceded, “age has not withered your perceptiveness. I may trick me, but never you. – Yes, as a matter of fact, she
is
very
difficult to keep under control. She is not satisfied just to see. She wants to Shape things for herself already. It’s quite understandable – both to her and to me – but conscious
apprehension and emotional acceptance never do seem to get together on things. She has become dominant on several occasions, but I’ve succeeded in resuming control almost immediately. After
all, I
am
master of the bank.”

“Hm,” mused Bartelmetz. “Are you familiar with a Buddhist text –
Shankara’s Catechism
?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then I lecture you on it now. It posits – obviously not for therapeutic purposes – a true ego and a false ego. The true ego is that part of man which is immortal and shall
proceed on to nirvana: the soul, if you like. Very good. Well, the false ego, on the other hand, is the normal mind, bound round with the illusions – the consciousness of you and me and
everyone we have ever known professionally. Good? – Good. Now, the stuff this false ego is made up of they call skandhas. These include the feelings, the perceptions, the aptitudes,
consciousness itself, and even the physical form. Very unscientific. Yes. Now they are not the same thing as neuroses, or one of Mr. Ibsen’s life-lies, or an hallucination – no, even
though they are all wrong, being parts of a false thing to begin with. Each of the five skandhas is a part of the eccentricity that we call identity – then on top come the neuroses and all
the other messes which follow after and keep us in business. Okay? – Okay. I give you this lecture because I need a dramatic term for what I will say, because I wish to say something
dramatic. View the skandhas as lying at the bottom of the pond; the neuroses, they are ripples on the top of the water; the ‘true ego,’ if there is one, is buried deep beneath the sand
at the bottom. So. The ripples fill up the-the –
zwischenwelt –
between the object and the subject. The skandhas are a part of the subject, basic, unique, the stuff of his being.
– So far, you are with me?”

“With many reservations.”

“Good. Now I have defined my term somewhat, I will use it. You are fooling around with skandhas, not simple neuroses. You are attempting to adjust this woman’s overall conception of
herself and of the world. You are using the ONT&R to do it. It is the same thing as fooling with a psychotic or an ape. All may seem to go well, but – at any moment, it is possible you
may do something, show her some sight, or some way of seeing which will break in upon her selfhood, break a skandha – and pouf! – it will be like breaking through the bottom of the
pond. A whirlpool will result, pulling you – where? I do not want you for a patient, young man, young artificer, so I counsel you not to proceed with this experiment. The ONT&R should not
be used in such a manner.”

Render flipped his cigarette into the fire and counted on his fingers:

“One,” he said, “you are making a mystical mountain out of a pebble. All I am doing is adjusting her consciousness to accept an additional area of perception. Much of it is
simple transference work from the other senses – Two, her emotions were quite intense initially because it
did
involve a trauma – but we’ve passed that stage already. Now
it is only a novelty to her. Soon it will be a commonplace – Three, Eileen is a psychiatrist herself; she is educated in these matters and deeply aware of the delicate nature of what we are
doing – Four, her sense of identity and her desires, or her skandhas, or whatever you want to call them, are as firm as the Rock of Gibraltar. Do you realize the intense application required
for a blind person to obtain the education she has obtained? It took a will of ten-point steel and the emotional control of an ascetic as well – ”

“ – And if something that strong should break, in a timeless moment of anxiety,” smiled Bartelmetz sadly, “may the shades of Sigmund Freud and Karl Jung walk by your side
in the valley of darkness.

“ – And five,” he added suddenly, staring into Render’s eyes. “Five,” he ticked it off on one finger. “Is she pretty?”

Render looked back into the fire.

“Very clever,” sighed Bartelmetz. “I cannot tell whether you are blushing or not, with the rosy glow of the flames upon your face. I fear that you are, though, which would mean
that you are aware that you yourself could be the source of the inciting stimulus. I shall burn a candle tonight before a portrait of Adler and pray that he give you the strength to compete
successfully in your duel with your patient.”

Render looked at Jill, who was still sleeping. He reached out and brushed a lock of her hair back into place.

“Still,” said Bartelmetz, “if you do proceed and all goes well, I shall look forward with great interest to the reading of your work. Did I ever tell you that I have treated
several Buddhists and never found a ‘true ego’?”

Both men laughed.

Like me but not like me, that one on a leash, smelling of fear, small, gray, and unseeing.
Rrowl
and he’ll choke on his collar. His head is empty as the oven till.
She pushes the button and it makes dinner. Make talk and they never understand, but they are like me. One day I will kill one – why . . . ? Turn here.

“Three steps. Up. Glass doors. Handle to right.”

Why? Ahead, drop-shaft. Gardens under, down. Smells nice, there. Grass, wet dirt, trees, and clean air. I see. Birds are recorded though. I see all. I.

“Dropshaft. Four steps.”

Down Yes. Want to make loud noises in throat, feel silly. Clean, smooth, many of trees. God . . . She likes sitting on bench chewing leaves smelling smooth air. Can’t see them like me.
Maybe now, some . . . ? No.

Can’t Bad Sigmund me on grass, trees, here. Must hold it. Pity. Best place . . .

“Watch for steps.”

Ahead. To right, to left, to right, to left, trees and grass now. Sigmund sees. Walking . . . Doctor with machine gives her his eyes.
Rrowl
and he will not choke. No fearsmell.

Dig deep hole in ground, bury eyes. God is blind. Sigmund to see. Her eyes now filled, and he is afraid of teeth. Will make her to see and take her high up in the sky to see, away. Leave me
here, leave Sigmund with none to see, alone. I will dig a deep hole in the ground . . .

It was after ten in the morning when Jill awoke. She did not have to turn her head to know that Render was already gone. He never slept late. She rubbed her eyes, stretched,
turned onto her side and raised herself on her elbow. She squinted at the clock on the bedside table, simultaneously reaching for a cigarette and her lighter.

As she inhaled, she realized there was no ashtray. Doubtless Render had moved it to the dresser because he did not approve of smoking in bed. With a sigh that ended in a snort she slid out of
the bed and drew on her wrap before the ash grew too long.

She hated getting up, but once she did she would permit the day to begin and continue on without lapse through its orderly progression of events.

“Damn him,” she smiled. She had wanted her breakfast in bed, but it was too late now.

Between thoughts as to what she would wear, she observed an alien pair of skis standing in the corner. A sheet of paper was impaled on one. She approached it.

“Join me?” asked the scrawl.

She shook her head in an emphatic negative and felt somewhat sad. She had been on skis twice in her life and she was afraid of them. She felt that she should really try again, after his being a
reasonably good sport about the chateaux, but she could not even bear the memory of the unseemly downward rushing – which, on two occasions, had promptly deposited her in a snowbank –
without wincing and feeling once again the vertigo that had seized her during the attempts.

So she showered and dressed and went downstairs for breakfast.

All nine fires were already roaring as she passed the big hall and looked inside. Some red-faced skiers were holding their hands up before the blaze of the central hearth. It was not crowded
though. The racks held only a few pairs of dripping boots, bright caps hung on pegs, moist skis stood upright in their place beside the door. A few people were seated in the chairs set further back
toward the center of the hall, reading papers, smoking, or talking quietly. She saw no one she knew, so she moved on toward the dining room.

As she passed the registration desk the old man who worked there called out her name. She approached him and smiled.

“Letter,” he explained, turning to a rack. “Here it is,” he announced, handing it to her. “Looks important.”

It had been forwarded three times, she noted. It was a bulky brown envelope, and the return address was that of her attorney.

“Thank you.”

She moved off to a seat beside the big window that looked out upon a snow garden, a skating rink, and a distant winding trail dotted with figures carrying skis over their shoulders. She squinted
against the brightness as she tore open the envelope.

Yes, it was final. Her attorney’s note was accompanied by a copy of the divorce decree. She had only recently decided to end her legal relationship to Mr. Fotlock, whose name she had
stopped using five years earlier, when they had separated. Now that she had the thing, she wasn’t sure exactly what she was going to do with it. It would be a hell of a surprise for dear
Rendy, though, she decided. She would have to find a reasonably innocent way of getting the information to him. She withdrew her compact and practiced a “Well?” expression. Well, there
would be time for that later, she mused. Not too much later, though . . . Her thirtieth birthday, like a huge black cloud, filled an April but four months distant. Well . . . She touched her
quizzical lips with color, dusted more powder over her mole, and locked the expression within her compact for future use.

In the dining room she saw Doctor Bartelmetz, seated before an enormous mound of scrambled eggs, great chains of dark sausages, several heaps of yellow toast, and a
half-emptied flask of orange juice. A pot of coffee steamed on the warmer at his elbow. He leaned slightly forward as he ate, wielding his fork like a windmill blade.

“Good morning,” she said.

He looked up.

“Miss DeVille – Jill . . . Good morning.” He nodded at the chair across from him. “Join me, please.”

She did so, and when the waiter approached she nodded and said, “I’ll have the same thing, only about ninety percent less.”

She turned back to Bartelmetz.

“Have you seen Charles today?”

“Alas, I have not,” he gestured, open-handed, “and I wanted to continue our discussion while his mind was still in the early stages of wakefulness and somewhat malleable.
Unfortunately,” he took a sip of coffee, “he who sleeps well enters the day somewhere in the middle of its second act.”

“Myself, I usually come in around intermission and ask someone for a synopsis,” she explained. “So why not continue the discussion with me? – I’m always malleable,
and my skandhas are in good shape.”

Their eyes met, and he took a bite of toast.

“Aye,” he said, at length, “I had guessed as much. Well – good. What do you know of Render’s work?”

She adjusted herself in the chair.

“Mm. He being a special specialist in a highly specialized area, I find it difficult to appreciate the few things he does say about it. I’d like to be able to look inside other
people’s minds sometimes – to see what they’re thinking about
me
, of course – but I don’t think I could stand staying there very long. Especially,” she
gave a mock-shudder, “the mind of somebody with – problems. I’m afraid I’d be too sympathetic or too frightened or something. Then, according to what I’ve read –
pow! – like sympathetic magic, it would be my problem.