The Mammoth Book of 20th Century SF II (79 page)

“Charles never has problems though,” she continued, “at least, none that he speaks to me about. Lately I’ve been wondering, though. That blind girl and her talking dog
seem to be too much with him.”

“Talking dog?”

“Yes, her seeing-eye dog is one of those surgical mutants.”

“How interesting . . . Have you ever met her?”

“Never.”

“So,” he mused.

“Sometimes a therapist encounters a patient whose problems are so akin to his own that the sessions become extremely mordant,” he noted. “It has always been the case with me
when I treat a fellow-psychiatrist. Perhaps Charles sees in this situation a parallel to something which has been troubling him personally. I did not administer his personal analysis. I do not know
all the ways of his mind, even though he was a pupil of mine for a long while. He was always self-contained, somewhat reticent; he could be quite authoritative on occasion, however. – What
are some of the other things which occupy his attention these days?”

“His son Peter is a constant concern. He’s changed the boy’s school five times in five years.

Her breakfast arrived. She adjusted her napkin and drew her chair closer to the table.

“And he has been reading case histories of suicides recently, and talking about them, and talking about them, and talking about them.”

“To what end?”

She shrugged and began eating.

“He never mentioned why,” she said, looking up again. “Maybe he’s writing something . . .”

Bartelmetz finished his eggs and poured more coffee.

“Are you afraid of this patient of his?” he inquired.

“No . . . Yes,” she responded, “I am.”

“Why?”

“I am afraid of sympathetic magic,” she said, flushing slightly.

“Many things could fall under that heading.”

“Many indeed,” she acknowledged. And, after a moment, “We are united in our concern for his welfare and in agreement as to what represents the threat. So, may I ask a
favor?”

“You may.”

“Talk to him again,” she said. “Persuade him to drop the case.”

He folded his napkin.

“I intend to do that after dinner,” he stated, “because I believe in the ritualistic value of rescue-motions. They shall be made.”

Dear Father-image,

Yes, the school is fine, my ankle is getting that way, and my classmates are a congenial lot. No, I am not short on cash, undernourished, or having difficulty fitting into the new curriculum.
Okay?

The building I will not describe, as you have already seen the macabre thing. The grounds I cannot describe, as they are currently residing beneath cold white sheets. Brr! I trust yourself to be
enjoying the arts wint’rish. I do not share your enthusiasm for summer’s opposite, except within picture frames or as an emblem on ice-cream bars.

The ankle inhibits my mobility and my roommate has gone home for the weekend – both of which are really blessings (saith Pangloss), for I now have the opportunity to catch up on some
reading. I will do so forthwith.

Prodigally,

Peter

Render reached down to pat the huge head. It accepted the gesture stoically, then turned its gaze up to the Austrian whom Render had asked for a light, as if to say,
“Must I endure this indignity?” The man laughed at the expression, snapping shut the engraved lighter on which Render noted the middle initial to be a small ‘v.’

“Thank you,” he said, and to the dog: “What is your name?”

“Bismark,” it growled.

Render smiled.

“You remind me of another of your kind,” he told the dog. “One Sigmund, by name, a companion and guide to a blind friend of mine, in America.”

“My Bismark is a hunter,” said the young man. “There is no quarry that can out think him, neither the deer nor the big cats.”

The dog’s ears pricked forward and he stared up at Render with proud, blazing eyes.

“We have hunted in Africa and the northern and southwestern parts of America. Central America, too. He never loses the trail. He never gives up. He is a beautiful brute, and his teeth
could have been made in Solingen.”

“You are indeed fortunate to have such a hunting companion.”

“I hunt,” growled the dog. “I follow . . . Sometimes, I have, the kill . . .”

“You would not know of the one called Sigmund then, or the woman he guides – Miss Eileen Shallot?” asked Render.

The man shook his head.

“No, Bismark came to me from Massachusetts, but I was never to the Center personally. I am not acquainted with other mutie handlers.”

“I see. Well, thank you for the light. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon . . .”

“Good, after, noon . . .”

Render strolled on up the narrow street, hands in his pockets. He had excused himself and not said where he was going. This was because he had had no destination in mind. Bartelmetz’
second essay at counseling had almost led him to say things he would later regret. It was easier to take a walk than to continue the conversation.

On a sudden impulse he entered a small shop and bought a cuckoo clock which had caught his eye. He felt certain that Bartelmetz would accept the gift in the proper spirit. He smiled and walked
on.
And what was that letter to Jill which the desk clerk had made a special trip to their table to deliver at dinnertime?
he wondered. It had been forwarded three times, and its return
address was that of a law firm. Jill had not even opened it, but had smiled, overtipped the old man, and tucked it into her purse. He would have to hint subtly as to its contents. His curiosity so
aroused, she would be sure to tell him out of pity.

The icy pillars of the sky suddenly seemed to sway before him as a cold wind leaped down out of the north. Render hunched his shoulders and drew his head further below his collar. Clutching the
cuckoo clock, he hurried back up the street.

That night the serpent which holds its tail in its mouth belched, the Fenris Wolf made a pass at the moon, the little clock said “cuckoo” and tomorrow came on like
Manolete’s last bull, shaking the gate of horn with the bellowed promise to tread a river of lions to sand.

Render promised himself he would lay off the gooey fondue.

Later, much later, when they skipped through the skies in a kite-shaped cruiser, Render looked down upon the darkened Earth dreaming its cities full of stars, looked up at the
sky where they were all reflected, looked about him at the tape-screens watching all the people who blinked into them, and at the coffee, tea, and mixed drink dispensers who sent their fluids forth
to explore the insides of the people they required to push their buttons, then looked across at Jill, whom the old buildings had compelled to walk among their walls – because he knew she felt
he should be looking at her then – felt his seat’s demand that he convert it into a couch, did so, and slept.

Her office was full of flowers, and she liked exotic perfumes. Sometimes she burned incense.

She liked soaking in overheated pools, walking through falling snow, listening to too much music, played perhaps too loudly, drinking five or six varieties of liqueurs (usually reeking of anise,
sometimes touched with wormwood) every evening. Her hands were soft and lightly freckled. Her fingers were long and tapered. She wore no rings.

Her fingers traced and retraced the floral swellings on the side of her chair as she spoke into the recording unit.

“. . . Patient’s chief complaints on admission were nervousness, insomnia, stomach pains, and a period of depression. Patient has had a record of previous admissions for short
periods of time. He had been in this hospital in 1995 for a manic depressive psychosis, depressed type, and he returned here again, 2-3-96. He was in another hospital, 9-20-97. Physical examination
revealed a BP of 170/00. He was normally developed and well-nourished on the date of examination, 12-11-98. On this date patient complained of chronic backache, and there was noted some moderate
symptoms of alcohol withdrawal. Physical examination further revealed no pathology except that the patient’s tendon reflexes were exaggerated but equal. These symptoms were the result of
alcohol withdrawal. Upon admission he was shown to be not psychotic, neither delusional nor hallucinated. He was well-oriented as to place, time, and person. His psychological condition was
evaluated and he was found to be somewhat grandiose and expansive and more than a little hostile. He was considered a potential troublemaker. Because of his experience as a cook, he was assigned to
work in the kitchen. His general condition then showed definite improvement. He is less tense and is cooperative. Diagnosis: Manic depressive reaction (external precipitating stress unknown). The
degree of psychiatric impairment is mild. He is considered competent. To be continued on therapy and hospitalization.”

She turned off the recorder then and laughed. The sound frightened her. Laughter is a social phenomenon and she was alone. She played back the recording then, chewing on the corner of her
handkerchief while the soft, clipped words were returned to her. She ceased to hear them after the first dozen or so.

When the recorder stopped talking she turned it off. She was alone. She was very alone. She was so damned alone that the little pool of brightness which occurred when she stroked her forehead
and faced the window – that little pool of brightness suddenly became the most important thing in the world. She wanted it to be immense. She wanted it to be an ocean of light. Or else she
wanted to grow so small herself that the effect would be the same: she wanted to drown in it.

It had been three weeks, yesterday . . .

Too long
, she decided,
I
should have waited. No! Impossible! But what if he goes as Riscomb went? No! He won’t. He would not. Nothing can hurt him. Never. He is all
strength and armor. But – but we should have waited till next month to start. Three weeks. . . Sight withdrawal – that’s what it is. Are the memories fading? Are they weaker? What
does a tree look like? Or a cloud – I can’t remember! What is red? What is green? God! It’s hysterical! I’m watching and I can’t stop it! – Take a pill! A
pill!

Her shoulders began to shake. She did not take a pill though, but bit down harder on the handkerchief until her sharp teeth tore through its fabric.

“Beware,” she recited a personal beatitude, “those who hunger and thirst after justice, for we
will
be satisfied.

“And beware the meek,” she continued, “for we shall attempt to inherit the Earth.

“And beware . . .”

There was a brief buzz from the phone-box. She put away her handkerchief, composed her face, turned the unit on.

“Hello . . . ?”

“Eileen, I’m back. How’ve you been?”

“Good, quite well in fact. How was your vacation?”

“Oh, I can’t complain. I had it coming for a long time. I guess I deserve it. Listen, I brought some things back to show you – like Winchester Cathedral. You want to come in
this week? I can make it any evening.”

Tonight. No. I want it too badly. It will set me back if he sees . .
.

“How about tomorrow night?” she asked. “Or the one after?”

“Tomorrow will be fine,” he said. “Meet you at the P & S, around seven?”

“Yes, that would be pleasant. Same table?”

“Why not? – I’ll reserve it.”

“All right. I’ll see you then.”

“Good-bye.”

The connection was broken.

Suddenly, then, at that moment, colors swirled again through her head; and she saw trees – oaks and pines, poplars and sycamores – great, and green and brown, and iron-colored; and
she saw wads of fleecy clouds, dipped in paintpots, swabbing a pastel sky; and a burning sun, and a small willow tree, and a lake of a deep, almost violet, blue. She folded her torn handkerchief
and put it away.

She pushed a button beside her desk and music filled the office: Scriabin. Then she pushed another button and replayed the tape she had dictated, half-listening to each.

Pierre sniffed suspiciously at the food. The attendant moved away from the tray and stepped out into the hall, locking the door behind him. The enormous salad waited on the
floor. Pierre approached cautiously, snatched a handful of lettuce, gulped it.

He was afraid.

If only the steel would stop crashing and crashing against steel
,
somewhere in that dark night . . . If only
. . .

Sigmund rose to his feet, yawned, stretched. His hind legs trailed out behind him for a moment, then he snapped to attention and shook himself. She would be coming home soon.
Wagging his tail slowly, he glanced up at the human-level clock with the raised numerals, verified his feelings, then crossed the apartment to the teevee. He rose onto his hind legs, rested one paw
against the table and used the other to turn on the set.

It was nearly time for the weather report and the roads would be icy.

“I have driven through countrywide graveyards,” wrote Render, “vast forests of stone that spread further every day.

“Why does man so zealously guard his dead? Is it because this is the monumentally democratic way of immortalization, the ultimate affirmation of the power to hurt – that is to say,
life – and the desire that it continue on forever? Unamuno has suggested that this is the case. If it is, then a greater percentage of the population actively sought immortality last year
than ever before in history . . .”

Tch-tchg, tchga-tchg!

“Do you think they’re really people?”

“Naw, they’re too good.”

The evening was starglint and soda over ice. Render wound the S-7 into the cold sub-subcellar, found his parking place, nosed into it.

There was a damp chill that emerged from the concrete to gnaw like rats’ teeth at their flesh. Render guided her toward the lift, their breath preceding them in dissolving clouds.

“A bit of a chill in the air,” he noted.

She nodded, biting her lip.

Inside the lift, he sighed, unwound his scarf, lit a cigarette.

“Give me one, please,” she requested, smelling the tobacco.

He did.

They rose slowly, and Render leaned against the wall, puffing a mixture of smoke and crystallized moisture.