The Last Defender Of Camelot

by Roger Zelazny

  She regarded him speculatively.

  "Don't worry though," he chuckled, "I'm pleased as hell with life."

  "You're kind of down in the mouth this morning."

  "Pete called me. He broke his ankle yesterday in gym class. They ought to supervise those things more closely. I'm thinking of changing his school."

  "Again?"

  "Maybe. I'll see. The headmaster is going to call me this afternoon. I don't like to keep shuffling him, but I do want him to finish school in one piece.""A kid can't grow up without an accident or two. It's —statistics."

  "Statistics aren't the same thing as destiny, Bennie. Everybody makes his own."

  "Statistics or destiny?"

  "Both, I guess."

  "I think that if something's going to happen, it's going to happen."

  "I don't. I happen to think that the human will, backed by a sane mind can exercise some measure of control over events. If I didn't think so, I wouldn't be in the racket I'm in."

  'The world's a machine—you know—cause, effect. Statistics do imply the prob—"

  "The human mind is not a machine, and I do not know cause and effect. Nobody does."

  "You have a degree in chemistry, as I recall. You're a scientist. Doc."

  "So I'm a Trotskyite deviationist," he smiled, stretching, "and you were once a ballet teacher." He got to his feet and picked up his coat.

  "By the way. Miss DeVille called, left a message. She said: 'How about St. Moritz?' "

  "Too ritzy," he decided aloud. "It's going to be Davos."

  Because the suicide bothered him more than it should have. Render closed the door to his office and turned off the windows and turned on the phonograph. He put on the desk light only.

  How has the quality of human life been changed, he wrote, since the beginnings of the industrial revolution?

  He picked up the paper and reread the sentence. It was the topic he had been asked to discuss that coming Saturday. As was typical in such cases he did not know what to say because he had too much to say, and only an hour to say it in.

  He got up and began to pace the office, now filled with Beethoven's Eighth Symphony.

  "The power to hurt," he said, snapping on a lapel microphone and activating his recorder, "has evolved in a direct relationship to technological advancement." His imaginary audience grew quiet. He smiled. "Man's potential for working simple mayhem has been multipliedby mass-production; his capacity for injuring the psyche through personal contacts has expanded in an exact ratio to improved communication facilities. But these are all matters of common knowledge, and are not the things I wish to consider tonight Rather, I should like to discuss what I choose to call autopsychomimesis—the selfgenerated anxiety complexes which on first scrutiny appear quite similar to classic patterns, but which actually represent radical dispersions of psychic energy. They are peculiar to our times... .**

  He paused to dispose of his cigar and formulate his next words.

  "Autopsychomimesis," he thought aloud, "a selfperpetuated imitation complex—almost an attentiongetting affair. —A jazzman, for example, who acted hopped-up half the time, even though he had never used an addictive narcotic and only dimly remembered anyone who had—because all the stimulants and tranquilizers of today are quite benign. Like Quixote, he aspired after a legend when his music alone should have been sufficient outlet for his tensions.

  "Or my Korean War Orphan, alive today by virtue of the Red Cross and UNICEF and foster parents whom he never met. He wanted a family so badly that be made one up. And what then?—He hated his imaginary father and be loved his imaginary mother quite dearly—for he was a highly intelligent boy, and he too longed after the half-true complexes of tradition. Why?

  "Today, everyone is sophisticated enough to understand the time-honored patterns of psychic disturbance. Today, many of the reasons for those disturbances have been removed—not as radically as my now-adult war orphan's, but with as remarkable an effect We are living in a neurotic past. —Again, why? Because our present times are geared to physical health, security and wellbeing. We have abolished hunger, though the backwoods orphan would still rather receive a package of food concentrates from a human being who cares for him than to obtain a warm meal from an automat unit in the middle of the jungle.

  "Physical welfare is now every man's right in excess. The reaction to this has occurred in the area of mental health. Thanks to technology, the reasons for many of theold social problems have passed, and along with them went many of the reasons for psychic distress. But between the black of yesterday and the white of tomorrow is the great gray of today, filled with nostalgia and fear of the future, which cannot be expressed on a purely material plane, is now being represented by a willful seeking after historical anxiety-modes...."

  The phone-box buzzed briefly. Render did not hear it over the Eighth.

  "We are afraid of what we do not know," he continued, "and tomorrow is a very great unknown. My own specialized area of psychiatry did not even exist thirty years ago. Science is capable of advancing itself so rapidly now that there is a genuine public uneasiness—I might even say 'distress'—as to the logical outcome: the total mechanization of everything in the world... ."

  He passed near the desk as the phone buzzed again. He switched off his microphone and softened the Eighth.

  "Hello?"

  "Saint Moritz," she said.

  "Davos," he replied firmly.

  "Charlie, you are most exasperatingi"

  "Jill, dear—so are you."

  "Shall we discuss it tonight?"

  "There is nothing to discussi"

  "You'll pick me up at five, though?"

  He hesitated, then:

  "Yes, at five. How come the screen is blank?"

  "I've had my hair fixed. I'm going to surprise you again."

  He suppressed an idiot chuckle, said, "Pleasantly, I hope. Okay, see you then," waited for her "good-bye," and broke the connection.

  He transpared the windows, turned off the light on his desk, and looked outside.

  Gray again overhead, and many slow flakes of snow— wandering, not being blown about much—moving downward and then losing themselves in the tumult... .

  He also saw, when he opened the window and leaned out, the place off to the left where Irizarry had left his next-to-last mark on the world.

  He closed the window and listened to the rest of the symphony. It had been a week since he had gone blind-spuming with Eileen. Her appointment was for one o'clock, He remembered her fingertips brushing over his face, like leaves, or the bodies of insects, learning his appearance in the ancient manner of the blind. The memory was not altogether pleasant. He wondered why.

  Far below, a patch of hosed pavement was blank once again; under a thin, fresh shroud of white, it was slippery as glass. A building custodian hurried outside and spread salt on it, before someone slipped and hurt himself.

  Sigmund was the myth of Fenria come alive. After Render had instructed Mrs. Hedges, "Show them in," the door had begun to open, was suddenly pushed wider, and a pair of smoky-yellow eyes stared in at him. The eyes were set in a strangely misshapen dog-skull.

  Sigmund's was not a low canine brow, slanting up slightly from the muzzle; it was a high, shaggy cranium making the eyes appear even more deep-set than they actually were. Render shivered slightly at the size and aspect of that head. The muties he had seen had all been puppies. Sigmund was full-grown, and his gray-black fur had a tendency to bristle, which^nade him appear somewhat larger than a normal specimen of the breed.

  He stared in at Render in a very un-doglike way and made a growling noise which sounded too much like, "Hello, doctor," to have been an accident.

  Render nodded and stood.

  "Hello, Sigmund," he said. "Come in."

  The dog turned his head, sniffing the air of the room— as though deciding whether or not to trust his ward within its confines. Then he returned his stare to Render, dipped his head in an affirmative, and shou
ldered the door open. Perhaps the entire encounter had taken only one disconcerting second.

  Eileen followed him, holding lightly to the doubleleashed harness. The dog padded soundlessly across the thick rug—head low, as though he were stalking something. His eyes never left Render's.

  "So this is Sigmund ... ? How are you, Eileen?"

  "Fine. —Yes, he wanted very badly to come along, and I wanted you to meet him."

  Render led her to a chair and seated her. She un-snapped the double guide from the dog's harness and placed it on the floor. Sigmimd sat down beside it and continued to stare at Render.

  "How is everything at State Psych?" "Same as always. —May I bum a cigarette, doctor? I forgot mine."

  He placed it between her fingers, furnished a light. She was wearing a dark blue suit and her glasses were flame blue. The silver spot on her forehead reflected the glow of his lighter; she continued to stare at that point in space after he had withdrawn his hand. Her shoulderlength hair appeared a trifle lighter than it had seemed on the night they met; today it was like a fresh-minted copper coin.

  Render seated himself on the corner of his desk, drawing up his world-ashtray with his toe.

  "You told me before that being blind did not mean that you had never seen. I didn't ask you to explain it then. But I'd like to ask you now."

  "I had a neuroparticipation session with Doctor Riscomb," she told him, "before he had his accident. He wanted to accommodate my mind to visual impressions. Unfortunately, there was never a second session." "I see. What did you do in that session?" She crossed her ankles and Render noted they were well-turned.

  "Colors, mostly. The experience was quite overwhelming."

  "How well do you remember them? How long ago was it?"

  "About six months ago—and I shall never forget them. I have even dreamed in color patterns since then." "How often?" "Several times a week." "What sort of associations do they carry?" "Nothing special. They just come into my mind along with other stimuli now—in a pretty haphazard way." "How?"

  "Well, for instance, when you ask me a question it's a sort of yellowish-orangish pattern that I 'see'. Your greeting was a kind of silvery thing- Now that you're just sitting there listening to me, saying nothing, I associate you with a deep, almost violet, blue."Sigmund shifted his gaze to the desk and stared at the side panel.

  Can he hear the recorder spinning inside? wondered Render. And if he can, can he guess what it is and what it's doing?

  If so, the dog would doubtless tell Eileen—not that she was unaware of what was now an accepted practice— and she might not like being reminded that he considered her case as therapy, rather than a mere mechanical adaptation process. If he thought it would do any good (he smiled inwardly at the notion), be would talk to the dog in private about it Inwardly, he shrugged.

  "I'll construct a rather elementary fantasy world then," he said finally, "and introduce you to some basic forms today."

  She smiled; and Render looked down at the myth who crouched by her side, its tongue a piece of beefsteak hanging over a picket fence.

  Is he smiling too?

  "Thank you," she said.

  Sigmund wagged his tail.

  "Well then," Render disposed of his cigarette near Madagascar, "I'll fetch out the 'egg' now and test it. In the meantime," he pressed an unobstrusive button, "perhaps some music would prove relaxing."

  She started to reply, but a Wagnerian overture snuffed out the words. Render jammed the button again, and there was a moment of silence during which he said, **Heh heh. Thought Respighi was next."

  It took two more pushes for him to locate some Roman pines.

  "You could have left him on," she observed. "I'm quite fond of Wagner."

  "No thanks," he said, opening the closet, "I'd keep stepping in all those piles of leitmotifs."

  The great egg drifted out into the office, soundless as a cloud. Render heard a soft growl behind as he drew it toward the desk. He turned quickly.

  Like the shadow of a bird, Sigmund had gotten to his feet, crossed the room, and was already circling the machine and sniffing at it—tail taut, ears flat, teeth bared. "Easy, Sig," said Render. "It's an Omnichannel NeuralT & R Unit. It won't bite or anything like that. It's Just a machine, like a car, or a teevee, or a dishwasher. That's what we're going to use today to show Eileen what some things look like."

  "Don't like it," rumbled the dog.

  "Why?"

  Sigmund had no reply, so he stalked back to EUeen and laid his head in her lap.

  "Don't like it," he repeated, looking up at her.

  "Why?"

  "No words," he decided. "We go home now?"

  "No," she answered him. "You're going to curl up in the corner and take a nap, and I'm going to curl up in that machine and do the same thing—sort of."

  "No good," he said, tail drooping.

  "Go on now," she pushed him, "lie down and behave yourself."

  He acquiesced, but he whined when Render blanked the windows and touched the button which transformed his desk into the operator's seat.

  He whined once more—when the egg, connected now to an outlet, broke in the middle and the top slid back and up, revealing the interior.

  Render seated himself. His chair became a contour couch and moved in hallway beneath the console. He sat upright and it moved back again, becoming a chair. He touched a part of the desk and half the ceiling disengaged itself, reshaped itself, and lowered to hover overhead like a huge bell. He stood and moved around to the side of the ro-womb. Respighi spoke of pines and such, and Render disengaged an earphone from beneath the egg and leaned back across his desk. Blocking one ear with his shoulder and pressing the microphone to the other, he played upon the buttons with his free hand. Leagues of surf drowned the tone poem; miles of traffic overrode it; a great clanging bell sent fracture lines running through it; and the feedback said: "... Now that you are just sitting there listening to me, saying nothing, I associate you with a deep, almost violet, blue...."

  He switched to the face mask and monitored, one— cinnamon, two—leaf mold, three—deep reptilian musk ... and down through thirst, and the tastes of honey and vinegar and salt, and back on up through lilacs and wet concrete, a before-the-storm whiff of ozone, and all thebasic olfactory and gustatory cues for morning, afternoon and evening in the town.

  The couch floated normally in its pool of mercury, magnetically stabilized by the walls of the egg. He set the tapes.

  The ro-womb was in perfect condition.

  "Okay," said Render, turning, "everything checks."

  She was just placing her glasses atop her folded garments. She had undressed while Render was testing the machine. He was perturbed by her narrow waist, her large, dark-pointed breasts, her long legs. She was too well-formed for a woman her height, he decided.

  He realized though, as he stared at her, that his main annoyance was, of course, the fact that she was his patient.

  "Ready here," she said, and he moved to her side.

  He took her elbow and guided her to the machine. Her fingers explored its interior. As he helped her enter the unit, he saw that her eyes were a vivid seagreen. Of this, too, he disapproved.

  "Comfortable?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay then, we're set. I'm going to close it now. Sweet dreams."

  The upper shell dropped slowly. Closed, it grew opaque, then dazzling. Render was staring down at his own distorted reflection.

  He moved back in the direction of his desk.

  Sigmund was on his feet, blocking the way.

  Render reached down to pat his head, but the dog jerked it aside.

  "Take me, with," he growled.

  "I'm afraid that can't be done, old fellow," said Render. "Besides, we're not really going anywhere. We'll just be dozing, right here, in this room."

  The dog did not seem mollified.

  "Why?"

  Render sighed. An argument with a dog was about the most ludicrous thing he could imagin
e when sober.

  "Sig," he said, "I'm trying to help her learn what things look like. You doubtless do a fine job guiding her around in this world which she cannot see—but she needs to know what it looks like now, and I'm going to show her."

  "Then she, will not, need me.""Of course she will." Render almost laughed. The pathetic thing was here bound so closely to the absurd thing that he could not help it. "I can't restore her sight," he explained. "I'm just going to transfer her some sightabstractions—sort of lend her my eyes for a short time. Savvy?"

  "No," said the dog. "Take mine."

  Render turned off the music.

  The whole mutie-master relationship might be worth six volumes, he decided, in German.

  He pointed to the far corner.

  "Lie down, over there, like Eileen told you. This isn't going to take long, and when it's all over you're going to leave the same way you came—you leading. Okay?"

  Sigmund did not answer, but he turned and moved off to the corner, tail drooping again.

  Render seated himself and lowered the hood, the operator's modified version of the ro-womb. He was alone before the ninety white buttons and the two red ones. The world ended in the blackness beyond the console. He loosened his necktie and unbuttoned his collar.

  He removed the helmet from its receptacle and checked its leads. Donning it then, he swung the haltmask up over his lower face and dropped the darksheet down to meet with it. He rested his right arm in the sling, and with a single tapping gesture, he eliminated his patient's consciousness.

  A Shaper does not press white buttons consciously. He wills conditions. Then deeply-implanted muscular reflexes exert an almost imperceptible pressure against the sensitive arm-sling, which glides into the proper position and encourages an extended finger to move forward. A button is pressed. The sling moves on.