“That depends,” she said thoughtfully. “You have to give it. I can’t just take it.” She knelt then and sat back on her heels, her hands trailing pine-needles across the bower’s paved stone floor. She bowed her head and her hair swung forward. He thought she was watching him through it; he could not be sure.
He said, and the thought grew so large that it quelled his voice and made him whisper. “Do you want it?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, whispering too. When he moved to her and put her hair back to see if she was watching him, he found her eyes closed, and tears pressed through. He reached for her gently, but before he could touch her she sprang up and straight at the leafy wall. Her long golden body passed through it without a sound, and seemed to hang suspended outside; then it was gone. He put his head through and saw her flashing along under green water. He hesitated, then got an acrid whiff of his own vomit. The water looked clean and the golden sand just what he ached to scrub himself with. He climbed out of the bower and floundered clumsily down the bank and into the water.
After his first plunge he came up and spun about, looking for her, but she was gone.
Numbly he swam to the tiny beach and, kneeling, scoured himself with the fine sand. He dove and rinsed, and then (hoping) scrubbed himself all over again. And rinsed. But he did not see her.
He stood in the late rays of the sun to dry, and looked off across the lake. His heart leapt when he saw white movement, and sank again as he saw it was just the wheel of boats bobbing and sliding there.
He plodded up to the bower—now at last he saw it was the one behind which he had undressed—and he sank down on the bench.
This was a place where tropical fish swam in ocean water where there was no ocean, and where fleets of tiny perfect boats sailed with no one sailing them and no one watching, and where priceless statues stood hidden in clipped and barbered glades deep in the woods and—and he hadn’t seen it all; what other impossibilities were possible in this impossible place?
And besides, he’d been sick. (He wrinkled his nostrils.) Damn near … drowned. Out of his head for sure, for a while anyway. She couldn’t be real. Hadn’t he noticed a greenish cast to her flesh, or was that just the light?… anybody who could make a place like this, run a place like this, could jimmy up some kind of machine to hypnotize you like in the science fiction stories.
He stirred uneasily. Maybe someone was watching him, even now.
Hurriedly, he began to dress.
So she wasn’t real. Or maybe all of it wasn’t real. He’d bumped into that other trespasser across the lake there, and that was real, but then when he’d almost drowned, he’d dreamed up the rest.
Only—he touched his mouth. He’d dreamed up someone blowing the breath back into him. He’d heard about that somewhere, but it sure wasn’t what they were teaching this year at the Y.
You are the shape of the not-you. Are you in there?
What did that mean?
He finished dressing dazedly. He muttered, “What’d I hafta go an’ eat that goddamn cake for?” He wondered what he would tell Sammy. If she wasn’t real, Sammy wouldn’t know what he was talking about. If she was real there’s only one thing he would talk about, yes, and from then on. You mean you had her in that place and all you did was throw up on her? No—he wouldn’t tell Sammy. Or anybody.
And he’d be a bachelor all his life.
Boy oh boy. What an introduction. First she has to save your life and then you don’t know what to say and then oh, look what you had to go and do. But anyway—she wasn’t real.
He wondered what her name was. Even if she wasn’t real. Lots of people don’t use their real names.
He climbed out of the bower and crossed the silent pine carpet behind it, and he shouted. It was not a word at all, and had nothing about it that tried to make it one.
She was standing there waiting for him. She wore a quiet brown dress and low heels and carried a brown leather pocketbook, and her hair was braided and tied neatly and sedately in a coronet. She looked, too, as if she had turned down some inward tone control so that her skin did not radiate. She looked ready to disappear, not into thin air, but into a crowd—any crowd, as soon as she could get close to one. In a crowd he would have walked right past her, certainly, but for the shape of her eyes. She stepped up to him quickly and laid her hand on his cheek and laughed up at him. Again he saw the whiteness of those unusual eyeteeth, so sharp … “You’re blushing!” she said.
No blusher in history was ever stopped by that observation. He asked, “Which way do you go?”
She looked at his eyes, one, the other, both, quickly; then folded her long hands together around the strap of her pocketbook and looked down at them.
“With you,” she said softly.
This was only one of the many things she said to him, moment by moment, which gained meaning for him as time went on. He took her back to town and to dinner and then to the West Side address she gave him and they stood outside it all night talking. In six weeks they were married.
“How could I argue?” said Weber to Dr. Rathburn.
They stood together watching a small army of workmen swarming over the gigantic stone barn a quarter-mile from the castle, which, incidentally, was invisible from this point and unknown to the men. Work had begun at three the previous afternoon, continued all night. There was nothing, nothing at all that Dr. Weber had specified which was not only given him, but on the site or already installed.
“I know,” said Rathburn, who did.
“Not only, how could I argue,” said Weber, “why should I? A man has plans, ambitions. That Keogh, what an approach! That’s the first thing he went after—my plans for myself. That’s where he starts. And suddenly everything you ever wanted to do or be or have is handed to you or promised to you, and no fooling about the promise either.”
“Oh no. They don’t need to fool anybody … You want to pass a prognosis?”
“You mean on the youngster there?” He looked at Rathburn. “Oh no—that’s not what you mean. You’re asking me if I can bring one of those surrogate fetuses to term. An opinion like that would make a damn fool out of a man, and this is no job for a damn fool. All I can tell you is, I tried it—and that is something I wouldn’t’ve dreamed of doing if it hadn’t been for her and her crazy idea. I left here at four a.m. with some throat smears and by nine I had a half dozen of them isolated and in nutrient solution. Beef blood plasma—the quickest thing I could get ready. And I got mitosis. They divided, and in a few hours I could see two of ’em dimpling to form the gastrosphore. That was evidence enough to get going; that’s all I think and that’s all I told them on the phone. And by the time I got here,” he added, waving toward the big barn, “there’s a research lab four fifths built, big enough for a city medical center. Argue?” he demanded, returning to Dr. Rathburn’s original question. “How could I argue? Why should I?… And that girl. She’s a force, like gravity. She can turn on so much pressure, and I mean by herself and personally, that she could probably get anything in the world she wanted even if she didn’t own it, the world I mean. Put that in the northeast entrance!” he bellowed at a foreman. “I’ll be down to show you just where it goes.” He turned to Rathburn; he was a man on fire. “I got to go.”
“Anything I can do,” said Dr. Rathburn, “just say it.”
“That’s the wonderful part of it,” said Weber. “That’s what everybody around here keeps saying, and they mean it!” He trotted down toward the barn, and Rathburn turned toward the castle.
About a month after his last venture at trespassing, Guy Gibbon was coming home from work when a man at the corner put away a newspaper and, still folding it, said, “Gibbon?”
“That’s right,” said Guy, a little sharply.
The man looked him up and down, quickly, but giving an impression of such thoroughness, efficiency, and experience that Guy would not have been surprised to learn that the man had not only catalogued his clothes and their source, their state
of maintenance and a computation therefrom of his personal habits, but also his state of health and even his blood type. “My name’s Keogh,” said the man. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Sylva never mentioned the name?”
“Sylva! N-no, she didn’t.”
“Let’s go somewhere and have a drink. I’d like to talk to you.” Something had pleased this man. Guy wondered what. “Well, okay,” he said. “Only I don’t drink much, but well, okay.”
They found a bar in the neighborhood with booths, in the back. Keogh had a Scotch and soda and Guy, after some hesitation, ordered a beer. Guy said, “You know her?”
“Most of her life. Do you?”
“What? Well, sure. We’re going to get married.” He looked studiously into his beer and said uncomfortably, “What are you anyway, Mr. Keogh?”
“You might say,” said Keogh, “I’m in loco parentis.” He waited for a response, then added, “Sort of a guardian.”
“She never said anything about a guardian.”
“I can understand that. What has she told you about herself?”
Guy’s discomfort descended to a level of shyness, diffidence, even a touch of fear—which did not alter the firmness of his words, however they were spoken. “I don’t know you, Mr. Keogh. I don’t think I ought to answer any questions about Sylva. Or me. Or anything.” He looked up at the man. Keogh searched deeply, then smiled. It was an unpracticed and apparently slightly painful process with him, but was genuine for all that. “Good!” he barked, and rose. “Come on.” He left the booth and Guy, more than a little startled, followed. They went to the phone booth in the corner. Keogh dropped in a nickel, dialed, and waited, his eyes fixed on Guy. Then Guy had to listen to one side of the conversation:
“I’m here with Guy Gibbon.” (Guy had to notice that Keogh identified himself only with his voice.)
“… Of course I knew about it. That’s a silly question, girl.”
“… Because it is my business. You are my business.”
“… Stop it? I’m not trying to stop anything. I just have to know, that’s all.”
“… All right. All right … He’s here. He won’t talk about you or anything, which is good. Yes, very good. Will you please tell him to open up?”
And he handed the receiver to a startled Guy, who said tremulously, “Uh, hello,” to it while watching Keogh’s impassive face.
Her voice suffused and flooded him, changed this whole unsettling experience to something different and good. “Guy, darling.”
“Sylva—”
“It’s all right. I should have told you sooner, I guess. It had to come some time. Guy, you can tell Keogh anything you like. Anything he asks.”
“Why, honey? Who is he, anyway?”
There was a pause, then a strange little laugh. “He can explain that better than I can. You want us to be married, Guy?”
“Oh yes!”
“Well all right then. Nobody can change that, nobody but you. And listen, Guy. I’ll live anywhere, any way you want to live. That’s the real truth and all of it, do you believe me?”
“I always believe you.”
“All right then. So that’s what we’ll do. Now you go and talk to Keogh. Tell him anything he wants to know. He has to do the same. I love you, Guy.”
“Me too,” said Guy, watching Keogh’s face. “Well, okay then,” he added when she said nothing further. “Bye.” He hung up and he and Keogh had a long talk.
“It hurts him,” she whispered to Dr. Rathburn.
“I know.” He shook his head sympathetically. “There’s just so much morphine you can rain into a man, though.”
“Just a little more?”
“Maybe a little,” he said sadly. He went to his bag and got the needle. Sylva kissed the sleeping man tenderly and left the room. Keogh was waiting for her.
He said, “This has got to stop, girl.”
“Why?” she responded ominously.
“Let’s get out of here.”
She had known Keogh so long, and so well, that she was sure he had no surprises for her. But this voice, this look, these were something new in Keogh. He held the door for her, so she preceded him through it and then went where he silently led.
They left the castle and took the path through a heavy copse and over the brow of the hill which overlooked the barn. The parking lot, which had once been a barnyard, was full of automobiles. A white ambulance approached; another was unloading at the northeast platform. A muffled generator purred somewhere behind the building, and smoke rose from the stack of the new stone boiler room at the side. They both looked avidly at the building but did not comment. The path took them along the crest of the hill and down toward the lake. They went to a small forest clearing in which stood an eight-foot Diana, the huntress Diana, chaste and fleet-footed, so beautifully finished she seemed not like marble at all, not like anything cold or static. “I always had the idea,” said Keogh, “that nobody can lie anywhere near her.”
She looked up at the Diana.
“Not even to themselves,” said Keogh, and plumped down on a marble bench.
“Let’s have it,” she said.
“You want to make Guy Gibbon happen all over again. It’s a crazy idea and it’s a big one too. But lots of things were crazier, and some bigger, and now they’re commonplace. I won’t argue on how crazy it is, or how big.”
“What then?”
“I’ve been trying, the last day or so, to back way out, far off, get a look at this thing with some perspective. Sylva, you’ve forgotten something.”
“Good,” she said. “Oh, good. I knew you’d think of things like this before it was too late.”
“So you can find a way out?” Slowly he shook his head. “Not this time. Tighten up the Wyke guts, girl, and make up your mind to quit.”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s just this. I don’t believe you’re going to get your carbon copy, mind you, but you just might. I’ve been talking to Weber, and by God you just about might. But if you do, all you’ve got is a container, and nothing to fill it with. Look, girl, a man isn’t blood and bone and body cells, and that’s all.”
He paused, until she said, “Go on, Keogh.”
He demanded, “You love this guy?”
“Keogh!” She was amused.
“Whaddaya love?” he barked. “That skrinkly hair? The muscles, skin? His nat’ral equipment? The eyes, voice?”
“All that,” she said composedly.
“All that, and that’s all?” he demanded relentlessly. “Because if your answer is yes, you can have what you want, and more power to you, and good riddance. I don’t know anything about love, but I will say this: that if that’s all there is to it, the hell with it.”
“Well of course there’s more.”
“Ah. And where are you going to get that, girl? Listen, a man is the skin and bone he stands in, plus what’s in his head, plus what’s in his heart. You mean to reproduce Guy Gibbon, but you’re not going to do it by duplicating his carcass. You want to duplicate the whole man, you’re going to have to make him live the same life again. And that you can’t do.”
She looked up at the Diana for a long time. Then, “Why not?” she breathed.
“I’ll tell you why not,” he said angrily. “Because first of all you have to find out who he is.”
“I know who he is!”
He spat explosively on the green moss by the bench. It was totally uncharacteristic and truly shocking. “You don’t know a particle, and I know even less. I had his back against a wall one time for better than two hours, trying to find out who he is. He’s just another kid, is all. Nothing much in school, nothing much at sports, same general tastes and feelings as six zillion other ones like him. Why him, Sylva? Why him? What did you ever see in a guy like that to be worth the marrying?”
“I … didn’t know you disliked him.”
“Oh hell, girl, I don’t! I never said that.
I can’t—can’t even find anything to dislike.”
“You don’t know him the way I do.”
“There, I agree. I don’t and I couldn’t. Because you don’t know anything either—you feel, but you don’t know. If you want to see Guy Gibbon again, or a reasonable facsimile, he’s going to have to live by a script from the day he’s born. He’ll have to duplicate every experience that this kid here ever had.”
“All right,” she said quietly.
He looked at her, stunned. He said, “And before he can do that, we have to write the script. And before we can write it, we have to get the material somehow. What do you expect to do—set up a foundation or something dedicated to the discovery of each and every moment this—this unnoticeable young man ever lived through? And do it secretly, because while he’s growing up he can’t ever know? Do you know how much that would cost, how many people it would involve?”
“That would be all right,” she said.
“And suppose you had it, a biography written like a script, twenty years of a lifetime, every day, every hour you could account for; now you’re going to have to arrange for a child, from birth, to be surrounded by people who are going to play this script out—and who will never let anything else happen to him but what’s in the script and who will never let him know.”
“That’s it! That’s it!” she cried.
He leapt to his feet and swore at her. He said, “I’m not planning this, you lovestruck lunatic, I’m objecting to it!”
“Is there anymore?” she cried eagerly. “Keogh, Keogh, try—try hard. How do we start? What do we do first? Quick, Keogh.”
He looked at her, thunderstruck, and at last sank down on the bench and began to laugh weakly. She sat by him, held his hand, her eyes shining. After a time he sobered, and turned to her. He drank the shine of those eyes for awhile; and after, his brain began to function again … on Wyke business …
“The main source of who he is and what he’s done,” he said at last, “won’t be with us much longer … We better go tell Rathburn to get him off the morphine. He has to be able to think.”
The Nail and the Oracle Page 12
