Alone, but perhaps not unseen, Dr. West was careful not to glance at the Ceiling Lens. To conceal what he wanted to do, he knew that turning off the lights in the suite during waking hours would be the wrong move. That simply would attract the attention of the Observer. Innocently he ambled toward the compressor, knelt and removed the gleaming green package, and walked to the sink. He went through the motions of washing the dishes Nona had neglected to wash, and in the sink he cut the ground squirrel into quarters and ground it down the disposal, all the while bending over the sink, obscuring his actions from the Observer, who might be watching, but more likely was not.
Dr. West did not glance at the hiding place of the steel needle he had removed from the hypo. The needle was sticking in the fiberboard partition between the kitchenette and the bathroom. He had extracted the nail which originally supported the lightly framed print of a voyageur portaging a canoe. The screw-in base of the hypodermic needle now served the same purpose as had the head of the nail. Thus the needle was concealed in plain sight.
Two weeks ago, Dr. West had smashed the relatively large plastic plunger of the hypo for which they now were searching, and flushed it down the toilet.
While in bed after his appendectomy he had confused the nurse in her hypo count: like the old shell game. Having stolen a full hypo rather than the empty they thought was missing, he had injected its contents into his empty nose drops bottle, which stood on a shelf in the medicine cabinet next to his eye drops bottle, which he had filled with a second sedative injection the following night while the nurse's attention was distracted by a white wad of paper he had ricocheted off the concave wall -- after telling the nurse he had seen a white mouse in his cell.
Now Dr. West visualized the Ceiling Lens above his head without looking at it. If he stacked the kitchen chair on top of the coffee table and climbed up and taped a paper towel over the Ceiling Lens, the blankout probably would attract the attention of the Observer, who might send someone to investigate, which would be most embarrassing.
A shy and diffident man, Dr. West wanted privacy, needed privacy.
Even the bathroom lacked privacy. There was a separate Ceiling Lens in there. Dr. West blinked in realization. The staff all had said there were 240 TV screens in the basement. The tower was thirty stories high with eight pie-shaped suites to a floor, so that there must be 240 suites. But there were two Ceiling Lenses per suite, one in the main room, one in the bathroom, so why weren't there 480 screens in the basement?
Wrong! He had forgotten the third Ceiling Lens in the entrance passageway between the inner and outer doors. It was to reveal attempted escapes or ambushes by students who had gained the code for opening the inner door. Why weren't there 720 screens in the basement?
As his hypothesis germinated, Dr. West smiled. One Ceiling Lens was in the main room of the studio apartment, the second in the bathroom, and the third in the entry hall next to the bathroom in the narrow end of the semi-pie-shaped Suite, a total of three Ceiling Lenses per suite. Therefore, there should be three times 240 TV screens in the basement, a total of 720 screens, but there were only 240 screens. Dr. West squinted, trying to visualize how the designers of the remote TV system managed to project 720 pictures to only 240 receiving sets. He nodded. From each suite three pictures were transmitted onto one screen.
In television baseball games, it was customary to show the pitcher winding up, and at the same time in the corner of the screen show a separate picture from a separate camera of the runner taking his lead off of first base.
Dr. West assumed that the pictures from his bathroom and from the entry hall were projected as overlaps in two corners of the main picture from his suite. Thus, very likely there were two privacy spots within the main room of his suite. But which two corners of the four corners of the screen, which two corners of the main room would contain this privacy overlap?
Unfortunately, the shape of the main room was not square, and could not fill a square TV screen. From the concave white outside wall of the suite, the two side walls tapered inward. The slice of pie narrowed where the bathroom and the entry hall stood side by side, both abutting the central elevator shaft.
If, on the TV screen, the bathroom and entry hall were moved down and out to the corners of the screen there would be only a partial overlap because the main room was narrowest at the top of the screen. But there would be some overlap, some place to hide from the Observer.
Dr. West walked into the bathroom. It was about eight feet long. At this wider end, it was five feet wide. He glanced out at the kitchenette in the main room. On the TV screen, if the bathroom were moved down into the unfilled corner of the screen, it would overlap the china cabinet, the dumbwaiter pipe which delivered frozen foods, and his refrigerator.
Since the private actions Dr. West had in mind couldn't be conducted in such a small refrigerator, he walked to the other side of the main room near the inner entry door.
The entry hall, which he couldn't enter, also appeared to be five feet wide, and he supposed it was the same length as the bathroom, eight feet. He looked back. The coffee table, sofa, easy chair and standing lamp were grouped near the center of the main room. Beside him, his bed already stood against the side wall, but probably was exposed because it was too far down on the TV screen. It was too near the wide white projection wall to be in the TV overlap --
Standing with his back to the bed and his calves pressed against the foot of the bed, imperceptibly Dr. West pushed the bed along the side wall until the head of the bed was near the entry door. If he moved the bed any closer, Nona wouldn't be able to squeeze through the partially blocked door. Nevertheless, virtually the entire bed should be concealed by the overlapping picture transmitted from the entry hall. In the upper-left-hand corner of the TV screen in the basement, the bed would be hidden, he hoped.
Because he was by training a conscientious man, he began to cross-check. He stared at the entry door. Perhaps, the Ceiling Lens in the entry hall only operated when someone was entering -- ? Not likely. More threatening was the probability that the TV system had been designed so that every inch of the suite could be scanned. By throwing a switch, the Observer could shift the overlapping pictures from the upper corners of the screen to the lower corners. But why would he do that with 239 other cells to monitor? But he might. With so many unknowns and embarrassing possibilities, Dr. West felt nakedly exposed. "Dammit, I'm no monkey in a zoo. There's more than one way to -- "
Dr. West smiled with excitement, hurried across the suite to his work counter and collected a ball of twine, a scalpel and some safety pins. On his trip back to the bed he dragged his wooden work chair. Listening for the hiss of the outer door, he pushed down the pillow and set up the chair on top of the bed. He tied two chair legs to the tubular iron head of the bedstead.
Hastily, he stretched a string from the high back of the anchored chair down over the bed to its tubular iron foot. Fumbling with knots, spreading blankets over the string, pinning blankets together, pinning edges of blankets to the mattress, he worked as rapidly as a camper when the raindrops begin to fall.
His face contracted with uncertainty. That two-faced, unpredictable Recreation Officer might return
The outer door hissed, and Dr. West jumped like a man awakened by an alarm clock. Across the suite he carried the scalpel, which he had used to cut string, to the work counter and turned, breathing hard, as the inner door opened.
"Surprise," she laughed, "my 11:00 to 12:00 man was so grumpy when I asked him why he hadn't shaved, he said I was a worse nagger than his daughter. My heavens, he would have given you the rest of his hour. But he'll feel differently tomorrow, so I traded -- gave -- him your hour tomorrow for his remaining forty-five minutes today. You're looking at me like -- my eye shadow's on upside-down." She giggled. "I talk too much. Whenever I'm uneasy I talk too much. I don't know why I should be in a tizzy but whenever -- well, we don't really know each other. We're friends but we're still sort of -- strangers."
As Dr. West walked toward her, she stepped sideways and the back of her leg came in contact with the bed, and she whirled, startled.
"My heavens! A tent!" She pealed with laughter. "A tent. A tent," she giggled, "I'm going to have to explain a few things to you. You're so new here you don't know the rules." Then her laughter stopped. "I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at the tent. I think it's cute."
Dr. West took hold of her upper arm.
"You don't need to look so serious and earth-shaking," she breathed. "Life should be fun. It is fun, a tent! You are the most ingenious man I ever did see. Safety pins! A tent flap. Wasn't Omar Khayyám a tentmaker, too?"
She put her head inside the tent. "Oops, am I psychic? I never did make your bed. I talk too much don't I?" Head first she vanished into the tent, as Dr. West's hands guided her in.
Forgetting even a sidewise glance at the door, Dr. West followed, the tent shaking as she disappeared under the blanket roof. From the Ceiling Lens only the tent was visible.
"My heavens," her voice emerged from the tent, "a chair for a tent pole! Not so fast! It's crowded in here. You have lots of ingenuity, but I'll unhook it. Ah -- That's comfy. Next time I'll buy C cups. Mm, you're hurting. Gently, even if I talk too much. That's better, so much better. Easy now, no hurry. You're hurting -- That's better. Yes -- Oh."
"I'm sorry, such a hurry," Dr. West's voice gasped. "More than a year I've been alone, Nona, trapped in jails alone."
"That's all right, lover. Let me rub your neck, your back and in a little while -- "
"A year is so long for a live man. No, a dead man -- "
"Well, now, I wouldn't say you were quite dead," she giggled.
"But a whole year! A year passes. What's a year?" he laughed wryly, "I shouldn't feel sorry for myself. Those Mars expeditions were gone for more than a year, and married men at that. Listen, I feel better. I can take anything."
"Now you're cheering up. Already you're changing for the better. I may not accomplish much in life," she said, "but at least I'm accomplishing something when you smile, Student. Squeeze me. This is your chance to change, and you'll change, really change and return to the world. We Canadians do like to think we're somewhat enlightened. After you graduate, lover -- remember me."
"Graduate, hell!" Dr. West's voice blurted, "Sentenced to life -- "
"No, you're not. You can't be. All Ottawa sentences are indeterminate."
"I'm not a fool! I know I'll never be freed."
"You have the same right -- " her voice exclaimed unsurely, "to graduate as any other student. I'm sure you must. Why else would the staff go to all the trouble and expense of getting you all that equipment, the cage, the compressor. It's occupational therapy. The Recreation Officer -- "
"That two-faced psycho? Not only did he try to humiliate me in front of you, he showed a vicious attitude toward you."
"Please," she protested, "you already have enough adjustment problems without developing a persecution complex. The Recreation Officer just had a bad day. Even Recreation Officers are human."
"He's not your husband is he?"
"What? What a stupid and unexpected question. Certainly he's not my husband. Just because I have a ring on my finger doesn't mean -- well, why don't you simply try to enjoy life here in your suite."
"And don't ask personal questions," Dr. West's voice filled in.
"No, I'm happy to answer personal questions. We're in an awfully personal position right now, and you can get as personal with me as you want -- if you promise me you'll let the Recreation Officer start out again tomorrow with a clean slate. All is forgiven?"
"Could it be that he's jealous of me?"
"Uh-uh. I'm also Den Mother to five other students. He's never acted this way before. I'm sure he's not jealous. I only know the man in a professional way, and he's rather old and quite professional."
"Not today he wasn't professional," Dr. West's voice insisted. "He didn't even finish searching my suite. What has he got, a triple personality? At first, after my appendix operation, he showed no real interest in me. He wanted me to take up microscopy as a hobby merely because Tower #3 happened to have an unused microscope."
"Yes, my microscope boy graduated. He has a technical job now in the Saskatchewan oil fields," she said proudly. "Oil core drilling samples are full of the tiny shells of -- He wrote me a beautiful letter."
"I told the Recreation Officer, for my occupational therapy I didn't want to weave baskets," Dr. West~s voice swept on. "I wanted to review a line of research I began before when I was Director of Oriental Population Problems Research at the University of California -- "
"My heavens, what has population problems got to do with hibernation?"
"Nothing, except that birth and growth and hibernation all are dependent on glandular activity. My original medical specialty was endocrinology, glands, but as I was saying -- All of a sudden the Recreation Officer took a personal interest in me, went to great trouble to acquire equipment for me, told me how he cut through red tape. We had long talks. He was interested in the squirrels. I thought he was my buddy."
"He just got up on the wrong side of his bed this morning, his bunk, perhaps," she laughed. "He's a retired naval officer, your navy, by the way. But he's Canadian born -- "
"Born in hell," Dr. West's voice muffled, and there was quiet.
"Mmm, that's better. Don't nibble me too hard. Forget, mm, everything. Think about me -- Has all that isolation made you too sensitive? See -- You're ticklish. Lover, that big white square, that scar on your leg -- ?"
"Would you believe a bear bit me? You're warm and smooth, the end of the world."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I don't know," Dr. West's voice breathed.
"My heavens, you're certainly trying to find out," her voice squealed in delighted alarm.
Dr. West's voice hoarsened. "Listen, I fell, Nona, Nona -- "
There were sighing sounds and finally her voice. "Yes, that's it, wonderful, wonderful -- Now!"
From the tent there was no coherent conversation and finally quietness.
"Darling, so nice -- " her voice sighed, "so relaxed."
"Nona, I feel wonderful," Dr. West's voice laughed, and after a while in an even tone of voice: "I've been wanting to ask you, in one of the towers here -- as a fellow student of mine, have you seen -- don't laugh -- a middle-aged Eskimo? Fierce looking man. Not the stereotype of an Eskimo. Not lovable. His name is Peterluk, from the Boothia Peninsula."
"You've asked other staff members that question," her voice answered cautiously. "I'm mainly familiar with this tower. Not a single Eskimo in this tower -- "
"Could you find out?"
"No, it wouldn't be ethical. That is, each student has his -- privacy."
"Privacy?" Dr. West laughed, giving up on Peterluk momentarily. "That's what we enjoy. After a little kiss, let's you and me break out of this prison."
"Now you've regained your self-confidence," her voice teased him. "Don't get overconfident. I still work here. I like it here. You are my student, my job."
"To charm us cons away from reality?" his voice laughed.
"Would you rather be in one of those gigantic penitentiaries in the States -- with 5000 criminal types, all supposedly male. March, march! No privacy. Fellow prisoners to teach you better ways to stick up filling stations. Guards who shave and aren't as -- ahem, sympathetic as I am. Now would you trade places -- ?"
"You do have nice smooth skin," his voice exhaled, "but here I've never seen another prisoner. When I tapped on the walls, nobody answered."
"Which would you rather have -- ?" her voice insisted.
"We're really all in solitary, the 240 men in this tower, and I don't know how many other towers."
"Ten towers," she said. "It's not solitary unless you think of it as solitary."
The Eskimo Invasion Page 25
