“That’s very good,” he said. The waiter poured their glasses half full and then left.
The glasses stood before them, casting faint crimson shadows on the white cloth. Spence did not lift a hand toward his glass, so Ari folded her hands on the table and waited.
“I want to tell you something—it’s about what has been happening.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“I want to—I want you to know.” He raised his eyes from the white expanse of the tablecloth to meet hers.
“All right, I’m listening,” she said gently.
“Ari, I don’t know what’s happening to me. Not really.” He looked at her and for a moment she saw how frightened he was. He shook his head and the fear receded, pushed back behind its barrier once more. “But I don’t think it’s me. At least not entirely.”
“Oh?”
“I know what Dr. Williams thinks. And I have a fair idea what he must have told you. But he’s forgetting that I am trained in psychology, too. I know the symptoms and the causes.
“I don’t think I fit the profile. I mean, I’m hardly manic-depressive, and I’m not schizophrenic. At least, I don’t think I am.”
The waiter returned to lay the glistening green-gray artichokes before them. He unrolled the napkins and placed them on their laps, arranged their silver, and then vanished.
Spence continued as if the waiter had never been there. “At this point, I realize I would have a very rough time proving my sanity.”
“Nobody thinks you’re insane.”
“Dr. Williams might dispute that.”
“Nonsense. He’s concerned, and I am too. You have to admit, though, we haven’t a lot to go on.”
“Granted. These past few weeks, however, I have doubted my sanity. I could feel it slipping away and there was nothing I could do to stop it. It was like I was being drained, bit by bit, only I didn’t realize it at first. I tried to tell myself that it was overwork, pressure, new surroundings. But I don’t think so anymore.”
He sampled some of the artichoke. Ari, who had been nibbling all along, laid down her fork. “I don’t think I’m getting all of this, Spence. Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning.”
“You’re right.” He nodded and took a few more bites of his food. “I can’t remember the beginning. There are a lot of things I can’t remember. Whole chunks of my memory are missing.
“But it was some time after I came here, though not long after. A couple weeks, that’s all. It started with the dreams.”
“Dreams?”
“Don’t ask me what they’re about, because I don’t know. Sometimes I am almost on the verge of remembering—I can almost see a picture in my mind. A word or a sound will trigger it, but then it’s gone. Everything goes blank.
“But I can tell you this: they are strange, frightening dreams. I wake up in a cold sweat, trembling. Once or twice I believe I have screamed. I know I have cried in my sleep.
“There is no pattern to it that I can see. Sometimes it happens during a session—the experiments, you know—and sometimes when I’m asleep in my own quarters. But the emotional impact stays with me for a while, lingering over me like a ghostly presence, haunting me.”
“That’s horrible!”
“It gets worse.”
“Your order, sir.” The waiter materialized out of nowhere to place several steaming dishes before them. “Enjoy your meal. Monsieur, Mademoiselle.”
“Uh-oh,” said Spence. “Something’s wrong.”
“What is it?” said Ari, afraid that some new horror had descended upon Spence.
“Red wine with sole. How gauche.” He pulled a wry grin. “Ari, you are dining with a gauche person.”
She laughed and the sound was a bubbling of music. “Down with convention! I don’t care. Besides, you know what they say.”
“What do they say?”
“Foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”
“Is it?”
“Well, Emerson thought so. He said it.”
They both laughed then and Ari saw the lines of strain ease from around his eyes and mouth. He let go; the ice had been broken. He had trusted her with his secret; now he would confide in her. She, too, relaxed, discovering she had been sitting on the edge of her chair since they were seated.
“Cheers!” said Spence, lifting his glass and clinking it against hers. He took a sip of wine and then dug into his food with the haste of a hungry man. They ate in silence until he pushed back his plate with a motion of finality. He had reached a decision.
He launched back into his confession willingly. The words spilled out in a torrent; the floodgates had opened. Ari sat spellbound as she listened.
“The blackouts began a week ago—five days, to be exact. Nothing in my family history would indicate a condition such as this. No epilepsy, catalepsy, or anything of that sort. It’s completely original with me, whatever it is.
“What takes place during the blackouts, I have no idea. Neither do I know how long they last precisely. I estimate anywhere from six to ten hours, working backward from the time I can last remember until I wake up again. Obviously I am fairly active during these episodes, judging from the fact that I seem to be able to get myself into varying degrees of difficulty.” He raised a hand to the red side of his face.
“These self-destructive acts, as Dr. Williams calls them, are well known in psychological literature—especially in association with blackouts or amnesia. It is not unusual for a blackout to result from the trauma of a very destructive or threatening act. In other words, the mind blocks the memory of the episode because it is simply too painful to remember.
“In my case, however, I believe it is just the other way around. I can’t prove anything one way or the other, but something inside tells me I’m right in the assumption. I thought about it all last night as I lay in sick bay. It’s just a gut hunch, but right now it’s the best I’ve got.”
“I’m not sure I understand.” .
“What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that in my case the blackouts come first and trigger the self-destructive acts. Only I don’t think the point is to destroy myself.”
“What is the point?”
“To escape. Flight is one of the oldest animal reflexes. It’s basic, universal. Even the most timid creature will flee into an unknown danger in order to escape a known one.”
“But, Spence,” Ari gasped, “who or what would want to harm you?”
“I don’t know—yet. But I mean to find out.” He glanced at Ari’s worried face; she was chewing her lower lip and scowling furiously. “I know how fantastic this all sounds. You must think I’m a raving madman. Why invent invisible enemies? Why concoct outrageous theories when the same facts can be explained more simply with known principles? I’ve asked myself those questions a thousand times in the last twenty-four hours. But there’s something inside me that won’t let me accept the other alternative. And right now that’s all I have.”
Ari leaned across the table and placed her hands on his. She looked him full in the face and said, “I believe you. Spencer.”
“You do?”
“Yes, I do. For one thing, no one could talk the way you do— so objectively, so logically—who was suffering the kind of mental distress you describe. So I believe you.”
“I didn’t think it would be that easy. I mean, there’s every reason to lock me away before I hurt myself or someone else. But… you don’t think I’m going crazy?”
“No, I don’t. Whatever it is that’s causing these—these seizures, it must be something outside yourself.”
“That’s it, Ari. You’ve said it. Something outside of me. I’ve felt it hovering over me. A presence … I can’t describe what it’s like.”
“How can it be, though?”
Spence clenched his fist. “I don’t know. I scarcely believe it’s possible. But that’s the feeling I get sometimes.”
“Did you enjoy your meal, sir?” th
e waiter asked. How long he had been standing there Spence wasn’t sure. He was surprized to see the table cleared of the dishes; he had been so wrapped up in his story he had not noticed them being taken away.
“The meal was fine, thank you.”
“Very good, sir. I will bring your check.”
“Thank you, Spence. It was a lovely meal.”
“If somewhat gruesome.”
“No, I mean it. I can’t say I enjoyed the conversation—knowing what you have been through. But I’ve enjoyed being with you.”
The waiter brought the check on a silver tray and placed it before Spence, handing him a silver fountain pen at the same time. He signed his name and personal accounting code.
“Thank you very much. Monsieur. Join us again very soon. Adieu.” The waiter turned and snapped his fingers and a white-coated young man appeared with a silver coffeepot and filled their china cups. He placed between them a tiny silver bowl which contained four delicate pink rosebud mints.
Spence sipped his coffee thoughtfully. Ari could see him weighing his next words carefully.
“Ari, I’ve told you all this because I want to ask a favor of you.”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s a small thing, but it’s important to me. You’ll probably think it’s silly.”
“No, I won’t. Not after all you’ve told me today. I don’t think any of this is silly. I think it’s extremely serious.”
“Well, your father asked me to join the research trip to the terraforming project on Mars.”
“I remember. I was there when he asked you.”
“Right. The thing is, I’ve decided to take up his offer. I’m going to go on the trip. Only no one can know. That’s where you come in. I want you to fix it for me so that all the necessary arrangements are made without anyone beyond your father and his staff knowing about it. Can you do that?”
“I think so; I can try. But, Spence, do you think that’s wise? You’ll be away a long time—anything could happen. You could have blackouts again, and out there no one would be able to take care of you, no medical facilities.”
“I have to get away, don’t you see? The blackouts started here, and if I stay they’ll continue. They may happen out there, too, I realize that. But I have to take that risk.”
Ari was not convinced. She frowned. “I don’t like it—it’s too dangerous. Why don’t you stay here and arrange to have someone monitor your activities—your assistant maybe. Or, let Dr. Williams check you over. That would be the sane thing to do.”
“The sane thing?” he snapped.
“Sorry. Unfortunate choice of words. But you know what I mean. He offered to let you come in for a complete physical and psychological. And he’d keep it off the record.”
“He told you about that? What else did he tell you? What have you two got cooked up?”
“Nothing, Spence. I didn’t mean anything—”
“What was the idea? Keep me talking until I convinced myself to check in as a psycho? Was that what you had in mind?”
The sudden shift in Spence’s mood frightened Ari. She did not know what to do, so she said, “Listen, Spencer, I’ll do as you say. I’ll get your trip cleared and I’ll arrange it so no one will know. But I want a favor from you. Let Dr. Williams look you over before you go. It couldn’t hurt.”
He leaned back in his chair and fought to regain control of his temper. He still glared at her, and the look on his face scared her. “I’ll think about it,” he snapped.
The next moment he was on his feet, jumping up so quickly that he sent his chair crashing to the floor. Heads turned as he stormed out of the restaurant, and diners at the tables all around stared at Ari and talked behind their hands. She colored under their scrutiny. The waiter leaped forward instantly and righted the chair.
“No trouble. Mademoiselle,” he said and graciously helped her from her seat.
She hurried from the cafe, her cheeks turning scarlet.
15
BY THE TIME SPENCE reached the lab he was in a foul mood. Ari had betrayed him. He had trusted her, confided in her, only to find that she was working for Dr. Williams. The two of them ganging up on him he did not need, he argued. He did not need anybody.
In his present state he was ready to bite the heads off nails. The unlucky Tickler discovered this to his dismay when he met Spence at the portal as the panel slid open. “Where have you been, Dr. Reston? We’ve been worried about you.”
“You have, huh?” Spence threw him a nasty look. “Not worried enough to check the sick bay.”
“I was just on my way down there,” said Tickler. He wrung his hands as if to wipe off something distasteful. “When you didn’t show up for the session I… well, I didn’t know what to do.”
“Well, you can stop worrying. I’m all right. I just had a little accident, that’s all.”
“Your voice … your face. What happened?”
“Maybe I’ll tell you about it someday. Right now I want to go over those averages I asked you to get for me.”
Tickler spun completely around in a circle before heading off to the datafile at the opposite end of the lab. Spence smiled darkly; he had really upset the finicky Tickler this time.
He crossed the lab and went to his place in the booth. He flopped into his chair and took up the log book, fully intending to bleed off his anger with a few hours of furious work. But as soon as he settled himself in his chair the ComCen screen on the wall next to him began flashing and the beeper shrilled its tone code.
The tone stopped after one sequence and the flasher stopped too, leaving a red bar across the screen. Evidently the message was not of particular urgency; he felt at first inclined to ignore it, but instead he punched the display key on the panel beneath the screen.
He watched as it spelled out his name and ID number and the characters INOF-CLS-A-RDYRD. In computerspeak this meant that the message was of interoffice origin of the lowest grade and was ready to read by simply tapping the display key once more. Several of the higher grade levels required that a personal access code be entered before the message could be received, and some would not be displayed at all but would only be dispensed on paper through the ComCen printer lest anyone unauthorized accidentally view the screen when an important message was transmitted.
Spence tapped the display key and read the following:
Spence, Come see me when you get a chance.
I’d like to talk to you. Adjani.
This was an unexpected development; he was being invited to drop in on the genius just as if they were old friends. He was flattered in spite of himself and wondered what Adjani wanted to talk to him about. Only one way to find out. Go see him.
He rose just as Tickler entered the control booth. “Here are the averages, Dr. Reston,” sniffed his assistant, waving a sheaf of printouts at him.
“Thanks, Tickler. I’ll see to them later. Something’s come up. I’ll be back soon. Ready the presets for the next battery of experiments. We’ll start those tonight. And Tickler, please be careful with the encephamine. Another spill like last time and you could put the whole station to sleep. Besides, the stuff is expensive!”
Spence ducked out leaving the miffed Tickler sputtering. He left the lab feeling much better than when he had entered it, and moved out onto the trafficway heading for the main axial. For some reason he received perverse pleasure in befuddling the stuffy Tickler. The realization gave him a momentary pang of guilt which he rejected without a second thought.
He paused on his way to view a directory. He had never been to the HiEn section before and knew only vaguely how to get there. He tapped HiEn into a ComCen screen below the directory and instantly received a route suggestion, and hurried along. He took Fifth Avenue where it branched off from the main, and then made for the Belt Line tube tram. That saved him from having to meander through the complex inner core of Gotham. He got out of the tube in the blue section and took the nearest lift up four levels to his destination.
“I am afraid one of us will have to sit on the bed,” explained Adjani apologetically as he ushered Spence in. “My arrival has caused some hardship among the housekeepers, I believe. Olmstead was kind enough to divide his quarters with me until a more suitable arrangement can be found. Come in, come in, please.”
“Thank you.” Spence glanced around the cluttered interior. Every square centimeter of space, except for a tentative pathway through the rooms, was crammed with data in its various disguises—on paper, disc, tape, and sealed cartridge. It reminded Spence of his own study cube back at the university years ago. “I will never complain about my miniature quarters again. Compared to these, mine are cavernous.”
“I don’t mind, really. I’m not here very much. Mostly I’m in one of the labs or hotrooms. They keep me pretty busy, you know. Personally, I’m beginning to think the only reason Packer wanted me here was so he wouldn’t have to think anymore.” The slim brown man paused, then added deviously, “I’m fixing him, though. I make him and his shuttle bums think twice as hard!”
He turned and threaded his way carefully into the adjoining cubicle. Spence followed lightly, careful not to start an avalanche. Adjani plopped the multicolored cartridges onto a knee-high stack of disc cartons and waved Spence to the chair. He curled up on the bed in lotus position. Spence wondered if his host was Hindu.
“Where are you from, Adjani?”
“San Francisco.” He laughed at Spence’s expression, rocking back and forth on the bed. “I know, everyone makes the same mistake. My people are from Nagaland. My father was from Imphal; my mother from Manipur. They met in London when my father was teaching at the Royal Academy. He is at Oxford now.”
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