by Jack Dann
"Put the mechanism on my head and then please leave us," Pfeiffer said.
"Do you wish me to return when you're finished?"
"If you wish," Pfeiffer replied stiffly, and Joan watched his discomfort. Without saying a word, she had won a small victory.
The boy lowered the cowl over Pfeiffer's head, made some unnecessary adjustments, and left reluctantly.
"I'm not at all sure that I want to do this," Pfeiffer mumbled, faltering.
"Well," Joan said, "we can easily call off the game. Our first connection is just practice-"
"I don't mean the game. I mean the psyconnection."
Joan remained silent. Dammit, she told herself. I should have looked away when Pfeiffer's furry pet made a pass at him.
"I was crazy to agree to such a thing in the first place."
"Shall I leave?" Joan asked. "It was you who insisted that I come along, remember?" She stood up, but did not judge the distance of the cowl/console connections accurately, and the cowl was pulled forward, bending the silver mask.
"I think you're as nervous as I am," Pfeiffer said appeasingly. .
"Make the connection, right now. Or let's get out of here." Joan was suddenly angry and frustrated. Do it, she thought to herself, and for once she was not passive. Certainly not passive. Damn him and his furry boy! She snapped the wooden toggle switch, activating both psyconductors, and was thrust into vertiginous light. It surrounded her, as if she could see in all directions at once. But she was simply seeing through Pfeiffer's eyes. Seeing herself, small, even in his eyes, small.
After the initial shock, she realized that the light was not brilliant; on the contrary, it was soft and diffused.
But this was no connection at all: Pfeiffer was trying to close his mind to her. He appeared before her as a smooth, perfect, huge, sphere. It slowly rotated, a grim, gray planet, closed to her, forever closed ....
Are you happy now? asked Pfeiffer, as if from somewhere deep inside the sphere. It was so smooth, seamless. He really does not need me, she thought, and she felt as if she were flying above the surface of his closed mind, a winged thing looking for any discontinuity, any fault in his defenses.
So you see, Pfeiffer said, exulting in imagined victory, I don't need you. The words dame wreathed in an image of a storm rolling angrily over the planet.
She flew, in sudden panic, around his thoughts, like an insect circling a source of light. She was looking for any blister or crack, any anomaly in the smooth surface. He would gamble his body away without her, that she knew, unless she could break through his defenses, prove to him how vulnerable he really was.
So you couldn't resist the furry boy, could you? Joan asked, her thoughts like smooth sharks swimming through icy water. Does he, then, remind you of yourself, or do I remind you of your mother?
His anger and exposed misery were like flares on the surface of the sun. In their place remained an eruption of Pfeiffer's smooth protective surface. A crack in the cerebral egg.
Joan dove toward the fissure, and then she was inside Pfeiffer - not the outside of his senses where he could verbalize a thought, see a face, but in the dark, prehistoric places where he dreamed, conceptualized, where he floated in and out of memory, where the eyeless creatures of his soul dwelled.
It was a sliding, a slipping in, as if one had turned over inside oneself; and Joan was sliding, slipping on ice. She found herself in a dark world of grotesque and geometric shapes, an arctic world of huge icebergs floating on a fathomless sea.
And for an instant, Joan sensed 'Pfeiffer's terrible fear of the world.
Mindfucker! Pfeiffer screamed, projecting the word in a hundred filthy, sickening images; and then he smashed through Joan's defenses and rushed into the deep recesses of her mind. He found her soft places and took what he could.
All that before the psyconnection was broken. Before the real game began. As if nothing had happened.
A man and woman, wearing identical cowled masks, sat across from Joan and Pfeiffer. The partition wall had been slid back, revealing the oval shape of the gaming table and doubling the size of the wood-paneled room. The dealer and the gamesmaster sat on each side of the long table between the opponents. The dealer was a young man with an intense, roundish face and straight black hair cut at the shoulders; he was most likely in training to become a gamesmaster.
The gamesmaster's face was hidden by a black cowl; he would be hooked in to the game. He explained the rules, activated the psyconductors, and the game began. Joan and Pfeiffer were once again hooked in, but there was no contact, as yet, with the man and woman across the table.
Pfeiffer cleared his mind, just as if he were before lasers or giving an interview. He had learned to cover his thoughts, for, somehow, he had always felt they could be seen, especially by those who wanted to hurt him politically and on the job.
White thought, he called it, because it was similar to white noise.
Pfeiffer could feel Joan circling around him like the wind. Although he couldn't conceal everything, he could hide from her. He could use her, just as she could use him . . . had used him. They had reached an accord via mutual blackmail. Somehow, during their practice hook-in, Joan had forced herself into Pfeiffer's mind; shocked, he attacked her.
So now they knew each other better.
They built a simple symbol structure: He was the world, a perfect sphere without blemish, made by God's own hands, a world as strong and divine as thought; and she was his atmosphere. She contained all the elements that could not exist on his featureless surface. She was the protective cloak of his world.
They built a mnemonic in which to hide, yet they were still vulnerable to each other. But Pfeiffer guessed that Joan would remain passive-after all, she always had. She also had the well-developed conscience of a mystical liberal, and she was in love with him. He had seen that-or thought he had.
She would not depose him to danger.
Pfeiffer congratulated himself for being calm, which re-
inforced his calmness. Perhaps it was Joan's presence. Perhaps it was the mnemonic. But perhaps not. He had the willpower; this was just another test. He had managed to survive all the others, he told himself.
Joan rained on him, indicating her presence, and they practiced talking within geometric shapes as a protective device-it was literally raining geodesic cats and dogs.
When the gamesmaster opened the psyconductor to all involved, Joan and Pfeiffer were ready.
But they were not ready to find exact duplicates of themselves facing them across the table. The doppelgangers, of course, were not wearing cowls.
"First, Mesdames and messieurs, we draw the wager," said the dealer, who was not hooked in. The gamesmaster's thoughts were a neutral presence. "For each organ pledged, there will be three games consisting of three hands to a game," continued the dealer. "In the event that a player wins twice in succession, the third hand or game will not be played." His voice was an intrusion; it was harsh and cold and came from the outside where everything was hard and intractable.
How do they know what we look like? Pfeiffer asked, shaken by the hallucination induced by his opponents.
But before Joan could reply, he answered his own question. They must be picking up subliminal stuff.
The way we perceive ourselves, Joan said. The doppelgangers became hard and ugly, as if they were being eroded by time. And Joan's double was becoming smaller, insignificant.
If we can't cover up, we won't have a chance.
You can't cover everything, but neither can they, Joan said. It cuts both ways. She noticed a fissure in the otherwise perfect sphere below, and she became black fog, miasma, protective covering. Pfeiffer was afraid, and vulnerable. But she had to give him credit: He was not hiding it from her, at least. That was a beginning ....
Did you pick up anything from them, an image, anything? Pfeiffer asked.
We've been too busy with ourselves. We'll just wait and be ready when they let something slip out.
> Which they will, Pfeiffer said, suddenly confident again.
From deep inside their interior, symbolized world, Joan and Pfeiffer could look into the external world of croupier, felt-top table, cards, wood-covered walls, and masked creatures. This room was simply a stage for the play of thought and image.
Pfeiffer was well acquainted with this sensation of perceiving two worlds, two levels: inside and outside. He often awakened from a nightmare and found himself in his living room or library. He knew that he was wide awake, and yet he could still see the dream unfurl before him, watch the creatures of his nightmare stalk about the room-the interior beasts let loose into the familiar, comforting confines of his waking world. Those were always moments of terror, for surely h∞ was near the edge then . . . and could fall.
The dealer combined two decks of cards and placed them in a shoe, a box from which the cards could be slid out one by one. He discarded three cards: the traditional burning of the deck.
Then he dealt a card to Pfeiffer and one to his opponent. Both cards landed face up. A queen of hearts for Pfeiffer. A nine of hearts for his opponent.
So Pfeiffer lost the right to call the wager.
Just as the object of black jack was to draw cards that add up to twenty-one, or as near to that figure as possible,
the object of blind shemmy was to draw cards that add up to nine. Thus, face cards, which would normally be counted as ten, were counted as zero. Aces, normally counted as eleven, became one; and all other cards had their normal pip (or face) value, with the exception of tens, which, like aces, were counted as one.
"Monsieur Deux wins, nine over zero," said the dealer, looking now at Pfeiffer's opponent. Pfeiffer was Monsieur Un and his opponent Monsieur Deux only because of their positions at the table.
A hell of a way to start, Pfeiffer said.
Keep yourself closed, Joan said, turning into mist, then dark rain, pure sunlight and rainbows, a perceptual kaleidoscope to conceal Pfeiffer from his enemies. Look now, he'll be more vulnerable when he speaks. I'll cover you.
Your choice, said the gamesmaster. The thought was directed to Pfeiffer's opponent, who was staring intently at Pfeiffer.
Look now, Joan said to Pfeiffer.
"Since we both turned up hearts, perhaps that is where we should begin," Pfeiffer's opponent said, speaking for the benefit of the dealer. His words felt like shards of glass to Pfeiffer. "They're the seats of our emotions; so we'd best dispose of them quickly." Pfeiffer felt the man smile. "Do you assent?"
"It's your choice," Pfeiffer said to the dealer tonelessly.
Don't let anything out, Joan said.
Pfeiffer couldn't pick up anything from his opponent and the woman with him; they were both empty doppelgangers of himself and Joan. Pretend that nothing matters, she said. If you expect to see his cards and look inside him for weakness, you must be removed.
She's right, Pfeiffer thought. He tried to relax, smooth himself down; he thought innocuous white thoughts and
ignored the knot of anxiety that seemed to be pulling at his groin.
"Cartes," said the dealer, dealing two cards from the shoe, facedown, one for Pfeiffer, the other for his opponent. Another two cards, and then a palpable silence; not even thoughts seemed to cut the air. It was an unnatural waiting ....
Pfeiffer had a natural nine, a winning hand (a queen and a nine of diamonds), and he looked up, about to turn over his cards, when he saw the furry boy sitting across the table from him.
What the hell - Call your hand. Joan said, feeling his glands open up, a warm waterfall of fear. But before Pfeiffer could speak, his opponent said, "My friend across the table has a natural nine. A queen and a nine, both diamonds. Since I called his hand-and I believe I am correct, then . . ."
The dealer turned Pfeiffer's cards over and said, "Monsieur Deux is correct, and wins by call." If Pfeiffer's opponent had been mistaken about the hand, Pfeiffer would have won automatically, even if his opponent held better cards.
The dealer then dealt two more cards from the shoe.
You're supposed to be covering my thoughts, Pfeiffer said, but he was composed, thinking white thoughts again.
I'm trying, Joan said. But you won't trust me; you're trying to cover yourself from me as well as your opponent. What the hell am I supposed do?
I'm sorry, Pfeiffer thought.
Are you really so afraid that I'll see your true feelings?
This is neither the time nor the place. His rhythm of white thought was broken; Joan became a snowstorm, aiding him, lulling him back to white blindness. I think the gamesmaster is making me nervous, having him hooked in, privy to all our thoughts ....
Forget the gamesmaster . . . and for God's sake, stop worrying about what I'll see. I'm on your side.
"Monsieur Un, will you please claim your cards," said the dealer. The gamesmaster nodded at Pfeiffer and thought neutral, papery thoughts.
Pfeiffer turned up the edges of his cards. He had a jack of diamonds-which counted as zero-and a two of spades. He would need another card.
Don't think about your cards, Joan exclaimed. Are you picking up anything from the other side of the table?
Pfeiffer listened, as if to his own thoughts. He didn't raise is head to look at his opponent, for seeing his own face-or that of the furry boy's-staring back at him from across the table was disconcerting, and fascinating. An image of an empty, hollow woman without any organs formed in his mind. He imagined her as a bag somehow formed into human shape.
Keep that, Joan said. It might be usable.
But I can't see his cards.
Just wait awhile. Keep calm.
"Does Monsieur wish another card?" the dealer asked Pfeiffer. Pfeiffer took another card, and so did his opponent.
Pfeiffer had no idea what cards is opponent was holding; it promised to be a blind play. When the cards were turned over, the dealer announced, "Monsieur Deux wins, six over five." Pfeiffer had lost again.
I'm playing blind, Pfeiffer said anxiously to Joan.
He couldn't see your cards, either, she replied.
But that gave him little satisfaction, for by losing the first two hands, he had lost the first game.
And if he lost the next game, he would lose his heart,
which, white thought or not, seemed to Pfeiffer to be beating in his throat.
Try to calm yourself, Joan said, or you'll let everything out. If you trust me, and stop throwing up your defenses, maybe I can help you. But you've got to let me in; as it is, you're giving our friends quite the edge. Let's make a merger . . . a marriage. But Pfeiffer was in no mood for irony. His fear was building, steadily, slowly.
You can fold the game, Joan said. That is an alternative.
And give up organs I haven't yet played for! The smooth surface of Pfeiffer's sphere cracked, and Joan let herself be swallowed into it. The surface of the sphere changed, grew mountain chains, lush vegetation, flowers, deserts, all the mingled moods of Joan and Pfeiffer.
Pfeiffer was no longer isolated; he was protected, yet dangerously exposed. Inside him, in the human, moist dark, Joan promised not to take advantage of him. She caught a fleeting thought of Pfeiffer's dead mother, who had been a fleshy, big-boned, flat-faced woman. She also saw that Pfeiffer hated his mother, as much now as when she was alive.
In the next hand - the opening hand of the second game - Pfeiffer held a five of clubs and a two of spades, a total of seven points. He would not take another card unless he could see his opponent's. But when he looked up, Pfeiffer saw the furry boy, who blew him a kiss.
You're exposed again, Joan said, and they thought themselves inside their world, thought protective darkness around themselves, except for one tiny opening through which to see into their enemies.
Concentrate on that image of the empty woman, Joan said to Pfeiffer. She has to be Monsieur Deux's wife or woman. I can't quite visualize it as you did. But Pfeiffer was trying to smooth down his emotions and the dark, dangerous demon that was his mem
ory. The image of the furry boy sparked memories, fears, guilts. Pfeiffer remembered his father, who had been a doctor. There was always enough money, but his father extracted emotional dues for every dollar he gave his son. And, as a result, the young Pfeiffer had recurrent nightmares that he was sucking off his father. Those nightmares began again after his mother died: She had seen that homosexual fantasy when Pfeiffer hooked in to her on her deathbed.
Pfeiffer still had those nightmares.
And now, against his will, the image of him sucking off the furry boy passed through his mind, drawing its train of guilt and revulsion. The boy and his father, somehow one and the same.
You're leaking, Joan said, her thoughts an ice storm. She could see her way into Pfeiffer now, into those rooms of buried memories. Rather than rooms, she thought of them as subterranean caverns; everything inside them was intact, perfect, hidden from the harmful light and atmosphere of consciousness. Now she knew him ....
Pfeiffer collected himself and peered into his opponent's mind. He thrust the image of the organless woman at the man.
It was like tearing a spiderweb.
Pfeiffer felt the man's pain as a feather touching flesh: The organless woman was Monsieur Deux's permanent wife. Pfeiffer had broken through and into his thoughts; he could feel his opponent's name, something like Gayah, Gahai, Gayet, that was it, and his wife was used up. Gayet saw her, in the darkness of his unconscious, as an empty bag. She was a compulsive gambler, who had spent her organs; and Gayet hated gambling, but she possessed him, and he hated her and loved her, and was just beginning his
self-destructive slide.
Now she was using him up. She was gambling his organs.
She's used up, Pfeiffer thought at Gayet. But Pfeiffer could only glimpse Gayet's thoughts. His wife was not exposed.
Nor was she defenseless.
She thrust the image of the furry boy at Pfeiffer, and Pfeiffer felt his head being forced down upon the furry boy's lap. But it suddenly wasn't the furry boy anymore. It was Pfeiffer's father!
