Rita came in as Margaret was completing the call, asked: “Is David going to die?”
All the tenseness and aggravation of the day came out in Margaret’s reply: “Don’t be such a beastly little fool!”
Immediately, she was sorry. She stopped, gathered Rita to her, crooned apologies.
“It’s all right, mother,” Rita said. “I realize you’re overwrought.”
Filled with contriteness, Margaret went into the kitchen, prepared her daughter’s favorite food: tuna-fish sandwiches and chocolate milkshakes.
I’m getting too jumpy, thought Margaret. David’s not really sick. It’s the hot weather we’ve had lately and all this tension of getting ready to go. She took a sandwich and milkshake up to the boy, but he still refused to eat. And there was such a pallid sense of defeat about him. A story about someone who had died merely because he gave up the will to live entered her mind and refused to be shaken.
She made her way back down to the kitchen, dabbled at the work there until the call to Walter went through. Her husband’s craggy features and deep voice brought the calmness she had been seeking all day.
“I miss you so much, darling,” she said.
“It won’t be much longer,” he said. He smiled, leaned to one side, exposing the impersonal wall of a pay booth behind him. He looked tired. “How’s my family?”
She told him about David, saw the worry creep into his eyes. “Is the doctor there yet?” he asked.
“He’s late. He should’ve been here by six and it’s half past.”
“Probably busy as a bird dog,” he said. “It doesn’t really sound as though David’s actually sick. Just upset more likely … the excitement of leaving. Call me as soon as the doctor tells you what’s wrong.”
“I will. I think he’s just upset over leaving your father’s piano behind.”
“David knows it’s not that we want to leave these things.” A grin brightened his features. “Lord! Imagine taking that thing on the ship! Dr. Charlesworthy would flip!”
She smiled. “Why don’t you suggest it?”
“You’re trying to get me in trouble with the old man!”
“How’re things going, dear?” she asked.
His face sobered. He sighed. “I had to talk to poor Smythe’s widow today. She came out to pick up his things. It was rather trying. The old man was afraid she might still want to come along … but no…” He shook his head.
“Do you have his replacement yet?”
“Yes. Young fellow from Lebanon. Name’s Teryk. His wife’s a cute little thing.” Walter looked past her at the kitchen. “Looks like you’re getting things in order. Decided yet what you’re taking?”
“Some of the things. I wish I could make decisions like you do. I’ve definitely decided to take mother’s Spode china cups and saucers and the sterling silver … for Rita when she gets married … and the Utrillo your father bought in Lisbon … and I’ve weeded my jewelry down to about two pounds of basics … and I’m not going to worry about cosmetics since you say we can make our own when we…”
Rita ran into the kitchen, pushed in beside Margaret. “Hello, father.”
“Hi, punkin head. What’ve you been up to?”
“I’ve been cataloging my insect collection and filling it out. Mother’s going to help me film the glassed-in specimens as soon as I’m ready. They’re so heavy!”
“How’d you wangle her agreement to get that close to your bugs?”
“Father! They’re not bugs; they’re entomological specimens.”
“They’re bugs to your mother, honey. Now, if…”
“Father! There’s one other thing. I told Raul—he’s the new boy down the block—I told him today about those hawklike insects on Ritelle that…”
“They’re not insects, honey; they’re adapted amphibians.”
She frowned. “But Spencer’s report distinctly says that they’re chitinous and they…”
“Whoa down! You should’ve read the technical report, the one I showed you when I was home last month. These critters have a copper-base metabolism, and they’re closely allied to a common fish on the planet.”
“Oh … Do you think I’d better branch out into marine biology?”
“One thing at a time, honey. Now…”
“Have we set the departure date yet, father? I can hardly wait to get to work there.”
“It’s not definite yet, honey. But we should know any day. Now, let me talk to your mother.”
Rita pulled back.
Walter smiled at his wife. “What’re we raising there?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Look … don’t worry about David. It’s been nine years since … since he recovered from that virus. All the tests show that he was completely cured.”
And she thought: Yes … cured—except for the little detail of no optic nerves. She forced a smile. “I know you’re probably right. It’ll turn out to be something simple … and we’ll laugh about this when…” The front doorbell chimed. “That’s probably the doctor now.”
“Call me when you find out,” said Walter.
Margaret heard Rita’s footsteps running toward the door.
“I’ll sign off, sweet,” she said. She blew a kiss to her husband. “I love you.”
Walter held up two fingers in a victory sign, winked. “Same here. Chin up.”
They broke the connection.
Dr. Mowery was a gray-haired, flint-faced bustler—addicted to the nodding head and the knowing (but unintelligible) murmur. One big hand held a gray instrument bag. He had a pat on the head for Rita, a firm handshake for Margaret, and he insisted on seeing David alone.
“Mothers just clutter up the atmosphere for a doctor,” he said, and he winked to take the sting from his words.
Margaret sent Rita to her room, waited in the upstairs hall. There were 106 flower panels on the wallpaper between the door to David’s room and the corner of the hall. She was moving on to count the rungs in the balustrade when the doctor emerged from David’s room. He closed the door softly behind him, nodding to himself.
She waited.
“Mmmmmm-hmmmmm,” said Dr. Mowery. He cleared his throat.
“It is anything serious?” asked Margaret.
“Not sure.” He walked to the head of the stairs. “How long’s the boy been acting like that … listless and upset?”
Margaret swallowed a lump in her throat. “He’s been acting differently ever since they delivered the electronic piano … the one that’s going to substitute for his grandfather’s Steinway. Is that what you mean?”
“Differently?”
“Rebellious, short-tempered … wanting to be alone.”
“I suppose there’s not the remotest possibility of his taking the big piano,” said the doctor.
“Oh, my goodness … it must weigh all of a thousand pounds,” said Margaret. “The electronic instrument is only twenty-one pounds.” She cleared her throat. “It is worry about the piano, doctor?”
“Possibly.” Dr. Mowery nodded, took the first step down the stairs. “It doesn’t appear to be anything organic that my instruments can find. I’m going to have Dr. Linquist and some others look in on David tonight. Dr. Linquist is our chief psychiatrist. Meanwhile, I’d try to get the boy to eat something.”
She crossed to Dr. Mowery’s side at the head of the stairs. “I’m a nurse,” she said. “You can tell me if it’s something serious that…”
He shifted his bag to his right hand, patted her arm. “Now don’t you worry, my dear. The colonization group is fortunate to have a musical genius in its roster. We’re not going to let anything happen to him.”
Dr. Linquist had the round face and cynical eyes of a fallen cherub. His voice surged out of him in waves that flowed over the listener and towed him under. The psychiatrist and colleagues were with David until almost ten P.M.. Then Dr. Linquist dismissed the others, came down to the music room where Margaret was waiting. He sat on the piano bench, han
ds gripping the lip of wood beside him.
Margaret occupied her wing-back chair—the one piece of furniture she knew she would miss more than any other thing in the house. Long usage had worn contours in the chair that exactly complemented her, and its rough fabric upholstery held the soothing texture of familiarity.
The night outside the screened windows carried a sonorous sawing of crickets.
“We can say definitely that it’s a fixation about this piano,” said Linquist. He slapped his palms onto his knees. “Have you ever thought of leaving the boy behind?”
“Doctor!”
“Thought I’d ask.”
“Is it that serious with Davey?” she asked. “I mean, after all … we’re all of us going to miss things.” She rubbed the chair arm. “But good heavens, we…”
“I’m not much of a musician,” said Linquist. “I’m told by the critics, though, that your boy already has concert stature … that he’s being deliberately held back now to avoid piling confusion on confusion … I mean with your leaving so soon and all.” The psychiatrist tugged at his lower lip. “You realize, of course, that your boy worships the memory of his grandfather?”
“He’s seen all the old stereos, listened to all the tapes,” said Margaret. “He was only four when grandfather died, but David remembers everything they ever did together. It was…” She shrugged.
“David has identified his inherited talent with his inherited piano,” said Linquist. “He…”
“But pianos can be replaced,” said Margaret. “Couldn’t one of our colony carpenters or cabinetmakers duplicate…”
“Ah, no,” said Linquist. “Not duplicate. It would not be the piano of Maurice Hatchell. You see, your boy is overly conscious that he inherited musical genius from his grandfather … just as he inherited the piano. He’s tied the two together. He believes that if—not consciously, you understand? But he believes, nonetheless, that if he loses the piano he loses the talent. And there you have a problem more critical than you might suspect.”
She shook her head. “But children get over these…”
“He’s not a child, Mrs. Hatchell. Perhaps I should say he’s not just a child. He is that sensitive thing we call genius. This is a delicate state that goes sour all too easily.”
She felt her mouth go dry. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“I don’t want to alarm you without cause, Mrs. Hatchell. But the truth is—and this is the opinion of all of us—that if your boy is deprived of his musical outlet … well, he could die.”
She paled. “Oh, no! He…”
“Such things happen, Mrs. Hatchell. There are therapeutic procedures we could use, of course, but I’m not sure we have the time. They’re expecting to set your departure date momentarily. Therapy could take years.”
“But David’s…”
“David is precocious and overemotional,” said Linquist. “He’s invested much more than is healthy in his music. His blindness accounts for part of that, but over and above the fact of blindness there’s his need for musical expression. In a genius such as David this is akin to one of the basic drives of life itself.”
“We just couldn’t. You don’t understand. We’re such a close family that we…”
“Then perhaps you should step aside, let some other family have your…”
“It would kill Walter … my husband,” she said. “He’s lived for this chance.” She shook her head. “Anyway, I’m not sure we could back out now. Walter’s assistant, Dr. Smythe, was killed in a copter crash near Phoenix last week. They already have a replacement, but I’m sure you know how important Walter’s function is to the colony’s success.”
Linquist nodded. “I read about Smythe, but I failed to make the obvious association here.”
“I’m not important to the colony,” she said. “Nor the children, really. But the ecologists—the success of our entire effort hangs on them. Without Walter…”
“We’ll just have to solve it then,” he said. He got to his feet. “We’ll be back tomorrow for another look at David, Mrs. Hatchell. Dr. Mowery made him take some amino pills and then gave him a sedative. He should sleep right through the night. If there’re any complications—although there shouldn’t be—you can reach me at this number.” He pulled a card from his wallet, gave it to her. “It is too bad about the weight problem. I’m sure it would solve everything if he could just take this monster with him.” Linquist patted the piano lid. “Well … good night.”
When Linquist had gone, Margaret leaned against the front door, pressed her forehead against the cool wood. “No,” she whispered. “No … no … no…” Presently, she went to the living room phone, placed a call to Walter. It was ten-twenty P.M. The call went right through, proving that he had been waiting for it. Margaret noted the deep worry creases in her husband’s forehead, longed to reach out, touch them, smooth them.
“What is it, Margaret?” he asked. “Is David all right?”
“Dear, it’s…” she swallowed. “It’s about the piano. Your father’s Steinway.”
“The piano?”
“The doctors have been here all evening up to a few minutes ago examining David. The psychiatrist says if David loses the piano he may lose his … his music … his … and if he loses that he could die.”
Walter blinked. “Over a piano? Oh, now, surely there must be some…”
She told him everything Dr. Linquist had said.
“The boy’s so much like Dad,” said Walter. “Dad once threw the philharmonic into an uproar because his piano bench was a half inch too low. Good Lord! I … What’d Linquist say we could do?”
“He said if we could take the piano it’d solve…”
“That concert grand? The damn thing must weigh over a thousand pounds. That’s more than three times what our whole family is allowed in private luggage.”
“I know. I’m almost at my wits’ end. All this turmoil of deciding what’s to go and now … David.”
“To go!” barked Walter. “Good Lord! What with worrying about David I almost forgot: Our departure date was set just tonight.” He glanced at his watch. “Blastoff is fourteen days and six hours away—give or take a few minutes. The old man said…”
“Fourteen days!”
“Yes, but you have only eight days. That’s the colony assembly date. The pickup crews will be around to get your luggage on the afternoon of…”
“Walter! I haven’t even decided what to…” She broke off. “I was sure we had at least another month. You told me yourself that we…”
“I know. But fuel production came out ahead of schedule, and the long-range weather forecast is favorable. And it’s part of the psychology not to drag out leavetaking. This way the shock of abruptness cuts everything clean.”
“But what’re we going to do about David?” She chewed her lower lip.
“Is he awake?”
“I don’t think so. They gave him a sedative.”
Walter frowned. “I want to talk to David first thing in the morning. I’ve been neglecting him lately because of all the work here, but…”
“He understands, Walter.”
“I’m sure he does, but I want to see him for myself. I only wish I had the time to come home, but things are pretty frantic here right now.” He shook his head. “I just don’t see how that diagnosis could be right. All this fuss over a piano!”
“Walter … you’re not attached to things. With you it’s people and ideas.” She lowered her eyes, fought back tears. “But some people can grow to love inanimate objects, too … things that mean comfort and security.” She swallowed.
He shook his head. “I guess I just don’t understand. We’ll work out something, though. Depend on it.”
Margaret forced a smile. “I know you will, dear.”
“Now that we have the departure date it may blow the whole thing right out of his mind,” Walter said.
“Perhaps you’re right.”
He glanced at his wristwatch.
“I have to sign off now. Got some experiments running.” He winked. “I miss my family.”
“So do I,” she whispered.
In the morning there was a call from Prester Charlesworthy, colony director. His face came onto the phone screen in Margaret’s kitchen just as she finished dishing up breakfast for Rita. David was still in bed. And Margaret had told neither of them about the departure date.
Charlesworthy was a man of skinny features, nervous mannerisms. There was a bumpkin look about him until you saw the incisive stare of the pale blue eyes.
“Forgive me for bothering you like this, Mrs. Hatchell,” he said.
She forced herself to calmness. “No bother. We were expecting a call from Walter this morning. I thought this was it.”
“I’ve just been talking to Walter,” said Charlesworthy. “He’s been telling me about David. We had a report first thing this morning from Dr. Linquist.”
After a sleepless night with periodic cat-footed trips to look in on David, Margaret felt her nerves jangling out to frayed helplessness. She was primed to leap at the worst interpretations that entered her mind. “You’re putting us out of the colony group!” she blurted. “You’re getting another ecologist to…”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Hatchell!” Dr. Charlesworthy took a deep breath. “I know it must seem odd—my calling you like this—but our little group will be alone on a very alien world, very dependent upon each other for almost ten years—until the next ship gets there. We’ve got to work together on everything. I sincerely want to help you.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“I quite understand. Believe me, I’d like nothing better than to be able to send Walter home to you right now.” Charlesworthy shrugged. “But that’s out of the question. With poor Smythe dead there’s a terribly heavy load on Walter’s shoulders. Without him, we might even have to abort this attempt.”
The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert Page 82
