The Man Who Melted

by Jack Dann

  A flash of lightning overhead, then a great blast of thunder, and finally pelting rain. They were soaked in a few moments—the trees could not provide enough cover. Tiny streams seemed to be flowing everywhere, a microcosmic Venice for worms and crawlers. With rain came more haze cover, and the pelting rain combined with the distant rush of the sea to, almost visually, cloak this night world in white noise. Everything seemed narrowed to the few feet of ground around them, and consciousness seemed to narrow also: here was a tuft of coarse grass; a worn, rounded pebble; gravel; a bit of moss atop the mud.

  But the world looked as dead as the spaces Mantle had felt between the Screamers. He had the sensation that he had been left in the dead Screamer's mind, that he had never unhooked, that the sea would still claim him.

  Roberta led Mantle beyond the northeastern edge of the forest and through a rock field. In the glow of the moon, jutting, sharp-edged rocks looked as if they belonged in a rock field in Urgap, Turkey, rather than in the south of France. It was as if this place had been sculpted—not into heads and faces by the left-handed thinkers who had ruined Mount Rushmore, but into masks and demon forms that danced with the play of shadows and only became solid and dead in the day. He could see Mount Vinaigre as a dark fist. The mist wasn't continuous; it was spotty. Although reassuring in its appearance of heavy cover, it was just that: illusion. If those with the rifles have infrared…Mantle thought.

  Only the rocks are friends, he told himself, remembering an Inipi ceremony when he was told that the glowing, almost translucent stones were the rock people; that even though they were broken by the fire to make steam, they would grow again, grow in their own time, layer after layer, and once again give themselves up so the Indians, the Natural People, could follow the traditional way.

  The rain stopped.

  Mantle heard thunder in the distance, then realized it was rifle fire. Am I still drugged? he asked himself.

  “Oh God,” Roberta moaned. “Oh sweet Christ.”

  “What is it?” Mantle asked, stopped inside a small crown of rocks. He could see that Roberta was about to snap now that they were removed from the immediate danger. “Those last shots were farther away,” he said. “I'm sure they're moving off. But we can't stop now. We may not be out of danger yet, even here.”

  Mantle rested his hand on the small of her back, and she wriggled closer to him, pressed against him, her face under his chin as if she were a frightened animal burrowing into safety. He had an instant image of himself on top of her, pounding in and out of her while she called to him, dug her nails into his arms, shook her head back and forth as Joan used to do, and dissolved herself in the mind-deadening moment. He wanted to rut, to taste salty skin. Instead, he patted her neck, shushed her, and ignored his erection.

  “Jesus God, Jesus,” she moaned, as if to herself. “Francois, oh God, Francois….” She was losing it, tripping into shock.

  “Who's Francois…?”

  “Pretre, you idiot!” She spoke loudly and seemed to be out of breath. “He's dead, how could that be? Not inside the tomb, not there, its—”

  “Stop it,” Mantle said, shaking her hard, trying to reach her before she went over the edge.

  “All the others lying dead on the ground, and I was supposed to plug-in. My husband is waiting for me on the other side; it's your fault; it was my time to die.”

  “Shush, don't think about it, don't think about anything now,” he whispered. She tried to pull away, but he held her tightly until he thought he would crack her bones, as if he could squeeze out her fear and stop her from trembling. Then he released her.

  “I'll be okay now,” she whispered, “and I'm sorry I called you that name.”

  “You don't need to apologize,” Mantle said.

  “But how could he be shot inside the tomb? It's made of stone.” Her voice rose as if following the shape of her anxiety—which threatened to turn into panic again.

  “A fluke,” Mantle whispered. “One of the terrorist boutades fired into the cracks of the tomb, a stray bullet.”

  “Why Francois?”

  Better me instead? Mantle thought, angrily. But he remained silent, for there was really nothing to say and he couldn't bring himself to mouth platitudes, all the old bullshit which, ironically, was as valid now as it had always been.

  “Francois was special,” Roberta said. As if that could bring him back, Mantle thought. Roberta inhaled sharply, held her breath, then said, very slowly and carefully, as if each word were a coin and could not be taken back, “I should not have acted this way. I have seen enough to know better—” Then she cocked her head, just slightly, and Mantle knew that she was looking inward; in fact, for an instant, he felt the black and silver spaces. He tried to remember what he had seen when he had hooked in, but he couldn't remember anything except the black and silver.

  Josiane, did I find you?

  Mantle heard a whisper that he couldn't make out, and he felt himself jump as one does sometimes when sleeping.

  “Roberta,” he said, shaken. “Roberta!”

  She caught herself, returning his intense stare, and said, “Forgive me. I heard my husband calling me.”

  “You pulled me back there, as if we were plugged-in—”

  “Sometimes that happens, even without a psyconductor or a ceremony,” Roberta said. “I'm tied to the dark by my husband. Promised, as it were.”

  “I don't want to go back again,” Mantle said firmly.

  They started walking, careful not to slip on the wet rocks.

  “The rocks here are so strange,” Mantle said.

  “It's been bombed,” Roberta replied. “A man-made Delphi.” She smiled, as if recovered from the shock of the last half hour; but Mantle looked away, as if he were a soldier returned home only to find it had been destroyed. “That tablet commemorates the landing by your army,” she said, pointing to what looked like a chiseled headstone.

  “What?”

  “The Second World War, in 1944.”

  “Why isn't it on the beach?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe we don't like to remember being saved, we have enough problems, we have lost enough face. Can you understand that?”

  Mantle heard a faint scream, joined by others, a distant wailing. Then four long bursts of automatic-rifle fire followed. Roberta shuddered.

  “That was closer,” Mantle said. It began to rain harder.

  “Probably Gendarmerie.”

  “Won't they run the terrorists off?”

  “No,” Roberta said softly, “they'll shoot over the heads of the boutades and claim they all got away. They're probably doing the mopping up. I'd take my chances with the boutades first.”

  They worked their way east, toward the bay of Rade d'Agay, and finally caught sight of the old road that Roberta said ran parallel to Highway 1. As if they were suddenly in another country, the rain stopped and the moon was visible and clear, as were a few bright stars. Mantle could even see the beach below: in the moonlight the sand looked black, but it was red, as were the rocks, the porphyritic evidence of an ancient geological upheaval. The beach was dead and the land was sick: this whole area had once been forest country, a dense world of pine met by sea; now it was a deadland, a filthy, oil-smeared lip.

  They followed the road for a half mile. The cover became better, the land healthier, although the trees were as thin and gnarled as those in Pennsylvania.

  “There,” Roberta said, pointing toward a curve in the road. “I see a car.”

  “I don't.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “It might be police,” Mantle said. “Or—”

  “It's not. Now come on, hurry.” And Roberta ran down a rock-strewn bank toward the road.

  EIGHT

  The casino, like almost every other structure in central Paris, had common walls; but it was distinguished by heavy, inlaid, fifteen-meter-high oaken doors which, after being activated by scanning units, opened into an ample, stone-paved courtyard hung with plants and flowers.
It was a veritable greenhouse, and the effect was striking: trees and flowers, bush and bud—all combined into an artist's palette as if Ernst and Rousseau had combined their considerable talents.

  A young man who reminded Joan of an upright (if possible) Bedlington terrier led them through the courtyard. He spoke with a clipped English accent and had tufts of woolly, bluish white hair implanted all over his head, face, and body. Only his hands and genitals were hairless.

  “He has to be working off an indenture,” Pfeiffer said sharply as he repressed a sexual urge.

  “Shush,” Joan said as the boy gave Pfeiffer a contemptuous look—in Parisian culture, you paid for the service, not the smile.

  They were led into a simple but formal entry lounge that was crowded but not uncomfortable. The floor was marble; a few pornographic icons were discreetly situated around the carefully laid-out comfort niches. The room reminded Joan of a chapel with arcades, figures, and stone courts. Above was a dome from which radiated a reddish, suffusing light, lending the room an expansiveness of height rather than breadth.

  But it was mostly holographic illusion.

  They were directed to wait but a moment and then presented to the purser, an overweight, balding man who sat behind a small desk. He was dressed in a blue camise shirt and matching caftan which was buttoned across his wide chest and closed over with a red scarf. He was obviously, and uncomfortably, dressed in the colors of the establishment.

  “And good evening, Monsieur Pfeiffer and Mademoiselle Otur. We are honored to have such an important guest…or guests, I should say.” The purser slipped two cards into a small console. “Your identification cards will be returned to you when you leave.” After a pause he asked, “Ah, does Monsieur Pfeiffer wish the lady to be credited on his card?” The purser lowered his eyes, indicating embarrassment. Quite simply, Joan did not have enough credit to be received into the more sophisticated games.

  “Yes, of course,” Pfeiffer said absently. He looked around; there was not a robot to be seen. Hogs, he thought. Conspicuous consumption. He felt guilty and anxious about feeling a thrill of desire for that grotesque boy.

  “Well then,” said the purser, folding his hands on the desk, “we are at your disposal for as long as you wish to stay with us.” He gestured to the Terrier and said, “Johnny will give you the tour,” but Pfeiffer refused. Johnny ushered them into a central room, which was anything but quiet, and—after a wink at Pfeiffer—discreetly disappeared.

  This room was as crowded as the city ways. It was filled with what looked to be the ragtag, the bums and boutades, the street people, the captains of the ways. Here was a perfect replica of a street casino, but perfectly safe. This was a street casino, at least to Pfeiffer, who was swept up in the noise and bustle as he whetted his appetite for the dangerous pleasures of the top level.

  Ancient iron bandits whispered “Chinkachinka” and rolled their picture-frame eyes in promise of a jackpot, which was immediately transferred to the winner's account by a magnetic sleight-of-hand. The amplified, high-pitched voices of pinball computers on the walls called out winning hands of poker and blackjack. A simulated stabbing drew nothing more than a few glances. The room was mostly filled with telefac booths, which gave it the uncomfortable air of a medieval cemetery on picnic Sunday; the tombstone booths were filled with figures working through their own Stations of the Cross. Hooked in winners were rewarded with bursts of electrically induced ecstasy; losers writhed in pain and suffered through the brain-crushing aftershock of weeklong migraines.

  And, of course, battered robots clattered around with the traditional complement of drugs, drinks, and food. The only incongruity was a perfectly dressed geisha who quickly disappeared into one of the iris doors on the far wall.

  “Do you want to play the one-armed bandits?” Joan asked, fighting her growing claustrophobia, wishing only to escape into quiet; but she was determined to try to keep Pfeiffer from going upstairs. Yet, ironically—all her emotions seemed to be simultaneously yin and yang—she also wanted him to gamble away his organs. She knew that she would feel a guilty thrill if he lost his heart.

  She checked her computer implant for news of Mantle: still nothing. Then she pulled down the lever of the one-armed bandit; it would read her finger and odor prints and transfer or deduct the proper amount to or from Pfeiffer's account. The eyes rolled and clicked, and one hundred international credit dollars were lost. “Easy come, easy go. At least this is a safe way to go. But you didn't come here to be safe, right?” she said mockingly.

  “You can remain down here if you like,” Pfeiffer said, looking about the room for an exit, noticing that iris doors were spaced every few meters on the nearest wall to his left. The casino must take up the whole bloody block, he thought. “How the hell do I get out of here?”

  Before Joan could respond, Johnny appeared as if out of nowhere and said, “Monsieur Pfeiffer may take any one of the ascenseurs, or, if he would care for the view of our palace, he could take the staircase to heaven.” He smiled, baring even teeth, and curtsied to Pfeiffer, who was blushing. The boy certainly knows his man, Joan thought sourly.

  Am I jealous? she asked herself.

  “Shall I attend you?” Johnny asked Pfeiffer, ignoring Joan.

  “No,” said Pfeiffer. “Now, please leave us alone.”

  Indeed, there was a narrow, winding staircase with a twisted iron balustrade which seemed to curl up into a roseate dome such as the one they had seen in the other room. A palace of domes this was, with the boutadish pleasures at street levels. Above was the promise of quiet rooms, stylish conversation, and cool-handed gambling: the ancient, venerable pleasures of Hoyle.

  “Well, which is it?” asked Joan. “The elevator would be quickest, zoom you right to the organ room.”

  “We can take the stairs,” Pfeiffer said, a touch of blush still in his cheeks. But he would say nothing about the furry boy. “Jesus, it seems that every time I blink my eye, the stairway disappears.”

  “I'll show you the way,” Joan said, taking his arm.

  “Just what I need,” Pfeiffer said, smiling, eliminating one small barrier between them.

  “I think your rush is over, isn't it? You don't really want to gamble out your guts.”

  “I came to do something and I'll follow it through.”

  The stairwell was empty, and like an object conceived in Alice's Wonderland, it appeared to disappear behind them. “Cheap tricks,” Pfeiffer said.

  “Why are you so intent on this?” Joan asked. “If you lose, which you most probably will, you'll never have a day's peace. They can call in your heart or liver or—”

  “I can buy out, if that should happen.” Pfeiffer blushed, but it had nothing to do with his conversation with Joan, to which he was hardly paying attention. He was thinking about the furry boy…and Mantle.

  “You wouldn't gamble them if you thought you could buy out. That's bunk.”

  “Then I'd get artificials.”

  “You'd be taking another chance, with the quotas—thanks to your right-wing friends in power.”

  Pfeiffer didn't take the bait. “I admit defeat,” he said. Again he thought of the furry boy's naked, hairless genitals. And with that came the thought of death.

  The next level was less crowded and more subdued. There were few electronic games to be seen on the floor. A man passed by dressed in medical white, which indicated that deformation games were being played. There were a good number of dice games being played for high, but safe, stakes: bird cage, chuck-luck, craps, hazard, liar dice, and yacht. There were also the usual traditional roulette tables, and card games such as vingt-et-un. On each floor, the stakes became higher: fortunes were lost, people were disfigured or ruined, but—with the exception of the top floor, which had dangerous games other than organ gambling—at least no one died. They might need a face and body job after too many deformations, but those were easily obtained, although one had to have very good credit to ensure a proper job.

  On
e each ascending level, the house whores, both male and female, became more exotic, erotic, grotesque, and abundant. There were birdmen with feathers like peacocks and flamingos; children with dyed skin and implanted, overly large, male and female genitalia; machines that spoke the language of love and exposed soft, fleshy organs (such machines could be found wheeling about in all the ancient ruins of western Europe and America); amputees and cripples; various drag queens and kings; natural androgynes and mutants; cyborgs; and an interesting, titillating array of genetically engineered mooncalves. But none disturbed Pfeiffer as had that silly furry boy. He wondered if, indeed, the boy was still following him.

  “Come on, Joan,” Pfeiffer said impatiently, “I don't want to waste any more time down here.”

  “I thought it was the expectation that's so exciting to seasoned gamblers,” Joan said.

  “Not to me,” Pfeiffer said, ignoring the sarcasm. “I want to get it over with.” With that, he left the room.

  Then why bother at all, she said to herself. She stood by herself, ignoring a skinny, white-haired man and a piebald, doggie mooncalf coupling beside her in an upright position. Lost in thought, she visualized Pfeiffer as Mantle. Both men were obsessed with themselves, with their true natures, which were buried in the darkest parts of themselves.

  But it was Pfeiffer, she sensed, who somehow held the secret. A geisha—perhaps the one they had seen downstairs—walked past Joan and nodded, as if in recognition that they were both servants of the house. Joan remained aloof, surprised at the woman's (if she was a woman) lapse of grace and manners; and yet, for just an instant, Joan was happy to be part of something, anything—and she knew that that was one of the reasons she had joined the Crying Church and why, too, she was a phony.

  She took a lift to the top level.

  It was like walking into the foyer of a well-appointed home. The high walls were stucco and the floor inlaid parquetry. A small Dehaj rug was placed neatly before a desk, behind which beamed a man of about fifty dressed in camise and caftan, the blue and red colors of the establishment. He had a flat face, a large nose that was wide but had narrow nostrils, and close-set eyes roofed with bushy brown eyebrows which were the color his hair would have been—had he had any.