The Man Who Melted

by Jack Dann

  “You're going to see Faon, aren't you?” Joan asked, her face tight with fear, anger, and hurt.

  “Neither one of us is going to die on this ship,” Mantle said. “I, too, want us to be together. You must believe that. But, whatever you think, I can't let Faon die without saying good-bye.”

  Joan nodded.

  “Go find Carl, and I'll meet you back here within the half hour. He may be in the stateroom, and we'll need that bag we packed for the lifeboat. I don't know how long it's going to take this old lady to sink, so let's conserve our time.”

  “No,” Joan said, stepping closer to Mantle. “Carl will meet us here. We're all taking the same lifeboat.” Then after a pause, she said, “You and I will see Faon together. If I'm going to be able to live with myself, I should see her before she dies.”

  And suddenly the ship became unnaturally quiet. The engines had stopped.

  Faon had a stateroom on C-deck. It was a smallish room with a large bed, stuffed chair, washbasin, and writing desk. A mirrored chiffonier stood against the wall opposite the bed, looking for all the world like a rococo robot made of wood. Faon was sitting comfortably on the neatly made bed when Mantle knocked and entered with Joan.

  “I've been expecting you,” Faon said. “Both of you.” She wore a simple nightdress, and her thick, gray-streaked hair was loose, but pulled away from her high forehead. She held a small brown bottle tightly in her hand.

  “We've hit the iceberg a bit early,” Joan said awkwardly.

  “Yes, the steward banged on my door.” Faon motioned Joan and Mantle to sit down beside her. Although Joan remained standing, Mantle sat down on the bed. “Anyway, the deed is already done.”

  “What do you mean?” Mantle asked nervously.

  “I guess I'm a coward; I took the pill.” She gave the bottle to Mantle, who swore and stood up. He tossed the bottle onto the chiffonier and paced back and forth.

  “You didn't have to do this,” Mantle said quietly.

  “What else did you expect?” Faon asked, looking surprised. “Didn't you come down here to wish me good-bye?”

  “Yes, of course,” Mantle said. “I'm sorry.”

  “Why did you really come to see me?”

  “To tell you—”

  “You came because I promised to show you the end of the world, remember?” Faon smiled as if remembering a private joke. “You two came just in time,” she said, looking up at Joan. “I would guess I'll be dead in a few minutes.” Then she turned to Mantle and said, “But even if I were already dead, it wouldn't make any difference. I could, and will, make good my promises.”

  “Faon,” Mantle said gently, “I came to say good-bye, and Joan came to make amends….” Then Mantle took a step backward and looked around the room anxiously, as if he had just seen something that frightened him.

  “Faon, I—” Joan said, but she was unable to finish her sentence. She felt the electric jolt of a connection, then sudden terror—Mantle's terror—and knew that she had to get Mantle out of this room. Through him, she could feel the cold edges of the dark spaces.

  The circuit fantome had come alive again.

  And Joan remembered what had happened to her when Gayet died, how a tunnel seemed to open up inside him, how she had been sucked through it into the dark spaces, as if into a vacuum. “Ray, let's get out of here. Right now.”

  Faon lay back on the bed, her head resting against the paneled wall. She closed her eyes and said, “Raymond, stay with me, please….”

  “I can't, Faon,” Mantle said, but even as he said it he took a step toward her.

  “No, Ray,” Joan shouted as she tried to reach him. She broke out into a cold sweat and trembled, but she couldn't move, not even for Mantle. It was as if there was a deadly presence in the room, a great dark bird of prey silently beating its wings, ready to swoop down upon her. If she took a step toward Mantle, who was so close to Faon, she was certain she would be sucked into the dark spaces. Faon was the tunnel…she was the dark spaces…the bird of prey…she was death itself….

  Oh God, I'm afraid, Joan thought as she screamed to Mantle to turn away from Faon.

  But no sound cut the air. The room had filled up with the stuff of the dark spaces as if with heavy black smoke, or a gas, paralyzing them…. They were both dreaming the same dream, breathing and thinking each other's thoughts…both caught….

  An instant later, Faon stopped breathing.

  Then the transformation began: Faon seemed to rise from the bed and float in the air as if gravity had no effect—just as Joan had risen from the pool in Boulouris to try to kill Mantle. Faon began to spin, faster and faster, spinning just in front of Mantle's eyes, spinning and turning into Josiane, as if she were being created on a lathe…slowing until she was Josiane, staring into Mantle's eyes, connecting with him, becoming a tunnel for him; and Joan saw through his eyes, sensed with his mind, saw that he was transfixed, searching for the truth and his past, even as he was trying with his whole being to turn away, to run, to escape….

  Just then there was a sharp rap on the door, and suddenly it slammed open, jolting Joan and Mantle instantly from their mutual dream of Faon and the dark spaces. And the black and silver, the stuff of the dark spaces, dissipated, dissolved as if a spell had been undone.

  “Everyone up to the boat deck,” shouted a harried-looking steward. “Ship's going down. Not much time if you want a lifeboat.”

  Joan and Mantle did not wait to be caught again. Still woozy and not yet completely free of Faon's dream, they stumbled out of the room into the corridor.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Although it felt vague and distant, the circuit fantome was still open. Mantle and Joan had recovered, and did not speak of the incident in Faon's room, both wishing to put it behind them. Still, the image of Faon spinning herself into Josiane remained with them.

  It was bitter cold, and they were looking for Pfeiffer.

  The boat deck was filled with people, all rushing about, shouting, scrambling for the lifeboats; and, inevitably, those who had changed their minds at the last moment about going down with the ship were shouting the loudest, trying the hardest to be permitted into the boats, not one of which had been lowered yet. There were sixteen wooden lifeboats and four canvas Englehardts, the collapsibles. But they could not be lowered away until the davits were cleared of the two forward boats. The crew was quiet, each man busy with the boats and davits. All the boats were now swinging free of the ship, hanging just beside the boat deck.

  “We'll let you know when it's time to board,” shouted an officer to the families crowding around him. The floor was listing dangerously. At this rate, the ship would be bow down in the water in no time.

  Mantle and Joan checked the bow and starboard side—there were eight boats to be lowered on each side—but still no sign of Pfeiffer. They rechecked the first-class lounge, where the Titanic's band of seven was playing ragtime. Most of the passengers waiting here for the boats were calm, as they had only come along for the ride. All were dressed warmly in greatcoats and furs.

  Not finding Pfeiffer, they went back outside to the boat deck.

  “He could be anywhere on the ship,” Mantle said, thinking that Pfeiffer was probably on one of the lower decks, recording the group suicides. Mantle had heard about such parties, and there would be the normal run of drugs and orgies, all spurred on by the excitement of imminent destruction.

  But they found Pfeiffer in the gym off the boat deck, big as life, riding one of the stationary bicycles; as he pedaled, he was watching red and blue arrows chase each other around a white clock on the wall. “I thought I'd make myself easy to locate,” he said to Mantle and Joan.

  “We've been looking for you for most of an—”

  “I had work to do, still do. How's it been going?”

  “I've been frantic,” Joan said.

  “No, I mean the work. This is a golden opportunity.” Pfeiffer got off the bicycle and put his arms around Joan and Mantle. “You should at least
take a few pictures, do an interview,” he said to Joan.

  “I can't. I'm ashamed of myself.”

  “It's no different from any other assignment, except the routines,” Pfeiffer said, removing himself from Mantle and Joan, looking suddenly very tired and drawn, as if he had been pumping himself up and was now collapsing under his own weight. “The public wants the either/ors, the lifes and deaths.”

  “But this is different,” Joan said. “No need for any of it, no—”

  “It's no different from what happens in every other house or apartment on the street. Here you're privy to it, that's all. This is what it's about; this is what goes on all around us. The dead pile up and are carried safely away without anyone's being the wiser. That's why my…our viewers love this voyage and why so many have taken it. The doers and the voyeurs, we're all here.”

  “I chose this,” Joan said. “It's not like an assignment.”

  “So you did,” Pfeiffer said. “My point.”

  A young steward, looking nervous, came into the room and said, “Mr. Pfeiffer, the boats are going fast now. Most are already lowered.” He looked at Joan and said, “You know the rules, sir, the women must go first.”

  “I think we should still have a few minutes,” Pfeiffer said, giving the steward a knowing look.

  “Yes…a few, sir.”

  “Call us again, just before it gets dangerous.”

  “Very good, sir.” The steward left. The ship seemed to groan below them, and the list became a bit sharper. A gaily colored ball rolled across the floor.

  “The boy's probably happy for an excuse to get into the warm,” Pfeiffer said; and then, “Don't worry, Joan. They've got to make sure of our safety.”

  “Well,” Joan said, “if you want to make the most of this, why are you sitting here, why are we sitting here?”

  “Because I have something I want to tell you.”

  “Here it comes,” Joan said to Mantle in a low voice as they all moved to the wicker chairs, which had all slid against the far wall. The blocked linoleum was terribly scuffed, as if horses had been galloping around the room.

  “It shouldn't be a surprise,” Pfeiffer continued, “especially after I gave you Little Josiane.”

  “Well?” Mantle said tightly.

  “Josiane's dead,” Pfeiffer said flatly. When Mantle said nothing, Pfeiffer added, after a pause, “That's what I came to Cannes to tell you in the first place.”

  Mantle's face still hadn't moved. His anger was a cold band tightening around his chest. “And what about Caroline?” Mantle asked at last, as if ignoring what Pfeiffer had just told him. “Your breakup?”

  “That happened, and I found out about Josiane at the same time. Another irony, I suppose. You see, we're always linked in sadness, especially in sadness. But it's better for you to know, so that you can stop searching.”

  “There are other ways to be alive,” Mantle said, remembering—and sensing—the dark spaces once again.

  “You don't believe that shit, do you?” Pfeiffer asked.

  Ignoring that, Mantle finally asked, “How did she die?”

  “A brain hemorrhage, of all things. But it was natural causes. Meadowbrook Hospital on Long Island has all the records, she—”

  “Did she die in the hospital?” Mantle asked quietly.

  “No, she was brought in DOA.”

  Mantle felt the cold band tighten around his chest. He didn't feel grief, just anger; cold, dead anger toward Pfeiffer who had waited until now to tell him this. Joan was right, he thought, the little fisherman is up to something. The sonofabitch never stops….

  The band grew tighter.

  “She was found in Hempstead,” Pfeiffer continued, “in the Hofstra ruins with some other Screamers. She was also…I don't know if I should tell you this….”

  “Go on,” Mantle said. “You know you're going to tell it.”

  “She was also shot, but that's not what killed her.” When Mantle gave no response, Pfeiffer said, “I'm sorry, Raymond, truly I am.”

  “How was it that you found all this out, that you—”

  “I loved her too, you know, and my connections are better than yours. After all, it's my business.”

  “I never asked you to—”

  “You never needed to.”

  There was a dead silence in the room, which seemed to absorb even the squabbling and shouting outside—as if the world, like the ship, had suddenly stopped. Joan was sitting beside Mantle, leaning toward him, as if by being closer she could hear his thoughts.

  “She's not dead,” Mantle insisted.

  “What's that?” asked Pfeiffer. He glanced at Joan, but she fixedly ignored him. “I'm not doing this to hurt you, Raymond, but to help you. You must believe that.”

  “Then why didn't you tell me before? Why did you wait until now?” Mantle asked, his voice as cold as the air outside.

  After a pause, Pfeiffer said, “I came to Cannes to tell you, but you seemed to be in such a shaky mental condition…I felt it would be better if I took the time to prepare you. You must believe me, Raymond. It's all I have left to offer you.”

  Mantle looked sharply at him at that, but Pfeiffer stood up suddenly, as if he were about to bolt.

  Just then the door opened again, letting in the frigid air, and the steward said, “They're lowering away the Englehardts. You must leave now if you're going to leave at all.”

  “All right,” Pfeiffer replied distractedly, as if the steward was merely calling teatime.

  “Come on,” Joan said. “We'd better get out there.”

  As they left the comfort of the room for the cold deck, a rocket was fired from somewhere on the starboard side, one of many; and it exploded far above the spars and netting of the Titanic, a cold, white phosphorus light that exploded into sparks dropping toward the sea.

  “Jesus, we are late,” Joan said. She was frightened as she looked around at the empty davits and the angry crowd milling around boat C. A few men rushed the ring of officers and seamen guarding the boat, and were beaten with an oar wielded by a mean-looking member of the crew. There was a gunshot, then another, and two men fell to the ground.

  “My wife has changed her mind!” shouted a man in the crowd, but the voice melted into the others and the band on the deck played even louder, as if mocking those still on the ship.

  “I can hear her calling me,” Mantle said to Pfeiffer as they stood away from the remaining boat and the crowd.

  “It's in the hospital records, you must believe….”

  “I can hear her!”

  “Ray, stop it,” Joan said.

  “Oh, God,” Pfeiffer said. “There's no time. Come on, let's get you into that boat.”

  “What do you mean?” Joan shouted as Pfeiffer dragged her into the crowd. Then the young steward, who was remarkably strong, grabbed her arm roughly and said, “She's all right.”

  “Him, too,” Pfeiffer shouted at the steward, indicating that Mantle was to go next.

  A crewman shot a passenger who tried to push Joan out of the way and take her place. Joan screamed, tried to break free of the steward.

  “Put her on the boat!” Pfeiffer commanded.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Mantle shouted.

  Pfeiffer leaned close to Mantle and said, “I elected not to take a lifeboat. That's why I told you all this when I did; that's why I wanted you to be with me on this trip. I've stayed alive as long as I have for you, to give you new life.”

  “That's crazy!” Mantle said. “Are you killing yourself for Caroline? For Caroline?”

  “And for me, there's nothing else to be done, but when you're picked up by the airship later, there'll be a tape waiting for you. It will explain everything….” And then Pfeiffer turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  “I'm not leaving you to—”

  “Come on,” said a burly crewman as he grabbed Mantle tightly from behind. “Like it or not, you're supposed to live. That's what the mother computer says.” Anoth
er crewman laughed, and Mantle was picked up by the both of them and thrown into the collapsible.

  “What is Carl doing?” Joan cried, pushing past a fat woman to be closer to Mantle.

  But Mantle ignored Joan. Grabbing the davit line before it could be lowered, he pulled and swung himself back onto the ship. He took the heavyset crewman by surprise and punched him sharply in the kidney. Then he pushed himself through the crowd.

  Joan shouted to him and someone else said, “Lower the fucker away, let the stupid sonofabitch drown.”

  Mantle caught sight of Pfeiffer and ran wildly across the deck after him, pushing people out of his way.

  He could not believe that Pfeiffer would kill himself. Never, that was unthinkable.

  Pfeiffer pushed through a set of high glass doors and disappeared inside the ship. Mantle followed, chasing him down stairs, through lounges and corridors. After a while, he stopped shouting at Pfeiffer. It only slowed Mantle down.

  After almost losing him, Mantle caught up with Pfeiffer in one of the restricted forward storage areas. There was water up to his knees; it was green and soapy. Soggy boxes floated in the water and collected against one of the walls. The ship was listing to port.

  Pfeiffer stopped long enough to shout, breathlessly, “Go back up, save yourself.” He looked frightened, and then, as he turned and headed toward an exit, there was an explosion that pitched them both into the water.

  The wall behind Pfeiffer gave way, and a solid sheet of water seemed to be crashing into the room, smashing Mantle, pulling him under and sweeping him away. He fought to reach the surface. A lamp broke away from the ceiling, just missing him. “Carl,” he shouted, but he couldn't see him, and then he found himself choking, swimming, as the water carried him through a corridor.

  Finally, Mantle was able to grab the iron curl of a railing and pull himself onto a dry step. There was another explosion; the floor pitched; yet the lights still glowed, giving the submerged corridors and rooms a ghostly illumination. As Mantle looked down at the water that had taken Pfeiffer, he realized that he had been hearing Josiane's voice…was hearing it now. Or was it Joan's…?