Zelazny, Roger - Novel 07

by Bridge of Ashes

  "I think we had better find out. You will need to know that when it comes time to straighten him out."

  "I will deal with the problem when it comes due."

  "Something suggests itself," Dick said. "What is Dennis' range, anyway? He is keeping tabs on Leishman at over a hundred miles, now that he has been returned, but he followed him for over five hundred miles. What might his upper limit be?"

  Lydia shook her head.

  "Again, not enough data."

  "Exactly," Dick said. "I would like to find out, though. Once he has his mind in shape and has reached maturity, he might well be the greatest telepath the race has yet produced."

  "He probably is," Vicki said. "That is what caused his problem."

  "Supposing I take him to Europe with me next month? He will have had plenty of time to play with his new synapses. We will pull him out of range of Leishman and see whether he is still dependent on the guy or whether he has absorbed enough to keep functioning as he is."

  "I would advise against it," Lydia said. "Supposing he simply retreats into catatonia?"

  "Then we bring him back and let him be Leishman again for a while."

  "But we do not know that he would pick up on Leishman again. He might simply remain withdrawn."

  "Then your theory is wrong, and the sooner we know it the better."

  "I can see you have already decided."

  "Yes. Even given the worst, the situation would simply revert to one you have already assured us holds hope. What is the difference, really?"

  Lydia lowered her head

  "I cannot honestly say."

  Dick finished his drink.

  "So there," he said. "We'll do it."

  "Very well. But either I accompany him—with the understanding that I bring him home immediately if there are any problems—or I leave the case."

  "Lydia, you can't!" Vicki said.

  "It is the only way."

  "All right," Dick said, "I agree. It is something I have to find out, though."

  "Lydia," Vicki said. "Could this really hurt Dennis* chances?"

  "I think so."

  "Then I forbid it Dick, you are not going to ruin what is left of my son just to determine his TP range. If you insist on this, I'm leaving. I will get a court order if necessary to prevent your moving him. ,,

  Dick reddened.

  "Vicki. I—"

  "You heard me. What will it be?"

  "I think you are being silly."

  "I do not really care what you think. What are you going to do?"

  "You give me no choice. I won't take him. I thought it was a good idea. I still do. Lydia, what about next spring? I am going over again then. Would that be more propitious?"

  "Possibly. Probably, even. There would have been more time for him to adjust to functioning."

  "Okay, let's talk about it again then. Vicki, I am sorry. I did not realize ..."

  "I know. But now you do."

  "Now I do."

  Dick took his glass back to the kitchen and rinsed it.

  "I think I am going to change and take a walk," he called out.

  Vicki rose, headed for the courtyard.

  Lydia crossed the room and stared out the window, fingering her pendant as she watched the mountains and the clouds.

  Dick was in the East that autumn, when Roderick Irishman's case was heard. Therefore, it was from Winchell's calls following his weekly examinations of Dennis that he learned of the boy's alternate elation and depression as the trial progressed. The news media were unaware of Dennis' connection with the case, and only two other medical consultants knew of his condition.

  Dick regarded Winchell in the viewer.

  "He still bathes himself and dresses himself . . . ?" Dick said.

  "Yes."

  "He still feeds himself, and he responds intelligently when people talk to him?"

  "In the character of Leishman ... yes.

  "He still seems aware of everything that Leishman thinks or does?"

  "We have checked periodically on the factual aspect of it, and this does seem to be the case."

  "I find it difficult to understand how he manages to respond to two separate environments and not grow confused, not become aware of the contradictions in the situation."

  "Well, it is similar to the classic paranoid reaction where the patient can function relatively well in his normal environment yet still believe he is someone else, somewhere else."

  "I think I see, sort of. How long do you figure this will go on?"

  "No way of telling yet, as I've said before. But I agree with Lydia that it is a situation worth exploiting. Let it sink in. She can take care of personality tailoring later."

  "What about the trip I mentioned?"

  "The way that I see it is that if he really is going to benefit from this exposure, he should have had enough of it by spring. I don't see why the cord can't be cut at that time, and let the adjustment begin."

  "Good," Dick said. "About Lydia..."

  "Yes?"

  "I was just wondering. With all these new developments, is she still the best therapist for Dennis?"

  "Is there something about her you don't like?"

  "No, not that I just wanted to be sure Dennis had the best."

  "He does. Lydia knows Dennis better than anyone else. It would take months for another therapist to catch up on something like this—and then there is the matter of her rapport with him. It could prove disastrous to pull her off the case and bring in someone else at this point."

  "I see. Just wanted to be sure."

  "Is something bothering you—about her?"

  "Not at all. How do you feel the verdict on the Leishman case will affect him? The man is bound to be convicted."

  "Some depression, most likely. Still, Leishman seems something of a stoic, according to the psychiatrists who examined him. Dennis will simply take it the same way he does."

  "It shouldn't be too far off."

  "No. This week, I'd guess."

  "Well, keep me posted."

  "I will."

  Dick decided to take his secretary to lunch and think about other things. And he was not surprised some time later when Leishman was found guilty. It was the sentencing that troubled him.

  "I did not think they would take the psychiatric angle that seriously," he said to Winchell as soon as he heard of it.

  "I did. There was always a possibility of this. Basically, it was his attorney's doing. I would not take it all that seriously."

  "Well, they have him up at the State Hospital in Las Vegas, so he is still too close to Dennis—and now, if they start giving him therapy ... What will happen if they put him on drugs or fool with his brain? I don't like it."

  Winchell was silent for a time. Then, "I see the point. I had wanted to keep Dennis—and us—out of the whole thing. Now, though, we had better find a way of keeping posted as to what course of treatment they plan for Leishman. Perhaps we can still keep it quiet. I will see whether I can work out something with the hospital. If not, we may have to go through the court."

  "Well, we had better do something, quickly. The kid is screwed up enough as it is."

  "Right. I will call them now and let you know."

  "I still think we ought to move out of range and let it go at that."

  Winchell gnawed his lip.

  "Let's save that for last," he said.

  I thought I had caught glimpses of him earlier in the day, but I was not certain until late afternoon, when he came by the reading room where I sat alone, turning pages. He parked the cart he had been pushing, blocking the doorway with it, stepped in, gave a low whistle and winked when I looked up.

  "Quick!" I said. "What—?"

  He raised a finger to his lips, turned and fetched in a carton from the lower shelf of the carryall. He brought it over and placed it on the opposite side of my chair, out of sight from the hall.

  "No problem," he whispered. "I've worked in these places before. My record is clean. Got
in here almost two weeks ago. How have they been treating you?"

  "Observation and tests all month," I said. "What are you up to?"

  He stroked the side of his sharp nose and smiled a yellow smile.

  "We're getting you out of here, now. It's all set up. I have the schedule down pat. The car is waiting."

  "It's still daylight. Wouldn't it be better if—"

  "No. Trust me. I know where everyone is."

  I regarded his slight figure, his dark, dancing eyes, pale hair, nimble fingers.

  "You're shifty enough," I said. "Okay. What do I do?"

  "Get into the clothes in that bundle while I go stand outside by my cart. If anyone comes, Til whistle and you start taking them off again fast. I will come back inside with the box and you toss them back into it. Okay?"

  I nodded and began unbuttoning my shirt.

  "No," he said. "Put them on over your things. It's just an orderly uniform."

  He moved back to the door.

  "How is the shoulder?"

  "Fine now. How are Jerry and Betty?"

  "Well. You never got traced to them."

  He stood fooling with his cart, blocking the door.

  "Hey! There's a gun in here!"

  "Sh! Stick it in your belt, under the coat You never can tell."

  I checked it. It was loaded. I stowed it. I dressed.

  "All right," I said.

  "Come on out then. Help me push this cart."

  I stepped into the hall, got behind the cart at his side nearest the wall. We began pushing.

  "Where to?" I asked.

  "Service elevator, through those doors at the end. I have the key here."

  We passed along the hall. He unlocked the doors. No one in sight. He unlocked the elevator. We took the cart inside and he pressed the button for the basement.

  "I'll stand in front," he said. "If anyone comes by, bend over the cart real quick."

  "Right."

  I listened to the hum, the occasional creaking of the elevator about us. A wave of cool air passed from the left. I felt myself in a kind of daze. It was difficult to believe things were happening this quickly, with no advance warning. Just as well, too, probably. If I had had time to think it over, I might not be moving this casually. I probably would not have slept last night.

  The elevator ground to a halt. Quick drew open the gate, looked outside, nodded to me, tugged on the cart.

  I followed him out, pushing. We were in a half-lit hallway, but things looked to be brighter around the corner to the left. We moved in that direction, and he gestured for me to change places with him. I got over to his left before we turned the corner, left again. There was a ramp leading up to an open area—a loading dock where two workmen sat on crates, drinking coffee and smoking. The nearer man glanced in our direction as we moved upward, wheels rattling. Quick pretty much blocked his view of me.

  "Damn it!" he muttered. "They don't usually take their break right on the dock."

  A white van with the words "Simpson's Foods" stenciled in red on its side was backed against the dock, rear gate lowered. The door on the driver's side was open, and a man in a green uniform sat sideways, legs dangling, checking over some papers on a clipboard, a steaming cup balanced on the dash to his right. Quick waved to him and he waved back. Moments later, he swiveled forward and slammed the door. Shortly after that, he dumped the coffee out the window.

  Quick slowed.

  "I was simply going to close you in back and let him drive off with you," he whispered. "No good now. Those guys would know something was up." He jerked his head toward the laborers. "I am going to have to go along now—and so are they, I'm afraid"

  "Guess we don't have much choice."

  He shook his head.

  "We stop the cart when we're abreast of them," he said, looking out past the truck and back down the ramp. "Then we stroll over. Get your gun out then and get them aboard the truck."

  "Okay."

  We halted the cart when we were near, turned and moved in their direction. I grinned and rested my hand on the butt of the pistol.

  "Hi," Quick said, "I was just wondering.. ."

  The nearer man was squinting at me. I drew the weapon and pointed it at them.

  ". . . wondering whether you wanted to try and be heroes, or just live and let live."

  "It's Leishman," he said to the other.

  "God!" the other replied.

  "What'll it be?" Quick asked.

  "Whatever you want," the second man said.

  "Then get in the truck, both of you."

  They got to their feet. The first man raised his arms.

  "Put your hands down," I said. "Don't do anything conspicuous like that again."

  "Sorry."

  He lowered them, they headed for the truck, got in. Quick climbed down from the dock, went forward and was talking with the driver, who kept glancing back, an unhappy look on his face.

  I followed the men inside.

  "All the way back," I said, "and sit on the floor."

  I seated myself across from them. Seconds later, the engine spun and caught. There was a scrambling noise from outside, and Quick rounded the corner and climbed in.

  "He'll be around to shut it in a second," he said, taking up a position to my right, legs stretched out before him.

  A light came on overhead.

  The man across from me on the left, a young, slight, dark-haired guy, said, "What are you going to do with us?"

  "Nothing," I said, "if you don't make any trouble. You know you would report someone leaving in the truck. We can't have that. Be good, don't make any noises as we leave, and we'll drop you in the boondocks as soon as we're out a ways. Okay?"

  "Anything you say," he said. "I've got a family."

  "So do I," said the older man beside him. "I'll do what you say."

  "Then sit back and enjoy the ride," I said.

  The driver came around and Quick went back and whispered with him before he closed us in. Moments later, I heard his door slam. Then the engine started. Presently, we were moving.

  Quick leaned over and whispered to me, "We are going to drop them before we switch vehicles. The less they know, the better."

  "Good idea. How long will that be?"

  "Around twenty minutes, I figure. We ditch them in fifteen."

  "Good enough."

  The situation finally reached me at an animal level, and I felt a profound desire to pace. My palms began to perspire and I wiped them on my trousers. Ridiculous. I had had no particular reactions when I had done the shooting in Santa Fe. It was probably that I had worked them all off in advance, contemplating the event. This time, however, without preparation, I was easy prey to the uncertainties involved.

  We halted. Outer gate. I heard voices but could not distinguish the words. Shortly, we were moving again.

  "Mind if I smoke?" the man across from me asked

  "Go ahead," I said.

  I watched him light up.

  "Could I have one of those?" I asked.

  "Sure." He extended the pack.

  I got up, crossed over and took one.

  "May I have a light?"

  He passed me his matches.

  "Thanks," I said, handing them back.

  I returned to my place across from him and reseated myself.

  "That was stupid," said Quick. "You could have had one of mine."

  "Didn't know you smoked."

  "Haven't had a chance to," he said, producing one and lighting it. "I didn't know you smoked."

  "I haven't, for years. I just decided to balance an ecological loss against a psychological gain. My chances are better if I'm relaxed. Anything I can do to improve my chances right now is worth it. If I get away, I may be able to carry ofi some more big ones for the Children. Ah! that's good!"

  "You're a weird guy," Quick said. "I sometimes get the feeling the whole movement is more of a religious thing for you than it is anything else."

  "That's fair," I said. "I g
uess it is."

  "You think you'll get pie in the sky for whatever you do?"

  "Satisfaction right here is more than enough. The Earth is my reward as well as my concern."

  "They said at the trial that you used to be with the Forest Service. I never knew that."

  I nodded.

  "What the lawyer said was true. It does all go back to that, for me—seeing the land and everything on it constantly taking second place to commercial interests. I talked with COE people on and off for a couple years. Finally, one day, I decided hell! if we are as brutal to them as they are to the land, maybe then some of the exploiters will get the point, think twice. ... I don't know. I had to do something besides writing protest letters. I get this kind of—mystical—feeling sometimes, when I am out in the country. I feel there is something—some force—I am serving. It does not matter what it is. It does not even matter whether it is really there. I am sometimes comforted by a sense of presence that seems kindly disposed toward me. That is enough."

  "You've lived out of doors a lot then?"

  "Yes, I have."

  Quick glanced at the guys across from us, lowered his voice:

  "You could live off the land, then?"

  "Yes."

  "Maybe that wouldn't be a bad idea, till things cool down. Lots of places, say, in Canada where they would never find you."

  "I've thought of it. —What about yourself? Why are you in the movement?"

  "Nothing as fancy as your reasons. I envy them, but nothing's ever seen fit to give me the mystic high-sign. No, I suppose I'm just a troublemaker, a professional malcontent. I hate the system for lots of reasons-some of them big, a lot of them probably petty. No profit in citing chapter and verse. If I weren't with the Children, I would be throwing bombs with someone else. This seems a somewhat cleaner cause, that's all. You know, you are probably saner than I am, pantheism or not. I have worked in enough of those places like the one we just left that I picked up some of the jargon, some of the ideas, seen a lot of the cases. I sometimes think a lot of it applies to me." He laughed. "Then on even-numbered days," he went on, "I am sure it is the world that is mad and all that therapy would ever do is make me as batty as the rest of them."

  I chuckled. We finished our cigarettes. I listened for sounds from outside the truck and tried to estimate where we might be. I heard nothing but the vehicle's own noises, though, and I had given up counting turns too long ago.