"A moment," Alec said, raising his hand. "We have already established that he is not oriented with respect to person and time. What about place, though? How did he justify being on the moon and in late-eighteenth-century France simultaneously?"
Marcel smiled.
"A cell is a cell," he said. "The Marquis spent his last days in prison. That is where he thought he was."
"Victim of the Revolution, wasn't he?"
"Yes. Though it is still a debatable point whether he was executed or took his own life rather than—"
Alec stiffened.
"What—?" Marcel began.
"I don't know. But that bothers me. Whatever the source of his information, that might be there."
"Surely you do not think ... ?"
Alec stood.
"I am going to check on him. It troubles me."
"I'll come with you."
They strode across the compound.
"He has never exhibited any—tendencies—in that direction, has he?"
"Not since he has been here," Alec said, "and there is nothing in the record to that effect. But the way his personality reshuffles itself, it is difficult to guess what he might be like at any given time. My God!"
'What?"
"I'm reading him!"
Alec broke into a run.
They reached Dennis' room to find him on the floor. Using his belt, he had attempted to hang himself from a light fixture. The fixture, however, had given way. Unconscious, he lay beside the chair on which he had stood to make the arrangements.
Marcel checked him quickly.
"His neck does not seem broken," he said, "but I want X-rays. Go get something to transport him. I will stay here."
"Right."
A thorough examination showed that Dennis had sustained no major injuries. It did not show why he had entered a coma, in which he remained for over two days. During this time, he remained in the clinic being fed from a dripping bottle, monitored by observers human and mechanical.
When on the third day he awakened, Dennis clutched at his side and moaned. A nurse appeared, observed his distress and sent for a doctor. A gross examination showed nothing amiss, and more elaborate test were undertaken. While their results were being considered, Marcel and Alec arrived at the bedside and determined that Dennis was no longer the Marquis de Condorcet. A telepathic examination revealed that he believed himself lying in a meadow near a rocky out-crop, bleeding from a wound inflicted by the horn of a fabulous beast from the sea. He also felt that his former therapist Lydia Dimanche was with him and frequently addressed the attending nurse by her name.
"All the tests are negative," said an older doctor who had come into the room during the TP scan.
"It is another of his—delusions," Alec said. "There are instructions in his file for breaking something like this. I think it would help if he had a sedative."
"I don't know," the older doctor said. "He has been out for quite some time. He is weak.... What about a simple relaxant?"
"All right. Let's try that."
The doctor sent for the necessary drug, administered an injection. The nurse held Dennis' hand. After a few minutes, a certain tension seemed to go out of him. His moans grew weaker, ceased. Alec moved then, carefully, firmly, to break a hypothetical connection. The mind he regarded suddenly swam, then drifted. Dennis closed his eyes and his breathing grew regular. The doctor moved to take his pulse.
"A normal sleep, I'd say," he announced half a minute later. "You found a way to separate him from the anxiety source?"
"I guess that is as good a way to put it as any. Yes. Unless he comes up with something new awfully fast he should be his old self when he awakens—if he sticks to what seems the pattern he has been following."
"Then the best thing we can do is let him sleep right now—and keep the monitors on." He regarded the flashboard. "His functions are well above the previous coma level."
Alec nodded.
"It seems best. Have them call me right away, though, if there are any changes in his condition."
"Of course," the doctor said.
They went away and left him sleeping.
On awakening, Dennis seemed returned to his more innocuous, earlier self. He walked with Alec about the facility, regarding with slightly enhanced attention those objects presented to him. He considered the flowers in the gardens and the stars beyond the dome, the Earth far away. His communicative abilities grew slowly during the weeks that followed, though he still did not initiate conversations, did not ask questions.
Dennis returned to his art class. He continued to draw geometric figures, but now he began embellishing them, and surrounding them with curlicues and elaborate filigree work. The hard, decisive lines he had originally drawn were softened in the basic figures and more of an element of freehand became apparent in the elaborations.
Alec then decided it was time to ask him, "What is your name?"
Dennis did not answer him, but continued staring at the atmosphere regulation plant across the way from where they were seated.
Alec rested his hand on his shoulder.
"Your name?" he repeated softly. "Would you tell me your name?"
"Name—" Dennis whispered. "Name—"
"Your name. What is it?"
Dennis' eyes narrowed, his brows lowered, tightened. He began to breathe rapidly.
Alec squeezed his shoulder.
"It is all right. It is all right," he said. "I will just tell you. Your name is Dennis. Dennis Guise."
The signs of tension vanished. Dennis sighed.
"Can you say it? Can you say Dennis Guise?"
"Dennis," Dennis said. "Dennis Guise."
"Good! Very good," Alec told him. "If you can remember that you will be doing well."
They walked on.
About fifteen minutes later, Alec asked him, "Now, what is your name?"
Dennis' face took on a look of anguish. Again, his breathing increased.
"We talked about it just a little while ago," Alec said. "Try to remember."
Dennis began to cry.
"It is all right," Alec said, taking his arm. "It is Dennis Guise. Dennis Guise. That is all."
Dennis gasped, sighed. He said nothing.
The next day he did not recall it, and Alec abandoned the problem of identity establishment for the time being. Dennis showed no ill effects from the small trauma.
Several days passed, and then the instructor of the art class noticed a totally incongruous sketch on Dennis' pad. His pencil was moving to the completion of an amazing caricature of one of the other students.
"That is extremely good," she remarked. "I was not aware that you did faces."
Dennis glanced up at her and smiled. It was the first time she had ever seen him smile.
"When did you begin using your left hand?"
He performed a palms-up gesture with both hands and shrugged.
Later, the instructor showed some of the new drawings to Alec.
Alec whistled.
"Was there anything leading up to this sort of work?" he asked.
"No. It happened quite suddenly, along with his switching hands."
"He's a southpaw now?"
"Yes. I thought you would be interested in that—as an indication of some neurological development, perhaps—a possible shifting of control from one brain hemisphere to the other—"
"Yes, thanks," he said. "I'll have Jefferson, over in neuropsych, check him over again. Were there any behavioral shifts accompanying this?"
She nodded.
"But it is hard to put a finger on it," she said. "It is just that he seems more—more animated—now, and there is an alert look, something about the way he moves his eyes, that was not there before."
"I had better go see him right now," Alec said. "Thanks again."
He made his way to Dennis' quarters, knocked and reached to open the door.
"Yes?" said a voice from within.
“It's me— Alee," he said. "May I
come in?"
"Come in," said the voice, without inflection.
Dennis was seated by the window, sketchpad open on his lap. He looked up and smiled as Alec entered.
Alec approached, glanced down at the pad It was filled with sketches of nearby buildings.
"Very good," he said. "I am glad to see that you are moving on to other subject matter."
Dennis smiled again.
"You seem to be in good spirits today. I am glad about that, too. Any special reason?"
Dennis shrugged.
"Say," Alec said, almost casually. "I didn't mean to trouble you the other day with that business about your name."
"No—trouble," Dennis said.
"Do you recall it, though?"
"Say—it—again."
"Dennis. Dennis Guise."
"Yes. Dennis Guise. Yes."
"Care for a little exercise?"
"Exer—cise?"
"Would you like to go for your walk now?"
"Oh. Yes. Yes. A walk. Exercise ..."
Dennis closed the pad. He rose and crossed the room. He opened the door, held it for Alec.
Alec led him along their usual route toward the fountain.
"Anything special you would like to talk about?" he asked.
"Yes," Dennis immediately replied. "Talk about talk."
"I—I don't quite understand."
M Talk—ing. Parts."
"Words?"
"Yes. Words."
"Oh. You want to review your vocabulary. All right. Sure."
Alec began naming everything they passed. Suppressing excitement, he reviewed the parts of the body, pronouns, basic verbs. Dennis' speech blossomed as they strolled.
Later, standing beside the fountain, Dennis asked, "How does it work, the fountain?"
"Oh, just a simple pump," Alex said.
"What sort of pump? I would like to see it."
"I am not certain exactly what kind of pump it is. I can speak with someone in maintenance later and probably get you a look at it. Maybe tomorrow."
"All right. Sure. Alec?"
"What?"
"I—Where are we?"
"This is the Luna Medical Facility II."
"Luna!"
"Yes, the moon. You are only just beginning to realize... ?"
Dennis had sagged back against the side of the fountain. Suddenly, he looked up.
"No overhead views from this section," Alec said. "If you would like, I can take you to an observation deck."
Dennis nodded vigorously.
"Please."
Alec took his arm.
"I guess that it would come as a shock—if you had not realized it, had not thought about it, all along. I should apologize. I am taking too many things for granted, because of the way you suddenly began communicating since you—since you..."
"... became less mad?" Dennis finished, recovering his composure and smiling.
"No, no. That is the wrong word. Listen, do you have any understanding, of what has been happening to you, of what things have been like for you until today?"
Dennis shook his head.
"Not really," he said. "I wish that I did."
Alec tried a quick mental probe, but as on two earlier occasions during their walk that day, he could not get beyond the surface thoughts, forcused as they were on present circumstances with such force of concentration as to preclude access to anything beyond them.
"I see no reason not to tell you something about it," Alec said. "You have been ill much of your life with a condition brought on by your telepathic faculty. You were exposed to adult thoughts too soon—from birth—and they interfered with your own thinking, until now. Bringing you to the moon got you away from much of the interference. This has finally allowed you to achieve some stability, to sort things out, to begin to think for yourself, to become aware of who you are. Do you understand? You are just now beginning to come into your own as a rational being."
"I—think I see. The past is so cloudy ..."
"Of course. The elevator is this way."
"What is a telepathic faculty?"
"Well ... An ability to tell directly what other people are thinking."
"Oh."
"It was too much for a child to cope with."
"Yes."
"Do you have any idea what brought you out of it? Do you recall when your thoughts first came to include a measure of self-awareness?"
Dennis grinned.
"No. It is sort of like waking up," he said. "You are never certain when it begins, but there comes a time when it has occurred. I think it is still going on."
"Good."
Alec thumbed open a door, led Dennis within, pressed a button on the wall.
"I am—quite—ignorant," Dennis said. "Do not take it as a—relapse—if I ask about the obvious—or lack certain words."
"Lord, no! You are making progress right before my eyes. In fact, I find it difficult to believe this is really happening."
The elevator hummed about them. Dennis touched the wall and chuckled.
"So do I, so do I. Tell me, do you possess this—telepathic faculty—yourself?"
"Yes."
"Do many people?"
"No, we are a distinct minority."
"I see. Are you using yours on me?"
"No. I feel we are better off talking this way. The practice is good for you. Do you want to try the other?"
"Not just now. No."
"Good. I was coming to that. It may be better if you do not attempt it for a time. No sense running the risk of reopening old channels of vulnerability until you have toughened your psyche a bit more."
"That sounds reasonable."
The door opened. Alec led him out into the observation lounge—a long, curved room, chairs and benches spotted about it, lit only by the stars and the great globe of the Earth beyond the transparent bubble that roofed it
Dennis gasped and flattened himself against the wall.
"It's all right," Alec said. "Safe. There is nothing to fear."
"Give me a chance," Dennis said. "Wait and let me look. Do not talk. God! It is lovely! Up there. The world ... I have to paint it. How will I get the colors ... here?"
"Ms. Brant will give you paints," Alec said.
"But the light..."
"There are alcoves farther along which can be illuminated—" He gestured. "You never realized ... that all this was here? That this was where you were—the moon?"
"No. I—I want to sit in one of the chairs."
"Of course. Come on."
Alec led him to a pair of chairs, reclined them, saw Dennis into one, took the other himself. For perhaps an hour they regarded the sky. Alec tried probing Dennis twice during that time, but on both occasions was met with that fierce concentration which blocked further reading.
Finally, Dennis rose.
"It is almost too much," he said. "Let us go back now."
Alec nodded.
"Want to try eating in the cafeteria? Or would that be too much excitement for one day?"
"Let us try it and find out."
As they rode the elevator down, Alec remarked, "We will probably never know what specific thing it was that set off this improvement of yours."
"Probably not."
"... And there are many things about it which I do not understand."
Dennis smiled.
"... But the one that puzzles me the most is where you could have picked up an Italian accent."
"If you ever find out, tell me," Dennis said.
Dr. Timura could detect no signs of neurological dysfunction. His main remarks centered about Dennis' interest in the testing equipment and his questions concerning localizations of function within the brain. He spent half an hour more than he had intended with Dennis, going over neural anatomy charts.
"Whatever did it," he told Alec later, "it was something functional—and you are asking the wrong man when it comes to that. It is more your area than mine."
"I had figured it w
as," Alec said. "We actually know so little about telepaths...."
"For whatever it is worth, it looks as if the idea behind his being sent here in the first place has proved valid. It got him away from the adverse stimuli, gave him a breather, he took advantage of it and now he is pulling himself together. It just took a while to have its effect."
"Yes, there is that. But to come this far from borderline sentience in one day is—remarkable. He's got paint and canvas and a box of tapes now. He is asking questions about everything—"
"Long-suppressed curiosity coming to the fore? For that matter, there is no way of knowing what his intelligence level really was. Quite high, I'd guess."
"Granted, granted. But what about the time he thought he was Condorcet?"
"He had to have picked that up through some use of his telepathic faculty. You will probably never know exactly where."
"I suppose you are right, but there is something peculiar about his present state of consciousness, also."
"What is that?"
"I can't read him. I am a pretty good telepath myself, or I would not have gone into TP therapy work. But every time I try a scan, I never get a millimeter beyond his immediate object of concern. He possesses the concentration of a tournament chess player—at all times. That is not normal."
"There are other people like that. Artists, for example, when they are wrapped up in a piece of work. And he is interested in art."
"True. For that matter, he is an extremely powerful telepath, and it may be some sort of unconscious block he has set up. Do you think he might be moving too fast now, heading for some sort of reaction?"
Dr. Timura shrugged.
"There will probably be a reaction of some sort. Depression ... Fatigue certainly, if he keeps going the way that he is. On the other hand, it might be worse to try to head it off at this point, while he is trying to learn everything he can. When he gets his belly full he will quit and digest his gains. It will be after that that your real work will begin. That's just my opinion, of course."
"Thanks. I'm grateful for any advice on this case."
"You have monitors in his room, don't you?"
"Of course, ever since he came here—and a few extras since the incident when he was Condorcet."
Zelazny, Roger - Novel 07 Page 9
