The Mammoth Book of 20th Century SF II

by David G. Hartwell

  “ – And five,” he added suddenly, staring into Render’s eyes. “Five,” he ticked it off on one finger. “Is she pretty?”

  Render looked back into the fire.

  “Very clever,” sighed Bartelmetz. “I cannot tell whether you are blushing or not, with the rosy glow of the flames upon your face. I fear that you are, though, which would mean that you are aware that you yourself could be the source of the inciting stimulus. I shall burn a candle tonight before a portrait of Adler and pray that he give you the strength to compete successfully in your duel with your patient.”

  Render looked at Jill, who was still sleeping. He reached out and brushed a lock of her hair back into place.

  “Still,” said Bartelmetz, “if you do proceed and all goes well, I shall look forward with great interest to the reading of your work. Did I ever tell you that I have treated several Buddhists and never found a ‘true ego’?”

  Both men laughed.

  Like me but not like me, that one on a leash, smelling of fear, small, gray, and unseeing. Rrowl and he’ll choke on his collar. His head is empty as the oven till. She pushes the button and it makes dinner. Make talk and they never understand, but they are like me. One day I will kill one – why . . . ? Turn here.

  “Three steps. Up. Glass doors. Handle to right.”

  Why? Ahead, drop-shaft. Gardens under, down. Smells nice, there. Grass, wet dirt, trees, and clean air. I see. Birds are recorded though. I see all. I.

  “Dropshaft. Four steps.”

  Down Yes. Want to make loud noises in throat, feel silly. Clean, smooth, many of trees. God . . . She likes sitting on bench chewing leaves smelling smooth air. Can’t see them like me. Maybe now, some . . . ? No.

  Can’t Bad Sigmund me on grass, trees, here. Must hold it. Pity. Best place . . .

  “Watch for steps.”

  Ahead. To right, to left, to right, to left, trees and grass now. Sigmund sees. Walking . . . Doctor with machine gives her his eyes. Rrowl and he will not choke. No fearsmell.

  Dig deep hole in ground, bury eyes. God is blind. Sigmund to see. Her eyes now filled, and he is afraid of teeth. Will make her to see and take her high up in the sky to see, away. Leave me here, leave Sigmund with none to see, alone. I will dig a deep hole in the ground . . .

  It was after ten in the morning when Jill awoke. She did not have to turn her head to know that Render was already gone. He never slept late. She rubbed her eyes, stretched, turned onto her side and raised herself on her elbow. She squinted at the clock on the bedside table, simultaneously reaching for a cigarette and her lighter.

  As she inhaled, she realized there was no ashtray. Doubtless Render had moved it to the dresser because he did not approve of smoking in bed. With a sigh that ended in a snort she slid out of the bed and drew on her wrap before the ash grew too long.

  She hated getting up, but once she did she would permit the day to begin and continue on without lapse through its orderly progression of events.

  “Damn him,” she smiled. She had wanted her breakfast in bed, but it was too late now.

  Between thoughts as to what she would wear, she observed an alien pair of skis standing in the corner. A sheet of paper was impaled on one. She approached it.

  “Join me?” asked the scrawl.

  She shook her head in an emphatic negative and felt somewhat sad. She had been on skis twice in her life and she was afraid of them. She felt that she should really try again, after his being a reasonably good sport about the chateaux, but she could not even bear the memory of the unseemly downward rushing – which, on two occasions, had promptly deposited her in a snowbank – without wincing and feeling once again the vertigo that had seized her during the attempts.

  So she showered and dressed and went downstairs for breakfast.

  All nine fires were already roaring as she passed the big hall and looked inside. Some red-faced skiers were holding their hands up before the blaze of the central hearth. It was not crowded though. The racks held only a few pairs of dripping boots, bright caps hung on pegs, moist skis stood upright in their place beside the door. A few people were seated in the chairs set further back toward the center of the hall, reading papers, smoking, or talking quietly. She saw no one she knew, so she moved on toward the dining room.

  As she passed the registration desk the old man who worked there called out her name. She approached him and smiled.

  “Letter,” he explained, turning to a rack. “Here it is,” he announced, handing it to her. “Looks important.”

  It had been forwarded three times, she noted. It was a bulky brown envelope, and the return address was that of her attorney.

  “Thank you.”

  She moved off to a seat beside the big window that looked out upon a snow garden, a skating rink, and a distant winding trail dotted with figures carrying skis over their shoulders. She squinted against the brightness as she tore open the envelope.

  Yes, it was final. Her attorney’s note was accompanied by a copy of the divorce decree. She had only recently decided to end her legal relationship to Mr. Fotlock, whose name she had stopped using five years earlier, when they had separated. Now that she had the thing, she wasn’t sure exactly what she was going to do with it. It would be a hell of a surprise for dear Rendy, though, she decided. She would have to find a reasonably innocent way of getting the information to him. She withdrew her compact and practiced a “Well?” expression. Well, there would be time for that later, she mused. Not too much later, though . . . Her thirtieth birthday, like a huge black cloud, filled an April but four months distant. Well . . . She touched her quizzical lips with color, dusted more powder over her mole, and locked the expression within her compact for future use.

  In the dining room she saw Doctor Bartelmetz, seated before an enormous mound of scrambled eggs, great chains of dark sausages, several heaps of yellow toast, and a half-emptied flask of orange juice. A pot of coffee steamed on the warmer at his elbow. He leaned slightly forward as he ate, wielding his fork like a windmill blade.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  He looked up.

  “Miss DeVille – Jill . . . Good morning.” He nodded at the chair across from him. “Join me, please.”

  She did so, and when the waiter approached she nodded and said, “I’ll have the same thing, only about ninety percent less.”

  She turned back to Bartelmetz.

  “Have you seen Charles today?”

  “Alas, I have not,” he gestured, open-handed, “and I wanted to continue our discussion while his mind was still in the early stages of wakefulness and somewhat malleable. Unfortunately,” he took a sip of coffee, “he who sleeps well enters the day somewhere in the middle of its second act.”

  “Myself, I usually come in around intermission and ask someone for a synopsis,” she explained. “So why not continue the discussion with me? – I’m always malleable, and my skandhas are in good shape.”

  Their eyes met, and he took a bite of toast.

  “Aye,” he said, at length, “I had guessed as much. Well – good. What do you know of Render’s work?”

  She adjusted herself in the chair.

  “Mm. He being a special specialist in a highly specialized area, I find it difficult to appreciate the few things he does say about it. I’d like to be able to look inside other people’s minds sometimes – to see what they’re thinking about me, of course – but I don’t think I could stand staying there very long. Especially,” she gave a mock-shudder, “the mind of somebody with – problems. I’m afraid I’d be too sympathetic or too frightened or something. Then, according to what I’ve read – pow! – like sympathetic magic, it would be my problem.

  “Charles never has problems though,” she continued, “at least, none that he speaks to me about. Lately I’ve been wondering, though. That blind girl and her talking dog seem to be too much with him.”

  “Talking dog?”

  “Yes, her seeing-eye dog is one of those surgical mutants.”<
br />
  “How interesting . . . Have you ever met her?”

  “Never.”

  “So,” he mused.

  “Sometimes a therapist encounters a patient whose problems are so akin to his own that the sessions become extremely mordant,” he noted. “It has always been the case with me when I treat a fellow-psychiatrist. Perhaps Charles sees in this situation a parallel to something which has been troubling him personally. I did not administer his personal analysis. I do not know all the ways of his mind, even though he was a pupil of mine for a long while. He was always self-contained, somewhat reticent; he could be quite authoritative on occasion, however. – What are some of the other things which occupy his attention these days?”

  “His son Peter is a constant concern. He’s changed the boy’s school five times in five years.

  Her breakfast arrived. She adjusted her napkin and drew her chair closer to the table.

  “And he has been reading case histories of suicides recently, and talking about them, and talking about them, and talking about them.”

  “To what end?”

  She shrugged and began eating.

  “He never mentioned why,” she said, looking up again. “Maybe he’s writing something . . .”

  Bartelmetz finished his eggs and poured more coffee.

  “Are you afraid of this patient of his?” he inquired.

  “No . . . Yes,” she responded, “I am.”

  “Why?”

  “I am afraid of sympathetic magic,” she said, flushing slightly.

  “Many things could fall under that heading.”

  “Many indeed,” she acknowledged. And, after a moment, “We are united in our concern for his welfare and in agreement as to what represents the threat. So, may I ask a favor?”

  “You may.”

  “Talk to him again,” she said. “Persuade him to drop the case.”

  He folded his napkin.

  “I intend to do that after dinner,” he stated, “because I believe in the ritualistic value of rescue-motions. They shall be made.”

  Dear Father-image,

  Yes, the school is fine, my ankle is getting that way, and my classmates are a congenial lot. No, I am not short on cash, undernourished, or having difficulty fitting into the new curriculum. Okay?

  The building I will not describe, as you have already seen the macabre thing. The grounds I cannot describe, as they are currently residing beneath cold white sheets. Brr! I trust yourself to be enjoying the arts wint’rish. I do not share your enthusiasm for summer’s opposite, except within picture frames or as an emblem on ice-cream bars.

  The ankle inhibits my mobility and my roommate has gone home for the weekend – both of which are really blessings (saith Pangloss), for I now have the opportunity to catch up on some reading. I will do so forthwith.

  Prodigally,

  Peter

  Render reached down to pat the huge head. It accepted the gesture stoically, then turned its gaze up to the Austrian whom Render had asked for a light, as if to say, “Must I endure this indignity?” The man laughed at the expression, snapping shut the engraved lighter on which Render noted the middle initial to be a small ‘v.’

  “Thank you,” he said, and to the dog: “What is your name?”

  “Bismark,” it growled.

  Render smiled.

  “You remind me of another of your kind,” he told the dog. “One Sigmund, by name, a companion and guide to a blind friend of mine, in America.”

  “My Bismark is a hunter,” said the young man. “There is no quarry that can out think him, neither the deer nor the big cats.”

  The dog’s ears pricked forward and he stared up at Render with proud, blazing eyes.

  “We have hunted in Africa and the northern and southwestern parts of America. Central America, too. He never loses the trail. He never gives up. He is a beautiful brute, and his teeth could have been made in Solingen.”

  “You are indeed fortunate to have such a hunting companion.”

  “I hunt,” growled the dog. “I follow . . . Sometimes, I have, the kill . . .”

  “You would not know of the one called Sigmund then, or the woman he guides – Miss Eileen Shallot?” asked Render.

  The man shook his head.

  “No, Bismark came to me from Massachusetts, but I was never to the Center personally. I am not acquainted with other mutie handlers.”

  “I see. Well, thank you for the light. Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon . . .”

  “Good, after, noon . . .”

  Render strolled on up the narrow street, hands in his pockets. He had excused himself and not said where he was going. This was because he had had no destination in mind. Bartelmetz’ second essay at counseling had almost led him to say things he would later regret. It was easier to take a walk than to continue the conversation.

  On a sudden impulse he entered a small shop and bought a cuckoo clock which had caught his eye. He felt certain that Bartelmetz would accept the gift in the proper spirit. He smiled and walked on. And what was that letter to Jill which the desk clerk had made a special trip to their table to deliver at dinnertime? he wondered. It had been forwarded three times, and its return address was that of a law firm. Jill had not even opened it, but had smiled, overtipped the old man, and tucked it into her purse. He would have to hint subtly as to its contents. His curiosity so aroused, she would be sure to tell him out of pity.

  The icy pillars of the sky suddenly seemed to sway before him as a cold wind leaped down out of the north. Render hunched his shoulders and drew his head further below his collar. Clutching the cuckoo clock, he hurried back up the street.

  That night the serpent which holds its tail in its mouth belched, the Fenris Wolf made a pass at the moon, the little clock said “cuckoo” and tomorrow came on like Manolete’s last bull, shaking the gate of horn with the bellowed promise to tread a river of lions to sand.

  Render promised himself he would lay off the gooey fondue.

  Later, much later, when they skipped through the skies in a kite-shaped cruiser, Render looked down upon the darkened Earth dreaming its cities full of stars, looked up at the sky where they were all reflected, looked about him at the tape-screens watching all the people who blinked into them, and at the coffee, tea, and mixed drink dispensers who sent their fluids forth to explore the insides of the people they required to push their buttons, then looked across at Jill, whom the old buildings had compelled to walk among their walls – because he knew she felt he should be looking at her then – felt his seat’s demand that he convert it into a couch, did so, and slept.

  IV

  Her office was full of flowers, and she liked exotic perfumes. Sometimes she burned incense.

  She liked soaking in overheated pools, walking through falling snow, listening to too much music, played perhaps too loudly, drinking five or six varieties of liqueurs (usually reeking of anise, sometimes touched with wormwood) every evening. Her hands were soft and lightly freckled. Her fingers were long and tapered. She wore no rings.

  Her fingers traced and retraced the floral swellings on the side of her chair as she spoke into the recording unit.

  “. . . Patient’s chief complaints on admission were nervousness, insomnia, stomach pains, and a period of depression. Patient has had a record of previous admissions for short periods of time. He had been in this hospital in 1995 for a manic depressive psychosis, depressed type, and he returned here again, 2-3-96. He was in another hospital, 9-20-97. Physical examination revealed a BP of 170/00. He was normally developed and well-nourished on the date of examination, 12-11-98. On this date patient complained of chronic backache, and there was noted some moderate symptoms of alcohol withdrawal. Physical examination further revealed no pathology except that the patient’s tendon reflexes were exaggerated but equal. These symptoms were the result of alcohol withdrawal. Upon admission he was shown to be not psychotic, neither delusional nor hallucinated. He was well-oriented as to plac
e, time, and person. His psychological condition was evaluated and he was found to be somewhat grandiose and expansive and more than a little hostile. He was considered a potential troublemaker. Because of his experience as a cook, he was assigned to work in the kitchen. His general condition then showed definite improvement. He is less tense and is cooperative. Diagnosis: Manic depressive reaction (external precipitating stress unknown). The degree of psychiatric impairment is mild. He is considered competent. To be continued on therapy and hospitalization.”

  She turned off the recorder then and laughed. The sound frightened her. Laughter is a social phenomenon and she was alone. She played back the recording then, chewing on the corner of her handkerchief while the soft, clipped words were returned to her. She ceased to hear them after the first dozen or so.

  When the recorder stopped talking she turned it off. She was alone. She was very alone. She was so damned alone that the little pool of brightness which occurred when she stroked her forehead and faced the window – that little pool of brightness suddenly became the most important thing in the world. She wanted it to be immense. She wanted it to be an ocean of light. Or else she wanted to grow so small herself that the effect would be the same: she wanted to drown in it.

  It had been three weeks, yesterday . . .

  Too long, she decided, I should have waited. No! Impossible! But what if he goes as Riscomb went? No! He won’t. He would not. Nothing can hurt him. Never. He is all strength and armor. But – but we should have waited till next month to start. Three weeks. . . Sight withdrawal – that’s what it is. Are the memories fading? Are they weaker? What does a tree look like? Or a cloud – I can’t remember! What is red? What is green? God! It’s hysterical! I’m watching and I can’t stop it! – Take a pill! A pill!

  Her shoulders began to shake. She did not take a pill though, but bit down harder on the handkerchief until her sharp teeth tore through its fabric.

  “Beware,” she recited a personal beatitude, “those who hunger and thirst after justice, for we will be satisfied.

  “And beware the meek,” she continued, “for we shall attempt to inherit the Earth.