Your son,
Pete
“Hello. State Psychiatric Institute.”
“I’d like to make an appointment for an examination.”
“Just a moment. I’ll connect you with the Appointment Desk.”
“Hello. Appointment Desk.”
“I’d like to make an appointment for an examination.”
“Just a moment . . . What sort of examination.”
“I want to see Doctor Shallot, Eileen Shallot. As soon as possible.”
“Just a moment. I’ll have to check her schedule . . . Could you make it at two o’clock next Tuesday?”
“That would be just fine.”
“What is the name, please?”
“DeVille. Jill DeVille.”
“All right, Miss DeVille. That’s two o’clock, Tuesday.”
“Thank you.”
The man walked beside the highway. Cars passed along the highway. The cars in the high-acceleration lane blurred by.
Traffic was light.
It was 10:30 in the morning, and cold.
The man’s fur-lined collar was turned up, his hands were in his pockets, and he leaned into the wind. Beyond the fence, the road was clean and dry.
The morning sun was buried in clouds. In the dirty light, the man could see the tree a quarter mile ahead.
His pace did not change. His eyes did not leave the tree. The small stones clicked and crunched beneath his shoes.
When he reached the tree he took off his jacket and folded it neatly.
He placed it upon the ground and climbed the tree.
As he moved out onto the limb which extended over the fence, he looked to see that no traffic was approaching. Then he seized the branch with both hands, lowered himself, hung a moment, and dropped onto the highway.
It was a hundred yards wide, the eastbound half of the highway.
He glanced west, saw there was still no traffic coming his way, then began to walk toward the center island. He knew he would never reach it. At this time of day the cars were moving at approximately one hundred sixty miles an hour in the high-acceleration lane. He walked on.
A car passed behind him. He did not look back. If the windows were opaqued, as was usually the case, then the occupants were unaware he had crossed their path. They would hear of it later and examine the front end of their vehicle for possible sign of such an encounter.
A car passed in front of him. Its windows were clear. A glimpse of two faces, their mouths made into O’s, was presented to him, then torn from his sight. His own face remained without expression. His pace did not change. Two more cars rushed by, windows darkened. He had crossed perhaps twenty yards of highway.
Twenty-five . . .
Something in the wind, or beneath his feet, told him it was coming. He did not look.
Something in the corner of his eye assured him it was coming. His gait did not alter.
Cecil Green had the windows transpared because he liked it that way. His left hand was inside her blouse and her skirt was piled up on her lap, and his right hand was resting on the lever which would lower the seats. Then she pulled away, making a noise down inside her throat.
His head snapped to the left.
He saw the walking man
He saw the profile which never turned to face him fully. He saw that the man’s gait did not alter.
Then he did not see the man.
There was a slight jar, and the windshield began cleaning itself. Cecil Green raced on.
He opaqued the windows.
“How . . . ?” he asked after she was in his arms again, and sobbing.
“The monitor didn’t pick him up.”
“He must not have touched the fence . . .”
“He must have been out of his mind!”
“Still, he could have picked an easier way.”
It could have been any face . . . Mine?
Frightened, Cecil lowered the seats.
Charles Render was writing the “Necropolis” chapter for The Missing Link Is Man, which was to be his first book in over four years. Since his return he had set aside every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon to work on it, isolating himself in his office, filling pages with a chaotic longhand.
“There are many varieties of death, as opposed to dying . . .” he was writing, just as the intercom buzzed briefly, then long, then briefly again.
“Yes?” he asked it, pushing down on the switch.
“You have a visitor,” and there was a short intake of breath between “a” and “visitor.”
He slipped a small aerosol into his side pocket, then rose and crossed the office.
He opened the door and looked out.
“Doctor . . . Help . . .”
Render took three steps, then dropped to one knee.
“What’s the matter?”
“Come – she is . . . sick,” he growled.
“Sick? How? What’s wrong?”
“Don’t know. You come.”
Render stared into the unhuman eyes.
“What kind of sick?” he insisted.
“Don’t know,” repeated the dog. “Won’t talk. Sits. I . . . feel, she is sick.”
“How did you get here?”
“Drove. Know the Co, or, din, ates . . . Left car, outside.”
“I’ll call her right now.” Render turned.
“No good. Won’t answer.”
He was right.
Render returned to his inner office for his coat and medkit. He glanced out the window and saw where her car was parked, far below, just inside the entrance to the marginal, where the monitor had released it into manual control. If no one assumed that control a car was automatically parked in neutral. The other vehicles were passed around it.
So simple even a dog can drive one, he reflected. Better get downstairs before a cruiser comes along. It’s probably reported itself stopped there already. Maybe not, though. Might still have a few minutes grace.
He glanced at the huge clock.
“Okay, Sig,” he called out. “Let’s go.”
They took the lift to the ground floor, left by way of the front entrance and hurried to the car.
Its engine was still idling.
Render opened the passengerside door and Sigmund leaped in. He squeezed by him into the driver’s seat then, but the dog was already pushing the primary coordinates and the address tabs with his paw.
Looks like I’m in the wrong seat.
He lit a cigarette as the car swept ahead into a U-underpass. It emerged on the opposite marginal, sat poised a moment, then joined the traffic flow. The dog directed the car into the high-acceleration lane.
“Oh,” said the dog, “oh.”
Render felt like patting his head at that moment, but he looked at him, saw that his teeth were bared, and decided against it.
“When did she start acting peculiar?” he asked.
“Came home from work. Did not eat. Would not answer me when I talked. Just sits.”
“Has she ever been like this before?”
“No.”
What could have precipitated it? – But maybe she just had a bad day. After all, he’s only a dog – sort of. – No. He’d know. But what, then?
“How was she yesterday – and when she left home this morning?”
“Like always.”
Render tried calling her again. There was still no answer.
“You did, it,” said the dog.
“What do you mean?”
“Eyes. Seeing. You. Machine. Bad.”
“No,” said Render, and his hand rested on the unit of stun-spray in his pocket.
“Yes,” said the dog, turning to him again. “You will, make her well . . . ?”
“Of course,” said Render.
Sigmund stared ahead again.
Render felt physically exhilarated and mentally sluggish. He sought the confusion factor. He had had these feelings about the case since that first session. There was something very unsettling about Eile
en Shallot; a combination of high intelligence and helplessness, of determination and vulnerability, of sensitivity and bitterness.
Do I find that especially attractive? – No. It’s just the counter-transference, damn it!
“You smell afraid,” said the dog.
“Then color me afraid,” said Render, “and turn the page.”
They slowed for a series of turns, picked up speed again, slowed again, picked up speed again. Finally, they were traveling along a narrow section of roadway through a semi-residential area of town. The car turned up a side street, proceeded about half a mile further, clicked softly beneath its dashboard, and turned into the parking lot behind a high brick apartment building. The click must have been a special servomech which took over from the point where the monitor released it, because the car crawled across the lot, headed into its transparent parking stall, then stopped. Render turned off the ignition.
Sigmund had already opened the door on his side. Render followed him into the building, and they rode the elevator to the fiftieth floor. The dog dashed on ahead up the hallway, pressed his nose against a plate set low in a doorframe and waited. After a moment, the door swung several inches inward. He pushed it open with his shoulder and entered. Render followed, closing the door behind him.
The apartment was large, its walls pretty much unadorned, its color combinations unnerving. A great library of tapes filled one corner: a monstrous combination-broadcaster stood beside it. There was a wide bowlegged table set in front of the window, and a low couch along the right-hand wall; there was a closed door beside the couch; an archway to the left apparently led to other rooms. Eileen sat in an overstuffed chair in the far corner by the window. Sigmund stood beside the chair.
Render crossed the room and extracted a cigarette from his case. Snapping open his lighter, he held the flame until her head turned in that direction.
“Cigarette?” he asked.
“Charles?”
“Right.”
“Yes, thank you. I will.”
She held out her hand, accepted the cigarette, put it to her lips.
“Thanks – What are you doing here?”
“Social call. I happened to be in the neighborhood.”
“I didn’t hear a buzz or a knock.”
“You most have been dozing. Sig let me in.”
“Yes, I must have.” She stretched. “What time is it?”
“It’s close to four-thirty.”
“I’ve been home over two hours then . . . Must have been very tired . . .”
“How do you feel now?”
“Fine,” she declared. “Care for a cup of coffee?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“A steak to go with it?”
“No, thanks.”
“Barcardi in the coffee?”
“Sounds good.”
“Excuse me, then. It’ll only take a moment.”
She went through the door beside the sofa and Render caught a glimpse of a large, shiny, automatic kitchen.
“Well?” he whispered to the dog.
Sigmund shook his head.
“Not same.”
Render shook his head.
He deposited his coat on the sofa, folding it carefully about the medkit. He sat beside it and thought.
Did I throw too big a chunk of seeing at once? Is she suffering from depressive side-effects – say, memory repressions, nervous fatigue? Did I upset her sensory-adaptation syndrome somehow? Why have I been proceeding so rapidly anyway? There’s no real hurry. Am I so damned eager to write the thing up? – Or am I doing it because she wants me to? Could she be that strong, consciously or unconsciously? Or am I that vulnerable – somehow?
She called him to the kitchen to carry out the tray. He set it on the table and seated himself across from her.
“Good coffee,” he said, burning his lips on the cup.
“Smart machine,” she stated, facing his voice.
Sigmund stretched out on the carpet next to the table, lowered his head between his forepaws, sighed and closed his eyes.
“I’ve been wondering,” said Render, “whether or not there were any after effects to that last session – like increased synesthesiac experiences, or dreams involving forms, or hallucinations or . . .”
“Yes,” she said flatly, “dreams.”
“What kind?”
“That last session. I’ve dreamed it over, and over.”
“Beginning to end?”
“No, there’s no special order to the events. We’re riding through the city, or over the bridge, or sitting at the table, or walking toward the car – just flashes, like that. Vivid ones.”
“What sort of feelings accompany these – flashes?”
“I don’t know, they’re all mixed up.”
“What are your feelings now, as you recall them?”
“The same, all mixed up.”
“Are you afraid?”
“N-no. I don’t think so.”
“Do you want to take a vacation from the thing? Do you feel we’ve been proceeding too rapidly?”
“No. That’s not it at all. It’s – well, it’s like learning to swim. When you finally learn how, why then you swim and you swim and you swim until you’re all exhausted. Then you just lie there gasping in air and remembering what it was like, while your friends all hover and chew you out for overexerting yourself – and it’s a good feeling, even though you do take a chill and there are pins and needles inside all your muscles. At least, that’s the way I do things. I felt that way after the first session and after this last one. First times are always very special times . . . The pins and the needles are gone, though, and I’ve caught my breath again. Lord, I don’t want to stop now! I feel fine.”
“Do you usually take a nap in the afternoon?”
The ten red nails of her fingers moved across the tabletop as she stretched.
“. . . Tired,” she smiled, swallowing a yawn. “Half the staff’s on vacation or sick leave and I’ve been beating my brains out all week. I was about ready to fall on my face when I left work. I feel all right now that I’ve rested, though.”
She picked up her coffee cup with both hands, took a large swallow.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Good. I was a bit worried about you. I’m glad to see there was no reason.”
She laughed.
“Worried? You’ve read Dr. Riscomb’s notes on my analysis – and on the ONT&R trial – and you think I’m the sort to worry about? Ha! I have an operationally beneficent neurosis concerning my adequacy as a human being. It focuses my energies, coordinates my efforts toward achievement. It enhances my sense of identity. . .”
“You do have on hell of a memory,” he noted “That’s almost verbatim.”
“Of course.”
“You had Sigmund worried today, too.”
“Sig? How?”
The dog stirred uneasily, opened one eye.
“Yes,” he growled, glaring up at Render. “He needs, a ride, home.”
“Have you been driving the car again?”
“Yes.”
“After I told you not to?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was a, fraid. You would, not, answer me, when I talked.”
“I was very tired – and if you ever take the car again, I’m going to have the door fixed so you can’t come and go as you please.”
“Sorry.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“I, see.”
“You are never to do it again.”
“Sorry.” His eye never left Render; it was like a burning lens.
Render looked away.
“Don’t be too hard on the poor fellow,” he said. “After all, he thought you were ill and he went for the doctor. Suppose he’d been right? You’d owe him thanks, not a scolding.”
Unmollified, Sigmund glared a moment longer and closed his eye.
“He has to be told when he does wrong,” she finishe
d.
“I suppose,” he said, drinking his coffee. “No harm done, anyhow. Since I’m here, let’s talk shop. I’m writing something and I’d like an opinion.”
“Great. Give me a footnote?”
“Two or three. – In your opinion, do the general underlying motivations that lead to suicide differ in different periods of history or in different cultures?”
“My well-considered opinion is no, they don’t,” she said. “Frustrations can lead to depressions or frenzies; and if these are severe enough, they can lead to self-destruction. You ask me about motivations and I think they stay pretty much the same. I feel this is a cross-cultural, cross-temporal aspect of the human condition. I don’t think it could be changed without changing the basic nature of man.”
“Okay. Check. Now, what of the inciting element?” he asked. “Let man be a constant, his environment is still a variable. If he is placed in an overprotective life-situation, do you feel it would take more or less to depress him – or stimulate him to frenzy – than it would take in a not so protective environment?”
“Hm. Being case-oriented, I’d say it would depend on the man. But I see what you’re driving at: a mass predisposition to jump out windows at the drop of a hat – the window even opening itself for you, because you asked it to – the revolt of the bored masses. I don’t like the notion. I hope it’s wrong.”
“So do I, but I was thinking of symbolic suicides too – functional disorders that occur for pretty flimsy reasons.”
“Aha! Your lecture last month: autopsychomimesis. I have the tape. Well-told, but I can’t agree.”
“Neither can I, now. I’m rewriting that whole section – ‘Thanatos in Cloud-cuckooland,’ I’m calling it. It’s really the death-instinct moved nearer the surface.”
“If I get you a scalpel and a cadaver, will you cut out the death-instinct and let me touch it?”
“Couldn’t,” he put the grin into his voice, “it would be all used up in a cadaver. Find me a volunteer though, and he’ll prove my case by volunteering.”
“Your logic is unassailable,” she smiled. “Get us some more coffee, okay?”
Render went to the kitchen, spiked and filled the cups, drank a glass of water and returned to the living room. Eileen had not moved; neither had Sigmund.
The Mammoth Book of 20th Century SF II Page 63
