The Last Defender Of Camelot Page 4

  Erikson. nodded, and Render smiled inwardly.

  Sometimes the gruff line, and then the lecture ...

  "I've got the feeling you could be right," said Erikson. -Sometimes I do feel like what you just described—a unit, something depersonalized...."

  Render glanced at the clock.

  "What you choose to do about it from here is, of course, your own decision to make. I think you'd be wasting your time to remain in analysis any longer. We are now both aware of the cause of your complaint. I cant take you by the hand and show you how to lead your life. I can indicate, I can commiserate—but no more deep probing. Make an appointment as soon as you feel a need to discuss your activities and relatff them to my diagnosis."

  "I will," nodded Erikson, "and—damn that dream! It got to me. You can make them seem as vivid as waking life—more vivid. ... It may be a long while before I can forget it."

  "I hope so.**

  "Okay, doctor." He rose to his feet, extended a hand. "Ill probably be back in a couple weeks. I'll give this socializing a fair try." He grinned at the word he normally frowned upon. "In fact, I'll start now. May I buy you a drink around the corner, downstairs?"

  Render met the moist palm which seemed as weary of (he performance as a lead actor in too successful a play. He felt almost sorry as he said, "Thank you, but I have an engagement."

  Render helped him on with his coat then, handed him his hat and saw him to the door. "Well, good night." -Good night"

  As the door closed soundlessly behind him. Render re- crossed the dark Astrakhan to his mahogany fortress and flipped his cigarette into the southern hemisphere of a globe ashtray. He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, eyes closed.

  "Of course it was more real than life," he informed no one in particular, "I shaped it."

  Smiling, he reviewed the dream sequence step by step, wishing some of his former instructors could have witnessed it. It had been well-constructed and powerfully executed, as well as being precisely appropriate for the case at hand. But then, he was Render, the Shaper— one of the two hundred or so special analysts whose own psychic makeup permitted them to enter into neurotic patterns without carrying away more than an esthetic gratification from the mimesis of aberrance—a Sane Hatter.

  Render stirred his recollections. He had been analyzed himself, analyzed and passed upon as a granite-willed, ultra-stable outsider—tough enough to weather the basilisk gaze of a fixation, walk unscathed amidst the chimarae of perversions, force dark Mother Medusa to close her eyes before the caduceus of his art. His own analysis had not been difficult. Nine years before (it seemed much longer) he had suffered a willing injection of novocain into the most painful area of bis spirit It was after the auto wreck, after the death of Ruth, and of Miranda, their daughter, that he had begun to feel detached. Perhaps he did not want to recover certain empathies; perhaps his own world was now based upon a certain rigidity of feeling. If this was true, he was wise enough in the ways of the mind to realize it, and perhaps he had decided that such a world had its own compensations.

  His son Peter was now ten years old. He was attending a school of quality, and he penned his father a letter every week. The letters were becoming progressively literate, showing signs of a precociousness of which Render could not but approve. He would take the boy with him to Europe in the summer.

  As for Jill—Jill DeVille (what a luscious, ridiculous namel—he loved her for it)—she was growing if anything, more interesting to him. (He wondered if this was an indication of early middle age.) He was vastly taken by her unmusical nasal voice, her sudden interest in architecture, her concern with the unremovable mole on theright side of her otherwise well-designed nose. He should really call her immediately and go in search of a new restaurant For some reason though, he did not feel like it.

  It had been several weeks since he had visited his club. The Partridge and Scalpel, and he felt a strong desire to eat from an oaken table, alone, in the split-level dining room with the three fireplaces, beneath the artificial torches and the boars' heads like gin ads. So he pushed his perforated membership card into the phoneslot on his desk and there were two buzzes behind the voice-screen.

  "Hello, Partridge and ScalpeL" said the voice. "May I help you?"

  "Charles Render," he said. "I'd like a table in about half an hour.*'

  "How many will there be?**

  "Just me."

  "Very good, sir. Half an hour, then.—That's 'Render'? —R-e-n-d-er-?"

  "Right."

  *Thank you.'*

  He broke the connection and rose from his desk. Outside, the day had vanished.

  The monoliths and the towers gave forth their own light now. A soft snow, like sugar, was sifting down through the shadows and transforming itself into beads on the windowpane.

  Render shrugged into his overcoat, turned off the lights, locked the inner office. There was a note on Mrs. Hedges' blotter.

  Miss DeVille called, it said.

  He crumpled the note and tossed it into the wastechute. He would call her tomorrow and say he had been working until late on his lecture.

  He switched off the final light, clapped his hat onto his head and passed through the outer door, locking it as he went. The drop took him to the sub-subcellar where his auto was parked.

  It was chilly in the sub-sub, and his footsteps seemed loud on the concrete as he passed among the parked vehicles. Beneath the glare of the naked lights, his S-7 Spinner was a sleek gray cocoon from which it seemed turbulent wings might at any moment emerge. The doublerow of antennae which fanned forward from the slope of its hood added to this feeling. Render thumbed open the door.

  He touched the ignition and there was the sound of a lone bee awakening in a great hive. The door swung soundlessly shut as he raised the steering wheel and locked it into place. He spun up the spiral ramp and came to a roiling stop before the big overhead.

  As the door rattled upward he lighted his destination screen and turned the knob that shifted {he broadcast map. —Left to right, top to bottom, section by section he shifted it, until he located the portion of Carnegie Avenue he desired. He punched out its coordinates and lowered the wheel. The car switched over to monitor and moved out onto the highway marginal. Render lit a cigarette.

  Pushing his seat back into the centerspace, he left all the windows transparent. It was pleasant to half-recline and watch the oncoming cars drift past him like swarms of fireflies. He pushed his hat back on his head and stared upward.

  He could remember a time when he had loved snow, when it had reminded him of novels by Thomas Mann and music by Scandanavian composers. In his mind now, though, there was another element from which it could never be wholly dissociated. He could visualize so clearly the eddies of milk-white coldness that swirled about his old manual-steer auto, flowing into its firecharred interior to rewhiten that which had been blackened; so clearly—as though he had walked toward it across a chalky lakebottom—it, the sunken wreck, and he, the diver—unable to open his mouth to speak, for fear of drowning; and he knew, whenever he looked upon falling snow, that somewhere skulls were whitening. But nine years had washed away much of the pain, and he also knew that the night was lovely.

  He was sped along the wide, wide roads, shot across high bridges, their surfaces slick and gleaming beneath his lights, was woven through frantic cloverieafs and plunged into a tunnel whose dimly glowing walls blurred by him like a mirage. Finally, he switched the windows to opaque and closed his eyes.

  He could not remember whether he had dozed for a moment or not, which meant he probably had. He felt thecar slowing, and he moved the seat forward and turned on the windows again. Almost simultaneously, the cut-off buzzer sounded. He raised the steering wheel and pulled into the parking dome, stepped out onto the ramp and left the car to the parking unit, receiving his ticket from that bos-headed robot which took its solemn revenge on mankind by sticking forth a cardboard tongue at everyone it served.

  As always, the nois
es were as subdued as the lighting. The place seemed to absorb sound and convert it into warmth, to lull the tongue with aromas strong enough to be tasted, to hypnotize the ear with the vivid crackle of the triple hearths.

  Render was pleased to see that his favorite table, in the comer off to the right of the smaller fireplace, had been held for him. He knew the menu from memory, but he studied it with zeal as he sipped a Manhattan and worked up an order to match his appetite. Shaping sessions always left him ravenously hungry.

  "Doctor Render ... ?"

  "Yes?" He looked up.

  "Doctor Shallot would like to speak with you," said the waiter.

  "I don't know anyone named Shallot," he said. "Are you sure he doesn't want Bender? He's a surgeon from Metro who sometimes eats here... ,**

  The waiter shook his head,

  *'No, sir—'Render'. See here?" He extended a threeby-five card on which Render's full name was typed in capital letters. "Doctor Shallot has dined here nearly every night for the past two weeks," he explained, "and on each occasion has asked to be notified if you came in."

  "Hm?" mused Render. 'That's odd. Why didn't he just call me at my office?"

  The waiter smiled and made a vague gesture.

  "Well, tell him to come on over," he said, gulping his Manhattan, "and bring roe another of these."

  "Unfortunately, Doctor Shallot is blind," explained the waiter. "It would be easier if you—"

  "All right, sure." Render stood up, relinquishing his favorite table with a strong premonition that he would not be returning to it that evening."Lead on,"

  They threaded their way among the diners, heading up to the next level. A familiar face said "hello" from a table set back against the wall, and Render nodded a greeting to a former seminar pupil whose name was Jurgens or Jirkans or something like that.

  He moved on, into the smaller dining room wherein only two tables were occupied. No, three. There was one set in the comer at the far end of the darkened bar, partly masked by an ancient suit of armor. The waiter was heading him in that direction.

  They stopped before the table and Render stared down into the darkened glasses that had tilted upward- as they approached. Doctor Shallot was a woman, somewhere in the vicinity of her early thirties. Her low bronze bangs did not fully conceal the spot of silver which she wore on her forehead like a caste-mark. Render inhaled, and her head jerked slightly as the tip of his cigarette flared. She appeared to be staring straight up into his eyes. It was an uncomfortable feeling, even knowing that all she could distinguish of him was that which her minute photoelectric cell transmitted to her visual cortex over the hairfine wire implants attached to that oscillator converter: in short, the glow of his cigarette.

  "Doctor Shallot, this is Doctor Render," the waiter was saying.

  "Good evening," said Render.

  "Good evening," she said. "My name is Eileen and I've wanted very badly to meet you." He thought he detected a slight quaver in her voice. "Will you join me for dinner?"

  "My pleasure," he acknowledged, and the waiter drew out the chair.

  Render sat down, noting that the woman across from him already had a drink. He reminded the waiter of his second Manhattan.

  "Have you ordered yet?" he inquired.

  "No."

  "... And two menus—" he started to say, then bit his tongue.

  "Only one," she smiled.

  "Make it none," he amended, and recited the menu.

  They ordered. Then:

  "Do you always do that?""What?" "Carry menus in your head."

  **0nly a few," he said, "for awkward occasions. What was it you wanted to see—talk to me about?"

  "You're a neuroparticipant therapist," she stated, "a Shaper."

  "And you are—?"

  **—a resident in psychiatry at State Psych. I have a year remaining."

  "You knew Sam Riscomb then."

  "Yes, he helped me get my appointment. He was my adviser."

  "He was a very good friend of mine. We studied together at Menninger."

  She nodded.

  "I'd often heard him speak of you—that's one of the reasons I wanted to meet you. He's responsible for encouraging me to go ahead with my plans, despite my handicap."

  Render stared at her. She was wearing a dark green dress which appeared to be made of velvet About three inches to the left of the bodice was a pin which might have been gold. It displayed a red stone which could have been a ruby, around which the outline of a goblet was cast. Or was it really two profiles that were outlined, staring through the stone at one another? It seemed vaguely familiar to him, but he could not place it at the moment. It glittered expensively in the dim light.

  Render accepted his drink from the waiter.

  "I want to become a neuroparticipant therapist," she told him.

  And if she had possessed vision Render would have thought she was staring at him, hoping for some response in his expression. He could not quite calculate what she wanted him to say.

  "I commend your choice," he said, "and I respect your ambition." He tried to put his smile into his voice. "It is not an easy thing, of course, not all of the requirements being academic ones."

  "I know," she said, "But then, I have been blind since birth and it was not an easy thing to come this far."

  "Since birth?" he repeated. "I thought you might have lost your sight recently. You did your undergrad workthen, and went on through med school without eyes.... That's—rather impressive."

  "Thank you," she said, "but it isn't. Not really. I heard about the first neuroparticipants—Bartelmetz and the rest —when I was a child, and I decided then that I wanted to be one. My life ever since has been governed by that desire."

  "What did you do in the labs?" be inquired. "—Not being able to see a specimen, look through a microscope ... ? Or all that reading?"

  "I hired people to read my assignments to me. I taped everything. The school understood that I wanted to go into psychiatry and they permitted a special arrangement for labs. I've been guided through the dissection of cadavers by lab assistants, and I've had everything described to me. I can tell things by touch ... and I have a memory like yours with the menu," she smiled. " 'The quality of psychoparticipation phenomena can only be gauged by the therapist himself, at that moment outside of time and space as we normally know it, when he stands in the midst of a world erected from the stuff of another man's dreams, recognizes there the nonEuclidian architecture of aberrance, and then takes his patient by the hand and tours the landscape. ... If he can lead him back to the common earth, then his judgments were sound, his actions valid.' "

  "From Why No Psychometrics in This Place," reflected Render.

  "—by Charles Render, M.D."

  "Our dinner is already moving in this direction,'* he noted, picking up his drink as the speed-cooked meal was pushed toward them in the kitchen-buoy.

  "That's one of the reasons I wanted to meet you," she continued, raising her glass as the dishes rattled before her. "I want you to help me become a Shaper."

  Her shaded eyes, as vacant as a statue's, sought him again.

  "Yours is a completely unique situation," he commented. "There has never been a congenitally blind neuroparticipant—for obvious reasons. I'd have to consider all the aspects of the situation before I could advise you. Let's eat now, though. I'm starved."

  "All right. But my blindness does not mean that I have never seen."He did not ask her what she meant by that, because prime ribs were standing in front of him now and there was a bottle of Chambertm at bis elbow- He did pause long enough to notice though, as she raised her left hand from beneath the table, that she wore no rings.

  "I wonder if it's still snowing," he commented as they drank their coffee. "It was coming down pretty hard when I pulled into the dome."

  "I hope so," she said, "even though it diffuses the light and I can't 'see' anything at all through it. I like to feel it falling about me and blowing against my face." "How do you get about?" />
  "My dog, Sigmund—I gave him the night off," she smiled, "—he can guide me anywhere. He's a mutie Shepherd."

  "Oh?" Render grew curious. "Can he talk much?" She nodded.

  "That operation wasn't as successful on him as on some of them, though. He has a vocabulary of about four hundred words, but I think it causes him pain to speak. He's quite intelligent. You'll have to meet him sometime."

  Render began speculating immediately. He had spoken with such animals at recent medical conferences, and had been startled by their combination of reasoning ability and their devotion to their handlers. Much chromosome tinkering, followed by delicate embryo-surgery, was required to give a dog a brain capacity greater than a chimpanzee's. Several followup operations were necessary to produce vocal abilities. Most such experiments ended in failure, and the dozen or so puppies a year on which they succeeded were valued in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand dollars each. He realized then, as he lit a cigarette and held the light for a moment, that the stone in Miss Shallot's medallion was a genuine ruby. He began to suspect that her admission to a medical school might, in addition to her academic record, have been based upon a sizeable endowment to the college of her choice. Perhaps he was being unfair though, he chided himself.

  *'Yes," he said, "we might do a paper on canine neuroses. Does he ever refer to his father as 'that son of a female Shepherd'?""He never met his father," she said, quite soberly. "He was raised apart from other dogs. His attitude could hardly be typical. I don't think you'll ever learn the functional psychology of the dog from a mutie."

  "I imagine you're right," he dismissed it. "More coffee?"

  "No, thanks."

  Deciding it was time to continue the discussion, he said, "So you want to be a Shaper...."

  "Yes."

  "I hate to be the one to destroy anybody's high ambitions," he told her. "Like poison, I hate it. Unless they have no foundation at all in reality. Then I can be ruthless. So—honestly, frankly, and in all sincerity, I do not see how it could ever be managed. Perhaps you're a fine psychiatrist—but in my opinion, it is a physical and mental impossibility for you ever to become a neuroparticipant. As for my reasons—"