"Yes," she said. "I see."

  She didn't say anything else. She just blinked at me.

  "Well, aren't you going to answer those points?"

  She shook her head. "Unfortunately, there are no satisfactory answers—at least none that will satisfy you right now."

  "Well, give me the unsatisfactory answers then."

  She said, "I can't tell you anything about the Chtorrans that you don't already know. Yes, they are terribly well adapted to our ecology. We've noticed it too. Someday we hope to find out why. I will tell you that if any nation on this planet had the ability to create—in absolute secrecy—several hundred new species of virulent life forms, totally unrecognizable to state-of-the-art genetic tailoring, it would have to be the United States. We know that we didn't do it. What we're seeing is beyond our ability to construct. And we know that no one else has the capability to do it either.

  "Now, as to the second part of your concern: yes, the United States is exploiting the situation—but we did not create the situation, nor would we have if we did have the ability. But it does exist and we will use it. We would use any situation that occurred. We have a responsibility to the remaining member population of this nation to manage the affairs of state in a way that best serves their interests. If we didn't, they would have the right to replace us with individuals who would."

  "I can't say I like that very much," I said.

  She nodded. "I told you that the answers were unsatisfactory. I'm afraid that you will have to resolve your conflict with them for yourself."

  She looked to Wallachstein. He looked at me. "Is that it? Or is there something else?"

  "Just one thing more, sir. How did I end up in the Special Forces?"

  For the first time, he smiled—it was a grim smile, but it still qualified: the corners of his mouth twitched. He said, "By mistake. The . . . ah . . . plagues destroyed several key lines of communication. We lost some of our most valuably placed people. The individuals who replaced them were not aware of the unique status of the Special Forces. We've been very successful in establishing ourselves as our own cover organization, but even we were not untouched by the plagues, and it took a while to reestablish all of our necessary controls. Unfortunately, during that time, a number of individuals—like yourself—were assigned to Special Forces units that they should not have been. For the most part, we've been able to locate and isolate those individuals who were unable to meet our special . . . criteria. You, unfortunately, have proven to be something of a difficult case. Had you made the attempt to contact me immediately upon arrival, I might have been able to prevent the scene in the conference hall this morning." He cleared his throat, then allowed himself another grim smile. "On the other hand, in all fairness, there are a number of people who feel exactly as you do and who would have liked to have done the same thing you did—except that they knew the reasons why they shouldn't."

  "Oh."

  Wallachstein and the Japanese lady whispered together for a moment, Lizard and the dark fellow listening in. Dark fellow shook his head about something, but Lizard shook her head harder, disagreeing with him. I caught the phrase "—can't afford to waste personnel—" and then they shut up when they realized they were getting too loud.

  Wallachstein said, "I think I have to agree with Major Tirelli's assessment." He turned to me. "McCarthy, let me be honest with you. I don't give a damn what happened this morning. I'm not so sure that you did any serious damage to us, and you may even have done some good by drawing off some of the heat from Dr. Zhymph's presentation. We expected there to be fireworks over that, because there were individuals in attendance whose sole purpose in attending was to create fireworks and embarrass the United States. We knew about them in advance. You seem to have stolen their thunder and embarrassed one of their most respected spokesmen."

  "I embarrassed him?"

  "You dealt with the issues. He didn't. More importantly, you kept him from making his presentation. He was going to minimize the Chtorran problem in favor of a global reconstruction plan—it would have been a very attractive plan too, because the United States would have ended up paying for most of it. Essentially, we would be shipping out every unclaimed machine in the country, every vehicle, computer, airplane, TV set and toaster. And if we couldn't do it fast enough, they'd send in volunteer troops to help us. To be honest, McCarthy, I couldn't have staged a better diversion if I'd wanted to. And believe me, I wanted to. I didn't because I thought it would be too obvious. And that's the problem here. You called attention to yourself as a member of the Special Forces Warrant Agency, and even though you didn't know what you were doing, you have given the United Nations Inspection Authority additional reason to suspect the Special Forces as an undercover operation. Our enemies are already claiming that this morning's events were carefully planned to discredit their position. They're right and wrong at the same time. If we had thought we could have gotten away with something like what you did, we would have done it—but we didn't think we could have. And you proved that our estimation of the situation was correct. In your ignorance, you did the right thing—that's why it was wrong, because it was so right. Do you understand?"

  "Uh, sort of, but not really."

  Wallachstein was grim. "I'm not sure what I should do with you, McCarthy. I can't give you a medal and I don't have time to hang you. Do you have any suggestions?"

  I thought about it for a moment. They waited patiently. When I finally spoke, it was with carefully chosen words. "I'm interested in Chtorrans, sir. I'm not interested in playing spy games. Up in the mountains, we knew who the enemy was. He was big and red and always screamed before he leaped, and there wasn't anybody to say how we should or shouldn't fight back. We just did what we had to."

  Wallachstein said, "In that, I envy you. There have been occasions when I wished for the application of a flame-thrower to solve some of my problems down here." He opened a notebook in front of him and scribbled something on a page. He ripped the page out and shoved it toward me. "Here. I want you to go someplace this afternoon."

  I took the paper and looked at it. "A doctor?"

  "A psychiatrist."

  "I don't understand."

  "Have you ever heard of survivor's syndrome?"

  I shook my head.

  He said quietly, "When you wipe out more than half the human race, all you have left are orphans. There isn't a human being on this planet who hasn't been affected in some deep way. The dying has touched us all. I'm sure you've seen some of the reactions, the herds of walking wounded, the manics, the zombies, the suicides, the sexual obsessives, the ones who are so desperate for stability that they've become drones, and so on. I don't know if you've seen much of the opposite side of that coin though. Like any ordeal, the plagues destroyed the weak and tempered the strong. There are a lot of people who are just coming alive now because they have something worthwhile to do. Before you can become a real member of this Special Forces, we have to know which kind of survivor you are."

  I blurted, "I don't know. I never thought about it. I mean, I just picked myself up and kept on going. It seemed the only logical thing to do—"

  Wallachstein held up a hand. "Don't tell me. Tell the doctor. We'll recess this hearing until . . ." He glanced at his watch, scowled. ". . . until further notice. Take a scooter from the car pool, McCarthy. Major Tirelli will show you where to go. Don't talk to anyone else. Go directly back to base and plug into Dr. Davidson. Get something to eat at the base commissary. Better get a change of clothes too, and then come back here immediately."

  "Uh, sir?"

  He looked up. "Eh?"

  "I thought I was . . . under arrest. I mean, what's to keep me from getting on the scooter and heading west?"

  "Nothing," he said. "In fact, it'd probably solve a lot of problems if you did. It's not something many people know, but not a lot of traffic is getting over the Rockies these days. Something keeps stopping the cars and peeling them open like sardine cans. Besides"—he looked me straight in the eye and his expression was taut—"you're not the kind who bolts. You'll come back. By then we'll have Dr. Davidson's report and we'll know what to do with you. Major Tirelli, will you escort McCarthy to the car pool? We have some talking to do here."

  35

  Dr. Davidson

  "The biggest difference between the psychiatrist and the patient is that the pyschiatrist has learned how to live with it."

  —SOLOMON SHORT

  The room was empty.

  A rug. A chair. A table with a pitcher of water and a glass on it. Nothing else. No other doors except the one behind me.

  "Please sit down," said a disembodied female voice. I looked, but I couldn't see a speaker system. I sat down. The chair creaked, but it was comfortable. It was a swivel-rocker, upholstered in dark brown leather. It felt reassuring.

  "Your name, please?"

  "McCarthy, James Edward."

  "Ah, yes. We've been expecting you. Dr. Davidson will be with you shortly. While you wait, I'll play a short film for you."

  "Um—" But the room was already darkening. The wall in front of me began to glow and images began to solidify in the air. I shut up, decided to relax and enjoy it.

  The film was . . . a montage. What they call a tone poem. Music and images wrapping around each other, some sexual, some violent, some funny, some happy—two naked children splashing in a rocky stream dissolved into a tiny jeweled spider weaving a diamond tapestry against a blue and velvet background—that shimmered into an eagle soaring high above a desolate landscape as if looking for a haven—the eagle became a silver sailship hanging effortlessly in space below an emerald—shiny Earth, and then a pair of male dancers, clad only in briefs, whirled around each other, their bodies glistening with sweat-resolving now into a cheetah racing hard across the veldt and bringing down a zebra, terrified, in a cloud of stinging dust . . .

  It went on like that for ten or fifteen minutes, a tumble of pictures, one after the other, faster than I could assimilate. A couple of times I felt frightened; I didn't know why. Once I felt angry. I didn't like the film. I wondered why they were showing it to me. This was boring. And then, just when I started to get interested again, it ended.

  When the lights came back up, a quiet voice said, "Good afternoon." The voice was male. Quiet. Very mature. Grandfatherly.

  I cleared my throat again. "Where are you?"

  "Atlanta."

  "Who are you?"

  "You may call me Dr. Davidson, if you wish. That's not my real name, but that's the name I use for these sessions."

  "Why is that?"

  He ignored the question. "If you'd like to smoke, please feel free," said Dr. Davidson. "I won't mind."

  "I don't smoke," I said.

  "I meant dope."

  I shrugged. "I don't do much of that either."

  "Why not?" he asked. "Do you have strong feelings about it?"

  "No. I just don't like it much." Something was making me uncomfortable. I said, "Can you see me?"

  "Yes, I can."

  "Is there any way I can see you?"

  "If you mean, is there a screen for two-way video, I'm sorry, there isn't. If you mean you'd like to see me face to face, you'll have to come to Atlanta. I'm something of an invalid. That's one of the reasons why we don't have two-way hookups. Sometimes my . . . ah, condition can be disconcerting."

  "Oh." I felt embarrassed. I didn't know what to say.

  Dr. Davidson said, "Please tell me about yourself."

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Why do you think you're here?"

  "I was told to come here."

  "Why?"

  "They want to know if I'm too crazy to be trusted."

  "What do you think?"

  "I don't know. The way I always heard it, the crazy person is the worst one to judge."

  "Just the same, what do you think?" Dr. Davidson's voice was mild—and incredibly patient. I began to like him. A little.

  I said, "I think I'm doing okay. I'm surviving."

  "Is that your gauge of success? That you're surviving?"

  I thought about it. "I guess not."

  "Are you happy?"

  "I don't know. I don't know what happiness feels like anymore. I used to. I don't think anyone's happy since the plagues."

  "Are you unhappy? Do you feel depressed?"

  "Sometimes. Not a lot."

  "Hurt? Confused?"

  "Yeah. A little."

  "Angry."

  I hesitated. "No."

  There was silence for a moment. Then Dr. Davidson asked, "Do you ever feel angry?"

  "Yeah. Doesn't everybody?"

  "It's a normal response to frustrating situations," Dr. Davidson admitted. "So what makes you angry?"

  "Stupidity," I said. Even talking about it, I could feel my muscles tightening.

  Dr. Davidson sounded puzzled. "I'm not sure I understand that, Jim. Could you give me some examples?"

  "I don't know. People lying to each other. Not being honest . . ."

  "Specifically?" he urged.

  "Um—well, like the people I met at the reception last night. And the scientists this morning. And even Colonel Wa—The people who sent me here. Everybody's talking to me. But so far, nobody wants to listen."

  "I'm listening, Jim."

  "You're a shrink. You have to listen. That's your job."

  "Did you ever wonder what kind of person becomes a psychiatrist, Jim?"

  "No."

  "I'll tell you. Somebody who is interested in other people enough to want to listen to them."

  "Well . . . but it's not the same. I want to talk to the people who can answer my questions about the Chtorrans. I want to tell them what I saw. I want to ask them what it meant—but it doesn't seem like anyone wants to listen. Or, if they listen, they don't want to believe. And I know I saw a fourth Chtorran come out of that nest!"

  "It's difficult to prove, isn't it?"

  "Yeah," I grumbled. "It is."

  "Why don't you sit down again."

  "Huh?" I realized I was standing. I hadn't remembered getting out of the chair. "Sorry. When I get angry, I pace."

  "No need to apologize. How else do you deal with your anger, Jim?"

  "Okay, I guess."

  "I didn't ask you how well you thought you dealt with it. I asked you specifically what you do to deal with it."

  I shrugged. "I get mad."

  "Do you tell people when you're angry?"

  "Yeah. Sometimes."

  Dr. Davidson waited. Patiently.

  "Well, most of the time."

  "Really?"

  "No. Hardly ever. I mean, I blow up sometimes, but most of the time, I don't. I mean . . ."

  "What?"

  "Well—um, I don't really like to tell people that I'm pissed at them."

  "Why not?"

  "Because, people don't want to hear it. They only get mad back at you for getting mad at them in the first place. So when I get mad at someone, I—try not to let it get in the way, so I can deal rationally with the other person."

  "I see. Would it be fair to say that you suppress your anger, then?"

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  There was a longer pause this time. "So you're still carrying a lot of it with you, aren't you?"

  "I don't know." And then I looked up. "What do you think?"

  "I don't think yet," said Dr. Davidson. "I'm looking for patterns."

  "Oh," I said.

  "Let me ask you something, Jim. Who are you angry at?"

  "I don't know. People talk to me, tell me what to do—no, they tell me who I am and I know that's not who I am. They talk to me, but they don't want to listen. My dad—whenever he would say, 'I want to talk to you,' he really meant, 'I'm going to talk and you're going to listen.' Nobody wants to hear what I have to say."

  "Tell me more about your dad," said Dr. Davidson.

  I rocked back and forth in the chair for a moment. Finally I said, "Well, see, it wasn't that my dad and I couldn't communicate. We could—but we didn't. Not very often, that is. Oh, once in a while he tried—and once in a while I tried—but most of the time both of us were too involved with our own concerns to be involved with each other."

  "You know, my dad was famous. He was one of the best fantasists in the country. Not the most popular—he didn't go in for a lot of flash and dazzle—but still he was one of the most respected, because his simulations were intelligent. When I was a kid, a lot of people used to tell me how lucky I was—even my own friends—because I got to play all his programs before anybody else. They couldn't understand my matter-of-fact attitude about his work, and I couldn't understand their awe."

  "How did you feel about his work?"

  I didn't answer that immediately. I wanted to interrupt and give Dr. Davidson a compliment—he was asking the right questions. He was very astute. But I realized I was sidetracking myself. And I realized why. I didn't want to answer that last question.

  Dr. Davidson was very patient. The chair arms were warm. I let go of them and rubbed my hands together. Finally, I admitted it. I said, "Um . . . I guess I didn't realize it at the time, but I think—no, I know—I resented my dad's work. Not the games themselves, but his total involvement with them. I was jealous, I guess. My dad would get an idea—say, like Inferno or Starship or Brainstorm—and he'd turn into a zombie. He would disappear into his office for weeks at a time. That closed door was a threat. Do not disturb under penalty of immediate and painful death. Or possibly something worse. (Beware of Yang the Nauseating.) When he was writing, it was like living with a ghost. You heard sounds, you knew there was someone in the house with you, but you never saw him in person. And if by chance you did, it was like meeting a stranger in your living room. He'd mumble an acknowledgment, but he'd never lose his million-light-year stare.

  "I don't know how Mom learned to live with it, but she did. Somehow. Dad would be up before seven, fix his own breakfast and then disappear for the day—only coming out of his office to help himself to something from the refrigerator. Mom made a point of leaving plates of food for him, so all he had to do was grab the plate and a fork and he could vanish back into his study. Usually we wouldn't see him again until after midnight. This could go on for weeks at a time.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48