Part 10 (1/2)
She said, ”A few minutes ago, did you have an odd experience, a sense that someone was -- well, looking into your mind? I know it sounds foolish, but -- ?”
”Yes. It happened.” So calm. How did he stay that close to his center? That unwavering eye, that uniquely self-contained self, perceiving all: the lamasery, the slave depot, the railroad train, everything, all time gone by, all time to come -- how did he manage to be so tranquil? She knew she never could learn such calmness. She knew he knew it. _He has my number all right_. She found that she was looking at his cheekbones, at his forehead, at his lips. Not into his eyes.
”You have the wrong image of me,” she told him.
”It isn't an image,” he said. ”What I have is you.”
”No.”
”Face yourself, Nikki. If you can figure out where to look.” He laughed. Gently, but she was demolished.
An odd thing, then. She forced herself to stare into his eyes and felt a snapping of awareness from one mode into some other, and he turned into an old man. That mask of changeless early maturity dissolved and she saw the frightening yellowed eyes, the maze of furrows and gullies, the toothless gums, the drooling lips, the hollow throat, the self beneath the face. A thousand years, a thousand years! And every moment of those thousand years was visible. ”You're old,” she whispered. ”You disgust me. I wouldn't want to be like you, not for anything! ” She backed away, shaking. ”An old, old, old man. All a masquerade!”
He smiled. ”Isn't that pathetic?”
”Me or you? _Me or you?_”
He didn't answer. She was bewildered. When she was five paces away from him there came another snapping of awareness, a second changing of phase, and suddenly he was himself again, taut-skinned, erect, appearing to be perhaps thirty-five years old. A globe of silence hung between them. The force of his rejection was withering. She summoned her last strength for a parting glare. _I didn't want you either, friend, not any single part of you_. He saluted cordially. Dismissal.
Martin Bliss, grinning vacantly, stood near the bar. ”Let's go,” she said savagely. ”Take me home!”
”But -- ”
”It's just a few floors below.” She thrust her arm through his. He blinked, shrugged, fell into step.
”I'll call you Tuesday, Nikki,” Tom said as they swept past him.
Downstairs, on her home turf, she felt better. In the bedroom they quickly dropped their clothes. His body was pink, hairy, serviceable. She turned the bed on, and it began to murmur and throb. ”How old do you think I am?” she asked.
”Twenty-six?” Bliss said vaguely.
”b.a.s.t.a.r.d!” She pulled him down on top of her. Her hands raked his skin. Her thighs parted. Go on. Like an animal, she thought. Like an animal! She was getting older moment by moment, she was dying in his arms.
”You're much better than I expected,” she said eventually.
He looked down, baffled, amazed. ”You could have chosen anyone at that party. Anyone.”
”Almost anyone,” she said.
When he was asleep she slipped out of bed. Snow was still falling. She heard the thunk of bullets and the whine of wounded bison. She heard the clangor of swords on s.h.i.+elds. She heard lamas chanting: Om, Om, Om. No sleep for her this night, none. The clock was ticking like a bomb. The century was flowing remorselessly toward its finish. She checked her face for wrinkles in the bathroom mirror. Smooth, smooth, all smooth under the blue fluorescent glow. Her eyes looked b.l.o.o.d.y. Her nipples were still hard. She took a little alabaster jar from one of the bathroom cabinets and three slender red capsules fell out of it, into her palm. Happy birthday, dear Nikki, happy birthday to you. She swallowed all three. Went back to bed. Waited, listening to the slap of snow on gla.s.s, for the visions to come and carry her away.
Chip Runner.
by Robert Silverberg.
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He was fifteen, and looked about ninety, and a frail ninety at that. I knew his mother and his father, separately -- they were Silicon Valley people, divorced, very important in their respective companies -- and separately they had asked me to try to work with him. His skin was blue-gray and tight, drawn cruelly close over the jutting bones of his face. His eyes were gray too, and huge, and they lay deep within their sockets. His arms were like sticks. His thin lips were set in an angry grimace.
The chart before me on my desk told me that he was five feet eight inches tall and weighed 71 pounds. He was in his third year at one of the best private schools in the Palo Alto district. His I.Q. was 161. He crackled with intelligence and intensity. That was a novelty for me right at the outset. Most of my patients are depressed, withdrawn, uncertain of themselves, elusive, shy: virtual zombies. He wasn't anything like that. There would be other surprises ahead.
”So you're planning to go into the hardware end of the computer industry, your parents tell me,” I began. The usual let's-build-a-relations.h.i.+p procedure.
He blew it away instantly with a single sour glare. ”Is that your standard opening? 'Tell me all about your favorite hobby, my boy'? If you don't mind I'd rather skip all the bulls.h.i.+t, doctor, and then we can both get out of here faster. You're supposed to ask me about my eating habits.”
It amazed me to see him taking control of the session this way within the first thirty seconds. I marveled at how different he was from most of the others, the poor sad wispy creatures who force me to fish for every word.
”Actually I do enjoy talking about the latest developments in the world of computers, too,” I said, still working hard at being genial.
”But my guess is you don't talk about them very often, or you wouldn't call it 'the hardware end.' Or 'the computer industry.' We don't use mundo phrases like those any more.” His high thin voice sizzled with barely suppressed rage. ”Come on, doctor. Let's get right down to it. You think I'm anorexic, don't you?”
”Well -- ”
”I know about anorexia. It's a mental disease of girls, a vanity thing. They starve themselves because they want to look beautiful and they can't bring themselves to realize that they're not too fat. Vanity isn't the issue for me. And I'm not a girl, doctor. Even you ought to be able to see that right away.”
”Timothy -- ”
”I want to let you know right out front that I don't have an eating disorder and I don't belong in a shrink's office. I know exactly what I'm doing all the time. The only reason I came today is to get my mother off my back, because she's taken it into her head that I'm trying to starve myself to death. She said I had to come here and see you. So I'm here. All right?”
”All right,” I said, and stood up. I am a tall man, deepchested, very broad through the shoulders. I can loom when necessary. A flicker of fear crossed Timothy's face, which was the effect I wanted to produce. When it's appropriate for the therapist to a.s.sert authority, simpleminded methods are often the most effective. ”Let's talk about eating, Timothy. What did you have for lunch today?”
He shrugged. ”A piece of bread. Some lettuce.”
”That's all?”
”A gla.s.s of water.”
”And for breakfast?”
”I don't eat breakfast.”
”But you'll have a substantial dinner, won't you?”
”Maybe some fish. Maybe not. I think food is pretty gross.”
I nodded. ”Could you operate your computer with the power turned off, Timothy?”
”Isn't that a pretty condescending sort of question, doctor?”
”I suppose it is. Okay, I'll be more direct. Do you think you can run your body without giving it any fuel?”