Part 8 (1/2)
”I am from Adapt,” she said. ”I spoke with you today.”
”Ah, so that was you?”
I stiffened a little. What did they want of me now?
She sat down. And I sat down slowly.
”How are you feeling?”
”Fine. I went to a doctor today, and he examined me. Everything is in working order. I have rented myself a villa. I want to do a little reading.”
”Very wise. Clavestra is ideal for that. You will have mountains, quiet. . .”
She knew that it was Clavestra. Were they spying on me, or what? I sat motionless, waiting.
”I brought you. . . something from us.” She pointed to a small package on the table. ”It is our latest thing.” She spoke with an animation that seemed artificial. ”Before going to sleep you set this machine, and in the course of a dozen nights or so you learn, in the easiest possible way, without any effort, a great many useful things.”
”Really? That's good,” I said. She smiled at me. And I smiled, the well-behaved pupil.
”You are a psychologist?”
”Yes. You guessed.”
She hesitated. I saw that she wanted to say something.
”Go ahead.”
”You won't be angry with me?”
”Why should I be angry?”
”Because. . . you see. . . the way you are dressed is a bit . . .”
”I know. But I like these trousers. Maybe in time. . .”
”Ah, no, not the trousers. The sweater.”
”The sweater?” I was surprised. ”They made it for me today. It's the latest word in fas.h.i.+on, isn't it?”
”Yes. Except that you shouldn't have inflated it. May I?”
”Please,” I said quite softly. She leaned forward in her chair, poked me lightly in the chest with straightened fingers, and let out a faint cry.
”What do you have there?”
”Other than myself, nothing,” I answered with a crooked smile.
She clutched the fingers of her right hand with her left and stood up. Suddenly my calm, invested with a malicious satisfaction, became like ice.
”Why don't you sit down?”
”But. . . I'm terribly sorry, I. . .”
”Forget it. Have you been with Adapt long?”
”It's my second year.”
”Aha -- and your first patient?” I pointed a finger at myself. She blushed a little.
”May I ask you something?”
Her eyelids fluttered. Did she think that I would ask her out?
”Certainly.”
”How do they work it so that the sky is visible at every level of the city?”
She perked up.
”Very simple. Television -- that is what they called it, long ago. On the ceilings are screens. They transmit what is above the Earth -- the sky, the clouds. . .”
”But surely the levels are not that high,” I said. ”Forty-story buildings stand there. . .”
”It is an illusion,” she said, smiling. ”The buildings are only partly real; their continuation is an image. Do you understand?”
”I understand how it's done, but not the reason.”
”So that the people living on each level do not feel deprived. Not in any way.”
”Aha,” I said. ”Yes, that's clever. One more thing. I'll be shopping for books. Could you suggest a few works in your field? An overview. . . ?”
”You want to study psychology?” She was surprised.
”No, but I'd like to know what has been accomplished in all this time.”
”I'd recommend Mayssen,” she said.
”What is that?”
”A school textbook.”
”I would prefer something larger. Abstracts, monographs -- it's always better to go to the source.”
”That might be too. . . difficult.”
I smiled politely.