Part 27 (1/2)
”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 embarra.s.sed. 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, n.o.body 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.”