He Who Shapes (19 page)

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Authors: Roger Zelazny

Tags: #Science Fiction, #General, #Fiction

BOOK: He Who Shapes
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were any aftereffects to that last sessionlike increased

synesthesiac
 
experiences,
 
or
 
dreams
 
involving
 
forms,
 
or

hallucinations or . . ."

"Yes," she said flatly, "dreams."

"What kind?"

"That last session. I've dreamt it over, and over."

"Beginning to end?"

"No, there's no special order to the events. We're riding

through the city, or over the bridge, or sitting at the table, or

walking toward the carjust flashes, like that. Vivid ones."

"What sort of feelings accompany theseflashes?"

"I don't know. They're all mixed up."

"What are your feelings now, as you recall them?"

"The same, all mixed up."

"Are you afraid?"

"N-no. I don't think so."

"Do you want to take a vacation from the thing? Do you feel

we've been proceeding too rapidly?"

"No. That's not it at all. It'swell, it's like learning to swim.

When you finally learn how, why then you swim and you swim

and you swim until you're all exhausted. Then you just lie there

gasping in air and remembering what it was like, while your

friends all hover and chew you out for overexerting yourself

and it's a good feeling, even though you do take a chill and

there's pins and needles inside all your muscles. At least,

that's the- way I do things. I felt that way after the first session

and after this last one. First times are always very special times

. . . The pins and the needles are gone though, and I've caught

my breath again. Lord, I don't want to stop now! I feel fine."

"Do you usually take a nap in the afternoon?"

The ten red nails of her fingernails moved across the tabletop

as she stretched.

". . . Tired," she smiled, swallowing a yawn. "Half the staffs

on vacation or sick leave and I've been beating my brains out all

week. I was about ready to fall on my face when I left work. I

feel all right now that I've rested, though."

She picked up her coffee cup with both hands, took a large

swallow.

"Uh-huh," he said. "Good. I was a bit worried about you. I'm

glad to see there was no reason."

She laughed.

"Worried? You've read Doctor Riscomb's notes on my

analysisand on the ONT&R trialand you think I'm the sort

to worry about? Ha! I have an operationally beneficent neurosis

concerning my adequacy as a human being. It focuses my

energies,
 
coordinates
 
my
 
efforts
 
toward
 
achievement.
 
It

enhances my sense of identity . . ."

"You do have one hell of a memory," he noted. "That's almost

verbatim."

"Of course."

"You had Sigmund worried today, too."

"Sig? How?"

The dog stirred uneasily, opened one eye.

"Yes," he growled, glaring up at Render. "He needs, a ride,

home."

"Have you been driving the car again?"

"Yes."

"After I told you not to?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I was a, fraid. You would, not, answer me, when I talked."

"I was very tiredand if you ever take the car again. I'm

going to have the door fixed so you can't come and go as you

please."

"Sorry."

"There's nothing wrong with me."

-
   
"I, see."

"You are never to doit again."

"Sorry." His eye never left Render; it was like a burning lens.

Render looked away.

"Don't be too hard on the poor fellow," he said. "After all, he

thought you were ill and he went for the doctor. Supposing he'd

been right? You'd owe him thanks, not a scolding."

Unmollified, Sigmund glared a moment longer and closed his

eye.

"He has to be told when he does wrong," she finished.

"I suppose," he said, drinking his coffee. "No harm done,

anyhow. Since I'm here, let's talk shop. I'm writing something

and I'd like an opinion."

"Great. Give me a footnote?"

"Two or three.In your opinion, do the general underlying

motivations that lead to suicide differ in different periods of

history, or in different cultures?"

"My well-considered opinion is no, they don't," she said.

"Frustrations can lead to depressions or frenzies; and if these

are severe enough, they can lead to self-destruction. You ask me

about motivations and I think they stay pretty much the same. I

feel this is a cross-cultural, cross-temporal aspect of the human

condition. I don't think it could be changed without changing

the basic nature of man."

"Okay. Check. Now, what of the inciting element?" he

asked. "Let man be a constant, his environment is still a

variable. If he is placed in an overprotective life-situation, do

you feel it would take more or less to depress himor stimulate

him to frenzythan it would take in a not so protective

environment?"

"Hm. Being case-oriented, I'd say it would depend on the

man. But I see what you're driving at: a mass predisposition to

jump out windows at the drop of a hatthe window even

opening itself for you, because you asked it tothe revolt of the

bored masses. I don't like the notion. I hope it's wrong."

"So do I, but I was thinking of symbolic suicides

toofunctional disorders that occur for pretty flimsy reasons."

"Aha! Your lecture last month: autopsychomimesis. I have

the tape. Well-told, but I can't agree."

"Neither can I, now. I'm rewriting that whole section

"Thanatos in Cloudcuckooland,' I'm calling it. It's really the

death-instinct moved nearer the surface."

"If I get you a scalpel and a cadaver, will you cut out the

death-instinct and let me touch it?"

"Couldn't," he put the grin into his voice, "it would be all

used up in a cadaver. Find me a volunteer though, and he'll

prove my case by volunteering."

"Your logic is unassailable," she smiled. "Get us some more

coffee-, okay?"

Render went to the kitchen, spiked and filled the cups, drank

a glass of water, returned to the living room. Eileen had not

moved; neither had Sigmund.

"What do you do when you're not busy being a Shaper?" she

asked him.

"The same things most people doeat, drink, sleep, talk, visit

friends and not-friends, visit places, read . . ."

"Are you a forgiving man?"

"Sometimes. Why?"

"Then forgive me. I argued with a woman today, a woman

named DeViUe."

"What about?"

"Youand she accused me of such things it were better my

mother had not borne me. Are you going to marry her?"

"No, marriage is like alchemy. It served an important

purpose once, but I hardly feel it's here to stay."

"Good."

"What did you say to her?"

"I gave her a clinic referral card that said, 'Diagnosis: Bitch.

Prescription: Drug therapy and a tight gag.' "

"Oh," said Render, showing interest.

"She tore it up and threw it in my face."

"I wonder why?"

She shrugged, smiled, made a gridwork on the tablecloth.

" 'Fathers and elders, I ponder,' " sighed Render, " 'what is

hell?' "

" 1 maintain it is the suffering of being unable to love,' " she

finished. "Was Dostoevsky right?"

"I doubt it. I'd put him into group therapy, myself. That'd be

real hell for himwith all those people acting like his characters,

and enjoying it so."

Render put down his cup, pushed his chair away from the

table.

"I suppose you must be going now?"

"I really should," said Render.

"And I can't interest you in food?"

"No."

She stood.

"Okay, I'll get my coat."

"I could drive back myself and just set the car to return."

"No! I'm frightened by the notion of empty cars driving

around the city. I'd feel the thing was haunted for the next two

and a half weeks.

"Besides," she said, passing through the archway, "you

promised me Winchester Cathedral."

"You want to do it today?"

"If you can be persuaded."

As Render stood deciding, Sigmund rose to his feet. He stood

directly before him and stared upward into his eyes. He opened

his mouth and closed it, several times, but no sounds emerged.

Then he turned away and left the room.

"No," Eileen's voice came back, "you will stay here until I

return."

Render picked up his coat and put it on, stuffing the medkit

into the far pocket.

As they walked up the hall toward the elevator. Render

thought he heard a very faint and very distant howling sound.

In this place, of all places. Render knew he was the master of

all things.

He was at home on those alien worlds, without time, those

worlds where flowers copulate and the stars do battle in the

heavens, falling at last to the ground, bleeding, like so many

spilt
 
and
 
shattered
 
chalices,
 
and
 
the
 
seas
 
part
 
to
 
reveal

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