Night Lamp (6 page)

Hilyer chuckled. “If you are yearning for fame and comporture, there is your chance. The Scythians would sign you into their membership before you could say ‘knife’; they love to flaunt eccentricity.”

“I’ll consider your suggestion,” said Maihac politely. “However, I no longer look to the froghorn as a solution to my financial problems. In fact I’ve taken on a part-time job, at the spaceport machine shop. It pays me rather well, but after classes at the Institute, I’ll find little time for froghorn practice.”

Noting Jaro’s enthusiasm, Hilyer and Althea were restrained in their congratulations. Like Dame Wirtz, they felt that Jaro’s fascination with space might distract him from the academic career which they hoped he would pursue.

A month passed. The term at Langolen School approached the spring recess. Jaro’s work, meanwhile, had suddenly deteriorated, as if Jaro had been afflicted by a fit of absentmindedness. Dame Wirtz suspected that Jaro had been allowing his imagination to rove too freely among the far worlds, and one morning, just after his first class period, took him into her private office.

Jaro admitted the shortcomings and undertook to do better.

Dame Wirtz said that was all very well—but not enough. “Your work has been excellent, and we have all been proud of you. So now—why this sudden lethargy? You just can’t drop everything and go off to chase butterflies! Surely you agree?”

“Yes, of course! But—”

Dame Wirtz refused to listen. “You must put aside your daydreams, and attend to your future.”

Jaro despairingly tried to deny the imputations of sloth. “Even if I explained, you still would not understand!”

“Try me!”

Jaro muttered: “I don’t care a fig for comporture. As soon as I can, I’ll be gone into space.”

Dame Wirtz began to wonder. “All very well, but why the frantic urgency?”

“I have a good reason.”

As soon as Jaro had spoken he knew that he had gone too far. Dame Wirtz pounced.

“Indeed. And what is this reason?”

Jaro spoke in a numb monotone: “There is something important I must do, to save my own sanity.”

“Indeed,” said Dame Wirtz again. “And what must be done?”

“I don’t know just yet.”

“I see. Where will you go to do what needs to be done, and what will you do?”

“I don’t know that either.”

Dame Wirtz carefully controlled her voice. “Then why go to such lengths if you don’t know what you are doing?”

“I know well enough.”

“Tell me how you know, if you please.”

“Because of things I hear in my mind! Please don’t ask me anything more!”

“I want to get to the bottom of this. Are you telling me that you hear instructions when you dream at night?”

“You have it all wrong! They are not instructions, and I don’t hear them during dreams, and not always at night. Now please, may I go?”

“Yes, Jaro—after I find out what is going on. This is not at all normal! You hear voices which give you directions?”

“They don’t give me directions. There is just one voice and it frightens me.”

Dame Wirtz sighed. “Very well, Jaro. You may go.”

But Jaro, aghast at what he had let slip, lingered and tried to convince Dame Wirtz that nothing really serious was going on, and that, truly, he had everything under control, so that she was to ignore what he had told her.

Dame Wirtz smiled and patted his shoulder, and said that she must give the matter thought. Jaro slowly turned and went his way.

Althea was busy in her office at the Institute. The communicator on her desk sounded a chime. Glancing at the display, she recognized the nested blue and red rectangles of the Parnassian Club. A tap on the desk brought the face of Idora Wirtz to the screen.

“I’m sorry to call you, but something has come up which I think you should know.”

Althea was instantly alarmed. “Is Jaro all right?”

“Yes. Are you alone? May I speak freely?”

“I am alone. I suppose Hanafer Glackenshaw has been acting badly again?”

“As to that, I can’t say. In any event Jaro simply ignores him.”

Althea’s voice rose in pitch. “What else could he do? Call the Glackenshaw boy a bad name in return? Attack him with his fists? Kill the boy, perhaps? We have taught Jaro to avoid rough and competitive games, which encourage bellicosity and which in fact are small wars!”

“Just so,” said Dame Wirtz. “But that’s not why I called. I fear that Jaro is suffering nervous problems, which may well be serious.”

“Oh come now!” cried Althea. “I can’t believe this!”

“It is true, I’m sorry to say. He hears inner voices which give him directions—probably to go out into space to perform some adventurous deed. I extracted this information only with difficulty.”

Althea was silent. For a fact Jaro had recently made some very odd remarks. She asked, “What exactly has he told you?”

Dame Wirtz reported what she had heard. When she finished, Althea thanked her. “I hope you will say nothing of this to anyone else.”

“Of course not! But we must set things right with poor Jaro!”

“I will see to it at once.”

Althea called Hilyer and repeated what she had learned from Idora Wirtz. At first Hilyer was inclined to skepticism, until Althea insisted that she herself had heard similar statements, and that there was no question but what Jaro needed professional help. Hilyer at last agreed that he would make relevant inquiries, and the screen went blank.

Half an hour later Hilyer returned to the screen. “Health Services speaks well of a group called FWG Associates at Buntoon House in Celece District. I called, and we are to go out immediately for an interview with their Dr. Fiorio. I take it that you can getaway?”

“Of course!”

Mel Swope, Director of the Institute Health Services, had informed Hilyer in regard to FWG Associates. The senior staff consisted of three notable practitioners: Doctors Fiorio, Windle and Gissing. Their reputations were good; they were said to be solidly based in orthodox science, but willing to consider innovative procedures, if need arose. Away from Buntoon House, all three enjoyed high social status, and their clubs were havens of high comporture. Dr. Fiorio was with the Val Verde; Dr. Windle, the Palindrome. Dr. Gissing belonged to several clubs, the most notable being the Lemurians, who were considered both daring and unpredictable. In their physical characteristics, the three were dissimilar. Dr. Fiorio was portly, punctilious and pink as a well-scrubbed baby. Dr. Windle, the oldest of the group, seemed all lank arms, sharp elbows and bony shanks. The yellowish dome above his forehead nurtured several brown moles and a few wisps of nondescript hair.

In contrast. Dr. Gissing was airy, mercurial, slight of physique, with a fine fluff of white hair. He had been described in a trade journal as “much like a dainty little garden dryad, who may often be found hiding among the pansies, or laving his pretty feet in the birdbath.” The same trade journal had described FWG Associates as “a most peculiar synergism, stronger in every way than the sum of the separate parts.”

Hilyer and Althea arrived at Buntoon House within the hour. They discovered an impressive structure of pink stone, black iron and glass, in the shade of seven langal trees.

The Faths entered the structure and were conducted into the office of Dr. Fiorio. He rose to his feet: a large man, wearing a crisp white jacket. He inspected his visitors with amiable blue eyes. “The Professors Hilyer and Althea Fath? Dr. Fiorio here.” He indicated chairs. “If you will be so good.”

The Faths seated themselves. Hilyer spoke. “As you know, we have come on behalf of our son.”

“Yes; I have seen the notation. Your statements were a bit vague.”

Hilyer was sensitive to any criticism of his literacy, and so was immediately rubbed the wrong way. He said shortly, “Our own information has been vague. I tried to communicate this fact with clarity; evidently I have failed.”

Dr. Fiorio saw his mistake. “Of course, of course! I intended no innuendo, I assure you.”

Hilyer acknowledged the remark with a formal nod. “Jaro has reported some peculiar occurrences which we can’t explain. We have come to you for professional advice.”

“Quite so,” said Dr. Fiorio. “How old is Jaro?”

“I had better tell you the whole story.” Hilyer outlined the salient events of Jaro’s life from the time he had been rescued under the Wyching Hills to the present moment. “You must keep in mind the six-year gap in Jaro’s memory. I can’t help but feel that this so-called ‘voice’ is a relict of that period.”

“Hm,” said Dr. Fiorio. “So it may be.” He pulled at his round pink chin. “I’d like to call in my colleague Dr. Gissing. ‘Multiple personalities’ is one of his specialties.”

Dr. Gissing appeared: a slight, rather jaunty, man with an alert inquisitive face. As Dr. Fiorio had predicted, he was instantly interested in Jaro’s case. “Do you have records describing the treatment Jaro received at the Sronk Clinic?”

“No.” Hilyer felt as if already he had been put on the defensive by the crafty Dr. Gissing. “Things were most hectic; we were trying to save the boy’s life; niceties of record-keeping perhaps were neglected.”

“Understandable!” declared Dr. Gissing. “I’m sure you did as well as any other frightened layman might have done.”

“Quite so,” boomed Dr. Fiorio. “New schematics will be needed, in any event.”

“It is an interesting case,” said Dr. Gissing. Smiling pleasantly at both Hilyer and Althea, he left the office.

“Then that’s settled,” said Althea hastily. “When should we bring Jaro in?”

“Tomorrow morning about this time will do quite nicely.”

Althea stated that the time was convenient. “I can’t tell you how relieved we are to put the case into your hands!”

“One matter remains,” said Dr. Fiorio. “I refer to our fee, which we are as anxious to collect as you are to minimize. We are neither inexpensive nor magnanimous, and it is well to part on a note of mutual understanding.”

“No fear,” said Hilyer. “As you know, we are faculty at the Institute in the Department of Aesthetic Philosophy. You may submit your invoices to the Health Services Bursar.”

Dr. Fiorio scowled. “They are over-scrupulous at the Bursar’s office,” he said with a sniff. “On occasion they make peevish difficulties over a sol or two. But no matter! We will see Jaro in the morning.”

Late in the afternoon, when Jaro returned from school, he found Hilyer and Althea waiting for him in the living room: an unusual situation. Althea jumped to her feet and poured three small glasses of the special Altengelb and gave one to Jaro. This was the wine of occasion, and Jaro sensed that something significant was afoot.

After a perfunctory sip, Hilyer cleared his throat. When he spoke, his discomfort caused him to sound far more pompous than he would have liked. “Jaro? your mother and I were very much surprised to learn of your problems. It’s a pity you did not confide in us sooner.”

Jaro heaved a small private sigh. The matter had entered that inevitable phase which he both dreaded and welcomed. Now he wanted to explain everything in a great spate of communication—all his awe, fear, confusion, his spasms of claustrophobic panic; his dread of the unknown. He wanted to express in a single burst of words all the love and gratitude he felt for these two kindly folk, who now might be troubled or even damaged on his account—but when he spoke, the words sounded stiff and artificial. “I’m sorry that this thing has worried you. I didn’t want it to happen that way; I thought I could work it out by myself”

Hilyer gave a crisp nod. “That’s all very well, but—”

Althea broke in. “To make a long story short, we think that you should consult with specialists. We have arranged an appointment for you with Dr. Fiorio of FWG Associates. He is well thought of, and we hope that he will be able to help you.”

Jaro sipped the wine, though he did not like it very much.

“How long will it take?”

Hilyer shrugged. “As to that, we can’t be certain, since no one knows what is causing the trouble. Your first appointment, by the way, is tomorrow morning at Buntoon House in the Celece. It’s a very nice place.”

Jaro was startled. “So soon?”

“The sooner the better. Your school has started spring recess; the time could not be more convenient.”

“I suppose not.”

Althea stroked Jaro’s shoulder. “Naturally, we will be with you. There is no reason to worry.”

“I’m not worried.”

Not long after dinner Jaro bade Hilyer and Althea goodnight and took himself off to bed. For a long time he lay staring into the dark, wondering what sort of therapy would be inflicted upon him. It could not be too ferocious; otherwise, FWG Associates would soon find themselves short of repeat customers.

One thing seemed certain: they would try to resolve the mysteries of his early years, which was all to the good. Jaro could offer few clues: the image of a gaunt man, silhouetted against the twilight of a distant world; a glimpse across a romantic garden, illuminated by a pair of large pale moons. And then: the voice!

A great mystery! Where did the voice originate? Jaro knew a few superficial facts regarding telepathy; perhaps here was the answer. He might have become the receptor for someone else’s tragic emotions!

Jaro often had started to confide in the Faths, but each time he had drawn back. The Faths, so kind and loving, tended to overreact. Hilyer dealt with emergencies in a rather impractical way, meticulously organizing every detail of the necessary countermeasures. Althea would alternately swoop back and forth across the room, then hug him until he was breathless, meanwhile reproaching him for his secrecy. Together, they would extract promises to report every future malaise, ache, pang, twinge and itch, no matter how trivial, since they knew best what was good for him. At least, thought Jaro, the affair would be out of his jurisdiction, and who knows what might eventuate.

Now he would find out.

Hilyer could not alter his work schedule, so that Althea accompanied Jaro on his first visit to Buntoon House. They arrived at the stipulated hour and were immediately taken to Dr. Fiorio, who looked Jaro over, from head to toe. “So this is the boy with the problems? He looks to be a healthy young specimen. How are you today, Jaro?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Ah! That’s the way to talk! Straight from the shoulder!” Dr. Fiorio indicated a white wicker chair. “Sit there, if you please, and we’ll have a little discussion.”

So far, so good. Dr. Fiorio seemed pleasant enough, if perhaps a trifle boisterous.

“Now then, Jaro! Just wait patiently a moment or two. I must conduct some business with your mother.” He took Althea to an outer office, where, so he explained, she must endorse a standard packet of legal documents. The door remained half open; Jaro could hear them discussing the papers.

“Very good,” said Dr. Fiorio at last. “That ties up all the loose ends. Now, if you please, refresh my memory regarding Jaro’s troubles. How did they start?”

Althea collected her thoughts. “As to the voice itself, Jaro can tell you more than I can.”

“Has he suffered any recent injuries to his head? Any falls, knocks, collisions?”

“None that I know of.”

“And his health? Is he as sound as he looks?”

“Yes indeed! He has never been one to ail. We mentioned that when he was six he was almost killed by a gang of thugs, who were breaking all his bones. We rescued him but he was near death. In the hospital he went into spasms of hysterical emotion, which were draining what small vitality he had left. Something in his mind was driving him to distraction. As a last resort the therapist deleted a segment of his memory, and this is all that saved his life, though most of his first six years of memory were lost.”

“Interesting! Where did all this happen? Not on Gallingale, surely?”

“No,” said Althea. “It was—” she stopped short. A curious sort of silence ensued—furtive and secretive, not at all like Althea. The door was gently closed and he could hear no more.

Strange! Jaro had never known where these early events had taken place. When he had asked, he was given vague answers: “Oh, just off on some minor little world where we were doing a bit of research. It’s all in the past; of no great importance, really.”

Odd, such evasions!

The door opened; the two entered the room where Jaro waited. Althea was making the point that Jaro would feel more comfortable if she were present during the initial examination. Dr. Fiorio would hear none of it. “Absolutely not! Your presence would make Jaro self-conscious. You might like to take tea in the canteen just across the court.”

With poor grace Althea went off to the canteen. Dr. Fiorio ushered Jaro to an examination chamber, with gray-green walls exuding a subaqueous light. He indicated a chair for Jaro and settled himself at his desk. Jaro waited, his mood fatalistic.

Dr. Fiorio was ready. He slapped his palms down on the desk. The therapy had begun. “Well then, Jaro, here we are! Our first job is to get acquainted. If I may say so, you seem a fine bright chap, and no doubt a real social scrambler. You’re well above the Junior Service? I don’t see any emblems, still I’d guess you were well up into the Persimmons or maybe into the Zouaves, or perhaps the Golliwogs.”

“I am nothing. Not even a nimp.”

“Ah yes! Hm ha!” Dr. Fiorio raised his eyebrows. “Just so! Everyone must strive to his own altitude; comporture is a mask of many guises. But that is a complicated truth, and we won’t take it up now. Agreed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s the spirit! Now then, what about these mysterious voices? Tell me about them, and they’ll be crying for mercy in jigtime.”

Jaro spoke slowly, “It’s rather more serious than what you would like to make out.”

Dr. Fiorio looked at him a moment with eyebrows raised, the cheerful smile slowly fading. “Indeed!” He considered. “I see that I have mistaken my man. Sorry; I’ll try to make the adjustment. Tell me about the voice. Do you hear it often?”

“At first, not often—once a month, and then it barely seemed worth noticing. During the last year I’ve heard it several times a week, and now it is disturbing. It seems to come from inside my head and I can’t get away from it.”

Dr. Fiorio grunted softly. “This voice—is it male or female?”

“It is male. What frightens me most is that sometimes it sounds like my own voice.”

“Hm. That is possibly significant.”

“I don’t think so,” said Jaro. “I decided that it was not my voice.” He went on to describe the voice as best he could. “In the end I had to tell someone, and now I’m here.”

“You have given me a great deal to think about,” said Dr. Fiorio. “This is something I’ve never encountered before.”

Jaro asked anxiously: “What causes the voice?”

Dr. Fiorio shook his head. “I don’t know. I could guess that your previous therapy had welded some unnatural loops together, which finally started to pick up energy. If so, the upshot may well be wrong. We’ll know more after we examine you. Our first task is to isolate the source of the voice. We will begin at once.” Dr. Fiorio rose to his feet. “This way, if you please, into the laboratory. I want you to meet my colleagues, Dr. Windle and Dr. Gissing. We will work together on your case.”

Three hours later Dr. Fiorio and Jaro returned to the waiting room. Althea looked from one to the other. Jaro was composed, if a trifle ruffled. Dr. Fiorio seemed to have sagged and had put aside the ebullient mannerisms which earlier had enlivened his conversation. He told Althea, “We’ve made a start, using mild hypnosis and fact enhancers, but we have learned nothing significant. That’s about all I can tell you, except that it will be best if Jaro takes up temporary residence in one of our garden suites, where he will be conveniently situated for therapy.”

Althea protested. “All very well, but he will be separated from his family and friends! We will want to discuss his therapy with him, and offer our counsel, if it seems to be needed. If Jaro stays here, this will be impossible!”

“Exactly so,” said Dr. Fiorio. “That is why I suggested it.”

Althea reluctantly conceded to the arrangements. “But don’t worry,” she told Jaro. “You will not be abandoned! I’ll drop by every day, and keep you company for as long as I can!”

Dr. Fiorio cleared his throat and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “It will be better for all of us if you restrict your visits to a reasonable minimum: let us say an hour every third day.”

“But Doctor Fiorio!” cried Althea. “That is hardly reasonable! Jaro needs my support and I want to know every detail of his therapy!”

Dr. Fiorio spoke rather testily. “We prefer to issue no regular progress reports. If there have been no changes, which is usual, we are forced to invent a set of cheerful platitudes. This is tiresome. When we have something consequential to announce, you will know at once.”

“It is difficult to live in a vacuum of information,” Althea complained. “Especially when one is anxious.”

Dr. Fiorio relented. “We’ll try to keep you abreast of what we are doing. Today, for instance, we put Jaro under hypnosis, hoping to stimulate the voice, without success. We then started to prepare schematic analogs of Jaro’s brain, which will allow us to trace synaptic routes. We have the most modern autoflexes and information processors; still it’s a slow delicate job, and there are always surprises.”

Althea hesitated, then asked: “Do you think that you can set things right?”

Dr. Fiorio stared sadly at Althea as if in wounded pride. “My dear lady, of course! That is the basis of our comporture!” Althea had taken her leave and the housekeeper was showing Jaro his room. The three colleagues retired to the refectory to refresh themselves. Dr. Gissing commented upon Jaro’s somber self-possession. “I had the uncanny feeling he was watching us more carefully than we were watching him.”

“Nonsense,” said Dr. Windle. “You are suffering from a guilt neurosis!”

“True enough, but is this not the seminal force which drives us all?”

“Allow me to pour you some more tea,” said Dr. Fiorio and the topic was put aside.

The therapeutic sessions at Buntoon House became the total substance of Jaro’s life. Work went methodically. Plotting mechanisms traced the principal schema of his brain, in both two and three dimensions. He was fitted with monitors. Should the voice manifest itself, the area of the brain affected could now be identified. The voice, however, remained silent, which Dr. Windle, the most skeptical of the three therapists, considered a significant indication in itself. “The boy no doubt had a bad dream or two,” he told his colleagues. “He is a nimp and thinks the sky is falling. We have known a hundred cases of such hysteria.”

The three sat in the library, holding their daily conference, at which it was their custom to take a dram or two of smoky old malt tonic. They occupied their usual places: Dr. Fiorio, with the face of an aging cherub, leaned against the central table. Dr. Windle, erudite and sardonic, sat leafing through a journal, while Dr. Gissing lounged in a careless pose upon the sofa, his face serene and enraptured, as if he listened to a strain of delightful music. It was this particular expression, which Dr. Windle unkindly compared to the face of “a bewildered rat.”

Dr. Gissing now chided Dr. Windle for his skepticism. “Come now! The boy is transparently honest. He surely can’t enjoy what we are doing to him. He has had some bad experiences and he wants no more.”

Dr. Fiorio said slowly: “We are definitely faced with something uncanny. This case is bizarre beyond all my prior experience. I refer, of course, not only to the voice, but to the moonlit garden and the dark shape against the twilight. I can’t help but wonder what else is lost in the boy’s memory. There may be stuff there to curl our eyelashes!”

“Perhaps some of this shattered memory can be recovered,” suggested Dr. Gissing.

Dr. Windle was emphatic. “The possibility is remote. The gaps are clear on his schematics!”

“True! But did you not notice the broken matrices? I counted a dozen at a single glance. They are, admittedly, in various stages of degradation.”

Dr. Windle dismissed the topic with a grunt. “They mean nothing! They are only points of reference, and have no mnemonic function. They are not truly significant.”

“Significant, no. Intriguing, yes.”

“To you, perhaps. But we cannot waste time chasing down each of your vagaries, like mad scientists with butterfly nets running through the swamp.”