Slant (4 page)

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The patient log floats before Arnold's face like a small swarm of green insects. "His wife, he calls her." "He can't bear to deactivate the old personality. That passes for kindness in him, I suppose." Martin smirks. "I'll see him Monday. So who's up for this morning?" "You have Joseph Breedlove at nine and Avril de Johns at ten." Martin wrinkles his forehead in speculation. Neither Breedlove nor de Johns are difficult patients; they fall into that category of unhappy people who regard therapy as a replacement for real accomplishment. Therapy to date can only make the best of what is already available. "I have an hour free at eleven?" "Of course." "Then all is in order. It's eight-thirty now. I have a half-hour until Mr. Breedlove. No touches until nine." "Right," Arnold says. Martin takes his pouch and walks down the narrow hallway to the back office. Sa,ctz/m Sa,ctorm. Sometimes he sleeps here, since there is little to go back to at home. He missed the chance for the island sharehold on Vashon--damnable Northwest offishness, thirty-year residents and born-here's discriminating shamelessly against the fresh arrivals--and so Martin's home is a condo in a small ribbon comb overlooking the northbound three-deck Artery 5 Freeway. It is not expensive, nor is it particularly attractive. In two years, his residency advocate tells him, he may be allowed into some higher lottery, perhaps even a Bainbridge sharehold. Private touches flicker around him as he sits at his desk, like pet birds begging. Some he flagged a week ago for immediate attention. He shoos them off' with a wave, then pokes at the fresh touches and they line up, the first expanding like an origami puzzle. This is from Dana Carrilund, the head of Workers Inc Northwest. He wonders who gave her his sig. Despite this being his free period, he opens this immediately. Carrilund's voice is warm and profbssional. "Mr. Burke, pardon my using your personal sig. I'm in a real bind. I'm told we have about seven of our clients taking special therapy with you. They're doing well, I hear. I may have additional clients for you--all of them fallbacks. Please let me know if we can fit this into your schedule. Also, I'd like to speak to you in person and in private." It's outside his usual domain; Martin specializes in core therapy ftilures, people for whom initial and even secondary therapy does not work. Fallbacks have been successfully therapied but experience recurrence of thymic or even pathic imbalances. Why would the head of Workers Inc Northwest place such a touch? Martin frowns; he presumed Workers Inc Northwest sent their cases to Sound Therapy, the largest analysis-therapy corporation in the Corridor. He's flattered to receive such high-level attention, but can't think of a reason why.

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cases are of interest. Let me know what you need and I'll work up a schedule and proposal. I hope we can meet soon." This is a shameless hedge against any downstream lags in business, something Martin is always sensitive about. He does not need any more patients. Still, he has never quite lost his fear of unemployment; a contract with Workers Inc could smooth over any future rough times. The next message is from his daughter, their daily morning exchange. Stephanie still lives in La Jolla with her mother. They link once a week and he manages trips south every other month, but as he watches the image of this lovely three-year-old, a somewhat plumper version of Carol, who seems in their genetic dance to have grabbed only Martin's eyebrows and ears, this image in its sharp perfection kissing air where his nose might be and holding up a succession of red and blue paper crafkworks, eager for his approval, only makes him lonelier. Another inexplicable faultline. He tacks to his reply a bedtime story he recorded last night, adds loving comments on the skill of her craftworks, shoots the reply to reach her pad by midmorning break in the live public schoolroom. Carol will never allow home instruction. Nothing New Federalist about Carol. The essential touches processed, he pulls his chair up to his desk and says, "INDA, are you there?" The INDA responds immediately. A lovely liquid voice neither male nor female seems to fill the room. "Yes, sir." "Any results from yesterday?" "I've analyzed the journal entries you suggested. Your fee for arbeiter access to the journals is now at the limit, Dr. Burke." Martin will have to upgrade his credit with the dealer today. "That's fine, INDA. Tell me what you've found." "I have seven references to Country of the Mind investigations, all of them in cases predating last year's law." The United States Congress, acting in conjunction with Europe and Asia, has passed laws banning two-way psychiatric investigation through the hippocampal juncture, which Martin pioneered. Appeals to the Supreme Court and World Psychiatric Organization have been quietly buried; nobody is currently interested in stirring up this hornet's nest. Emanuel Goldsmith might have been the final poison pill. "No defiance or physician protests?" "A search through available records indicates the procedure has not been openly performed in four years by anybody, in any part of the world." "I mean, has anyone published contrary opinions?" "Liberal Digest's Multiway has posted twelve contrary opinions in the past year, but that makes it a very minor issue. By comparison, they posted four thousand and twenty-one contrary opinions on the Freedom to Choose Individual Therapy decision 'is a vis the requirements of remp agencies and em / SLANT 27

York and Virginia, bastions of New Federalism, had clearly been intended to put roadblocks in the way of therapy's juggernaut domination of society, but the Supreme Court had voided the rulings, based on contract law, coming down in favor of temp agencies and employers. Liberal Digest had, for once, agreed with the New Federalists that therapy should not be forced on temp

agency clients, under threat of unemployment. These were strange times. "Any conclusions?"

"We do not foresee any interest in Country of the Mind investigations, as a social issue, for many years." "We" among INDAs is purely a placekeeper

for "this machine," and does not imply any self-awareness.

"It's dead, then."

"Of no currency," the INDA amends.

Martin taps his desk. He has moved completely away from the discovery which launched his fame and caused his downfall. He believes strongly that Country of the Mind investigations could be incredibly powerful and useful, but society has rejected them for the time being--and for the foreseeable future.

"I suppose that's best," he says, but without conviction. His office pad chimes. It's early. "Yes, Arnold?"

"Sir, there's a gentleman here. No appointment. New. He's very insistent--

says he'll make it worth your while."

"What's his problem?"

"He won't say, sir. He won't accept Kim's evaluation and he looks very edgy."

Kim joins in, out of the intruder's hearing: "Sir, his name is Terence Crest. The Terence Crest. We've run a check. He is who he says he is."

It's Martin's day to be approached by influential people. Crest is a billionaire, known for his conservatism and quest for privacy as much as his financial dealings--mostly in Rim entertainment. Martin taps his finger on the desk several times, then says, "Show him in." The day's touches, drifting at apparent arm's length over the office pad, vanish.

Martin greets Mr. Crest at the door and escorts him to a chair. Crest is in his mid-forties, of medium height, with a thin bland face and large unfocused eyes. He is dressed in dark gray with thin black stripes, and beneath his long coat, his shirt is living sun-yellow, body-cleansing and health-monitoring fabric. His right hand carries three large rings, signs of affiliations in high comb society. Martin cannot read the ring patterns, but he suspects strong New Federalist leanings.

The way Crest holds his head, the way the light hits his skin, Martin has a difficult time making out his expression. He has the spooky sensation of the man's face losing detail with every glance.

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this, but I've been told I can rely on you." His voice is clear and crisp. Crest is accustomed to being listened to attentively. He looks dreamily at the ceiling and remains standing. Martin asks him to sit.

Crest peers down at the chair, as if waiting for it to move, then sits. "I'm still mulling over what you posted in People's Therapy Multiway last week. Allostatic load and all. That the pressures of everyday life can bend us like overstressed metal bars."

Martin nods. "An explanation of a general idea for a general readership. Why does it concern you?"

"I can't afford the disgrace."

"What disgrace?"

"I think I'm exceeding my load limits." A thin sour chuckle. "I'm about to break."

"Suffering from stress is no disgrace, Mr. Crest. We all face it at some time or another in our lives."

"Well, I'm still wrestling with the idea of my physicality. I was raised Baptist. And for some of my . . . connections,friends, well, that sort of weakness doesn't sit well."

"A not uncommon prejudice, but nothing more than that--prejudice."

"It's hard for me--for them--to accept that illness, in the mind, can result from something other than.., you know. A defect in the soul."

"That's the way it truly is, Mr. Crest. Nothing to do with inborn character defects. We're all fragile."

"Dr. Burke, I can't be fragile." Even through the vagueness, Crest's face hardens. "My people won't let me. My wife is as high natural as they come, and everyone in her family. I feel like they're expecting me to fall, you know, from their grace. Any minute." He smacks his hands together lightly. "I suppose that's a kind of stress, too."

"Sounds like it could be," Martin says.

"If I had to be therapied... I would lose a lot, Martin."

"Happens to the best of us."

"You keep saying that," Crest says. "It's just not true. It doesn't happen to the best of us. The best of us cope. The best of us have better chemistry, stronger neurons, a better molecular balance, just an all-around better constitution.., we're made of finer alloy. The others.., they fail because they're flawed."

Instinctively, Martin does not like this man--he feels uncomfortable in his presence. But many strong-willed patients in deep pain come across this way.

Crest slaps his hand on the chair arm. "I am haunted, Dr. Burke. There are days when I know I'm going to crumble. Some of the corporations I work with, making very large deals--they require an inspection every month, can you believe it?"

Martin smiles. "It's not called for, that's for sure."

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letting a deal fall through. A brain race." Crest smiles back at Martin. The smile seems to fall in shadow, though the room is brightly lit. "Very American. Reliability above creativity."

"Intelligence and creativity often accompany more fragile constitutions," Martin says. The lecture is familiar, meant to reassure. "There's every evidence some people are more sensitive and alert, more attuned to reality, and this puts a greater load on their systems. Still, these people make themselves very useful in our society. We couldn't get along without them--"

Crest shakes his head vigorously. "Genius is next to madness, is that what you're saying, Doctor?"

"Genius is a particular state of mind.., a type of mind, only distantly comparable to the types I'm talking about."

"Like a genie in the head? Just rub it the right way and out it comes? Well, I'm no genius," Crest chuckles tensely, "and I haven't been accused of being very sensitive... So why do I worry? I mean, the type of decisions I'm called upon to make demand tough thinking, maybe even a lack of human sensitivity... And above all else, stability. I have to stand up to tough conditions for long periods of time."

"Well, your name is well known, Mr. Crest."

Crest raises a finger and jabs at the ceiling. "One little slip... Down from high natural to, say, a simple untherapied." Crest shudders. "One little inappropriate thought, and my wife takes her connections with her--right out of the house. I honestly think I'm going to obsess myself into just what I fear, over this.

"Dr. Burke, this conversation has to be absolutely secure. Confidential. I am willing to pay a hundred thousand dollars for you to secretly take care of me if I should fall."

Martin hates turning down patients; he also hates being treated like a man who can be bought. Not that he's unassailable--to his intense personal shame, he's been bought before. It's a theme in his life. He knows what the consequences can be.

Crest sighs. "This is torture for you, isn't it, Doctor?"

"How?"

"Having a high natural come in here and run off about chances of failing.

I mean, you're not a high natural, are you?"

"No."

"Untherapied? Just a natural?"

"No."

"Therapied, and for some time, right?"

"Right."

"So you must be... I mean, it must be like having a rich man come in and worry about losing his money, and you haven't got any."

Martin squints at Crest and says, "You're offering four times my highest

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that there's too much emphasis on high natural ratings. It isn't that big a deal. It's another human measurement, a quantification some folks are willing to use to separate us from each other." "I'm not a have-not, Dr. Burke. I'm used to having." "I wouldn't put so much store in having this particular thing, this high-natural rating, if I were you. You'd be surprised at the power and influence of some who don't." "Sure," Crest says, agitated. "Like you. Nobody rates you but your medical board. Doctors have always protected their own." Martin clamps his teeth together tightly beore answering. "IF we used the criteria your fellow businessmen seem to find attractive, we'd lose most of our best, our most sensitive doctors." "There's that word again," Crest says, sniffing and drawing in his jaw. "Sensitive. I'm not an artist, I'm not a therapist, I'm a decision maker. I have to make a dozen important decisions a day, every day. I have to be keen, like a knife edge. Not sensitive." "The sharper the edge, the more liable it is to be blunted if it's misused," Martin observes. "I have my standards," Crest says. "I'm sorry if nobody else is strong enough to accept them." "Mr. Crest, I have my standards as well. If this is going to have any positive outcome, we should start all over again. You've interrupted my day without an appointment, you've impugned my professional ethics by flinging money at me... Crest sits very still. The light around his face is not natural, not the lighting of the room. He might be made of wax. "I know you don't like me, and that's fine, I'm used to that, but I have my own sense of honor, Dr. Burke. I've gotten myself into something. I know what's right and what isn't and I've violated that code. It began as greed. Greed for life, I suppose, for fighting off the real devils, for keeping all I've made. But it's beyond that now." Crest stares at him. Martin cannot penetrate the vagueness of the man's face. He has never seen anything like it. "If you can come back later today, I can run my own evaluation, with my own equipment." "Now," Crest says. "I need it now." Martin is willing to believe that Crest is close to a thymic imbalance, maybe even a pathic collapse, but the situation is fraught with legal difficulties. "I can't treat you on an emergency basis, Mr. Crest." "These men and women I'm involved with . . . they kill people who talk to outsiders." That does it, Martin thinks. "I can recommend a clinic not two blocks from here, but sir, with your resources, you can--" "I can't use my own medicals or therapists. They're not secure. I agreed to