Freedom's Challenge (19 page)

“Well, I did do some work in the outback with Aborigines, so they guessed I, and Joe, might be able to help,” Sarah said in her matter-of-fact way. “Problem is that the Maasai're used to a totally different lifestyle, which was getting ruined in Africa even before the Cat…Eosi hit Earth.”

“I remember the famine there in the eighties,” Kris said.

“So they won't be happy up here but Chuck thinks that the southern end of this continent might do, where we found semi-desert.”

“Why not the desert continent?”

“Maybe, in time, but right now, that'll keep them in a more or less familiar terrain. Oh, and you should have seen their faces when we showed them the loo-cows!” Sarah laughed. “They couldn't believe 'em and they wouldn't believe that the critters don't give milk until one was captured for inspection.”

“What about night crawlers? As I recall it, the Maasai are nomadic, looking for grazing for their…cattle. Will loo-cows
do
for them? And they have huts or kraals…or something like 'em to live in.”

“Well, tonight's the big demo on night crawlers and all the newbies are going to have to attend,” Sarah said with a certain amount of grimness. “We gotta get that lesson across.”

“What about using some of the closed valleys?” Kris asked.

“That's another solution but nothing to hunt and they don't like fish. But you should have seen them looking at all the plants, grass, and stuff we wouldn't think twice about. Hassan was damned near tongue-tied translating for my Joe and the other herbalists…”

“It'd be helpful if there just happened to be a book on Swahili in that latest shipment…” Kris thought, remembering the crates of books she'd seen being transported to Retreat's library.

Sarah gave a snort. “They're rummaging through 'em right now. Hassan's running out of useful vocabulary.”

“That'll be a first,” Kris said with a grin. The former Israeli spy was the chatty sort at any time.

“Let's see what they got in. I'd love a good juicy murder mystery to read,” Sarah said.

“With this new lot in, how'll you find time?”

“I'll make it,” was Sarah's firm reply. Then she sighed again. “I have missed reading, I really have.”

“That's because you weren't rescued from two college survey courses with required reading lists this long,” and held her hand out at about four feet above the flagstones of the hall.

“So this,” and Sarah gestured ironically around, “is a much better way to spend your time.” Before Kris could open her mouth to answer, Sarah added, “Actually, college would be pretty dull in comparison.”

“Prof, do I get an A in this survival course?”

“Too right,” Sarah said and they both rose, taking their dishes back to the window that led to the KP section of the dining hall.

•   •   •

WHEN THEY REACHED THE STRUCTURE, THEY found only Dorothy Dwardie unpacking and shelving books.

“Oh, good, some help. I've found the most astonishingly eclectic…texts here. I can't imagine how all these books got in the same case together,” and she showed them the ones in her hand.

“Post-Renaissance Painters?”
Sarah said, reading one title.

“How the Grinch Stole Christmas?”
Kris read the second title and took it from Dorothy, leafing through the colorful illustrated pages. “We may not have Christmas here, but I'm sure glad to see some good children's books. Can we help?”

“Yes, please,” Dorothy said and pointed over behind her.

Cases had been stacked three and four high all the way back to the tarpaulin that covered the end of the present library and the addition under construction. Aisles allowed access to the cases.

“Marian, the librarian,” Sarah began in a sing-song voice, “where's the mystery section?”

“Now that's a mystery to me,” Dorothy replied, rising to her feet with an effort. “Have at it. I can't promise there will be any. I'm cataloging as I go along and thank God for more computers. Otherwise we'll never know how much we've got.”

“You're not doing it all yourself, are you?”

“Well, I'm supposed to get some help shelving,” she said. “We had some Victims in here this morning and I think it's helping them remember some of the basic skills they once had.”

“What're you looking for?”

“Anything, everything. Dr. Seuss for the children ranks in my eyes as a far greater treasure than anything Post-Renaissance. Though I've nothing against painters at all.”

“Actually, light classics that we can read to the Victims: even Westerns or a good mystery story.”

“Gotcha,” Sarah said and closing her eyes, she turned herself around and pointed. When she opened them, her finger directed her to one of the side aisles. “C'mon, Kris.”

Kris was still chuckling at Sarah's whimsical manner of choosing when they heaved a crate to the ground and opened it.

“Lord love us, how're we going to sort this mess out?” she said looking at the tumbled collection: books with spines bent and pages crumbled, all heaped together. A few loose pages only added to the tribulations of transfer.

“By starting at the top and working down. I'll get a few of those shelves over here,” Kris suggested, going over to one side where she'd seen the empty shelving, “and separate as we go.”

“Good thinking,” and Sarah sat herself down and started pulling out books.

However, they had “unerringly,” as Sarah remarked, migrated to a whole case full of mysteries and romances. Their conscientious efforts to perform their assigned task were interrupted by seeing books they either recognized or titles that looked interesting.

“A new Hillerman,” Sarah crowed and settled against the back of the crate, shamelessly reading her find. “I'll just read a few pages…”

Kris worked more diligently but not much longer because she found an Elizabeth Peters' Amelia yarn and she, too, couldn't resist reading “just a few pages…”

“Ah, Doctor Hessian, have you come to help shelve books?” they both heard Dorothy say.

When Kris would have moved guiltily back to unpacking, Sarah grabbed her arm and whispered at her.

“No, let's just listen,” Sarah said in a very low voice. “Dorothy's been trying to pin him down since he got his
mind back. He wants all the Victims to undergo proper Freudian sessions. He feels that he should be in charge of the treatment team, not Dorothy.”

“Are you Miss Dwardie…”

“Doctor Dwardie, Doctor Hessian,” Dorothy replied calmly but there was a slight edge to her voice that alerted both Kris and Sarah. Kris would have risen but Sarah grabbed her by the arm, pressing her back against the crate.

“You've made a remarkable recovery,” said Dorothy with apparent pleasure.

Sounds like “grumph grumph” and an audible “be that as it may” seemed to indicate that this Dr. Hessian was not in complete accord. His raspy baritone gave Kris a mental image of a portly man of advanced years, probably balding, overweight, and overbearing.

“I was told that there had been new additions to the library and wished to avail myself of some suitable reading material.”

“Oh? Were you not also told that your help in cataloging our new shipment would be sincerely appreciated?”

“Shelving? Books?” was the pompous and astonished reply. Kris thought he sounded remarkably like Lady Bracknell in
The Importance of Being Earnest
, declaiming: “Handbag? Station?”

“Doctor Hessian, we all do community work…”

“He's from the Freudian school of psychology,” Sarah whispered to Kris. “Dorothy's a social learning psychologist…completely opposite to him.”

“The community work,” Dr. Hessian went on inexorably, “for which I am eminently qualified is to help those Victims still in severe mental distress. I am quite willing to allot all the time necessary with some of the more prestigious Victims whom I have recognized, despite their appalling ordeals. I can certainly provide blueprints
of the underlying psychodynamic conflicts of their conditions.”

“We
know
what happened to them, Doctor Hessian. As it happened to you, and it is quite a triumph to see you walking about and conversing with everyone. Quite normal again.”

“Normal? Normal?” the second repetition was louder than the first. “What
is
normal…ah…”

“Doctor Dwardie,” Dorothy put in gently. “Shall we take a walk, Doctor Hessian? I think the shelving of the books can wait.”

Kris looked chagrined and Sarah evidently felt the same way for they were obviously not supposed to know what Dorothy needed to tell Hessian. Books in hand, they crept quietly out by way of the tarpaulin.

Although Dorothy had seen the slight ripple of the tarpaulin, she wanted to continue this discussion outside, where there was no danger of them being overheard. Hessian, responding to a tug on his arm, followed her out of the library, saying as they went, “My normal self scarcely compares with anyone else's so-called ‘normal state,'” and “certainly anyone here” lingered in the air as if the doctor had spoken aloud. “I have only just begun to recall how exceptional
my
normal self is. You cannot
expect
…
me
…to shelve books?”

“If I can do it, why should it be beneath your capabilities, Dr. Hessian?”

“Now, just a moment, young woman,” and his voice dripped with opprobrium.

“Doctor Dwardie, Doctor Hessian,” Dorothy said firmly but kindly. “This colony survives because everyone…everyone…is willing to do the basic tasks as well as the application of their
previous
profession, whatever that might have been. My entire team looks forward to your helping us with the psychological treatment of the remaining Victims. Treating trauma response has been
such an overwhelming task that even I have been doing this, as a much needed change of pace. There are so many more Victims,” and her voice was not exactly imploring him to be reasonable, as encouraging him, “than we can effectively treat with so few psychologists, psychiatrists, and nurses. Will you join our treatment team, Doctor Hessian?”

“Arumph. Be part of a
team
?” and his voice and manner reminded Dorothy of the English actor Robert Morley at his most pompous and petulant. “You're not serious? I hardly think so. Not with my exemplary qualifications.”

Fortunately, there were few people around as dusk settled over Retreat so she steered him to the flagstone path that would eventually lead to his current residence.

“Yes, they certainly are, Doctor Hessian,” Dorothy said warmly. “I am quite familiar with your professional background. However, the psychological team here is under my direction and we have designed a multi-modal treatment program, which has indeed healed the trauma of many of the Victims. While your work within the psychoanalytic community is a valuable asset to the field, we have employed a social learning framework here because of its efficacy with psychological trauma.”

“And I would, I opine, have to
use
…” and once again Dorothy was treated to the magnificent disdain he could inject into such a small word, “this…this multi-modal treatment?”

“Yes, you would, since we have found it to be so effective. I worked with trauma units before I was…dropped here. But undoubtedly you would not be aware of my professional work in that area.”

“No, I am not,” he said in a flat discounting of any expertise she might have. “Especially since you now have someone of my stature in the field. Surely you realize that a change of treatment models would benefit those
still in the grip of what appears to be catatonia. When the main troops arrive, as it were,” and his supercilious tone suggested that he was smiling condescendingly at Dorothy, “…the reserves are no longer needed.”

Dorothy was undaunted. “Let's take a stab at this situation from the viewpoint of research, and see what happens. I understand that it is probably a shock for you to discover that there are other treatment models with empirical efficacy greater than the one you are most familiar with and have evidently spent most of your life studying. I know, for example, that your résumé includes eight books on the life and work of Freud in theory and psychoanalysis. I really do believe that you will be a tremendous asset to the Victims.”

There was no immediate response by Dr. Hessian.

“Doctor Hessian, please don't misunderstand me. I am not implying any undervaluing of Sigmund Freud or the power of his work. I think that Freud was one of the greatest thinkers of all time in the study of nervous disorders. It's just that we are using a model with proven efficacy, and the model your work is based in is most applicable to a different treatment problem—neurosis. We're dealing with deep mental trauma, not neuroses.”

His earlier long stride, as if he had intended to outwalk her, had shortened. Now he stood, head down, pulling at his lips.

“I doubt that you and I, Doctor Dwardie, can ever work together with any degree of mutual respect, much less find a basis for a
proper
course of treatment for these unfortunate Victims.”

“I can accept that, although with great regret, Doctor Hessian. No, please don't go yet. There is one trauma case I'd like a chance to discuss with you. It was one that baffled all of us.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, now do sit down, Doctor Hessian,” and she indicated a strategically placed stone bench that had a magnificent view of the Bay, “this might take a little time.”

“I should imagine so.”

“Well,” and Dorothy seemed to be taking a breath before plunging into this case. “There is a professional woman, Doctor K—a psychologist of exceptional brilliance—whose case, though successful, was very difficult. She experienced the mind-wipe shortly after a series of Victim deaths, or so one observer tells us. These had resulted from the effects of the modulated electrical current level. Some of the early deaths were those who had been trained as neuropsychologists although leading professionals of all branches of sciences also were among the dead.”