He Who Shapes (18 page)

saw that the man's gait did not alter.

Then he did not see the man.

There was a slight jar, and the windshield began cleaning

itself. Cecil Green raced on.

He opaqued the windows.

"How . . . ?" he asked after she was in his arms again, and

sobbing.

"The monitor didn't pick him up . . ."

"He must not have touched the fence . . ."

"He must have been out of his mind!"

"Still, he could have picfced an easier way."

It could have been any face . . . Mine?

Frightened, Cecil lowered the seats.

Charles Render was writing the "Necropolis" chapter for

The Missing Link Is Man, which was to be his first book in over

four years. Since his return he had set aside every Tuesday and

Thursday afternoon to work on it, isolating himself in his office,

filling pages with a chaotic longhand.

"There are many varieties of death, as opposed to dying . . ."

he was writing, just as the intercom buzzed briefly, then long,

then again briefly.

"Yes?" he asked it, pushing down on the switch.

"You have a visitor," and there was a short intake of breath

between "a" and "visitor."

He slipped a small aerosol into his side pocket, then rose and

crossed the office.

He opened the door and looked out.

"Doctor . . . Help . . ."

Render took three steps, then dropped to .one knee.

"What's the matter?"

"Come she is . . . sick," he growled.

"Sick? How? What's wrong?"

"Don't know. You come."

Render stared into the unhuman eyes.

"What kind of sick?" he insisted.

"Don't know," repeated the dog. "Won't talk. Sits. I . . . feel,

she is sick."
                
             
"
  
.

"How did you get here?"

"Drove. Know the co, or, din, ates . . . Left car, outside."

"I'll call her right now." Render turned.

"No good. Won't answer."

He was right.

Render returned to his inner office for his coat and medkit. He

glanced out the window and saw where her car was parked, far

below, just inside the entrance to the marginal, where the

monitor had released it into manual control. If no one assumed

that control a car was automatically parked in neutral. The

other vehicles were passed around it.

So simple even a dog can drive one, he reflected. Better get

downstairs before a cruiser comes along. It's probably reported

itself stopped there already.
 
Maybe not,
 
though. Might still

have a few minutes grace.

He glanced at the huge clock.

"Okay, Sig," he called out. "Let's go."

They took the lift to the ground floor, left by way of the front

entrance, and hurried to the car.

Its engine was still idling.

Render opened the passenger-side door and Sigmund leapt

in. He squeezed by him into the driver's seat then, but the dog

was already pushing the primary coordinates and the address

tabs with his paw.

Looks like I'm in the wrong seat.

He lit a cigarette as the car swept ahead into a U-underpass.

It emerged on the opposite marginal, sat poised a moment, then

joined the traffic flow. The dog directed the car into the high-

acceleration lane.

"Oh," said the dog, "oh."

Render felt like patting his head at that moment, but he

looked at him, saw that his teeth were bared, and decided

against it.

"When did she start acting peculiar?" he asked:

"Came home from work. Did not eat. Would not answer me,

when I talked. Just sits."

"Has she ever been like this before?"

"No."

What could have precipitated it?But maybe she just had a

bad day. After all, he's only a dogsort of.No. He'd know.

But what, then?

"How was she yesterdayand when she left home this

morning?"

"Like always."

Render tried calling her again. There was still no answer.

"You, did it," said the dog.

"What do you mean?"

"Eyes. Seeing. You. Machine. Bad."

"No," said Render, and his hand rested on the unit of stun-

spray in his pocket.

"Yes," said the dog, turning to him again. "You will, make

her well . . . ?"

"Of course," said Render.

Sigmund stared ahead again.

Render felt physically exhilarated and mentally sluggish. He

sought the confusion factor. He had had these feelings about

the case since that first session. There was something very

unsettling
 
about
 
Eileen
 
Shallot:
 
a
 
combination
 
of
 
high

intelligence
 
and helplessness, of determination and vulner-

ability, of sensitivity and bitterness.

Do I find that especially attractive?No. it's just the counter-

transference, damn it!

"You smell afraid," said the dog.

"Then color me afraid," said Render, "and turn the page."

They slowed for a series of turns, picked up speed again,

slowed again, picked up speed again. Finally, they were

traveling along a narrow section of roadway through a semi-

residential area of town. The car turned up a side street,

proceeded about half a mile further, clicked softly beneath its

dashboard, and turned into the parking lot behind a high brick

apartment building. The click must have been a special

servomech which took over from the point where the monitor

released it, because the car crawled across the lot, headed into

its transparent parking stall, then stopped. Render turned off

the ignition.

Sigmund had already opened the door on his side. Render

followed him into the building, and they rode the elevator to

the fiftieth floor. The dog dashed on ahead up the hallway,

pressed his nose against a plate set low in a doorframe, and

waited. After a moment, the door swung several inches inward.

He pushed it open with his shoulder and entered. Render

followed, closing the door behind him.

The apartment was large, its walls pretty much unadorned,

its color combinations unnerving. A great library of tapes filled

one corner; a monstrous combination-broadcaster stood beside

it.
 
There
 
was
 
a
 
wide
 
bowlegged
 
table
 
set
 
in
 
front
 
of
 
the

window, and a low couch along the right-hand wall; there was

a closed door beside the couch; an archway to the left

apparently led to other rooms. Eileen sat in an overstuffed chair

in the far corner by the window. Sigmund stood beside the

chair.

Render crossed the room and extracted a cigarette from his

case. Snapping open his lighter, he held the flame until her

head turned in that direction.

"Cigarette?" he asked.

"Charles?"

"Right."

"Yes, thank you. I will."

She held out her hand, accepted the cigarette, put it to her

lips.

"Thanks.What are you doing here?"

"Social call. I happened to be in the neighborhood."

"I didn't hear a buzz, or a knock."

"You must have been dozing. Sig let me in."

"Yes, I must have." She stretched. "What time is it?"

"It's close to four-thirty."

"I've been home over two hours then . . . Must have been

very tired . . ."

"How do you feel now?"

"Fine," she declared. "Care for a cup of coffee?"

"Don't mind if I do."

"A steak to go with it?"

"No thanks."

"Bacardi in the coffee?"

"Sounds good."

"Excuse me then. It'll only take a moment."

She went through the door beside the sofa and Render

caught a glimpse of a large, shiny, automatic kitchen.

"Well?" he whispered to the dog.

Sigmund shook his head.

"Not same."

Render shook his head.

He deposited his coat on the sofa, folding it carefully about

the medkit. He sat beside it and thought.

Did I throw too big a chunk of seeing at once? Is she suffer-

ing
 
from depressive side-effectssay,
 
memory repressions,

nervous fatigue? Did I upset her sensory adaptation syndrome

somehow? Why have I been proceeding so rapidly anyway?

There's no real hurry- Am I so damned eager to write the thing

up?Or am I doing it because she wants me to? Could she be

that
 
strong,
 
consciously
 
or unconsciously? Or
 
am I
 
that

vulnerablesomehow?

She called him to the kitchen to carry out the tray. He set it

on the table and seated himself across from her.

"Good coffee," he said, burning his lips on the cup.

"Smart machine," she stated, facing his voice.

Sigmund stretched out on the carpet next to the table,

lowered his head between his forepaws, sighed, and closed his

eyes.

"I've been wondering," said Render, "whether or not there