He Who Shapes (17 page)

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"I know. Here comes the meal we just had."

"Ugh! It looks dreadful! Did we eat all that stuff?"

"Yes," he chuckled. "That's a knife, that's a fork, that's a

spoon. That's roast beef, and those are mashed potatoes, those

are peas, that's butter . . ."

"Goodness! I don't feel so well."

".
 
.
 
. And those are the salads,
 
and those are the salad

dressings. This is a brook troutmm! These are French fried

potatoes. This is a bottle of wine. Hmmlet's see Romanee-

Conti, since I'm not paying for itand a bottle of Yquem for the

trouHey!"

The room was wavering.

He bared the table, he banished the restaurant. They were

back in the glade. Through the transparent fabric of the world

he watched a hand moving along a panel. Buttons were being

pushed. The world grew substantial again. Their emptied table

was set beside the lake now, and it was still nighttime and

summer, and the tablecloth was very white under the glow of

the giant moon that hung overhead.

"That was stupid of me," he said. "Awfully stupid. I should

have introduced them one at a time. The actual sight of basic,

oral stimuli can be very distressing to a person seeing them for

the first time. I got so wrapped up in the Shaping that I forgot

the patient, which is just dandy! I apologize."

"I'm okay now. Really I am."

He summoned a cool breeze from the lake.

". . . And that is the moon," he added lamely.

She nodded, and she was wearing a tiny moon in the center

of her forehead; it glowed like the one above them, and her hair

and dress were all of silver.

The bottle of Romanee-Conti stood on the table, and two

glasses.

"Where did that come from?"

She shrugged. He poured out a glassful.

"It may taste kind of flat," he said.

"It doesn't. Here-" She passed it to him.

As he sipped it he realized it had a tastea fruite such as

might be quashed from the grapes grown in the Isles of the

Blest, a smooth, muscular charnu, and a capiteux centrifuged

from the fumes of a field of burning poppies. With a start, he

knew that his hand must -be traversing the route of the

perceptions, symphonizing the sensual cues of a transference

and a counter-transference which had come upon him all

unawares, there beside the lake.

"So it does," he noted, "and now it is time we returned."

"So soon? I haven't seen the cathedral yet . . ."

"So soon."

He willed the world to end, and it did.

"It is cold out there," she said as she dressed, "and dark."

"I know. I'll mix us something to drink while I clear the

unit."

"Fine."

He glanced at the tapes and shook his head. He crossed to his

bar cabinet.

"It's not exactly Romanee-Conti," he observed, reaching for

a bottle.

"So what? I don't mind."

Neither did be, at that moment. So he cleared the unit, they

drank their drinks, and he helped her into her coat and they

left.

As they rode the lift down to the sub-sub he willed the world

to end again, but it didn't.

Dad,

I hobbled from school to taxi and taxi to spaceport, for the

local Air Force ExhibitOutward, it was called. (Okay, I

exaggerated the hobble. It got me extra attention though.)

The whole bit was aimed at seducing young manhood into a

five-year hitch, as I saw it. But it worked. I wanna join up. I

wanna go Out There. Think they'll take me when I'm old

enuff? I mean take me Outnot some crummy desk job.

Think so?

I do.

There was this dam lite colonel ('scuse the French) who

saw this kid lurching around and pressing his nose 'gainst the

big windowpanes, and he decided to give him the subliminal

sell. Great! He pushed me through the gallery and showed

me all the pitchers of AP triumphs, from Moonbase to

Marsport. He lectured me on the Great Traditipns of the

Service, and marched me into a flic room where the Corps

had good clean fun on tape, wrestling one another in null-G

"where it's all skill and no brawn," and making tinted water

sculpture-work way in the middle of the air and doing

dismounted drill on the skin of a cruiser. Oh joy!

Seriously though. I'd like to be there when they hit the

Outer Fiveand On Out. Not because of the bogus balonus

in the throwaways, and suchlike crud, but because I think

someone of sensibility should be along to chronicle the thing

in the proper way. You know, raw frontier observer. Francis

Parkman. Mary Austin, like that. So I decided I'm going.

The AF boy with the chicken stuff on his shoulders wasn't

in the least way patronizing, gods bepraised. We stood on

the balcony and watched ships lift off and he told me to go

forth and study real hard and I might be riding them some

day. I did not bother to tell him that I'm hardly intellectually

deficient and that I'll have my B.A. before I'm old enough to

do anything with it, even join his Corps. I just watched the

ships lift off and said, "Ten years from now I'll be looking

down, not up." Then he told me how hard his own training

had been, so I did not ask howcum he got stuck with a lousy

dirtside assignment like this one. Glad I didn't, now I think

on it. He looked more like one of their ads than one of their

real people. Hope I never look like an ad.

Thank you for the monies and the warm sox and Mo-

zart's String Quintets, which I'm hearing right now. I

wanna put in my bid for Luna instead of Europe next sum-

mer. Maybe-. . . ? Possibly . . . ? Contingently . . . ? Huh?-

lf I can smash that new test you're designing for me . . . ?

Anyhow, please think about it.

Your son,

Pete

"Hello. State Psychiatric Institute."

"I'd like to make an appointment for an examination."

"Just a moment. I'll connect you with the Appointment

Desk."

"Hello. Appointment Desk."

"I'd like to make an appointment for an examination."

"Just a moment . . . What sort of examination?"

"I want to see Doctor Shallot, Eileen Shallot. As soon as

possible."

"Just a moment. I'll have to check her schedule.. . Could you

make it at two o'clock next Tuesday?"

"That would bejust fine."

"What is the name, please?"

"DeViUe. Jill DeVille."

"All right, Miss DeVille. That's two o'clock, Tuesday."

"Thank you."

/

The man walked beside the highway. Cars passed along the

highway. The cars in the high-acceleration lane blurred by.

Traffic was light.

It was 10:30 in the morning, and cold.

The man's fur-lined collar was turned up, his hands were in

his pockets, and he leaned into the wind. Beyond the fence, the

road was clean and dry.

The morning sun was buried in clouds. In the dirty light, the

man could see the tree a quarter mile ahead.

His pace did not change. His eyes did not leave the tree. The

small stones clicked and crunched beneath his shoes.

When he reached the tree he took off his jacket and folded it

neatly.

He placed it upon the ground and climbed the tree.

As he moved out onto the limb which extended over the

fence, he looked to see that no traffic was approaching. Then he

seized the branch with both hands, lowered himself, hung a

moment, and dropped onto the highway.

It was a hundred yards
 
wide,
 
the eastbound half of the

highway.

He glanced west, saw there was still no traffic coming his

way, then began to walk toward the center island. He knew he

would never reach it. At this time of day the cars were moving

at approximately one hundred sixty miles an hour in the high

acceleration lane. He walked on.

A car passed behind him. He did not look back. If the

windows were opaqued, as was usually the case, then the

occupants were unaware he had crossed their path. They

would hear of it later and examine the front end of their vehicle

for possible signs of such an encounter.

A car passed in front of him. Its windows were clear. A

glimpse of two faces, their mouths made into 0's, was

presented to him, then torn from his sight. His own face

remained without expression. His pace did not change. Two

more cars rushed by, windows darkened. He had crossed

perhaps twenty yards of highway.

Twenty-five...

Something in the wind, or beneath his feet, told him it was

coming. He did not look.

Something in the corner of his eye assured him it was

coming. His gait did not alter.

Cecil Green had the windows transpared because he liked it

that way. His left hand was inside her blouse and her skirt was

piled up on her lap, and his right hand was resting on the lever

which would lower the seats. Then she pulled away, making a

noise down inside her throat.

His head snapped to the left.

He saw the walking man.

He saw the profile which never turned to face him fully. He