I Will Fear No Evil (7 page)

Still in Lotus, she looked around. Yes, lovely. Aside from the Gadabout parked near the door and the bed in the corner all the rest was the colorul clutter of an artist’s studio, always changing and always the same. The steel grid over the high north windows made a pretty pattern—and was so strong that she never worried. She felt warm and safe and happy here.

“Eunice my darling—”

She was startled. Joe used short-talk so habitually that she was always surprised when he chose to shift idiom, even though he could use formal English as well as she could—well, almost, she corrected . . . but he was quite grammatical for a man who had had only a high school practical curriculum. “Yes, dearest?”

“I roz it perfectly. Wasn’t sure you did. Just testing, Beautiful. Not ninety myself but any artist understands figleaf symbol. Could happen you crowd Mr. Smith’s symbols too hard, don’ know. But we’ll do it. Figleaf so that his mind can lie to itself—‘No, no, mustn’t touch; Mama spank’—then I paint you like sex crime looking for spot marked ‘X.’ ”

“Oh, good!”

“But never worry about job. Sure, this pad is righteous, good north light, I like it. But we lose it, who cares? Broke don’t scare me.”

(It scares
me
, dear!) “I love you, darling.”

“But we do it for nice old boy dying, not to save studio. Understand?”

“Roz indeed! Joe, you’re the nicest husband a girl ever had.”

He did not answer and got a pained scowl, which she recognized as birth pangs of creativity. So she kept still. Presently he sighed. “Down off ceiling. Problem what to do for Boss solves inspiration that put me up there. Tomorrow you’re a mermaid.”

“All right.”

“And tonight. Upper body seagreen with rosy glow showing through on lips and cheeks and nipples. Lower body golden fish scales blending at waist. Undersea background with sunlight filtering down. Traditional seabottom symbols, romantic. But upside down.”

She hesitated. “So?” (Hard to know when to ask, when to keep quiet, when Joe was creating.)

He smiled. “Fool-the-eye. You’re swimming. Diving straight down to bottom, back arched, hair streaming, toes pointed—main light dapple-scrimmed for water. Beautiful. But can’t wire you, even if had wires—no way to hide harness, and hair would hang down and buttocks and breasts would sag—”

“My breasts don’t sag!”

“Chill it, Jill. You got beautiful breasts and you know I know. But masses of flesh sag and artist sees it. Everybody sees, just don’ realize. Something wrong, don’ know why. Eye not fooled. Has to be real dive, or it’s fake. Bad art.”

“Well,” she said doubtfully, “if you borrowed a stepladder and dragged the mattress under your background, I suppose I could dive off and roll out and not hurt myself. I guess.”

“I
don’t
guess! Break pretty neck, little stupid. Dive up. Not down.”

“Huh?”

“I
said
. Background upside down. So jump straight up in air. Like going for hot return in volley ball. I shoot stereo stop-action, a thousandth. Shoot six, seven, eight, nine times till just right. Turn pic upside down—lovely mermaid diving for sea bottom.”

“Oh. Yes, I’m stupid.”

“Not stupid, just not artist.” He started scowling again; she kept quiet. “Too much for one night. Tomorrow paint background, tonight paint you for drill. Then maybe stereo-mug some jumps against any background, more drill. Bed early, up early—paint you again for Boss.”

“Fine,” she agreed. “But why paint me twice, dear, if I’m to be a mermaid for Boss tomorrow? If you set up the cot for me and I slept alone, I wouldn’t disturb paint job much. Then you could touch it up in the morning. Not get up as early.”

He shook his head. “Won’t paint quite same way for Boss. But won’t let you sleep in paint anyhow.”

“My skin won’t break out.”

“No, my darling. Your skin don’ break out because I don’ paint you too much, or too often, or let paint stay on too long—and always damn sure you get it all off, then oil you. But you see, I see, everybody see what happen to girls who paint too much. Pimples, blackheads, itching, scratching—ugly. Sure, we’ll paint you for Boss from ears to toes—but not too often and scrub you minute you’re home. That’s official.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So scrub jet and scarlet off, while I flash pizza.”

A few minutes later she shut off the shower and called out through the door of the bath unit: “What did you say?”

“Forgot. Big Sam stopped by. Pizza ready.”

“Cut me a chunk, that’s a dear. What did he want? Money?”

“No. Well, I let him have a fin. But stopped to invite us. Sunday. All day meditation. Gigi’s pad.”

She stepped out into the room, till toweling. “All day, huh? Just us four? Or his whole class?”

“Neither. A Seven Circle.”

“Swinging?”

“Suppose so. Didn’t say.”

“Swinging.” She sighed. “Darling, I don’t mind you lending him a five you’ll never see. But Big Sam is no guru, he’s just a stud. And a bliffy.”

“Big Sam and Gigi share what they got, Eunice. And nobody has to swing. Ever.”

“Theoretically, yes. But the only good way to break a Circle is never to join it. Especially a Seven Circle. Did you promise? I can grit my teeth and smile if I have to.”

“No. Told him had to see you, tell him tomorrow.”

“Well? What do you want me to say, dearest?”

“I’ll tell him No.”

“Dearest, I don’t think you answered me. Is there some special reason you want us in this Seven? An art critic perhaps? Or a dealer? If it’s Gigi you have on your mind, why not ask her to model some daytime while I’m working? She’d be up here at once, her tail quivering—I’ve seen her eyeing you.”

He shook his head and grinned. “Nyet, Yvette. Believe, lass—I stalled Big Sam because possible
you
wanted to join in. But Big Sam chills me too—bad aura.”

“Oh, I’m so relieved! I’ll swing, darling; I promised you that when I asked you to marry me. And I have, the few times you’ve wanted to. And most were fun and only one struck me as boring. But I like to size up the players.”

“Grab pizza, climb throne. Paint legs while you eat.”

“Yes, darling.” She mounted the model’s throne with a wedge of pizza in each hand; there followed a long period broken only by sounds of chomping, and of low profanity that punctuated his alternating pleasure and exasperation. Neither noticed either; Joe Branca was deep in the euphoria of creation, his wife was immersed in the warm glow of being cherished.

At last he said, “Down,” and offered his hand.

“May I look?”

“No. Ribs and tits now. Don’ raise arms yet. Want to study them.”

“As if you didn’t know every wrinkle.”

“Shut up. What to think about how to paint ’em in the morning.” Presently he said, “Been thinking maybe you crowd Boss too hard with only a gee-panty. Solved now.”

“So?”

“Da. Paint a bra on you.”

“But wouldn’t that spoil it, dear? Mermaids don’t wear bras.”

“Was problem. Bad empathy. So use sea shells. Flat curved kind with nubbly backs. You know.”

“Sorry but I don’t, dear. Sea shells are scarce in Iowa.”

“No matter. Sea shells fix bad empathy, symbols all match.” He grinned. “Pretty one, I’ll paint sea-shell bra cups so fool-the-eye that Boss won’ know for sure. He’ll spend day trying to see whether is real bra or just paint. If he breaks down and asks—I win.”

She gurgled happily. “Joe, you’re a genuis!”

4

As Dr. Boyle came out of the operating theater Mr. Salomon stood up. “Doctor!”

Boyle checked his impatient strides. “Oh. You again. Go to hell.”

“No doubt I will. But wait a moment, Doctor.”

The surgeon answered with controlled fury: “Listen, chum—I’ve been operating eleven hours with one short break. By now I hate everybody, especially you. So let me be.”

“I thought perhaps you could use a drink.”

The surgeon suddenly smiled. “Where’s the nearest pub?”

“About twenty yards from here. In my car. Parked on this floor. Stocked with Australian beer, both cold and room temperature. And other things. Whisky. Gin. Name it.”

“My word, you Yahnk barstahds do know how. Right. But I must change first.” Again he turned away.

Salomon again stopped him. “Doctor, I took the liberty of having your street clothes packed into your bag and placed in my car. So let’s have that drink at once.”

Boyle shook his head and grinned. “You do take liberties—too right. Very well, if you can stand the stink, I’ll tub and change at my hotel. ‘Lay on, MacDuff!’ ”

Salomon let it go at that until they were locked into his car and he had poured beer for them—the authentic kangaroo kick for the surgeon, a much weaker American brew for himself; he had tangled with Australian beer in his youth and was wary. The big car started smoothly and continued so; Rockford had been warned that drinking might take place in the passenger compartment.

Salomon waited until his guest had half a glass down him and had sighed in relief. “Doctor, how did it go?”

“Eh? Smoothly. We had planned it, we rehearsed it, we did it. How else? That’s a good team you got for me.”

“I take it you are saying the operation was successful?”

“‘—but the patient died.’ That’s the rest of the old saw.”

Jacob Salomon felt a wave of sorrow and relief. He sighed and answered, “Well, I expected it. Thank you, Doctor. I know you tried.”

“Slow down! I don’t mean that
this
patient died; I merely completed the cliché. The operation went exactly as planned; the patient was in satisfactory shape when I relinquished control to the support team.”

“Then you expect him to live?”

“ ‘It,’ not ‘he,’ That thing back there is not a human being and may never be. It won’t die, it
can’t
—unless one of your courts gives permission to switch off the machinery. That body is young and healthy; with the support it is receiving it can stay alive—as protoplasm, not as a human being—for any length of time. Years. And the brain was alive when I left; it was continuing to show strong alpha-wave response. It should stay alive, too; it is receiving blood supply from that healthy body. But whether that brain and that body will ever marry into a living human being—what church do you attend?”

“I don’t.”

“Too bad, I was about to suggest that you ring up God and ask
Him
, as
I
do not know. Since I saved the retinas and the inner ears—first surgeon ever to do that, by the bye, even though they call me a quack—it might be able to see and hear. Possibly. If the spinal cord fuses, it might regain some motor control, even be able to dispense with some of the artificial support. But I tell you the stark truth, Counselor, the most likely outcome is that that brain will never again be in touch with the outside world in any fashion.”

“I hope your misgivings are unfounded,” Salomon said mildly. “Your contingent fee depended on your achieving sight, hearing, and speech, at a minimum.”

“In a pig’s arse.”

“I’m not authorized to pay it otherwise. Sorry.”

“Wrong. There was mention of a bonus, a ridiculously large sum—which I ignored. Look, cobber, you shysters are allowed to work on contingent fees; we butchers have other rules. My
fee
is for operating. I operated. Finis. I’m an ethical surgeon, no matter what the barstahds say about me.”

“Which reminds me—” Salomon took an envelope from his pocket. “Here’s your fee.”

The surgeon pocketed it. Salomon said, “Aren’t you going to check it?”

“Why should I? Either I was paid in full. Or I sue. Either way, I couldn’t care less. Not now.”

“More beer?” Salomon opened another bottle of Down-Under dynamite. “You are paid. In full, in gold, in Switzerland—that envelope contains a note advising you of your account number. Plus an acknowledgment that we pay your expenses, all fees of assisting teams, all computer time, all hospital charges, whatever. But I hope, later, to pay that ‘ridiculous’ bonus, as you called it.”

“Oh, I won’t turn down a gift; research is expensive—and I do want to go on; I would like to be a respectable paragraph in medical histories . . . instead of being sneered at as a charlatan.”

“No doubt. Not quite my own reason.”

Boyle took a swig of beer and blinked thoughtfully. “I suppose I’ve been a stinker again. Sorry—I always come out of surgery in a vile mood. I forgot he is your friend.”

Salomon again felt that bittersweet wave of relief and sorrow. He answered carefully, “No, Johann Smith is not my friend.”

“So? I had an impression that he was.”

“Mr. Smith has no friends. I am a lawyer in his hire. As such, he is entitled to my loyalty.”

“I see. I’m glad you aren’t emotionally involved, as the prognosis on a brain transplant is never good—as I know better than anyone.” Boyle added thoughtfully, “It might work this time. It was a good tissue match, surprisingly good in view of the wide difference between donor and recipient. And identical blood type, that helps. We might luck it. Even disparity in skulls turned out to be no problem once I could see that brain.”

“Then why are you gloomy?”

“Do you know how many millions of nerve connections are involved? Think I could do them all in eleven hours? Or eleven thousand hours? We don’t try; we just work on the nerves of the head, then butt the raw ends of two spinal cords together—and sit back and spin our prayer wheels. Maybe they fuse, maybe they don’t—and no one knows why.”

“So I understood. What I don’t understand is how those millions of connections can ever take place. Yet apparently you were successful with two chimpanzees.”

“Bloody! I was successful. Sorry. The human nervous system is infinitely inventive in defending itself. Instead of reconnecting old connections it finds new paths—if it can—and learns to use them. Do you know the psych lab experiment with inverting spectacles?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Some student has inverting lenses taped to his eyes. For a day or two he sees everything upside down, has to be led by the hand, fed, escorted to the jakes. Then rather suddenly he sees everything right side up again; the brain has switched a few hundred thousand connections and is now interpreting the new data successfully. At this point we remove the spectacles from the volunteer chump—and now his bare eyes see the world upside down. So he goes through it a second time—and
again
the brain finds new paths and eventually the images flip over again and he sees the world normally.