If All Else Fails (22 page)

"Friendly, aren't
you?" asked Santell, drily. A pity, he thought. If she knew how to smile, she might have seemed
attractive.

"The government
doesn't pay me to be friendly. It pays me to do a job." Her voice was cold, dispassionate. But
she turned to face Dr. Santell in such a way that she would not see the bleeding man. "How long
has he been like this?"

"It's all in my
report. If you'd like to read it, I could—"

"I'd prefer a
verbal outline first. I'll read your report later; I trust that it is a thorough one." She eyed
him sharply.

"Yes, quite
thorough," Dr. Santell replied, the polite edge in his voice wearing thin.

He turned away from
Miss Dow, gazed in at the bleeding man. His words were clipped, impartial. "He is approxi­mately
twenty-three years old and has been as he is now since birth."

"Incredible!" said
Miss Dow, fascinated in spite of her­self. "All this is documented?"

"Completely. There
is no possibility of fakery. Nor point either, for that matter."

"Just as you say,"
echoed Miss Dow. "What have you done to try to cure it? Is it some form of stigmata?"

Dr. Santell shook
his head. "If this is stigmata, it is the most extreme case this world will ever see. Besides, it
is in­conceivable that a psychosomatic illness could cause such a drastic biological
malfunction."

"But surely some
sort of surgery?" began Miss Dow. "Some sort of chemical therapy would—"

Dr. Santell shook
his head emphatically. "We've tried them all in the seven years he's been here. Psychochemistry,
primal reconditioning, biofeedback—tried singly and to­gether; none have had any effect. He's a
biological impossi­bility."

"What is his rate
of bleeding?" she asked.

"It varies," said
Dr. Santell. "Somewhere between two and three pints an hour."

"But it's not
possible!" exclaimed Miss Dow. "No one can—"

"He can and does,"
interrupted Dr. Santell. "He doesn't do anything normally. I can give you ten reasons why he
should be dead. Don't ask me why he isn't."

Miss Dow turned her
head around and stared at the silent figure standing in the center of the room. The bleeding man
had not moved. The blood flowed evenly from the chest wound, gathering in a coagulating pool at
his feet.

"I've had enough."
She turned away from the window. "Show me to my office. I'm ready to read that report
now."

Two hours later,
the last page of Dr. Santell's report slipped from nerveless fingers. The bleeding man lay
outside the parameters of human biology. By all rights he should have been dead, indeed, could
never have lived. Her hands were a little unsteady as she punched in Dr. Santell's office on the
videophone. His face appeared on the screen—and it was flushed.

"Report to me
immediately," Miss Dow snapped.

"I doubt it,
sweetheart," said Dr. Santell, grinning. "I'm off the case, remember?" He drank something out of
a dark tumbler.

"You're drinking!"
snapped Miss Dow.

"Now that you
mention it," admitted Dr. Santell agree­ably. He gave her a lopsided grin. "Perhaps you would
care to join me?"

"You are a
disgusting, undisciplined lout. And I should like to remind you that you are still responsible to
me. You may be discharged from this case in your professional ca­pacity, but your standing orders
are to cooperate with me in any way possible."

"So I'm
cooperating," muttered Dr. Santell. "Ill stay out of your way, you stay out of mine."

"I won't tolerate
this!" she raged. "Do you realize to whom you are talking?"

Dr. Santell thought
that over slowly. His face tightened. He did realize who she was. It sobered him a little. He
took another drink from the tumbler to compensate.

"Are you sober
enough to answer a few questions?"

He thought that
over for a while too. "I'm drunk enough to answer any questions you have. I don't think I could
an­swer them sober," he said. "I am trying to be understanding," said Miss Dow, a note
of conciliation in her voice. "I realize it is
quite natural for you to resent me. After all, I am responsible for your termi­nation at this
installation."

Dr. Santell
shrugged it off. He took another drink from the tumbler. •

"We're both
professionals, Dr. Santell," reasoned Miss Dow. "We can't let emotional considerations enter into
this. There is no place for emotion here. Our goals must be—"

"Hell! That's easy
for you to sayl" growled Dr. Santell. "You don't have any!"

"That's quite
enough, thank you," said Miss Dow, press­ing her lips together in a tight, angry line.

"No, it's not
enough—" started Dr. Santell. "You can't—"

"The subject is
closed!" she shouted.

There was an uneasy
silence.

Miss Dow broke it
by changing the subject. "What about his parents?" she asked.

"Didn't you read my
report?"

"It said they
committed suicide. It did not specify or go into any details. I have to know more than that. Your
report was supposed to be thorough. You didn't list your sources of information on his early
life, for one thing. I need to know—"

"Ask Nahtari. He
can tell you everything," he said. He shrugged as if to say it was out of his hands.

"Who?"

"Nahtari. His
uncle. He comes every week to visit his nephew. Nahtari used to exhibit him at the carnival until
we discovered him and brought him here. If you'll turn to the financial report near the back, you
will see that we pay him a small gratuity for the privilege of studying his nephew. We pay him by
the week and he stops in to pick up his check and talk to his relative."

"Did you say talk
to his relative?"

"Yeah. It's pretty
strange. Nahtari talks to Joe every week
for an hour. I don't know if Joe understands anything that is said to him or even if
Nahtari cares if he understands. I've never heard Joe respond in any way, not in the seven years
I've been here."

"When does this
Nahtari make his weekly visit?"

"He's here now, in
my office. He brings me a pint of whis­key every week. Makes it himself. You'd never believe how
good-"

Miss Dow hit the
dial-out button viciously, cutting him off in midsentence.

She pushed the door
open to Dr. Santell's office. She hadn't bothered to knock. Dr. Santell had his feet propped up
on the edge of his desk. He held a drink in one hand and a deck of cards in the other. Across the
desk from him sat a gray-headed old Indian dressed in faded blue jeans, cracked leather boots,
and a tattered flannel shirt.

"I'll see your dime
and raise you a dime," said Dr. Santell, slamming a dime onto the pile of change on the desk
be­tween them.

"Are you Nahtari?"
demanded Miss Dow, coming into the room. The two studiously ignored her.

"It depends," said
the old Indian, not looking up from his cards. "I'll meet your dime and raise you a
quarter."

Dr. Santell bit his
lip. "You're bluffing! I know you don't have that other ace!"

Miss Dow marched up
to the desk and snatched the cards out of Dr. Santell's hands.

Dr. Santell pounded
his desk in anger. "Stupid bitch! I had him beat!" He tried to collect the torn cards in his
lap.

"Is she some kind
of nut?" asked Nahtari, holding his cards out of harm's way.

Dr. Santell dumped
the torn pieces of cards on the top of the desk and sighed. "Yeah. A government nut. She's in
charge of Joe now."

Nahtari scowled and
laid his cards face up on the desk. "And that means she wants to ask me about my
relative."

"It certainly
does," said Miss Dow. "Would you like to come to my office?"

Nahtari shrugged.
There seemed no way to avoid it.

"You are owing me
twelve dollars," he said to Dr. Santell as he rose to leave the room.

"Don't I always,"
growled Dr. Santell, staring at the ace that Nahtari had had after all.

"Sit down, Nahtari.
This may take a while. I have a great many questions I want to ask you." She put a new cartridge
in her tape machine and turned it on.

"If Dr. Santell had
taken down all facts from before when I tell him, I would not having to be saying again," said
Nah­tari. "I get tired of telling the story and having no one tak­ing down so I don't have to do
all over again."

Miss Dow patted the
tape machine. "Don't worry about it," she assured him. "This recorder will make a permanent
record of everything you say. I guarantee you won't have to tell it again."

"You going to
listen and take down no matter what?"

"Every word," she
replied.

She started to ask
a question but Nahtari held up his hand. "Let me tell whole story," said Nahtari. "It will be a
saving of time and you can ask questions after if you have any. I want to get this over before
too long. Got to catch Dr. Santell before he leave with my twelve dollar."

Nahtari scratched
his chest over his right shirt pocket.

"That sounds all
right to me," agreed Miss Dow. "Could you start with his parents? I'd like to know—"

"He killed
them."

"What?" Miss Dow
was stunned.

"He killed them,"
repeated Nahtari matter-of-factly. I
was there the day he was born. His father and mother died within an hour of his birthing.
He killed them."

Miss Dow was
confused. "But how did it happen? How could—"

"You was not going
to ask questions until I finished," ac­cused Nahtari, dragging the back of his hand insolently
across his nose.

Miss Dow settled
back into her seat with a tight-lipped smile. She motioned for him to continue.

"His parents were
medicine people. They were people of great power. My brother was one of the strong ones. They had
this child stronger than them."

Miss Dow made a
face. "You don't expect me to believe in primitive supersti—"

"I am expecting of
you to keep your stupid mouth shut so this telling can be done and over with. I want to tell this
so you will no longer pester me when I come to see my rela­tive. I know all of your kind of
government people. You har­ass a person—"

"Tell the story!"
rasped Miss Dow. "For Christ sakes, just tell the story!" She drummed her fingers impatiently on
the desk.

"My brother and his
woman were filled with the sickness of the world. I knew that my brother did not want to live.
His wife knew this and was content to go with him. Then when they had decided the road, she
became heavy with child. They had no expecting of this. They became uncer­tain and did not know
the way. But they could not change their decision for the living of the child. They went into the
mountains, looking for their road. It was in the fifth month of the child in her
belly."

Miss Dow sighed
impatiently and settled back in her chair. It looked to be a long story, unrestricted by the
inclu­sion of anything factual. Already she regretted asking him for information.

"They were high in
the mountains. They laid down for dying but something strange happened. The child began speaking
to them. The child was angry. They ran to the high places, to throw themselves off before the
power of the child got too strong for them. But the child stopped them at the edge of the cliff
and turned them around. The child forced them back down the mountain. And for four months, they
were prisoners of the child."

"Are you seriously
telling me that—" began Miss Dow with disgust.

Nahtari snorted
contemptuously and passed his hands in
front of his eyes. His eyes seemed to be focused on some far
horizon. His voice mocked hers. "I just had a vision. I saw
you and Dr. Santell embraced upon the ground
and then
suddenly crushed by a falling
outhouse."

"I'm not laughing,"
said Miss Dow. She wasn't laughing.

"Somebody is," said
Nahtari with a straight face. "I knew
you was going to not let me finish the story and take it all
down so I don't have to tell it again. Nobody ever lets me
finish my story," complained
Nahtari.

"Christ! I don't
blame them!" said Miss Dow. "I've never heard such an outrageous piece of trash." She turned the
tape machine off. "You may have all the time in the world but I haven't got time to listen to
this idiocy!" She stood up and marched around the desk. "When you leave, shut the

door."

Nahtari came around
the desk and sat down in her chair. He tilted the chair back and rested his bootheels on the
desk. He turned the tape recorder microphone around so that it pointed at him. He pushed the
recording button and began talking into the machine.

"You bet this time,
record is made of all the facts," he said and went on with the story. "For four months, they were
prisoners of the child. Five days before he was born, the child began to fear leaving the belly.
The fear did not last
long, but it
lasted long enough for his father to put poison in their food without the child's knowing. They
ate this poison, the mother, the father, and the child.