He Who Shapes (14 page)

Yes, it was final. Her attorney's note was accompanied by a

copy of the divorce decree. She had only recently decided to

end her legal relationship to Mister Fotlock, whose name she

had stopped using five years earlier, when they had separated.

Now that she had the thing she wasn't sure exactly what she

was going to do with it. It would be a hell of a surprise for dear

Rendy, though, she decided. She would have to find a

reasonably innocent way of getting the information to him. She

withdrew her compact and practiced a "Well?" expression.

Well, there would be time for that later, she mused. Not too

much later, though . . . Her thirtieth birthday, like a huge black

cloud, filled an April but four months distant. Well . . . She

touched her quizzical lips with color, dusted more powder over

her mole, and locked the expression within her compact for

future use.

In the dining room she saw Doctor Bartelmetz, seated before

an enormous mound of scrambled eggs, great chains of dark

sausages, several heaps of yellow toast, and a half-emptied flask

of orange juice. A pot of coffee steamed on the warmer at his

elbow. He leaned slightly forward as he ate, wielding his fork

like a windmill blade.

"Good morning," she said.

He looked up.

"Miss DeVille Jill . . . Good morning." He nodded at the

chair across from him. "Join me, please."

She did so, and when the waiter approached she nodded and

said, "I'll have the same thing, only about ninety percent less."

She turned back to Bartelmetz.

"Have you seen Charles today?"

"Alas, I have not," he gestered, open-handed, "and I wanted

to continue our discussion while his mind was still in the early

stages of wakefulness and somewhat malleable. Unfortunate-

ly," he took a sip of coffee, "he who sleeps well enters the day

somewhere in the middle of its second act."

"Myself, I usually come in around intermission and ask

someone for a synopsis," she explained. "So why not continue

the
 
discussion
 
with
 
me?I'm
 
always
 
malleable,
 
and
 
my

skandhas are in good shape."

Their eyes met, and he took a bite of toast.

"Aye," he said, at length, "I had guessed as much.

Wellgood. What do you know of Render's work?"

She adjusted herself in the chair.

"Mm. He being a special specialist in a highly specialized

area, I find it difficult to appreciate the few things he does say

about it. I'd like to be able to look inside other people's minds

sometimesto see what they're thinking about me, of course

but I don't think I could stand staying there very long.

Especially," she gave a mock-shudder, "the mind of somebody

withproblems. I'm afraid I'd be too sympathetic or too

frightened
 
or
 
something.
 
Then,
 
according
 
to
 
what
 
I've

readpow!like sympathetic magic, it would be my problem.

"Charles never has problems though," she continued, "at

least,
 
none
 
that he
 
speaks
 
to
 
me
 
about.
 
Lately
 
I've
 
been

wondering, though. That blind girl and her talking dog seem to

be too much with him."

"Talking dog?"

"Yes, her seeing-eye dog is one of those surgical mutants."

"How interesting . . . Have you ever met her?"

"Never."

"So," he mused.

"Sometimes a therapist encounters a patient whose problems

are so akin to his own that the sessions become extremely

nprdant," he noted. "It has always been the case with me when

I treat a
 
fellow-psychiatrist.
 
Perhaps
 
Charles sees
 
in
 
this

situation a parallel to something which has been troubling him

personally. I did not administer his personal analysis. I do not

know all the ways of his mind, even though he was a pupil of

mine for a long while. He was always self-contained, somewhat

reticent; he could be quite authoritative on occasion, however.

What are some of the other things which occupy his attention

these days?"

"His son Peter is a constant concern. He's changed the boy's

school five times in five years."

Her breakfast arrived. She adjusted her napkin and drew her

chair closer to the table.

"and he has been reading case histories of suicides recently,

and talking about them, and talking about them, and talking

about them."

"To what end?"

She shrugged and began eating.

"He never mentioned why," she said, looking up again.

"Maybe he's writing something . . ."

Bartelmetz finished his eggs and poured more coffee.

"Are you afraid of this patient of his?" he inquired.

"No . . . Yes," she responded, "I am."

"Why?"

"I am afraid of sympathetic magic," she said, flushing

slightly.

"Many things could fall under that heading."

"Many indeed," she acknowledged. And, after a moment,

"We are united in our concern for his welfare and in agreement

as to what represents the threat. So, may I ask a favor?"

"You may."

"Talk to him again," she said. "Persuade him to drop the

case."

He folded his napkin.

"I intended to do that after dinner," he gtated, "because I

believe in the ritualistic value of rescue-motions. They shall be

made."

Dear Father-Image,

Yes, the school is fine, my ankle is getting that way, and

my classmates are a congenial lot. No, I am not short on cash,

undernourished, or having difficulty fitting into the new

curriculum. Okay?

The building I will not describe, as you have already seen

the macabre thing. The grounds I cannot describe, as they

are presently residing beneath cold white sheets. Brrr! I

trust yourself to be enjoying the arts wint'rish. I do not share

your enthusiasm for summer's opposite, except within

picture frames or as an emblem on ice cream bars.

The ankle inhibits my mobility and my roommate has gone

home for the weekendboth of which are really blessings

(saith Pangloss), for I now have the opportunity to catch up

on some reading. I will do so forthwith.

Prodigally,

Peter

Render reached down to pat the huge head. It accepted the

gesture stoically, then turned its gaze up to the Austrian whom

Render had asked for a light, as if to say, "Must I endure this

indignity?" The man laughed at the expression, snapping shut

the engraved lighter on which Render noted the middle initial

to be a small v.

"Thank you," he said, and to the dog: "What is your name?"

"Bismark," it growled.

Render smiled.

"You remind me of another of your kind," he told the dog.

"One Sigitiund, by name, a companion and guide to a blind

friend of mine, in America."

"My Bismark is a hunter," said the young man. "There is no

quarry that can outthink him, neither the deer nor the big

cats."

The dog's ears pricked forward and he stared up at Render

with proud, blazing eyes.

"We have hunted in Africa and the northern and south-

western parts of America. Central America, too. He never

loses the trail. He never gives up. He is a beautiful brute, and

his teeth could have been made in Solingen."

"You are indeed fortunate to have such a hunting

companion."

"I hunt," growled the dog. "I follow . . . Sometimes, I have,

the kill . . ."

"You would not know of the one called Sigmund then, or the

woman he guidesMiss Eileen Shallot?" asked Render.

The man shook his head.

"No, Bismark came to me from Massachusetts, but I was

never to the Center personally. I am not acquainted with other

mutie handlers."

"I see. Well, thank you for the light. Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon."

"Good, after, noon . . ."

Render strolled on up the narrow street, hands in his pockets.

He had excused himself and not said where he was going. This

was because he had had no destination in mind. Bartelmetz*

second essay at counseling had almost led him to say things he

would later regret. It was easier to take a walk than to continue

the conversation.

On a sudden impulse he entered a small shop and bought a

cuckoo clock which had caught his eye. He felt certain that

Bartelmetz would accept the gift in the proper spirit. He smiled

and walked on. And what was that letter to Jill which the desk

clerk had made a special trip to their table to deliver at

dinnertime? he wondered. It had been forwarded three times,

and its return address was that of a law firm. Jill had not even

opened it, but had smiled, overtipped the old man, and tucked

it into her purse. He would have to hint subtly as to its contents.

His curiosity was so aroused that she would be sure to tell him

out of pity.

"The icy pillars of the sky suddenly seemed to sway before