"Well think of the possibilities. I discovered another thing, too. That most people are dissatisfied with their lives. No matter how good they got it, they always want something different, they always think the grass is greener on the other side of the road."
"Fence."
"Fence, whatever. Anyway-"
Max grabbed the kid's bony shoulder. "Look! What the hell does all this have to do with me? I want an answer!"
Jeremy indignantly removed Max's hand. "Get your mitts off the merchandise. I'm getting to that, I'm getting to that."
"Well, get to it!"
"Okay! Listen to me. What's the obvious cure, the thing that would make your life a lot better?"
"I don't know," Max said. "Don't you think if I knew that, I'd be doing it?"
"The cure is success! Nothing succeeds like success. Isn't that incredibly obvious?"
"No. Lack of success is a symptom."
"Bullshit." Hochstader crossed his legs sharply and sat back. "My brand of therapy is, like, real direct. If a client is dissatisfied with his life, I give him a new one. Forget all that crap about early toilet training, parents, arrested development, and the rest. There's nothing like a fresh start to wipe the slate clean. You're a chronic failure, right? And every new botched thing only reinforces your sense of worthlessness, making it all the more likely you'll fail again, and again, and again. It's, you know, a vicious circle."
"Cycle. Okay, I understand what you're saying, and there may even be some truth in it, but…"
Max thought about it. Hochstader's analysis made as much sense as any other he had heard. "But what's this alternate world stuff got to do with breaking the cycle?"
"Real simple," Jeremy said. "By starting fresh from a base state of success and proceeding from there, we turn the tables on the whole neurotic process. See, I do know something about psychology. I read a couple of books." He waved a hand disdainfully. "Forget about what started the whole thing off. To hell with the cause of the neurosis. Seems to me most of this psychotherapy stuff underestimates the factor of chance in a patient's case history. Luck has something to do with it. We're all at the mercy of random forces. It's a tricky universe, Max. And if you don't like the way things have worked out in your universe of origin, you can slip over to a brand-new one."
"But how…?" Max broke off, shaking his head.
"Don't try to figure it out all at once. I can only explain so much. Not I gotta show you. Just take it as it comes. You'll understand everything in due time." Leaning forward to the cabbie, Jeremy said, "Turn right at this next road."
"I just don't know," Max said, shaking his head. "This is all so nuts."
"Yeah," Jeremy said. "The castle's like that. But just go with it."
"Go with it?"
"Yeah. Go with the nuttiness. Get into the flow, and it'll work for you. It always does for me."
Go with the flow? Max thought. And what choice did he have? Temporarily giving up any attempt at making sense of all this, he sat back. "Anything you say, Doctor." He exhaled and looked out the window.
After a moment Max said, "You're not a doctor, are you? You don't have any degree at all."
"Uh, not really, not in the real world," Jeremy confessed. "High school, and that's about it. But Osmirik, the castle scribe, gave me an honorary doctorate. A real sheepskin. He said I deserved it."
"Oh, God," Max said. "It'll be okay, really."
"I'm okay," Max said. "I'm going to be okay. I'm fine. I just wish I could remember my mantra."
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Are we having fun yet?"
Gene did a classic spit take, spraying beer across the picnic bench. Then he alternated guffawing and choking.
"Only Snowclaw could say that in all seriousness," said Phil Kaufmann, wiping off his sleeve with a paper napkin.
"Well, I am serious," Snowclaw said. "This is a party, right? We're supposed to have fun, whatever that is. And since I really don't know much about human stuff, I was simply asking-"
"We know, we know," Gene said, having recovered. "And the answer is… no, we're not having a whole hell of a lot of fun yet, but give it time, give it time."
"I'm enjoying the dancing girls," Kaufmann said.
The merrymakers, all male, watched approvingly as the dancing women continued their display of terpsichorean skill. Music blared from a boom-box on the table. They were all perfunctorily clad, all beautiful, and all untouchable, protected by invisible magical screens. Not that any of the men had made advances; one of them had simply blundered too near one member of the troupe and had received a mild shock.
The party tables were set up very near the portal entrance to this world, a world that was one of many of its type: parklike, perpetually blue-skied, temperate, and safe. Expansive greenswards spread between stately trees that resembled oaks, but were not.
Gene was bored. He took another swing of beer. It was good beer. Great, in fact. But he was still bored.
"What's the matter, chum?" Snowclaw asked, scratching his white, thick-furred belly.
"Hell, not a thing."
"Explain to me again this marriage stuff."
"Snowy, it all has to do with human mating behavior. You wouldn't understand."
"Well, I know about mating behavior. But from what I understand, you and Linda have already mated. So-"
"Snowy, Jesus H. Christ."
Phil Kaufmann and a few of the other men suppressed a chuckle.
"Huh? What'd I say?"
"Nothing. You're right, we did, but now we're going to ritualize it. Celebrate it."
"Uh-huh." Snowclaw shook his huge, white ursine head. His yellow cat's-eyes looked oddly thoughtful. "I think I understand." He thought some more, then shook his head. "I don't understand."
"Don't trouble yourself about it," Gene told him. "I'm human and I don't quite understand it. It's a cultural thing."
"What's that mean?"
"Uh… Snowy, have another candle."
Gene picked up a beeswax candle, dipped it into a bowl of Thousand Island dressing, and offered it to his nonhuman friend.
"Thanks," Snowclaw said, taking it. He crunched it between his wickedly sharp teeth and swallowed it all.
"Anyone seen Dalton and Lord Peter?" Gene asked.
"They were in the Queen's Hall when I passed," said Tyrene, the captain of the castle guard.
"Lord Peter sticks to his daily schedule," Gene said, "come hell or high water."
"Aye, he does. A creature of habit. But there's nothing wrong with that."
"I guess not, but it would bore the crap out of me. Can't stand to do the same thing every day." Gene added in a mumble, "Or being married to the same woman every day."
"Pardon?"
"Nothing, Tyrene, nothing. Just thinking aloud."
Tyrene nodded and sipped at his flagon of ale. He had heard what Gene had said.
"Sure are beautiful, these girls," said another party guest appreciatively. "Excuse me, women."
"Girls… women…"
"Eh?" Snowclaw turned his snowy head toward Gene.
"Nothing."
"You sure don't seem happy."
"I'm ecstatic."
"What's that mean? Oh, it means you're really happy, doesn't it?"
"I'm really happy."
"How come you look like you lost your last friend?"
"I have a headache."
"What you need is a good scrap."
Gene drank from his beer stein. "I might at that."
"Yeah, gets the blood moving."
"Be nice to find a nice war or revolution."
"Or just a nice sword fight."
Gene shook his head. "Listen to me. I've become a warmonger. A blood-and-thunder addict. And me a longtime peace activist."