"Autopsychomimesis," he thought aloud, "a self-perpetuated imitation complex—almost an attention-getting affair. A jazzman, for example, who acted hopped-up half the time, even though he had never used an addictive narcotic and only dimly remembered anyone who had—because all the stimulants and tranquilizers of today are quite benign. Like Quixote, he aspired after a legend when his music alone should have been sufficient outlet for his tensions.
"Or my Korean War Orphan, alive today by virtue of the Red Cross and UNICEF and foster parents whom he never met. He wanted a family so badly that he made one up. And what then?—He hated his imaginary father and he loved his imaginary mother quite dearly—for he was a highly intelligent boy, and he too longed after the half-true complexes of tradition. Why?"
"Today, everyone is sophisticated enough to understand the time-honored patterns of psychic disturbance. Today, many of the reasons for those disturbances have been removed—not radically as my now-adult war orphan's, but with as remarkable an effect. We are living in a neurotic past. — Again, why? Because our present times are geared to physical health, security and well-being. We have abolished hunger, though the backwoods orphan would still rather receive a package of food concentrates from a human being who cares for him than to obtain a warm meal from an automat unit in the middle of the jungle.
"Physical welfare is now every man's right, in excess. The reaction to this has occurred in the area of mental
health. Thanks to technology, the reasons for many of the old social problems have passed, and along with them went many of the reasons for psychic distress. But between the black of yesterday and the white of tomorrow is the great gray of today, filled with nostalgia and fear of the future, which cannot be expressed on a purely material plane, is now being represented by a willful seeking after historical anxiety-modes..."
The phone-box puzzed briefly. Render did not hear it over the Eighth.
"We are afraid of what we do not know," he continued, "and tomorrow is a very great unknown. My own specialized area of psychiatry did not even exist thirty years ago. Science is capable of advancing itself so rapidly now that there is a genuine public uneasiness—I might even say 'distress' —as to the logical outcome: the total mechanization of everything in the world... ."
He passed near the desk as the phone buzzed again. He switched off his microphone and softened the Eighth.
"Hello?"
"Saint Moritz," she said.
"Davos," he replied firmly.
"Charlie, you are most exasperating!"
"Jill, dear—so are you."
"Shall we discuss it tonight?"
"There is nothing to discuss!"
"You'll pick me up at five, though?"
He hesitated, then;
"Yes, at five. How come the screen is blank?"
"I've had my hair fixed. I'm going to surprise you again."
He suppressed an idiot chuckle, said, "Pleasantly, I hope. Okay, see you then," waited for her "good-bye," and broke the connection.
He transpared the windows, turned off the light on his desk, and looked outside.
Gray again overhead, and many slow flakes of snow—wandering, not being blown about much—moving downward--and then losing themselves in the tumult... .
He also saw, when he opened the window and leaned out, the place off to the left where Irizarry had left his next-to-last mark on the world.
He closed the window and listened to the rest of the symphony. It had been a week since he had gone blindspinning with Eileen. Her appointment was for one o'clock.
He remembered her fingertips brushing over his face, like leaves or the bodies of insects, learning his appearance in the ancient manner of the blind. The memory was not altogether pleasant. He wondered why.
Far below, a patch of hosed pavement was blank once again; under a thin, fresh shroud of white, it was slippery as glass. A building custodian hurried outside and spread salt on it, before someone slipped and hurt himself.
Sigmund was the myth of the Fenris come alive. After Render had instructed Mrs. Hedges, "Show them in," the door had begun to open, was suddenly pushed wider, and a pair of smoky-yellow eyes stared in at him. The eyes were set in a strangely misshapen dog-skull.
Sigmund's was not a low canine brow, slanting up slightly from the muzzle; it was a high, shaggy cranium, making the eyes appear even more deep-set than they actually were. Render shivered slightly at the size and aspect of that head. The muties he had seen had all been puppies. Sigmund was full grown, and his gray-black fur had a tendency to bristle, which made him appear somewhat larger than a normal specimen of the breed.
He stared in at Render in a very un-doglike way and made a growling noise which sounded too much like, "Hello, Doctor," to have been an accident.
Render nodded and stood.
"Hello, Sigmund," he said. "Come in."
The dog turned his head, sniffing the air of the room—as though deciding whether or not to trust his ward within its confines. Then he returned his stare to Render, dipped his head in an affirmative, and shouldered the door open. Per-
haps the entire encounter had taken only one disconcerting second.
Eileen followed him, holding lightly to the double-leashed harness. The dog padded soundlessly across the thick rug-head low, as though he were stalking something. His eyes never left Render's.
"So this is Sigmund . .. ? How are you, Eileen?"
"Fine... Yes, he wanted very badly to come along, and I wanted you to meet him."
Render led her to a chair and seated her. She unsnapped the double guide from the dog's harness and placed it on the floor. Sigmund sat down beside it and continued to stare at Render.
"How is everything at State Psych?"
"Same as always. May I bum a cigarette, Doctor? I forgot mine."
He placed it between her fingers, furnished a light. She was wearing a dark blue suit and her glasses were flame blue. The silver spot on her forehead reflected the glow of his lighter; she continued to stare at that point in space after he had withdrawn his hand. Her shoulder-length hair appeared a trifle lighter than it had seemed on the night they met; today it was like a fresh-minted copper coin.
Render seated himself on the corner of his desk, drawing up his world-ashtray with his toe.
"You told me before that being blind did not mean that you had never seen. I didn't ask you to explain it then. But I'd like to ask you now."
"I had a neuroparticipation session with Dr. Riscomb," she told him, "before he had his accident. He wanted to accommodate my mind to visual impressions. Unfortunately, there was never a second session."
"I see. What did you do in that session?"
She crossed her ankles and Render noted they were well-turned.
"Colors, mostly. The experience was quite overwhelming."
"How well do you remember them? How long ago was it?"
"About six months ago—and I shall never forget them. I have even dreamt in color patterns since then."
"How often?"
"Several times a week.
"What sort of associations do they carry?"
"Nothing special. They just come into my mind along with other stimuli now—in a pretty haphazard way."
"How?"
"Well, for instance, when you ask me a question it's a sort of yellowish-orangish pattern that I 'see.' Your greeting was a kind of silvery thing. Now that you're just sitting there listening to me, saying nothing, I associate you with a deep, almost violet, blue."
Sigmund shifted his gaze to the desk and stared at the side panel.
Can he hear the recorder spinning inside? wondered Render. And if he can, can he guess what it is and what it's doing?