Brain Wave (15 page)

“All right,” she said in a flat tone. (We’re accomplishing something heroic, I think. The most supremely worthwhile job of all history, perhaps. But somehow I don’t care very much—)

“Glad see you tonight,” he said. (I need you. I need someone in the lightless hours.)

(I will always be waiting), said her eyes.

Dangerous subject. Hide from it
.

He asked quickly: “What do you think of the music here? It seems as if they’re already on the track of a form suited to … modern man.”

“Maybe so,” she shrugged. “But I can still find more in the old masters. They were more human.”

“I wonder if we are still human, Helga.”

“Yes,” she replied. “We will always remain ourselves. We will still know love and hate, fear and bravery and laughter and grief.”

“But of the same kind?” he mused. “I wonder.”

“You may be right,” she said. “It’s become too hard to believe what I want to believe. There is that.”

He nodded, she smiled a little: (Yes, we both know it, don’t we? That and all the world besides.)

He sighed and clenched his fists briefly: “Sometimes I wish—No.”
It’s Sheila I love
.

(Too late, isn’t it, Pete?) said her eyes. (Too late for both of us.)

“Dance?” he invited. (Come to forgetfulness.)

“Of course.” (Oh, gladly, gladly!)

They got up and moved out on the floor. He felt the strength of her as he put his arm around her waist, and it was as if he drew of it.
Mother image?
jeered his mind. No matter. The music was entering him more fully now, he felt its curious beat in his blood. Helga’s head was almost level with his, but her face was hidden from him. He was not a good dancer, he let her take the lead, but the pleasure of rhythmic physical movement was sharper for him now than it had been before the change. For a moment he wished he could be a savage and dance his sorrow out before the gods.

No, too late for him. He was a child of civilization—even now; he had been born too old. But what do you do, then, when you see your wife going mad?

Ah, Love, could thou and I with Fate conspire
—What a childish thing that was! And yet he had liked it once.

The music ended, and they went back to their table. The
hors d’oeuvres had arrived, borne by the machine. Corinth seated Helga and picked moodily at his dish. Presently she looked at him again.

“Sheila?” she asked: (She isn’t well these days, is she?)

“No.” (Thank you for asking.) Corinth grimaced. (Her work helps fill the time, but she’s not good at it. She broods, and she’s begun seeing things, and her dreams at night—)

Oh, my tormented dearest!
“But why?” (You and I, most people, we’re adjusted now, we aren’t nervous any more; I always thought she was more stable than average.)

“Her subconscious mind …” (Running wild, and her consciousness can’t control it, and worry over the symptoms only makes matters worse …) “She just isn’t made for such power of mind, she can’t handle it.”

Their eyes met:
Something lost, of old innocence, all we once treasured stripped from us, and we stand naked before our own solitude
.

Helga lifted her head: (We have to face it out. Somehow we have to keep going.)
But the loneliness!

(I’m coming to depend too much on you. Nat and Felix are wrapped up in their own work. Sheila has no strength left, she has been fighting herself too long. There’s only you, and it’s not good for you.)

(I don’t mind.)
It’s all I have, now when I can no longer hide from myself
.

Their hands clasped across the table. Then, slowly, Helga withdrew hers and shook her head.

“God!” Corinth’s fists doubled. (If we could only learn more about ourselves! If we had a workable psychiatry!)

(Perhaps we will before long. It’s being studied.) Soothingly: “And how is your own task coming?”

“Well enough, I suppose.” (We’ll have the stars within our grasp before spring. But what good is it? What use are the stars to us?) Corinth stared at his wine glass. “I’m a little drunk. I talk too much.”

“No matter, darling.”

He looked at her. “Why don’t you get married, Helga? Find someone for yourself. You can’t pull me out of my private hell.”

Her face spoke negation.

“Better leave me out of your life,” he urged in a whisper.

“Would you leave Sheila out of yours?” she asked.

The machine waiter came silently to remove their dishes and set the main course before them. Corinth thought vaguely that he ought to have no appetite. Didn’t misery traditionally mean pining away? But the food tasted good. Eating—well, yes, a compensation of sorts, like drinking and daydreaming, work and anything else you cared to name.

(You have to endure) said Helga’s eyes. (Whatever comes, you have to live through it, you and your sanity, because that is your heritage of humanness.)

After a while she spoke aloud, three clipped words which held an overwhelming meaning: “Pete, would you” (like to go out on the star ship?)

“Huh?” He stared at her so foolishly that she had to laugh. In a moment she spoke again, seriously and impersonally:

“It’s being planned for two men.” (Mostly robot-run, you know. Nat Lewis talked me into giving him one of the berths, as biologist. The problem of life elsewhere in the universe—)

His voice shook a little: “I didn’t know you could control who went.”

“Not officially.” (In practice, since it’s largely an Institute project, I can swing it for any qualified person. Nat wanted me along—) They traded a brief smile.
You could do worse, I could do better too
. “But of course a physicist is needed.” (You know as much about the project, and have done as much for it, as anyone.)

“But—” He shook his head. “I’d like to—” (No, there isn’t a strong enough word for it. I’d trade my chances of immortality for a berth like that. I used to lie on my back on summer nights, when I was a kid, and look at the moon rising and Mars like a red eye in heaven, and dream.) “But there’s Sheila. Some other time, Helga.”

“It wouldn’t be a long trip,” she said. (A couple of weeks’ scouting around among the nearer stars, I imagine, to test out the drive and a number of astronomical theories. Nor do I think it’s at all risky—would I let you go if I imagined that?)
As it is, I’ll watch the sky every night and
feel its great cold and clench my fists together
. (It’s a chance I think you ought to have, for your own peace of mind. You’re a lost soul now, Pete. You need to find something above your own problems, above this whole petty world of ours.) She smiled. “Maybe you need to find God.”

“But I tell you, Sheila—”

“There’s several months yet before the ship leaves.” (Anything can happen in that time. I’ve kept in touch with the latest psychiatric research too, and there’s a promising new line of treatment.) She reached over the table to touch his arm. “Think it over, Pete.”

“I will,” he said, a little thickly.

Part of him realized that she was holding out that tremendous prospect as an immediate diversion for him, something to break the circle of his worry and gloom. But it didn’t matter. It was working anyway. When he came out again on the street with her, he looked up to the sky, saw a few suns dim through its haze, and felt a rush of excitement within him.

The stars! By Heaven, the stars!

SNOW fell early that year. One morning Brock came out of the house and all the world was white.

He stood for a moment looking over the sweep of land, hills and fields and buried roads, to the steel-colored dawn horizon. It was as if he had never seen winter before, bare black trees against a sky of windless quiet, burdened roofs and frost-glazed windows, and a single crow sitting dark and disconsolate on a cold telephone pole.
And indeed
, he thought, I
never have—not really
.

The snowfall had warmed the air but his breath still misted from his nostrils and he felt a tingle in his face. He slapped his hands together, a startlingly loud crack in the
stillness, and blew out his cheeks and said aloud: “Well, Joe, looks like we’re settled down for the next half year. White Thanksgiving, and I wouldn’t be surprised if we had a white Easter too.”

The dog looked up at him, understanding most of it but with little means of replying. Then instinct got the better of him and he went romping and barking to wake the farm with his clamor.

A small stocky form, so bundled up that only the proportions of arm and leg indicated it was not human, came out of the house, shuddered, and bounded quickly over to stand by the man. “Cold,” she chattered. “Cold, cold, cold.”

“It’ll get colder, I’m afraid, Mehitabel,” said Brock, and laid a hand on the chimpanzee’s fur-capped head. He still feared that the apes would not last out the winter. He had tried to do what he could for them—making clothes, and assigning most of their work in the house or barn where it was warm—but still their lungs were frail.

He hoped desperately that they would live. In spite of their natural flightiness and laziness, they had labored heroically with him; he could not have readied for winter alone. But more than that, they were friends—someone to talk to, once a pidgin dialect had been worked out between him and them. They didn’t have much to say, and their grasshopper minds would not stay on one subject, but they broke the solitude for him. Just to sit watching their antics in the gymnasium he had rigged up for them was to laugh, and laughter had become a rare thing.

Curiously, Mehitabel had taken best to the farmyard chores while her mate, Jimmy, handled cooking and housekeeping. Not that it mattered. They were strong and clever helpers, whatever they did.

He trudged over the yard, his boots leaving a smudge in the virginal whiteness, and opened the barn door. A wave of animal heat struck him as he entered the dimness, and the strong odor was heady. Mehitabel went to get hay and ground corn for the livestock—fifteen cows, two horses, and the vast form of Jumbo the elephant—while Brock gave himself to milking.

What stock was left seemed to have fallen into a placid
acceptance of the new order. Brock winced. They trusted him, he seemed to be a kind of informal god, and today he would have to violate their trust. No use putting it off any longer, that would only make it the more difficult.

The door creaked open again and Wuh-Wuh came lumbering in and found a milking stool and joined Brock. He said nothing, and his work went ahead mechanically, but that was not unusual. Brock imagined that Wuh-Wuh was incapable of speech, except the inarticulate stammerings and grunts which had earned him his name.

The imbecile had come tracking in one day a few weeks ago, ragged and filthy and starving. He must have escaped from some asylum—a small, knotty hunchback of uncertain age, his sloping head ugly to look on and a vacancy in his eyes. Wuh-Wuh’s intelligence had, obviously, gone up like everyone else’s, but that didn’t change the fact that he was a defective, physically as well as mentally.

He had not been especially welcome. Most of the big tasks of harvest were done by then, and there was enough worry about supplies for winter without adding an extra mouth. “I kill him, boss,” said Jimmy, reaching for a knife.

“No,” said Brock. “We can’t be that hard.”

“I do it quick and easy,” grinned Jimmy, testing the edge of the blade on one splay thumb. He had a charming jungle simplicity in him.

“No. Not yet, anyway.” Brock smiled wearily. He was always tired, there was always something to do.
We’re the lost sheep, and I seem to have been appointed bellwether. We all have to live in a world that don’t want us
. After a moment he had added: “We need a lot of wood cut, too.”

Wuh-Wuh had fitted in tolerably well, he was harmless enough once Jimmy—probably with the help of a stick— had broken him of some undesirable habits. And the business had made Brock realize with a new force that there must be many of his sort, struggling to live when civilization got too big to concern itself with them. Eventually, he supposed, the morons would have to get together somehow, establish a community and—

Well, why not admit it? He was lonely. Sometimes the depression of his loneliness was almost suicidally great There were none of his kind to be found, not in all the
wintry world, and he was working for nothing except his own unnecessary survival. He needed kinship.

He finished the milking and turned the animals out to get exercise. The water tank was frozen over, but Jumbo broke the thin crust with her trunk and they all clustered around to drink. Later in the day the elephant would have to be put to work getting more water from the emergency pump and carrying it to the tank. Jumbo looked quite shaggy now; Brock had never before realized how much hair could grow on an elephant when abrading jungle or the blowtorches of human owners didn’t remove it.

He himself went over to the haystack outside the sheep fence. He had had to build a board wall around it to keep the flock from breaking through the wire and gorging themselves, but they respected his fences now. The whim of a god—He wondered what sort of strange taboo-thoughts went on inside those narrow skulls.

Even before the change, sheep had been animals with personalities of their own, and he knew each of the forty as well as he could know any human. Bluff, quick-witted Georgina was pushing the timid Psyche away in her haste, fat old Marie Antoinette stood placidly and immovably chewing, Jo-girl did an exuberant dance all by herself in the snow—and there was the old ram, ring-horned Napoleon, magnificently regal, too conscious of supremacy to be arrogant. How could he kill one of them?

Yet there was no help for it. He and Joe and Wuh-Wuh couldn’t live on hay, or even the clumsily ground flour and the apples and garden truck in the cellar; Jimmy and Mehitabel could use some broth too—and there were the hides and tallow, the very bones might be worth saving.

Only which one should it be?

He didn’t like Georgina much, but she was too good to kill, he needed her blood in his future stock. Jo-girl the glad, Marie who came up and nuzzled his hand, coquettish Margy and shy Jerri and bravehearted Eleanor—which of his friends was he going to eat?