Nest of Worlds (12 page)

That night, Ra Mahleiné had a hemorrhage. When she tried to take a shower, she fell in the stall. Gavein carried her wet to the bed and revived her, as he had done when they first brought her. She scolded him for getting the bed wet. He should have at least toweled her off first . . .

It began early in the morning. Medved called to say that a mutiny had broken out in Port 0-2, in the quarantine area for whites. Before the desperate women were subdued, three people died—namely, Ross Berg and Linda Newton, who had transported Ra Mahleiné to her apartment, and Agippa Melyanz, chief of the guards during voyage 077-12. Also among the dead was Cyril Pruh, who drove the van that delivered Ra Mahleiné. Gavein knew these people either from meeting them personally or from the accounts of his wife, and he didn’t regret their deaths.

A special news bulletin was devoted to a bomb that went off at the cemetery. The explosion took place during the interment of the two film stars. The attack was the work of a deranged fan, who in a letter to the police revealed that his intention was to hasten the arrival of a new and better incarnation for his favorite actors.

“Frank,” said Gavein into the phone, “some names to add to your list.”

“What!?”

“If you have a TV set there, turn it on.”

“I don’t.”

“. . . in the blast perished Clinton Prado, G; Miriam Ohindee, B; and Lopez de Gabriel, B,” Gavein recited, after the television announcer. “Eddie Davis, R, died in the ambulance on his way to the hospital. Several dozen people suffered lacerations. The bomb had been placed in a funeral wreath. You’re right, this is simply too much coincidence, Frank,” he said.

Then, for a while, things quieted down. At the bookstore Gavein tried sitting in the back so he wouldn’t come into contact with any more customers. Wilcox was annoyed to be driven from his hiding place. If Gavein had been less preoccupied with his own problem, he would have noticed that Wilcox was coming to work dirty, unshaven, pale from lack of sleep, with bags under his eyes. Again the retired policeman was reading obsessively in that book,
Nest of Worlds
.

One evening Gavein and Ra Mahleiné were visited by a thin, little man with a luxuriant handlebar mustache. Some little men grew a mustache like that. Perhaps in the mirror, while shaving, it made them feel they had more substance. In reality it made them look like beetles. Theodore Puttkamel was a psychologist who worked for the Division of Science. He had recently joined the team investigating the phenomenon of Dave Throzz. He said that he was made leader of the group because no one else wanted the honor.

“Such fear has fallen upon the professors,” he said. “They want to save their skins by remaining in the background, in the shadow, unknown . . .”

“And you?” Gavein asked wryly. “Are you using a pseudonym?”

“No, my name is really Puttkamel. A pseudonym makes no sense. If Medved and I aren’t struck down, it doesn’t matter whether you know my name or not.”

“Psychologists,” said Ra Mahleiné, “don’t ordinarily engage in research that puts their lives at risk. It’s the physicists, biologists, chemists who do that. How do you feel in this new situation?”

Puttkamel sat down on the rug, arranged his legs in a half-lotus position, and took a swallow of thin Davabel coffee. Ra Mahleiné had taken pity on the man and didn’t brew the Throzz tea.

“I feel fine,” he said comfortably. “It’s warm and cozy here. And if I’m successful and survive”—he said with a smirk—“then the publications will flow as from a horn of plenty. Unless, of course, it’s all nonsense, in which case I’ll be a laughingstock.”

“You won’t get the better of him,” chuckled Gavein. “He’s a psychologist, an expert at talking . . . and getting others to bare their souls while saying not a thing about himself.”

Puttkamel shrugged and smiled wanly. Then he got down to work, with his questions. He gathered all the information he could from Gavein and his wife—about Gavein’s life, childhood, education, work history, health. When they were done, he admitted that he had hit on nothing remarkable. He drew up a list, as Medved did before, of the people Gavein had come in contact with. His visit lasted until late at night.

The television was silent on the subject of Gavein, but news traveled quickly. Proof of that was the statement, on the newscast, that many were moving from Central Davabel to the outskirts. The most expensive apartments downtown grew cheap, while dwellings at the edges of the city-continent shot up in value.

Edda lowered the Throzzes’ monthly rent to thirty packets, including dinner. Helga Hoffard was hospitalized, on suspicion, it was said, of a cerebral hemorrhage. Medved informed them that Helga’s name was
Intralla
, which means “From the inside,” so they could probably add her to the list.

In the night someone threw a stone through the dining room window. The broken glass cut Massmoudieh’s face.

Immediately Gavein put in a new pane, working in the light of a lamp held by Edgar Patricks. The air was damp and cold, and the sidewalks were becoming covered with slush.

He saw movement in the darkness.

“Ah, I’d hate to be in the shoes of the fool who threw that stone,” he sang out. “We all know what’s in store for him when he comes to the attention of David Death. The terrible David Death can kill without knowing the name of his victim or even seeing his face. All he has to do is think, ‘I’ll get the one who threw that stone.’”

Not another stone was thrown.

“Was that the truth or were you just putting fear into him?” asked Edgar.

“I don’t know.”

The next day, the papers said that an enraged crowd stoned to death a certain David Lanu, B, suspected of being David Death. In the following edition, David Coles, B, was killed by his wife with a razor while he slept, and David Bharozz, B, was dropped from a window. In each case, the reason given for the crime was that the people wished to rid themselves of a monster.

“I don’t know what to think or what not to think,” Gavein said to his wife. “These deaths, were they caused by my thoughts? My subconscious? The idea of other black Davids might have been in my mind.”

He straightened the sheets for her.

Ra Mahleiné was too weak to get up today. Dr. Nott had scheduled the operation for next month, but in two weeks Ra Mahleiné would have to begin taking medication in preparation for it. There was no reason for haste, Nott said, but neither should they put off the operation.

Wilcox smelled bad. He sat in dirty socks on the floor behind the pigeonhole desk, sweaty, his hair unwashed and greasy, as he gazed upon his prize. His eyes were glued to the pages of the book. He didn’t read, he devoured, oblivious to his surroundings. Sometimes he would absently rub his nose or scratch himself.

When Gavein took the book from him, Wilcox looked up with relief in his eyes. Gavein phoned Wilcox’s wife to come take her husband home. Unfortunately, even though it wasn’t noon yet, Brenda was drunk, so Gavein took Wilcox home in his own car.

That evening, in the dining room, he found Zef bent over a book.

“What are you reading?” he asked, turning on the TV.

“You meant to say, what am I packing in?” Zef said.

“I stand corrected.”

“You have a persistent froze when it comes to contemporary terminology.”

“Alas.” Gavein gave a Puttkamel shrug.

“The natural sequence is as follows,” Zef instructed him. “First you pack in, then you chuck off. With science, too, you pack in, but then instead of chucking off, you chop with your brain.”

“I see. So what are you packing in?”

“A piece of garbage. A mystery. You read one, you’ve read them all. Everything’s normal, going fine, then zap, bap, and for the rest of the book they pretend they’re figuring out who and why. Emptiness and cliché. The only one who can’t be the murderer is the reader, and the characters . . . the author pulls them out of a hat. A throw of the dice, no more. Yet it’s better than not reading,” he added philosophically. “Today in class they spoke about you, Dave. It’s public now. No doubt the work of that asshole Puttkamel, shooting his mouth off to further his career.”

“What did they say?”

“Corbin maintains it’s a string of pure coincidences that will end any minute. He says the fate of a human being is determined only by the Significant Name. But Vodov . . . This was an open discussion, you understand. The seminar moved to one of the lecture halls, and a bunch of people came, not just from the college. They sat in the aisles and around the speaker too, but there were so many that the rest were left standing. Anyway, in the region of Davabel that Vodov marked out, there were more deaths from the beginning of the series, from the death of Bryce, than in the course of the entire preceding year. You can imagine what an egg that was to lay.”

“Do you remember what the region was?”

“A chunk of the city. From the airport to our district. I can’t describe the exact shape.”

They were interrupted by the news of the death of the television anchor who had covered the funeral of Maslynnaya and Lola Low.

“In a minute Medved will call to tell me this. And he’ll suggest that I killed the anchor too. Well, it’s true; I’ve been watching those damned newscasters every day.” Gavein stopped. “And what conclusions came out of the seminar?”

“Nothing. A complete group plop. It’s an epidemic of death, but each death in the epidemic has a rational explanation. The causes vary. This can’t be any disease. Nevertheless, only those die who have, in one way or another, crossed your path.”

Lorraine said, “I remember you, Dave, when you got off the plane. You weren’t like the other passengers. I mean, you were pale, tired, and, like everyone else from Lavath, all in gray, but your eyes . . . sharp, penetrating, they bore into me.”

“And the three on his passport helped,” Zef laughed.

“I thought of Ra Mahleiné the whole way,” Gavein said. “It might have been that in my eyes.”

Lorraine’s mother switched to the news. The list of victims was being read:

Early this morning, David Rottman, B, was killed, David Rao, B; David Kopecho, B; David Zolt, B. They all recently arrived from Lavath.

Then the announcer’s voice rose:

Only one remains . . . Now we know the identity of David Death! The man’s name is Throzz! David Throzz! And he lives on 5665 Avenue. Kill him, kill him! I’ve done it, I’ve saved Davabel!

Some violent commotion stopped the announcer, and the camera was blocked. The screen became a blank.

“The guy went nuts,” said Zef.

“He may have lost someone dear to him,” said Gavein.

“For inciting to murder on the air, he’ll go to jail.”

“You won’t be able to move now, Dave,” said Edda, standing in the doorway. “I was right from the beginning. And that newspaper article, which they tried to hide from me, it told the truth.”

Gavein, having his fill of this, went upstairs. But Puttkamel was waiting for him. Again the psychologist asked questions about people met, names, personal relationships—trying to squeeze out some new detail.

“I’ve told you everything twice over,” Gavein said, exasperated.

“We need specific, very specific information.” Puttkamel wiped the sweat from his forehead. “The whites who traveled with your wife are dying like flies, one after another.”

“I’m not surprised!” exclaimed Ra Mahleiné. “After years on the prison ship and then that quarantine, they were not people, they were ruins.”

“But only the ones Dave saw are dying. Miss Anabel de Grouvert remembers which camera he used. Unfortunately, it tallies: almost all the prisoners who were in the range of that camera are now dead. Whether by thallium poisoning or from the rigors of the voyage. Colonel Medved is swamped with work. That’s the reason he hasn’t called. They’ve put him in charge of the Register of Death. Rows of computers, a sea of data. The effect grows stronger . . .”

“They ought to kill me. That would solve the problem.”

Puttkamel threw him a quick glance.

“No, kill such a nice Death?” protested Ra Mahleiné. “Another Death, not as handsome, would only take his place. People must go on dying, after all. Isn’t it better to deal with the Death you know? Are you people that stupid?”

“Are you aware, Dave, that no one who was on the plane with you is alive now?”

Gavein said nothing.

“That announcer made a royal mess for us,” Puttkamel went on. “There is no more housing available on the outskirts.”

“Why are you saying these things? Why are you telling him all this?” Ra Mahleiné asked heatedly. “What do you want from him?”

“Me? Nothing. I am merely conveying information that is not in the papers or on television.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the shouts of men and the sound of glass breaking. Gavein ran out, grabbing his jacket, and Puttkamel followed, holding a fake-leather shoulder bag that bounced as he ran.

Several dozen people had gathered in the street, yelling threats. Stones rained, breaking windows.

“Scum,” Gavein said. “A bunch of thugs.”

The crowd grew more aggressive. A chant began:

“Come out, David!”

“Come out, Death!”

“Drive him out, and we’ll have peace!”

Several teenagers approached, one holding a can of solvent from a nearby paint shop. Gavein recognized Earthworm and Peter. They started making Molotov cocktails: rags were torn into strips and the ends stuffed into bottles as improvised wicks.

The first bottle, thrown with an unsteady hand, broke on the sidewalk, and a puddle of flame spread. The heat forced the attackers back.

It was then that two trucks full of armed soldiers, the Landal Guard, came around the corner. Someone had called them. The driver of the truck in front, seeing the crowd over his hood at the last minute, made a sharp left and hit a streetlamp. The truck rolled over and came to rest upside down, exactly in the center of the burning gasoline. Several of the assailants had been hit. The driver of the second truck swerved, barely missed the overturned vehicle, and plowed into the crowd standing beyond it. Scattering and crushing people, the truck smashed into the glass front of the flower shop on the other side of the street. There was a deafening noise, then an unnatural silence broken only by the groans of the wounded.

The next moment, the crowd and both trucks were engulfed in flames. A blast of air knocked Puttkamel over and threw Gavein against a wall. In the windows of the burning trucks, one could see the guards who had been unable to free themselves from the metal trap. One man, a running human torch, escaped the zone of fire only to fall to the pavement a few meters away.

Gavein’s first impulse was to run to help, but the heat was too intense; it seared his face, his eyes.

He went back inside. Ra Mahleiné had got out of bed and was about to leave the room. They fell into each other’s arms. She said something, sobbing.

“It appears that Death cannot be killed,” he said and told her briefly what had happened. “I’ll help Edda and the others. They were sitting in the front room. You stay here, you’re too weak.”

“Absolutely not.”

There were times when Ra Mahleiné couldn’t be argued with. She put on a sweater and a jacket and went down, leaning on him.

The blaze was abating. Gavein circled the smoking area. Several charred bodies lay here and there. There were no moans now. Those caught by the fire had died, and those who received lesser injuries had managed to flee. The wooden flower shop had ignited when the truck hit it, and the owners stood watching their livelihood turn to ashes. People had already called for help.

The front-room floor was covered with broken glass. The television was on full volume, a performance of some kind, modern ballerinas leaping wildly in time to discordant music. The occupants began crawling out from under the table, from behind the sofa, from various corners. No one was badly hurt. Alerted by the noise of the mob, they had had time to hide.

Lorraine went upstairs.

On the street, police sirens added their howl to those of the fire trucks and ambulances. What remained of the flower shop was soaked with water; the bodies were all collected. Two men in uniform entered the front room to write out their report and obtain statements from witnesses.

Lorraine came down, in tears.

“My father . . . He’s on the floor and won’t move. A stone hit his head. The bastards!”

“Where is he?” asked a policeman.

Lorraine’s mother ran down the stairs, pointing. The second policeman called for a stretcher. In a few minutes an unconscious Edgar was carried out with an IV in him. In the ambulance they gave him oxygen, tried to resuscitate him. The physician shook his head. Lorraine and a hysterical Myrna got into the ambulance with the medics and drove away.

Wilcox shuffled up. He didn’t seem to know what was going on. He reeked of vodka and old sweat. Leaning on a window frame, he babbled: “This whole thing . . . I did the same myself. Yes, it was done by someone like me, reading. I can’t take it anymore. But I can’t stop reading either . . .”

He hiccoughed, swayed.

“We can take the old drunk with us,” said a policeman.

“No need. He’s depressed. He’s a good man,” Gavein said. “A night in jail would do him more harm than good. No one here is charging him with anything.”

“As you wish.” The policeman waved his hands and left.

“Gavein,” croaked Wilcox (he was the only one, besides Ra Mahleiné, who didn’t call Gavein “Dave”), “doesn’t it seem to you that we are one person, the same person?”

“We have different wives.”

But conversing with a drunk only multiplied inanities.

“Look in the mirror. The same profile. True, I’m old, but other than that . . .”

“I never worked on the police force.”

“Being in a used-book store, being on the beat, it’s the same thirst for power.” The mind of Wilcox was following the paths familiar to it.

Gavein tried to be patient. “If you say so, Harry.”

“My name is Hvar, and I was born in Lavath,” Wilcox went on, stubborn. “Ra Mahleiné and Ra Bharré . . . the manul and the she-bear, both names of beasts of the north.”

“Sleep it off, Harry. You’ll feel better,” said Ra Mahleiné, not pleased at being put in the same category as Brenda.

“Consider, Gavein . . . They’re both blondes, they look alike. Brenda’s put on weight, but she used to be as thin as your wife.”

“Ra Mahleiné wears glasses.”

“Brenda is nearsighted too, but she won’t wear them.”

“That’s why she squints?”

Harry nodded, but the nod might have been only a drunken sway.

“Harry, you forgot about me,” said Zef, putting his two cents in, as usual. “I too aspire to be Dave’s alter ego. We both have white wives. We both are physicists—he as a dabbler, I as a graduate student.”

“You’re a fool, Zef.” Despite his stupor, Wilcox could tell he was being mocked. “You’re red, and he’s black. Anyway, he’s Death, and I’m Fate, while you are a run-of-the-mill individual. But
alter ego
, that’s good. It’s exactly what I meant.”

He spoke more softly, drawn into his own thoughts.

“Was it in your book that you learned that you and Gavein are the same person?” Ra Mahleiné asked.

“Of course. That book, what an eye-opener it is.”

Gavein winked at his wife.

As soon as the police vans drove off, Edda began searching the shelves for her insurance policy. Gavein and Mass, as they had done the day before, began replacing the broken panes, because the evenings now were bitter. Fortunately there were enough extra panes in the storage room. Puttkamel wasn’t there; he had left with the police.