He listened critically to his thumping heart.
Ka-bump, ka-bump, ka-bump.
It made a little tune:
The bear went over the moun-tain
The song was very disturbing to him, though he did not even now know why. Somehow it was connected with that scene in his youth, the crashing cars and the white man. The old man sighed. He had come very close to remembering all of it once. They had put him in silence. “Silence” was an acoustically dead chamber, twenty feet cubed, hung with muffling fabric and strung with spiderwebs of the felt; there was no echo and no sound from outside could come in. It was a conventional tool of study for mental disorders; strapped in a canvas cot, hung in the center of the cube, eyes closed, hearing deadened, a subject began very quickly to seek within himself. Fantasies came, delusions came. And ultimately knowledge came, if the subject could stand it; but three out of five reached hysteria before they reached any worthwhile insight, and the old man was one of the three. He had nearly died … .
He paused to count the times he had nearly died under therapy of one kind or another, but it was too hard. And besides, he was beginning to think that he was nearly dying again. He pushed himself back on his elbows and fought once more for breath.
This one was very bad.
He slumped back on the bed and reached out for the intercom button. “Maureen,” he whispered.
She slept in the room next to him, and though he seldom woke in the night—there was something in the evening cocoa to make sure of that—when it happened that he did, if he called, she was there promptly, sometimes in a pink wrapper, once or twice in lounging pajamas. But not tonight. “Maureen,” he whispered to the intercom again, but there was no answer.
The old man, with an effort, rolled onto his side. The movement dislodged one of the taped microphones. He felt it tear his skin and, simultaneously, heard the sharp alarm
ping
in Maureen’s room. But the alarm didn’t bring her.
The old man opened his eyes wide and stared at the intercom. “I have to get up,” he told it reasonably, “because if I lie here I think I will die.”
It was impossible, of course. But what could he lose by trying? He pushed himself to the edge of the bed. The chair was within reach, but very remote to Noah Sidorenko, who had not stood on his own feet in years … .
And then he was in the chair. Somehow he had made it! He sat erect and gasping, for a moment. The pain was bad, but it was better sitting up. Then his hand found the buttons of the little electric motors.
He spun slowly, navigated the straits between the nurse’s desk and the corner of the bed, went out the door, as it opened quietly before him.
Maureen’s room was empty. The outer door opened too. That was good, he thought; he hadn’t been sure it would open; it was never very clear to him whether he was a prisoner or not. It was, after all, a sort of madhouse he was in … . But it opened.
The hall was empty and silent. He listened for the familiar
grunch, grunch
of Ernie Atkinson grinding his teeth in his sleep, but even that was stilled tonight. He rolled on. The lift rose silently to meet him.
He let it carry him gently down, and turned inward. The lower hall was blindingly bright. He made his way to Dr. Shugart’s office.
He paused. There were voices.
No wonder he hadn’t heard Ernie Atkinson’s grinding teeth! Here was Atkinson, his voice coming plain as day: “I don’t care what you say, we weren’t getting through to him, No. The Group and psychodrama aren’t working.”
And Dr. Shugart’s voice: “They
have
to work.” Yes, the old man thought dazedly, it was Shugart’s voice all right. But where was the hesitation, the carefully balanced noncommittal air? It cracked sharp as a whip!
And Maureen’s voice: “Do I have to go on building up this emotional involvement with him?”
Shugart crackled: “Is it so distasteful?”
“Oh, no!” (The old man sighed. He found he had stopped breathing until she answered.) “He’s an old dear, and I
do
love him. But I’d like to give him little presents because I want to, not because it’s part of his therapy.”
Shugart rasped: “It’s for his own good. This is one of the finest brains in the world, and it’s falling apart. We’ve tried everything. Radical procedures—silence, psychosurgery, chemotherapy—are too much for him to take. Remember what happened when Dr. Reynolds tried electroshock? So we’ve got to work with what we’ve got.”
The old man stirred.
Old as he might be, and insane if they liked, but he wasn’t going to linger out here and listen. A quarter after one in the morning, and the whole Institute was gathered here in Shugart’s office, plotting the recovery of himself.
“All right,” he gasped, rolling in “what is this?”
They gaped at him.
“All of you!” he said strongly. “What are you doing to me? Is it a hoax?”
Shugart moved restlessly. Marla Reynolds reached up to pat her hair, avoiding his eyes.
“You,
Doctor
Reynolds? Want to explain? I mean—I mean,” he said in a changed tone, no longer gasping, “there seems to be only one explanation. There’s a conspiracy of some sort, and I’m the target.”
Maureen got up and walked toward him. “Come in, Doctor,” she said, in a voice of resignation tinged with pleasure. “Maybe it’s better this way. We’re not going to get very far continuing to lie to you, are we? So I guess we’ll have to tell you the truth.”
The tune rocked crazily through his head. The old man spun his chair and turned pleadingly to Maureen. “Of course, Doctor,” she said, understanding without words, and fetched him a fizzy drink. “Only a little stimulant,” she coaxed.
The old man glanced at Dr. Shugart. Shugart laughed. “Who do you think has been prescribing for you? There isn’t a human being in the Institute without a first-rate degree. Maureen’s our internist—
with,
of course, a thorough grounding in psychology.”
The old man drank reproachfully, looking at Maureen. She said, clouding: “I know. It isn’t fair, but we had to get you well.”
“Why?”
Maureen said somberly: “A brain like yours doesn’t come along to often. I’m not a physicist, but as I understand it Congruence comes close to doing what Einstein tried with the unified field theory. You were on the point of doing something more when you—when you—”
“When I went crazy,” the old man said crudely. She shook her head. “All right, I used a bad word. But that’s it, isn’t it?” The girl nodded. “I see.”
But the stimulant wasn’t doing much good. Ninety-five years, he thought confused, and perhaps I won’t see that other mountain. It was hard to accept, hard to believe he had been hoaxed, hard to believe that it wasn’t working, that the delusions would not be cured. “I’m flattered,” he whispered hoarsely, and tried to hand the glass back to Maureen. It clattered to the floor and bounced without breaking. Marla with her schizoid detachment, Ernie with his worries, Sam Krabbe and his surly anger—doctors acting parts? The room swooped around Sidorenko; he was cut off from his reference points. And they were all afraid; he could see it, it was a gamble they had taken, that he would never find out, and now they didn’t know what would happen. And he—
He didn’t know either.
“I’m sorry to be so much trouble,” he gasped.
“You mustn’t feel personal guilt,” Dr. Shugart said anxiously. “These personality disorders—personality
traits—
go with greatness. Sir Oliver Lodge swore he believed in levitation. Think of Newton, sleepless and paranoid. Think of Einstein. Religious mania is very common,” the doctor assured him, “and you were spared that, at least. Well, almost—of course, certain aspects of your—”
“Shut up!” cried Maureen, and reached for the old man’s wrist. He stared up at her, touched by the worry in her face, trying to find words to tell her there was nothing to worry about, nothing to fear. He felt his heart lunging against his ribs and his breathing seemed, oddly, to have stopped. He made a convulsive effort and drew an enormous, loud breath. Why, that was almost—what did they call it?—a death rattle. He did it again.
“Doctor!” moaned the nurse, but he found the strength to shake his wrist free of her. This was interesting. He was beginning to remember something, or to imagine something—
They were all coming toward him.
“Leave me alone,” he croaked. He held them off while he practiced breathing again; it wasn’t hard; he could do it. He closed his eyes. He heard Maureen catch her breath and opened them to glare at her, then closed them again.
Noah Sidorenko’s brain was perfectly lucid.
He saw—or remembered? But it was as though he were seeing it with an internal eye—all of his previous life, the childhood, the government office where he had received the first scholarship, the four professors quizzing him for his doctor’s, even the cloudy days of therapy and breakdown.
The old man thought: It all began ninety years ago, I was all right until then … and he had to laugh, though laughing choked him, because ninety years ago he had been all of five years old. But up until then there had been nothing to worry about.
Was it the crash? Yes. And fire. The white man. The song about the bear. The terrible
auto smash, just outside his window—for his window had looked out on an elevated automobile highway in Brooklyn, the Gowanus Parkway, where cars raced bumper to bumper, fifty miles an hour, within five yards of the bed he slept in.
Whoosh.
Whoosh. All day long and all night. At night the strokes were slow, a lagging wire-brush riff; in the mornings and evenings they were faster, whooshwhooshwhoosh, a quick rataplan. He listened to them and dreamed tunes around them. And there was the night he had gone to sleep and wakened screaming, screaming.
His mother rushed in—poor woman, she was already widowed. (Though she was only twenty-five, the old man thought with amazement. Twenty-five! Maureen was that.) She rushed in, and though the boy Noah was terrified he could see through the shadow of his own terror to hers. “Momma, momma, the white man!” She caught him in her arms. “Please, my God, what’s the matter?” But he couldn’t answer, except with sobs and incoherent words about the white man; it was a code, and she was not skilled to read it. And time passed, ten minutes or so. He was not comforted—he was still crying and afraid—but his mother was warm and she soothed him. She bounced him on her knee,
ka-bump, ka-bump,
ka-
bump,
and even though he was crying he remembered the song with that beat,
He SAW anOTHer MOUNTain, he SAW anOTHer MOUNTain
, and the cars whooshed by and in the next room the little TV set murmured and laughed. “You’re missing your program, Momma,” he said; “Go to sleep, dear,” she answered; he was almost relaxed.
Crash
. Outside the window two cars collided violently. A taxicab was bound for New York with a boy in a satin jacket at the wheel and four others crammed in the back; the boy at the wheel was high on marijuana and he hit the divider. The cab leaped crazily across into the Long Island—bound lane. There was not much traffic that night, but there was one car too many. In it a thirty-year-old advertising salesman rushed to meet his wife and baby at Idlewild. He never met them. The cars struck. The stolen taxicab was hurled back into its own lane, its gas tank split, its doors flung open. Four boys in the jackets of the Gerritsen Tigers died at once and the fifth was thrown against the retaining wall—not dead; but not with enough life left to him to matter. He stood up an tried to run, and the burning gasoline made him a white-hot phantom, auraed and terrible. He lurched clear across the roadway to just outside Noah’s window and died there, flaming, hanging over the wall, fifteen feet above the wreck of the space salesman’s convertible.
“The white man!” screamed someone in Noah’s room, but it was not the boy but his mother. She looked from the white-flamed man outside to her son, with eyes of fear and horror; and from then on it was never the same for him.
“From the time I was five,” the old man said aloud, wondering, “it was never the same. She thought I was—I don’t know. A devil. She thought I had the power of second sight, because I’d been scared by the accident before it happened.”
He looked around the room. “And my son!” he cried. “I knew when he died—telepathy, at a distance of a good eight thousand miles. And—” he stopped, thinking. “There were other things,” he mumbled … .
Dr. Shugart fussed kindly: “Impossible, don’t you see? It’s all part of your delusion. Surely a scientist should know that this
—witchcraft
can’t be true! If only you hadn’t come down here tonight, when you were so close to a cure … .”
Noah Sidorenko said terribly: “Do you want to cure me again?”
“Doctor!”
The old man shouted: “You’ve done it a hundred times, and a hundred times, with pain and fear, I’ve had to undo the cure—not because I want to! My
God,
no. But because I can’t help myself. And now you want me to go through it again. I won’t let you cure me!” He pushed the electric buttons; the chair began to spin but too slowly, too slowly. The old man fought his way to his feet, shouting at them. “Don’t you see? I don’t want to do this, but it does itself; it’s like a baby that’s getting born, I can’t stop it now. It’s
difficult
to have a baby. A woman in labor,” he cried, seeing the worry in their eyes, knowing he must seem insane, “a woman in labor is having a fit, she struggles and screams—and what can a doctor do for her? Kill the pain? Yes, and perhaps kill the baby with it. That happened, over and over, until the doctors learned how, and—and you don’t know how … .