The Dream Master

by Roger Zelazny

  "Talking dog?"

  "Yes, her seeing-eye dog is one of those surgical mutants."

  "How interesting ....ave you ever met her?"

  "Never."

  "So," he mused.

  "Sometimes a therapist encounters a patient whose prob­lems are so akin to his own that the sessions become ex­tremely mordant," he noted. "It has always been the case with me when I treat a fellow-psychiatrist. Perhaps Charles sees in this situation a parallel to something which has been troubling him personally. I did not administer his personal analysis. I do not know all the ways of his mind, even though he was a pupil of mine for a long while. He was always self-contained, somewhat reticent; he could be quite au­thoritative on occasion, however.—What are some of the other things which occupy his attention these days?"

  "His son Peter is a constant concern. He's changed the boy's school five times in five years."

  Her breakfast arrived. She adjusted her napkin and drew her chair closer to the table.

  "—and he has been reading case histories of suicides recently, and talking about them, and talking about them, and talking about them."

  "To what end?"

  She shrugged and began eating.

  "He never mentioned why," she said, looking up again. "Maybe he's writing something . .."

  Bartelmetz finished his eggs and poured more coffee.

  "Are you afraid of this patient of his?" he inquired.

  "No ... Yes," she responded, "I am."

  "Why?"

  "I am afraid of sympathetic magic," said said, flushing slightly.

  "Many things could fall under that heading."

  "Many indeed," she acknowledged. And, after a moment, "We are united in our concern for his welfare and in agreement as to what represents the threat. So, may I ask a favor?"

  "You may."

  "Talk to him again," she said. "Persuade him to drop the case."

  He folded his napkin.

  "I intended to do that after dinner," he stated, "because I believe in the ritualistic value of rescue-motions. They shall be made."

  Dear Father-Image,

  Yes, the school is fine, my ankle is getting that way, and my classmates are a congenial lot. No, I am not short on cash, undernourished, or having difficulty fitting into the new curriculum. Okay?

  The building I will not describe, as you have already seen the macabre thing. The grounds I cannot describe, as they are presently residing beneath cold white sheets. Brrr! I trust yourself to be enjoying the arts wint'rish. I do not share your enthusiasm for summer's opposite, except within picture frames or as an emblem on ice cream bars.

  The ankle inhibits my mobility and my roommate has gone home for the weekend—both of which are really blessings (saith Pangloss), for I now have the opportunity to catch up on some reading. I will do so forthwith.

  Prodigially, Peter

  Render reached down to pat the huge head. It accepted the gesture stoically, then turned its gaze up to the Aus­trian whom Render had asked for a light, as if to say, "Must I endure this indignity?" The man laughed at the expression,

  snapping shut the engraved lighter on which Render noted the middle initial to be a small "v."

  "Thank you," he said, and to the dog: "What is your name?"

  "Bismark," it growled.

  "You remind me of another of your kind," he told the dog. "One Sigmund, by name, a companion and guide to a blind friend of mine, in America."

  "My Bismark is a hunter," said the young man. "There is no quarry that can outthink him, neither the deer nor the big cats."

  The dog's ears pricked forward and he stared up at Ren­der with proud, blazing eyes.

  "We have hunted in Africa and the northern and south­western parts of America. Central America, too. He never loses the trail. He never gives up. He is a beautiful brute, and his teeth could have been made in Solingen."

  "You are indeed fortunate to have such a hunting com­panion."

  "I hunt," growled the dog. "I follow... Sometimes, I have, the kill..."

  "You would not know of the one called Sigmund then, or the woman he guides—Miss Eileen Shallot?" asked Ren­der.

  The man shook his head.

  "No, Bismark came to me from Massachusetts, but I was never to the Center personally. I am not acquainted with other mutie handlers."

  "I see. Well, thank you for the light. Good afternoon."

  "Good afternoon."

  "Good, after, noon . .."

  Render strolled on up the narrow street, hands in his pockets. He had excused himself and not said where he was going. This was because he had had no destination in mind. Bartelmetz' second essay at counseling had almost led him to say things he would later regret. It was easier to take a walk than to continue the conversation.

  On a sudden impulse he entered a small shop and bought

  a cuckoo clock which had caught his eye. He felt certain that Bartelmetz would accept the gift in the proper spirit. He smiled and walked on. And what was that letter to Jill which the desk clerk had made a special trip to their table to deliver at dinnertime? he wondered. It had been forwarded three times, and its return address was that of a law firm. Jill had not even opened it, but had smiled, overtipped the old man, and tucked it into her purse. He would have to hint subtly as to its contents. His curiosity so aroused that she would be sure to tell him out of pity.

  The icy pillars of the sky suddenly seemed to sway before him as a cold wind leapt down out of the north. Render hunched his shoulders and drew his head further below his collar. Clutching the cuckoo clock, he hurried back up the street.

  That night the serpent which holds its tail in its mouth belched, the Fenris Wolf made a pass at the moon, the little clock said "cuckoo" and tomorrow came on like Manolete's last bull, shaking the gate of horn with the bel­lowed promise to tread a river of lions to sand.

  Render promised himself he would lay off the gooey fondue.

  Later, much later, when they skipped through the skies in a kite-shaped cruiser, Render looked down upon the dark­ened Earth dreaming its cities full of stars, looked up at the sky where they were all reflected, looked about him at the tape-screens watching all the people who blinked into them, and at the coffee, tea, and mixed drink dispensers who sent their fluids forth to explore the insides of the people they required to push their buttons, then looked across at Jill, whom the old buildings had compelled to walk among their walls—because he knew she felt he should be looking at her then—felt his seat's demand that he convert it into a couch, did so, and slept.

  V

  her office was full of flowers, and she liked exotic per­fumes. Sometimes she burned incense.

  She liked soaking in overheated pools, walking through falling snow, listening to too much music, played perhaps too loudly, drinking five or six varieties of liqueurs (usually reeking of anise, sometimes touched with wormwood) every evening. Her hands were soft and lightly freckled. Her fing­ers were long and tapered. She wore no rings.

  Her fingers traced and retraced the floral swellings on the side of her chair as she spoke into the recording unit.

  "... Patient's chief complaints on admission were nerv­ousness, insomnia, stomach pains and a period of depres­sion. Patient has had a record of previous admissions for short periods of time. He had been in this hospital in 1995 for a manic depressive psychosis, depressed type, and he returned here again, 2-3-96. He was in another hospital, 9-20-97. Physical examination revealed a BP of 170/100. He was normally developed and well-nourished on the date of examination 12-11-98. On this date patient complained of chronic backache, and there was noted some moderate symp­toms of alcohol withdrawal. Physical examination further revealed no pathology except that the patient's tendon re­flexes were exaggerated but equal. These symptoms were the result of alcohol withdrawal. Upon admission he was shown to be not psychotic, neither delusional nor halluci­nated. He was well-oriented as to place, time and person. His psychological condition was evaluated and he was found
to be somewhat grandiose and expansive and more than a

  little hostile. He was considered a potential troublemaker. Because of his experience as a cook, he was assigned to work in the kitchen. His general condition then showed definite improvement. He is less tense and is cooperative. Diagnosis: Manic depressive reaction (external precipitating stress unknown). The degree of psychiatric impairment is mild. He is considered competent. To be continued on thera­py and hospitalization."

  She turned off the recorder then and laughed. The sound frightened her. Laughter is a social phenomenon and she was alone. She played back the recording then, chewing on the corner of her handkerchief while the soft, clipped words were returned to her. She ceased to hear them after the first dozen or so.

  When the recorder stopped talking she turned it off. She was alone. She was very alone. She was so damned alone that the little pool of brightness which occurred when she stroked her forehead and faced the window—that little pool of brightness suddenly became the most important thing in the world. She wanted it to be an ocean of light. Or else she wanted to grow so small herself that the effect would be the same: she wanted to drown in it.

  It had been three weeks, yesterday . ..

  Too long, she decided, I should have waited. No! Im­possible! But what if he goes as Riscomb went? No! He won't. He would not. Nothing can hurt him. Never. He is all strength and armor. But—but we should have waited till next month to start. Three weeks... Sight withdrawal— that's what it is. Are the memories fading? Are they weaker? (What does a tree look like? Or a cloud?—I can't remember! What is red? What is green? God! It's hysteria! I'm watch­ing and I can't stop it!—Take a pill! A pill!)

  Her shoulders began to shake. She did not take a pill, though, but bit down harder on the handkerchief until her sharp teeth tore through its fabric.

  "Beware," she recited a personal beatitude, "those who hunger and thirst after justice, for we will be satisfied.

  "And beware the meek," she continued, "for we shall attempt to inherit the Earth.

  "And beware . .."

  There was a brief buzz from the phone-box. She put away her handkerchief, composed her face, turned the unit on.

  "Hello ...?"

  "Eileen, I'm back. How've you been?"

  "Good, quite well in fact. How was your vacation?"

  "Oh, I can't complain. I had it coming for a long time. I guess I deserve it. Listen, I brought some things back to show you—like Winchester Cathedral. You want to come in this week? I can make it any evening."

  Tonight. No. I want it too badly. It will set me back if he sees . ..

  "How about tomorrow night?" she asked. "Or the one after?"

  "Tomorrow will be fine," he said. "Meet you at the P & S, around seven?"

  "Yes, that would be pleasant. Same table?"

  "Why not?-I'll reserve it."

  "All right. I'll see you then."

  "Good-bye."

  The connection was broken.

  Suddenly, then, at that moment, colors swirled again through her head; and she saw trees—oaks and pines, pop­lars and sycamores—great, and green and brown, and iron-colored; and she saw wads of fleecy clouds, dipped in paint-pots, swabbing a pastel sky; and a burning sun, and a small willow tree, and a lake of deep, almost violet, blue. She folded her torn handkerchief and put it away.

  She pushed a button beside her desk and music filled the office: Scriabin. Then she pushed another button and re­played the tape she had dictated, half-listening to each.

  Pierre sniffed suspiciously at the food. The attendant moved away from the tray and stepped out into the hall, locking the door behind him. The enormous salad waited on the floor.

  Pierre approached cautiously, snatched a handful of lettuce, gulped it.

  He was afraid.

  If only the steel would stop crashing, and crashing against steel, somewhere in that dark night ... If only...

  Sigmund rose to his feet, yawned, stretched. His hind legs trailed out behind him for a moment, then he snapped to attention and shook himself. She would be coming home soon. Wagging his tail slowly, he glanced up at the human-level clock with the raised numerals, verified his feelings, then crossed the apartment to the teevee. He rose onto his hind legs, rested one paw against the table and used the other to turn on the set.

  It was nearly time for the weather report and the roads would be icy.

  "I have driven through countrywide graveyards," wrote Render, "vast forests of stone that spread further every day.

  "Why does man so zealously guard his dead? Is it be­cause this is the monumentally democratic way of immor­talization, the ultimate affirmation of the power to hurt-that is to say, life—and the desire that it continue on for­ever? Unamuno has suggested that this is the case. If it is, then a greater percentage of the population actively sought immortality last year than ever before in history..."

  Tch-tchg, tchga-tchg!

  "Do you think they're really people?"

  "Naw, they're too good."

  The evening was starglint and soda over ice. Render wound the S-7 into the cold sub-subcellar, found his park­ing place, nosed into it.

  There was a damp chill that emerged from the concrete to gnaw like rats' teeth at their flesh. Render guided her toward the left, their breath preceding them in dissolving clouds.

  "A bit of a chill in the air," he noted.

  She nodded, biting her lip.

  Inside the lift, he sighed, unwound his scarf, lit a cigarette.

  "Give me one, please," she requested, smelling the tobac­co.

  He did.

  They rose slowly, and Render leaned against the wall, puf­fing a mixture of smoke and crystalized moisture.

  "I met another mutie shep," he recalled, "in Switzerland. Big as Sigmund. A hunter though, and as Prussian as they come." He grinned.

  "Sigmund likes to hunt, too," she observed. "Twice every year we go up to the North Woods and I turn him loose. He's gone for days at a time, and he's always quite happy when he returns. Never says what he's done, but he's never hungry. Back when I got him I guessed that he would need vacations from humanity to stay stable. I think I was right."

  The lift stopped, the door opened, and they walked out into the hall, Render guiding her again.

  Inside his office, he poked at the thermostat and warm air sighed through the room. He hung their coats in the in­ner office and brought the great egg out from its nest be­hind the wall. He connected it to an outlet and moved to convert his desk into a control panel.

  "How long do you think it will take?" she asked, running her fingertips over the smooth, cold curves of the egg. "The whole thing, I mean. The entire adaptation to seeing."

  He wondered.

  "I have no idea," he said, "no idea whatsoever, yet. We got off to a good start, but there's still a lot of work to be done. I think I'll be able to make a good guess in another three months."

  She nodded wistfully, moved to his desk, explored the controls with fingerstrokes like ten feathers.

  "Careful you don't push any of those."

  "I won't. How long do you think it will take me to learn to operate one?"

  "Three months to learn it. Six, to actually become pro-

  ficient enough to use it on anyone; and an additional six under close supervision before you can be trusted on your own. About a year altogether." "Uh-huh." She chose a chair.

  Render touched the seasons to life, and the phases of day and night, the breath of the country, the city, the elements that raced naked through the skies, and all the dozens of dancing cues he used to build worlds. He smashed the clock of time and tasted the seven or so ages of man.

  "Okay,"—he turned—"everything is ready."

  It came quickly, and with a minimum of suggestion on

  Render's part. One moment there was grayness. Then a

  dead-white fog. Then it broke itself apart, as though a

  quick wind had arisen, although he heard nor felt a wind.

&n
bsp; He stood beside the willow tree beside the lake, and she stood half-hidden among the branches and the lattices of shadow. The sun was slanting its way into evening.

  "We have come back," she said, stepping out, leaves in her hair. "For a time I was afraid it had never happened, but I see it all again, and I remember now."

  "Good," he said. "Behold yourself." And she looked into the lake.

  "I have not changed," she said. "I haven't changed..."

  "No."

  "But you have," she continued, looking up at him. "You are taller, and there is something different..."

  "No," he answered.

  "I am mistaken," she said quickly, "I don't understand ev­erything I see yet.

  "I will though."

  "Of course."

  "What are we going to do?"

  "Watch," he instructed her.

  Along a flat, no-colored river of road she just then no­ticed beyond the trees, came the car. It came from the farthest quarter of the sky, skipping over the mountains, buzzing down the hills, circling through the glades, and splashing them with the colors of its voice—the gray and the

  silver of synchronized potency—and the lake shivered from its sounds, and the car stopped a hundred feet away, masked by the shrubberies; it waited. It was the S-7.

  "Come with me," he said, taking her hand. "We're go­ing for a ride."

  They walked among the trees and rounded the final clus­ter of bushes. She touched the sleek cocoon, its antennae, its tires, its windows—and the windows transpared as she did so. She stared through them at the inside of the car, and she nodded,

  "It is your Spinner."

  "Yes." He held the door for her. "Get in. We'll return to the club. The time is now. The memories are fresh, and they should be reasonbly pleasant, or neutral."

  "Pleasant," she said, getting in.

  He closed the door, then circled the car and entered. She watched as he punched imaginary coordinates. The car leapt ahead and he kept a steady stream of trees flow­ing by them. He could feel the rising tension, so he did not vary the scenery. She swiveled her seat and studied the interior of the car.